A pretty poor show. Apart from a small kebab house on City Road, I realised I didn’t know one single young/hip/happening place to hang out. Furthermore, I couldn’t think of one young/hip/happening person to ask either. Besides Howard, who, on recent evidence, might well suggest somewhere a bit more hip and happening than was strictly necessary. So I telephoned Lily. Who is young enough at least to be able to point me in the right direction. And then Rani, for corroboration.
Then I telephoned Richard to advise him of my strictly work related movements (good parenting brownie point – as if I should worry) and to tell him that the children had been told to telephone him if they had any problems. I also paid Emma a small cash sum for babysitting responsibilities with a bolt-on promise of strict lock out policy with regard to ‘friends’ wishing to assist.
In the end, we fetch up at the pub Rani suggested, a spit and sawdust rugby watering hole in St Mary Street, from where I hope such vibes as are to be found in the city will lead us to whatever scene is to be found nearby.
Jacinta loves it to bits. ‘This is the stuff!’ she coos. ‘God, like, history! Reality!Authenticity!’ She clucks over old prints of Merthyr and Senghennyd. Should a dozen sooty miners swagger in singing Myfanwy in close part harmony, she would not, I suspect, bat so much as a lash.
‘Jacinta – Lily, Lily – Jacinta, Jacinta – Rani, Rani – Jacinta. Lily, you and Rani have already met, haven’t you?’
Lily nods. ‘Seedlings book party, February, wasn’t it?’
Rani nudges me. ‘At the home of the bitch.’
‘Bitch?’ This is Jacinta.
‘Oh, no-one,’ I answer. Which is another thing. All those people I rustled up so that she could get the bumper family encyclopaedia atlas combo. Rani hasn’t stopped going on about what a crock of shit her Wax Lyrical! Batik book was ever since. She nods.
‘Rhiannon’s the bitch who shagged Jules’s husband…’
‘Yes, Julia, and speaking of Richard…’ starts Lily.
‘Richard? Ah, Richard!’ Jacinta smiles. ‘Colin said about him.’
I sip my wine. ‘Did he?’
‘Mmm. Said he was a dipstick. Is he?’
I’m not sure how to answer. ‘Well…’
‘Total. She can do much better, can’t you?’ says Rani. ‘Hey, look at him.’
I look. ‘He can’t be more than fifteen, Rani!’
‘Exactly. Virile. Go for it, Jules. He looks right up your street.’
But another him has clearly sidled up behind us. ‘Julia?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Damn. Stuart Goodrich. Standing beside me, apparently part of some sort of after work beano. Holding a pint, as he would, given that we are in a pub.Though not looking quite as happening as I had hoped for. At present it seems to be filled mainly with people in suits, holding mobiles, and who are destined to be staggering home, smashed, before nine. Looking bemused, Stuart says;
‘I didn’t know you came in here.’
‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I’m entertaining a visitor. Jacinta (I spread an introductory arm, but she’s vanished) is working with me on a job. We’re covering the Kite concert tomorrow night, for Depth.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Wow! Sounds very exciting..’ He has obviously never had a conversation with Richard about the more high profile side of my early career. I suddenly, irrationally, find this intensely irritating. Like I’ve spent the last fifteen years submerged under a smelly duvet of quiet wifehood, making out like my husband’s the only big I-am on the planet. (Richard? Oh he’s rather well known in town planning circles. Richard? Oh, I know, he’s such a whiz with community architectural projects. Richard? Yes, it was him you saw in the Herald last Friday. Proud? I’m prostrate.) Why shouldn’t my life be exciting? Why shouldn’t I be someone? And mainly, why shouldn’t I hang out in trendy pubs in town and look like I’m part of the action?
‘More exciting than my life up to now at any rate,’ I tell him.
He looks like he doesn’t know how to take this (which is unsurprising, as I’ve never voiced anything like this before) then says,
‘Richard has always done right by you, Julia. I mean, apart from…well. Well, he’s very unhappy. I mean…’
I am just about to formulate a resounding ‘yeah, right’ when Rani ambles back from the bar.
‘Who’s this?’she asks. Having met us here straight from work, she is already on her third. Richard would call her ‘a loose cannon, that one.’ (In which case, Rhiannon’s a bazooka, with knobs on.)
‘Stuart – Rani, ‘ I say, noting that Lily has wandered off also, and noting, too, Stuart’s badly concealed leer. Rani sees it as well.
‘Hellooo,’ she says, and is obviously about to launch into her exotic Indian bird bit, when a voice calls out,
‘Goody, you animal! There’s two pints lined up over here.’
Goody? Yuck! At the bar there is a huddle of Stuart clones, together with a couple of ageless women, with the sort of hair that can be tossed about a lot – in drinks, people’s faces, taramasalata etc., and who are wearing power suits and astoundingly shiny, flesh coloured tights. It is one of these that is beckoning. Stuart looks shifty.
‘How’s Caitlin?’ I ask.
‘She’s fine. Very…...very busy embroidering.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say.
‘Hmmm,’ says Rani.
‘Well, ‘says Stuart. ‘Nice to see you looking so well. Good…er..luck tomorrow then. Cheerio.’
Rani makes a totally overt appraisal as he returns to his commercial fold.
‘Tosser, ‘ she decides.
‘Total.’
When I wake the next morning, I think I am dead and on a cloud, just like I half expected. But I’m not. The radio pings on and I realise that I am in fact in bed, and that I still have my contact lenses in.
After ten of the most excruciating minutes of my life (bar that first post-partum wee) I stumble downstairs to the kitchen. Lily, who exercised sufficient restraint last night for me to know that she really does not want to get rid of her baby, is sitting with a mug of marmite coloured coffee.
‘Why have I got forty seven beermats in my handbag?’ I ask her.
‘Only forty seven,’ she says. ‘It looked like more.’
‘But why?’
‘None of us could quite divine. But you were rattling about how you wasted your time at college by going in Habitat a lot and pricing up Bauhaus chairs with Richard. I think you were anxious to make up for lost time.’
‘By putting beermats in my handbag?’
‘To put on your wall.’
‘What wall?’
‘Who can say? You were keen to dismantle a bus shelter also, to get a poster for hair conditioner out of it.’
‘A bus shelter?’
‘You were the only person in your college who did not have a no-smoking sign from the London Underground or a traffic cone in their room. So you said. Apart from Richard, of course.’
‘Of course! God, I must have been wasted.’
I make myself a less viscous shot of caffeine and sit down beside her.
‘I went out with a bloke once who had a beermat collection. He had three hundred odd of them, all different. All in rows on his bedroom ceiling. It’s a thought. It could look quite groovy in the downstairs loo.’
Except that on closer inspection, I find that twenty three of mine are identical, and say Brains.
There’s a message in there somewhere.
Chapter 18
Everyone knows that showbiz parties do not start until well after clapped out, boring middle aged provincial types have gone to bed, so I am working on the assumption that I will not be home until sometime after dawn casts its harsh light on my crow’s feet, and have therefore asked Lily to stay one more night, to babysit the children for me. She is, of course, more than happy to do so, because poor, hapless Malcolm can’t track her down.
While she is babysitting, and as a pre-c
ursor to abortion counselling, I have taken the liberty of getting hold of a copy of the classic video Your Baby, Your Future for her, as it is shot entirely in soft-focus and does not at any point allude to episiotomies or breast engorgement. Also, have primed Emma to;
Not drone incessantly about nappies or posset.
Avoid all hostile contact with Max – priceless Kite autograph collection/lifting of now indefinite (Richard has spied the love bite) grounding dependent.
And Max to;
Stay mainly in his room and play on Playstation (big dose of grim-reality-of- parenting not good ploy at present).
Not attempt punch up with Emma (financial recompense).
Not consume more than two pop tarts (unless not back before breakfast).
This is because we have had a full and frank discussion about the baby situation and have reached the conclusion that a woman who says she definitely wants an abortion and then bursts into violent tears crying ‘oh, my baby!’ is not a woman with a handle on her (metaphorical or actual) inner child. It is my duty, therefore, to present as positive an image of motherhood as it is possible for a woman with a varicose vein the size of a slug up the back of her knee can reasonably do.
But there is life after having babies. And I am certainly a role model for that. Tonight I have spiky hair, a leather necklace, glow in the dark club style earrings, khaki lipstick, a g-string, trainers with little silver reflector bits on them, and a robust looking piece of laminated card on a string, which says Access All Areas. Happening or what?
The look is somewhat spoiled by my camera looking like a big black willy protruding from just above my crotch but then I am in the business. Hey, it’s cool.
Have borrowed Emma’s Kite CD (Flying High – their second, and billion, squillion, zillion selling album) for research purposes. It contains the lyrics, the credits, some pretty ropey but presumably meaningful artwork, plus a montage of colour and black and white photos, depicting our heroes in a variety of locations, with wacky/morose/reflective/ebullient/love lorn expressions on their faces. Plus obligatory beer, fags, hamburger boxes parked on all available horizontal surfaces.
Kite are;
Craig James – Lead Guitar/Vocals/keyboard (the good looking, cocky, laddish one)
Tim ‘Oiler’ Linseed – Bass guitar/backing vocals/Mandolin (the good looking moody one)
Jonathan Sky – Rhythm Guitar/sax (the not so good looking but artistic, sensitive, ex-art college one)
and Davey Dean – Drums/percussion (the balding oaf)
Craig is credited with writing the music and a few of the lyrics, Jonathan Sky (understandably) with the bulk of the lyrics and Davey and Tim with ‘arrangements and wanking’.
In the interests of capturing the essence of my subjects’ personalities (and, therefore, attempting to shoot them with due attention to capturing the juxtaposition of disparate images and so on) I have studied this slim tome at some length. I have also made a respectable attempt at getting to know the songs and can now sing along to most of them. And it has to be said, (though not to Emma, as it will be distressing for her – it is bad enough that I don’t wear a pinny), I really quite like the sound of them. Their songs somehow speak to me; not to my inner child exactly, but to my pubescent female full of angst yet ultimate optimism, coupled with adrenaline rush upon sight of any attractive male in vicinity, alongside crushing insecurity about shape of legs/nose/tits etc and inability to hold intelligent conversation about Manchester United type area. Sort of.
In life, of course, they all look like sixth formers.
Which isn’t true of course, but my first impression, on meeting Kite, is spots, hair and pants. Not that any of them have excessively lengthy hair – just long, floppy fringes that hide half their faces, and (cause and effect?) a fair sprinkling of zits. And being young (and on drugs?) they’re all lean and smooth skinned, and to a man, they’re all naked, except for their pants. Fortunately, these are of the baggy, boxer short variety, so I don’t have to stare hard at the middle distance in an attempt to impose discipline on any wayward glances. They are all eating. Hamburger and chip boxes litter the floor, and there are milkshakes in place of bottles of beer. No one makes any reference to the clothing shortage, but then it is a hot night.
Kite’s manager is called Nigel. He is a short man of about forty, with a shock of ginger hair and a livid scar across his forehead, which sits somewhat at odds with his cheerful persona. For he has the sunny and deeply obliging manner of a man on a fat percentage. He says;
‘Boys, you know Jax…’ mutter, mumble, chew, ‘..who’s going to be covering the gig, and this is Julia Potter…’ chew, grunt, nod, ‘...who’ll be doing the pix. I think,’ he turns to me, ‘you’d like to get a few shots done beforehand, wouldn’t you?’
Flushed and slightly breathless from the march along endless corridors, up and down endless flights of stairs and through endless unmarked fire doors that has brought us to their inner sanctum, I say,
‘Yes. In fact, I’d really like to have you in your pants.’
Upon which, and in conjunction with a whole body, spontaneous combustion of a blush, I find myself the subject of jeers, titters, arm lock gestures and assorted invitations to extend my carnal repertoire.
But being blokey young blokes with six packs, Kite seem quite happy to be posed and arranged semi naked, and made to squirt ketchup artistically and leer at the camera, while being quizzed on their set for tonight and their latest album. They may be boys, but they’re pros. They are stars, I guess. Coo.
For a pop concert you need
Big boots
A hard head
Very little clothing
Water
Ergo Waterproof make-up
Aggressive elbows but a very smiley face (or tattoos/shaven head combo)
To know that it’s actually called a gig (for cool)
To know all the words (for interaction)
To be tall
Or to be able to jump up and down on the spot a lot (and if so, panty liners)
Or a ticket for a seat at the back, with the old folk.
*
I am strenuously trying to recapture the essence and spirit of my pre-marital existence. Therefore, though I do not recall much of the concerts I went to back then, as I was usually drunk or blindly in love with whoever I went with and therefore suffering from sensory deficit in all but Lurve department, I elect to really commune with this musical feast.
At the end of the concert, therefore, I am wet, smelly, and have multiple cramps. I am crouched in the little space between the stage and the audience, which is fenced off and affords a good view of the band. Its been policed by six mean looking but relentlessly cheerful roadies, whose job it has been (pretty much every ten minutes, all show) to manhandle the stage divers from the heads/shoulders/faces of the throng, and shimmy them back to the floor without cranial injury or limb damage. Then to steer them, none too gently, to the side, from where they would then generally make their tortuous way forward, climbed on some more heads and do it again.
I’ve been up on the stage itself, and down in the pit with the moshers at the front, but it is from here that I’ve taken a lot of my show shots. Despite a (literal) run in or two with the guy from the record company who is making a video and has therefore been whizzing up and down adjacent to me on a little track, tutting, I’ve got what I think are some pretty impressive pictures – including a perfect moment when Craig James, having jumped a good four or five feet from the ground, flings his head back and launches the sweat from his fringe in a perfect arc behind him. Which is exactly the sort of thing any lead singer worth his substances would do. Isn’t it? I’m well chuffed.
But the bright lights soon dispel the atmosphere. Where only five minutes earlier, the place pulsated with the combined waving of several thousand teenage arms, (and the smell of several thousand teenage armpits) it now has the ambience of a church hall following a particularly
well attended jumble sale. All around me are hair slides, scrunchies, bobbles and cigarette packets, strewn among wet T-shirts, sweatshirts and vests. The floor is a sea of ripped plastic cups, which bob, like empty alien egg pods, on a thick muddy slush of fag ash and beer.
Jacinta finds me – she has made her report from the less hectic surroundings of the seating area at the back. She looks as fresh as it is possible to look if you’re a goth and very taken with kohl and smoking.
‘Yo, Julia!’ she calls out. ‘Lets hit the party!’
In fact, I end up hitting the party on my own. Once I’ve showered and changed, Jacinta has already vanished, so I make my way down to the function room alone. There seem to be two kinds of people at this party. People who either seem to be working hard at pretending they are really in with the band, or those affecting an air of total disinterest. By skilfully combining the two I manage to get close in no time at all. To Craig James, who looks like he should be in bed. He is being talked at by just about everyone in earshot, and I join them to ask if he minds me taking a couple of shots.
‘Must you?’ he says.
‘She must.’ This is Nigel, Kite’s manager, who seems never to take his eye off his ten percent.
‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’ll just sort of shadow you all for a while…’
So that is what I spend the next hour doing. What we have is a deal whereby I can take any pictures I want as long as they get to see them all before any final choices are made.
And it’s fun. After the initial half hour I spend trying not to gawp at the bounty of faces and names that were now assembled, I find that there are advantages to coming to this sort of thing later in life. While being interested, beguiled even, endures for some time, being awed is short lived – these are just people at a party, after all. Rich and famous people, certainly, but still only people. Some of them even have M and S clothes. I am touched when a star from a leading soap asks me if I’d mind snapping him with the band. He’s never, he says, made Depth up to now.
And I find that I am really enjoying a bit of spontaneous, seat of the pants, unstructured photography for a change.
I spend a fair while getting society page type pictures – the place is teeming with long legged blonde women in very small skirts who all look related (did the record company ship them in as a bulk purchase?) and who seem to pop into the frame at every opportunity, clackety-clacking their ridiculous nails and parting glistening lips to show off their veneers. Jacinta weaves smoothly and confidently between them, scribbling things on her pad that they’ll no doubt regret later. All very buzzy, very slick, very showbiz. And then I get punched on the nose.
Julia Gets a Life Page 13