by Frances Vick
And then, suddenly, nothing. The calls stopped. There were no more postcards. She had to rely on press and gossip for news about him. She read a couple of live reviews and even called one of the venues to see if they knew where Carl was, but her French wasn’t good enough to make herself understood. When Freida at Deep Focus told her that they were coming back, she ate nothing but apples for two days so she’d be thin, but the welcome home party was a disappointment. Carl wasn’t there – he’d stayed with Chris Harris in France. Peter and John were tired and flat. They didn’t meet her eyes. It was all so confusing.
To give herself a good chance of hearing any news, she began to hang around Deep Focus Records again. Freida and Ian, the owners, had gone from producing a fanzine of the same name, to putting out flexi discs of their friends’ bands, to starting a label, sometime in the 80s, and soon had a sizable and appreciative following. Now, in the aftermath of Nirvana making the leap from also-rans to mega stars, Deep Focus was simultaneously attracting international attention in terms of its signed bands, and losing money like a leaking hose. Local talent, that would previously have automatically signed to them, now bypassed them, instead signing with a major (or a major’s vanity indie label). A few other bands – old friends some of them – had been tempted away by large album advances and more comfortable tours with big names. And since Freida and Ian famously disapproved of formal contracts, they didn’t have the wherewithal to check what promised to be an exodus.
The Deep Focus offices – an old two story building in what used to be the manufacturing heart of the city – was still a place of pilgrimage for visiting bands and fans though. She had even met Carl there, years ago, when he had a job screen printing posters and t-shirts in the basement. Lydia remembered seeing him around at a distance, hauling out the bins or leaving with hundreds of flyers to be posted on walls around the city. He could turn his hand to anything: fixing the photocopier, tuning guitars, driving to the airport to collect visiting bands (did he even have a driving licence? How old was he anyway?), breaking down drum kits, making deliveries to record shops. And always with the same quiet efficiency, and the same sunny and unassuming smile. Lydia hadn’t really taken much notice of him at first.
But now it seemed that Carl was propping up the label. The unexpected but immediate success of ‘Alloyed’ brought them out of the red for the first time in two years, but Freida and Ian didn’t seem to know where to go next. Now, they had Chinaski’s EP on their hands, which was doing very well, despite woeful promotion, but no plans to follow it up with an album. Lydia was hazy on the details, but felt sure that a follow-up album was in the order of things, and in Carl’s absence she felt it only right that she do some of his work. First to be dealt with was Peter; it was Peter she was really pissed off with. What kind of a person abandons his best friend in Paris? When he’s exhausted, and needs support? And now Peter was back and doing nothing for the band at all. If Carl was here, he’d be making things happen. It would serve Deep Focus right if they signed to a major. Lydia didn’t believe that major labels hoovered up original bands only to ruin them by bad marketing and neglect; there was no nobility in impoverished indie-dom. Look what happened to Nirvana: a nice, catchy, crisply produced album that went platinum. What wasn’t to like about that? Carl (for it was really always Carl in her mind, not a band that he was a member of) could easily have the same thing if he wasn’t being held back by the shortsightedness of Deep Focus, and by his sentimental attachment to Peter, a powerful, but unimaginative drummer with appalling dress sense. All those rugby shirts. She became more and more indignant on Carl’s behalf, and eventually requested a meeting with Freida and Ian to discuss the situation.
Freida and Ian were rarely in the same room. There was always so much to do that they attacked the tasks separately; studio time to be booked, t-shirts to be ordered, printed, posted. The frequent rows between band members had to be refereed, drummers mollified, guitarists stood up to, singers scraped off bar floors. The building was a focal point for journalists, aspiring bands, casual dealers, wide eyed youths, and Freida and Ian were always on hand, always cheerful and always exhausted. Today they were sitting behind their shared desk, swinging on swivel chairs and eating doughnuts. Jam had dripped onto a few of the t-shirts they were inspecting, and Ian was scraping it off with the edge of a cassette cover.
“Lyds! Sit down, sit down.” He pulled over a swivel chair with his foot, and sat down on the edge of the desk. Freida began piling up the t-shirts and putting them back in the box, humming to herself. “You sounded ever so serious on the answer machine, we were a bit worried, weren’t we Fred?”
Lydia felt that familiar irritation she always experienced with her parents when their mood was in opposition to hers. “Well, it’s not me that I’m worried about Ian, it’s you two.”
This didn’t have as much effect as she assumed it would. Freida still kept up that maddening humming, Ian just looked at her politely.
“On the tour –”
“Yeah, how did that go? We were a bit worried to hear that you’d left halfway through. But then I suppose being trapped in a van that size with a bunch of lads isn’t that comfortable, so I can’t say I blame you. But...” Ian paused delicately, “it did leave us in a bit of a pickle with the t-shirts. I mean, you weren’t there to sell them and so we lost out on some merchandise money. If, whatsisname – darling, what’s his name?”
“Chris Harris,” came Freida’s voice from behind the t-shirt pile.
“Yeah. If Chris Harris hadn’t stood in we would’ve been, well, not fucked, but – well, yes, fucked. But, as it happened, Chris whatsisname, him, being there for longer, actually worked to our favour. Look –”
He pushed a magazine at Lydia. A four page spread, with a huge headline: ‘Chinaski Syndrome’. Live pictures of Carl, his backlit hair fanning out like a halo, hands from the crowd grabbing and plucking at him; strobed shots of stagedivers; a few phrases in bold print ‘...golden fissures of pure sound...a landmark in brutal beauty...rapturous meltdown of rock...squeezing your heart like a loved up boa constrictor...’ She handed it back to Ian with a grimace.
“Yeah, I know I know, it’s all a bit...over the top, but it’s done them and us a lot of good. Anyway, it’s all finished with now. So no harm’s been done really. How are you?”
Lydia summoned up some indignation. “I left the tour, Ian, because it was a shambles. Really. The support bands were all over the place. One of them was an experimental jazz trio for god’s sake. The venues were really substandard, very small, and sometimes there wasn’t even anywhere for the band to stay – I mean we’d have to stay in the van, or at the club manager’s house or something. Or actually at the venue. And then I saw how The Jesus Lizard were travelling – I mean it wasn’t amazing or anything, but it was better. I mean, you have a very marketable commodity on your hands here; they’re, potentially, a very very big band. Plus –” Unnerved by Ian’s silence, his slight smile, she prepared to use her trump card, earlier than planned. “– plus, there’s significant major interest in them. Did you know that? That’s what I’ve heard, and if it’s true, then you’ll lose out. I really think you need to – well – consider your strategy. With the band I mean.” She stopped breathlessly.
By now Freida was sitting on the desk next to Ian, both suddenly solemn. Ian frowned at his hands. “Lydia. How long have we been doing this? Me and Fred?”
“A long time. But –”
“A long time. Do you know how many tours we’ve arranged? Do you know that each and every one of those venues, that you found so objectionable, are steps on a well-worn path every band walks when they tour? Did you know that? No. Of course you didn’t. I’ll tell you. First you do them as a third support band, then as a second, and then, finally, as a headliner. Some of the larger venues – the ones they played with The Jesus Lizard – you can only fill if you’ve paid your dues with relentless touring over fucking years. Like The Jesus Lizard. That’s how you earn your
stripes. And, incidentally, that’s how you also get a slightly better van and a chance at staying in hotels. Now, for Chinaski – a very new band – to have sold out some of these venues on the strength of one album and an EP no-one had heard much of yet, is phenomenal. So. If you think I don’t know my business, then you’re wrong. The band did very very well on this tour. The fact that you didn’t think so proves your inexperience. Sit down now.”
Lydia sat down.
“Carl begged me to let you on this tour and I agreed because it would keep him happy and help us out with the merchandise. But you didn’t do your job, Lyds. You didn’t stay with Carl and you didn’t sell our stuff. Now I wasn’t even going to mention any of this to you, but you decided to come in here and tell me – us – our job. And I can’t let you get away with that.”
Lydia stood up again, trying not to let her tears spill over. She still had one piece of ammunition. “If you’ve been managing it all so well, how come you’ll be losing them to a major?”
“That’s what we wanted to happen, you silly girl!”
Here Freida stepped in. “Lyds, here, dry your eyes. You shouldn’t get so emotional about things. Look, we were approached by DCG a few months ago about buying out the contract. We decided to hold out until this tour was over, and the EP found its feet. The publicity from Chris Harris has really helped our position. Really really helped us. We spoke to Carl and the rest of them a few days ago, and everything should be handed over within a month. So, really it’s all worked out for the best.”
“You’ll lose their future though. They’re going to be huge.”
“Well, we’ve thought about that,” Ian said. “We own the back catalogue. We own the rights to the demos that the new album’s likely to be based on. So we’ll get a percentage of any future royalties. This is what I’ve been telling you Lyds, we’ve been in the business a long time, and we know what we’re doing.”
“We assumed you knew,” said Freida quietly. “We thought Carl would have told you.”
She hadn’t known. And Carl had been back for days. She hadn’t known that either.
Freida signalled to Ian to leave and gently closed the door behind him. Pulling up a chair she sat in front of Lydia and gently squeezed her hands.
“Lydia, what’s happened between you and Carl?” Lydia shook her head helplessly. “I’m asking because things seemed to have changed so much since the album, and since this tour. You were so happy together, and it made Ian and me so – well, relieved really, that Carl had someone to care for him, someone with their head screwed on, who we trusted. But something’s changed now, I can feel it. Ian’s right, we were happy about major interest, and we still are, for the band as well as for us. But I can’t help thinking as if it’s the end of an era or something, And you two having problems, well, it’s just heartbreaking. I know that it can be hard for a woman to be really included in band type scenarios. Believe me. I’ve done my time touring, and it’s harder for girls. It’s so macho, very exclusive. I did worry about you a great deal. Ian was upset about the t-shirts, but I think he was also upset that you left the tour – felt as if you had no choice. It meant that there was no-one there to deal with Carl, and you know what he can get like without guidance. It all goes to his head. Have you seen him at all since he came back? No? Well, it’s almost like he’s not the same person. Or more like the person he was when we first met him when he was a boy. You remember the pilfering that used to go on with the t-shirts? And the petty cash? That was him. You didn’t know? Oh yes, that was him. But he was so young. And coming from that background...that horrible father. We thought that keeping him with us, keeping a close eye on him, would help. And it did, didn’t it? If he feels safe, if he feels trusted and, well, supervised almost, he’s at his best. But when you left the tour we lost track of him. Peter was upset because Carl was late or drunk – and you know he can’t drink. He shouldn’t. And Chris Harris – I mean he’s done us a favour with the publicity – but I don’t trust him. I don’t feel he’s the best person to be around Carl, do you? Ian doesn’t agree, but I think he almost wants to get rid of the responsibility, for Carl I mean. Oh I know that sounds awful, and he probably doesn’t even know it himself, but I think he’s had enough. So, in a way, you were my last hope.” She smiled wanly.
“I’m sorry...I just felt so...excluded. It was just so awful.”
“I understand even if Ian doesn’t. But he will. I’ll talk to him. I think that maybe no-one could have kept an eye on Carl that closely, and maybe we shouldn’t do it anymore. It’s too big a job for one person. He’s an adult, after all. And maybe he won’t grow up until we – me, Ian, and you too – cut the apron strings. Maybe this Chris Harris guy will take over now, not that I like that idea, but maybe it’s not my business anymore. Maybe you have to take care of yourself now, Lyds. Finish your degree? You should take care of yourself.”
“How? I love him. How?”
“I don’t know darling, I do too.”
And so the two women worried and fretted. Later, they found ways to meet and discuss their worries once neither of them saw Carl anymore. They worried themselves sick right up to when the body was found.
* * *
“Do you have close friends to talk to if you ever feel this depressed again?”
Dr Adler wanted to wrap this up, Lydia realised with relief. He wants me to go home. And she thought, not of her flat, but her old bedroom at her parents’ house. The thought of going home, of being a child again, was comforting.
“Yes,” she answered firmly, “yes, I have friends I can talk to. But nothing like this will happen again, I’m sure.”
He pushed his notes together with his index fingers, “You have too much to live for Lydia, to do something like this again. I’m sure you know that. We’ll keep you in for the night just to see how your system’s clearing, but you’ll be discharged first thing tomorrow.”
That night she dreamed that she was five years younger and none of this had happened, and when she woke she felt happy; but quickly, reality pulled back its arm, knocked her flat again, and the tears came. She felt a tapping on her back and turned to see the large, gentle face of the father from the family next to her – surprisingly close. He spoke in an unfamiliar, guttural language, smiling. The whole family turned away from their unconscious relative and they too were smiling beautiful, kind smiles. Lydia felt her fist being opened, felt something placed in her palm and looked down – a nectarine.
The father leaned in close, “It good,” he said and smiled, nodded.
The rest of the family broadened their smiles, nodded, and Lydia nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the family had gone and she still held the nectarine.
When it was time to go home, the nurse found her sitting up gazing at her open hands.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a nectarine.”
“You can’t eat it you know. You can’t eat anything until we say you can.”
“I don’t want to eat it.”
The nurse eyed the nectarine with irritation, “Can you put it down please?”
Lydia put it carefully in the expensive leather nightcase her mother had brought. When she was discharged she was given careful instructions to see her doctor as soon as possible, eat only soup and drink only water. Instead, Mother gave her a Valium and a brandy on the daybed in the sitting room and they watched some version of Wuthering Heights on the TV together.
Lydia stayed at her parents’ for days, not knowing if it was day or night, taking Mother’s Valium and trying to keep quiet and still because movement, speech was shattering. She’d never felt anything like it before. The grief didn’t come in gentle waves, but vast black tsunamis. After an hour of feeling nothing, the sudden choking slap of grief would beat the breath out of her. She found herself talking to herself, or pleading, and sometimes speech would fail altogether, leaving only heavy, whistling gasps. Sinking down into corners, she could briefly feel small, safe, and
protected from the need of others to know that she was Coping Well, and the crushing weight of Being Fine. Sometimes it wasn’t the first thing she thought of the second she woke up, and what a reprieve those first few seconds were. But then it all rolled back in a scummy flood, this grief, this horror, this fear. Because now she was alone, and no-one could understand the depth of that loneliness. Now she had to change but wasn’t equipped to change, wasn’t entitled to change because change is a betrayal and she must stay strong and firm in her love. It’s what Carl would have wanted.
Carl and Lydia. Lydia and Carl. It was meant to be. It felt right, because it was right. And she hadn’t always been this way – needy, desperate. At the beginning, at the beginning, well, Lydia had been a force to be reckoned with.
5
Punk looking girls who knew about music were rare. There were some who flirted with temporary dreadlocks, carefully hair-sprayed in on a Friday night and brushed out on Sunday. A lot went the goth route – the easiest of subcultures to master, and the most open to disdain. There were older punk women, the old guard, with bleached rude-girl hair. They could be name checked and respected at a distance, but the idea of going out with one was frankly terrifying, and so Lydia stood out. She was tall, slim and straight-backed. She walked briskly, purposefully, looking you straight in the eyes. She spoke fractionally too loudly. She changed her hair a lot and was always just ahead of the curve. Before crimping stopped being generally accepted, she switched to dreadlocks, and when dreadlocks became more mainstream, she began to bleach and dye hers, piling them up into a giant, multi-coloured bee hive. In fact, Lydia was the first white person with dreadlocks who was allowed in the Rastafarian pubs – this at a time when none of her set knew any black people at all, and were terrified of this being discovered in case it meant they were an inadvertent racist. Lydia negotiated passage for her friends to come too, so long as they covered their dreadlocks with hats, hoods or scarves.