Tim Thornton

by The Alternative Hero (v5)

  Heidi picks a serious-looking chap at the back.

  “Kai Johansson, Svenska Dagbladet, Stockholm. I’d like to ask who you would like to be number one from Blur and Oasis.”

  Feeling the need for some variety you look at your band.

  “Guys?”

  “Uh … dunno,” mutters Martin.

  “Blur,” answers Craig, firmly.

  “Anyone but Oasis,” offers Dan.

  “And you, Lance?” asks the writer.

  “Neither. I think both songs are shit.”

  “But which band do you prefer?”

  “Slade.”

  Then you notice that tool from Craze has his hand in the air. You’re bored. Time for one more scrap, after which it really would be nice to see some music.

  “Heidi, pick him,” you instruct.

  “Who?”

  “The guy over there from Craze,” you say over the microphone in a stupidly loud voice, pointing at him, “who’s had his hand up for about forty minutes.”

  “Okay, you,” she squeaks. Craze bloke smiles cordially, so you smile back even wider.

  “Tony Gloster, Craze.”

  “Tony! Welcome! How nice that you made it along. How … difficult it must have been to drag yourself away from Noel Gallagher’s arsehole.”

  You’re rewarded with a gratifyingly loud blend of laughter and outrage.

  “There’s no need for that,” frowns Gloster.

  “Oh, yes? Just like there’s no need for some of those intelligent, thought-provoking things you wrote in your album review. What was it … ‘like a bitter, alcoholic old uncle arriving for Christmas—they’re back’?”

  “Er … it’s called a bad review. Live with it.”

  “Well, you’re right, it most certainly was a bad review. And there was another thing that tickled me: ‘Quite why Webster and others believe they are required in 1995 is baffling.’ You want me to explain it to you?”

  “If you want.”

  “Was that what you put your hand up to ask?”

  “Well, as you haven’t given me a chance to even speak yet—”

  “Aw … Tony. Poor Tony! Sorry, please … ask me what you wanted to ask me.”

  “It’ll be a letdown now.”

  “Just ask, and ye shall be answered.”

  “I was just wondering whether you saw yourself as part of, or an alternative to, the current explosion?”

  “Oh, booooring,” you moan, having expected something far more fruity. “Why would anyone want to know that?”

  “I think it’s important. For you, and for your fans.”

  “Well, I must tell you that I really don’t understand why we have to be either, but I would also imagine that none of our fans give the slightest shit as long as we keep making good records. I mean, who cares? Really?”

  “Were you ever concerned that the Magpies would be superfluous to the whole thing?”

  “Sorry, Tony, I didn’t go to university. I don’t understand words with more than two syllables.”

  “Did you worry that you’d be rendered unnecessary?”

  “Hmmm …” you think, glancing over at Heidi, “that one’s got five syllables. Oh, I dunno. You tell me. Why would we be?”

  “Well, you’re part of the old guard.”

  “The old guard. The dear old guard.”

  “Pretty much everyone else has been swept away.”

  “Swept away! Yes, sweep us away, under the carpet, before Alan McGee spots us!” you cry, swigging a bit more champers. “Whoever said press conferences weren’t fun? Sorry, Tony, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you have. All your ilk have been eclipsed. The Cure. The Wonder Stuff. The Mission. James. Pop Will Eat Itself. Carter. Jesus Jones.”

  “Ha! And you’ve forgotten Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Eat and Kingmaker, and why don’t you throw in Gaye Bikers on Acid and Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts while you’re at it? Are you getting all this off the back of an old Camden Palace flyer, or what? You see … you’re looking for answers that don’t exist, Mr. Gloster. You’re reading me names of bands who burned out long before this Britpop thing reared its trendy little head. But we, the Thieving fucking Magpies—headliners of this festival, in case anyone’s forgotten—we have always been capable of moving on, and we’re not stopping now just ’cos there’s suddenly a cool new scene for all you cool new people to shake your record bags to. I mean, why the fuck shouldn’t people continue listening to us? Why is it such a fucking surprise? It’s not as if we’re doing something completely contrary to what’s happening now. We use guitars. We’re British. We write real pop songs about real life. And we still rock harder than fucking anyone. A lot of the new bands rock about as hard as Simply Red.”

  You grin at your own gag and glance at the rest of the band. They look as if they’re waiting to be called at the dentist’s. For God’s sake, why don’t they ever help out in these situations? You’ll have a right go at them afterwards.

  But Gloster, unbelievably still wants to talk.

  “But you represent a bygone era.”

  “No, we don’t, my little friend. That’s just what you’ve decided, because the goths and grebos used to dig us, and ’cos we’re from Reading as opposed to Stockport or wherever. It’s total and utter bullshit. I bet you don’t ask Shaun Ryder the same question. If you do, he’ll probably sit on you, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “Does a backlash scare you?”

  “Hey-hey, it’s the backlash!” you whoop, getting up and doing a little jig. “Welcome back to the backlash, ladies and germs. No, I don’t fucking think so. We’ve already had four of the fuckers. One after each album. We’d survived our first one probably before you finished your GCSEs.”

  You turn and nudge Martin in the ribs, which prompts a ferocious glare.

  “Wha’sa matter with you?” you hiss at him. “Why don’t you cunts fucking cheer up?”

  “What about from the public?” persists Gloster.

  “Oh, Tony … Tony, Tony, Tony, stop being so bloody tiresome. I want to go and watch dEUS. Please can I go and watch dEUS? Mum?” you shout over to Heidi. “Can we stop now?”

  She cocks her head to suggest you should answer the last question.

  “Oh, all right. No, we won’t be having a backlash from the public, Mr. Gloster, thank you very much. We’ve got a platinum record, and you can all just fuck off.”

  You stand up, and walk straight back to the dressing room without a word. Well, it’s an appropriate end to an appropriately dull conference, isn’t it? These thing are never any fun anymore.

  ˙ ˙ ˙

  Oh, and the band come storming in a few minutes later to have a go at you. Well, that was inevitable. But you give as good as you get, telling them they’re all zombies, and that it’s by behaving precisely as you just did that the Magpies retain their edge, their abrasive style, their reputation for biting intelligence and lyrical wit. Surprisingly, the most sensible comeback to this comes from Craig.

  “But you didn’t sound intelligent just then, L. You sounded disturbed.”

  You open another beer and consider this charge. How you’d love to tell him that, in fact, you are a bit disturbed. Actually, that you’re completely lost; that you feel you’ve lost a limb since Gloria vanished, and that of course you blame yourself for everything that happened, for taking such colossal offence all those years ago when she decided, purely on the strength of one of her cosmic experiences, that she wasn’t destined to be with a rock star after all, and that you then turned into such a promiscuous fool, making sure every girl you fucked was as drop-dead gorgeous as possible just to punish her, gradually grinding her down to the point where she started to destroy herself, and then … well. You’d prefer not to think about that. But you can’t tell the band any of this. Any kink in your armour and you’ll be ripped apart. You’d also love to inform Dan and Craig that your day didn’t have exactly the most wonderful start with Martin’s little
announcement; but you gave him your word, and Lance’s word is Lance’s word. That’s one part of your reputation that you never want sullied.

  The argument winds down and you suggest to Craig that, at last, some music might be a good idea, so—taking a couple of cans for the journey—you stride back out into the sunshine.

  ˙ ˙ ˙

  At this point, your day considerably improves. You’re heading in the vague direction of the second stage (the Loaded stage, as Craig corrects you) to catch a bit of dEUS, but, as usual with festivals, there are all sorts of diversions on the way. You’re wearing your shades and (a nice effect, you thought) a pith helmet, but the number of fans who still recognise you is astonishing. Or maybe they recognise Craig, then put two and two together. You’re not prone to self-doubt, or even band-doubt, especially with the album flying out the shops as it has been, but today’s press conference succeeded in making you a little nervy, so the colourful collection of long-haired boys and girls who approach as you traipse along is hugely gratifying.

  “Hi, Lance, wicked to have you back, geezer.”

  “Lance, fucking can’t wait for later, man.”

  “Oh my God, it’s you! Can you sign this?”

  “Theeeeevers! Spirit of eighty-nine, mate.”

  “Or eighty-eight?” you laugh.

  “Craig!” says another. “Fuck, you’re my fave drummer of all time! Well, after Dave Grohl.”

  “It’s always after Dave Grohl, innit,” Craig laments.

  “That’s okay,” you counter, cracking open another beer. “With me it’s usually after Mike Patton, and how do you think that feels.”

  Some dudes are kicking a football about.

  “Lance! On the ’ead, mate!”

  You join in for a few minutes, delighted to be in the real world. An insane-looking collection of misfits are knocking out something familiar on the main stage (“Baby we don’t love ya, baby we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!”), perfect for a sunny day in the country. Then it’s all high fives and “see you tonight”s and you’re off again, towards the red big top on the far side of the arena.

  “Gonna be good tonight, then,” volunteers Craig.

  “Of course it is, Mr. Spalding,” you smile. “Course it is.”

  The fun continues as you arrive at the Loaded stage, where dEUS are midway through administering a shambolically energetic set to the couple of thousand punters who pack the tent. An ecstatic bloke in a Weezer T-shirt gives you and Craig a hug, then runs off to buy you a couple of pints. Some very young girls demand you sign their brand-new Aylesbury ’95 long-sleeved tops (“It’ll ruin a nice top, though,” you merrily protest). You push on forwards, shaking hands with various people every few minutes, enjoying the band, gleefully allowing yourself to be pushed and pulled as everyone bounces up and down to the chorus (“She knows where she rolls when she goes for the doorknob”) and supping your pint of snakebite. Funny he got you snakebite. It must be years since you had it. He probably thinks that’s all you drink. It’s strong stuff.

  “Better take it easy, I s’pose,” Craig comments. “Long time ’til we play.”

  “Shit,” you grin. “Forgot we had to actually play later. Maybe you could get Stan to do it for me.”

  “Okay,” he agrees. “I’m sure Jerry’ll do a fine job on the drums too.”

  You watch a few more songs then wander out again. Funny old thing, the grand old British music festival: what a bizarre rock on which your career has been built. But it’s been good to you. Your career, from such strange beginnings: when an odd but pretty girl called Rosamund gave you that first compilation tape in 1983—Bauhaus, Gene Loves Jezebel, The Cure and The Sisters of Mercy on the first side; The Smiths, Orange Juice, The Pastels and The Lotus Eaters on side two—and you realised, with her help, that you could do it too. You dreamed together; you got drunk together; you even changed your names together. How you loved her. Gloria, that crazy, wonderful, messed-up girl, who remained so bizarrely adamant that she wasn’t destined to be yours, but who guided you every step of the way. And how the indie world welcomed you with open arms back then, and how (you believe) you’ve done your bit in return.

  And you realise what a prick Martin is for suddenly rejecting it all. Who knows what will happen now. You’ve still got tonight, of course. But as you wander across the dusty field—past the stalls, the coloured hats, the endless piles of army-surplus stuff, the burger vans, the herbal pills that never work, the beer tents, the merch stands (the latest Magpies top looks particularly good, you notice, stretched out at the top of the display board), the noodle-eating, pint-supping, sunbathing masses and the ever-changing sonic palette of jagged chords and thumping beats—you realise that in some strange way it feels like you’re saying goodbye. You pause, undisturbed for a second, blinking at the gradually setting sun, trying to take it all in, just in case you never see it again. If this really was it—tonight—you figure it’d be okay. No one could say you hadn’t had a good run. You’ve plenty of fine memories, and enough pounds left in the bank. Some mistakes too, many regrets and a lot of pain, which you know you’ll have to deal with over time. But on balance, this is a world which has made you happy.

  “You all right, L?” asks Craig.

  “Yeah, man,” you smile, watching some fool doing a bungee jump in the distance. “Nice festival. Glad we picked it, really.”

  Slowly the sound from the looming main stage overtakes everything else as you make your way back, and you catch a glimpse of the band. You’re not sure who they are—neither is Craig—but they seem to be a graduate of the more recent, retro school of thought, competent but not madly impressive, a load of old Rolling Stone chords in search of a decent song. Could it be Shed Seven? No, they’re better than this. As are The Bluetones. But it’s along those lines. With your slightly superior headliner’s cap on, you muse aloud to Craig that it’ll “all be over in six months”—then quietly take it back. Gloria used to gravely warn you about the karmic consequences of slagging bands while watching them. The woman usually had a point, as the next few minutes prove.

  Firstly you notice that everyone in this particular corner of the festival has short hair. Then you realise all the clothes are different—tighter-fitting, smarter than usually seen at festivals; velvet suits, shirts, ties. Either that, or more on the sporty side, Adidas T-shirts, vintage trainers. It might be your imagination, but people also seem to be drinking more. Which isn’t a completely bad thing; after all, you’ve been at it all day. That reminds you, there’s another can of beer in Craig’s bag, so you steady yourself by cracking it open. Another change is that no one’s recognised you for a while. Again, not a disaster in itself, but substantially different to elsewhere.

  “This is called ‘Haley’s Blues,’” announces the vocalist. “This is for all you lot to shake about to. It’s our last song. Have a blindin’ evening, enjoy Gene and The Boos, and remember to go somewhere else for the headliner, eh?”

  A whoop of laughter slaps you in the face and you feel like you’re watching your own funeral.

  “What a cunt,” observes Craig, but you’re too shocked to reply. “Come on, let’s get outta here. I’m gonna smack him if I see him backstage.”

  Backstage. You look at your watch, and then it hits you.

  “Shit, hang on! It’s six thirty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is that band! That guy … the guy who was talking to the security bloke on our dressing room when we arrived!”

  “Which means?”

  You squint at the stage. There he is, in his red tracksuit, laying into his Hammond organ.

  “It’s him. These are the people who are trying to fuck us, Craig. I bet that …”

  You look around the audience, trying to spot someone you recognise. You’re standing handily near the entrance to the VIP enclosure, so you bet there’s … yes, there he is: Tony Gloster, wigging away in his corduroys and his bloody Graham Coxon spectacles … and there’s that idiot Blair Cooper, a
little further forward, unmistakable with shades on his head and a Creation record bag.

  “Fucking arseholes,” you pronounce, grabbing Craig’s arm and hurrying towards the backstage entrance.

  “Lance, I really don’t think you should have anything more to drink for a while.”

  “Whatever.”

  A group of chaps are just leaving the enclosure as you approach. One of them sniggers as he sees you.

  “What’s so fucking funny, dickhead,” you snarl as you pass him.

  “It’s all over,” the guy replies clearly.

  Followed by more laughter.

  You remain still and think for half a second; then you’re off again, storming past the guard by the VIP entrance, holding your pass right in his face.

  “Don’t even think about saying I’ve got the wrong one.”

  He doesn’t. What he does say, almost out of earshot as you flounce off, is the same phrase again: “It’s all over.”

  “What did you fucking say?” you scream, turning on him.

  “Nothing,” he shrugs innocently.

  “Wanker!”

  You dash away again. Once inside the enclosure, Craig catches up with you.

  “Lance, for the second time today, you are behaving like an utter cock.”

  “No, Craig! Listen! Call me hysterical, man, but it’s a fucking conspiracy.”

  “Erm … hysterical,” he obliges.

  “No, no, think about it! Haven’t you heard what they’ve been saying to me?”

  “No, all I’ve been hearing is you mouthing off to people.”

  “They’re saying ‘It’s all over,’ didn’t you hear them? The prick in the red tracksuit said it, then the security guy by our hut said it, and that little cock guarding our gear before, he said it. Hasn’t anyone said it to you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Oh, fuck it …”

  You glare around at the assembled drinkers and the little queue of girls by the toilet, most of whom are gaping in your direction. It’s not something they’re used to, the lead singer of the headline band arguing with his drummer in the middle of the backstage area. “Listen, Craig, whatever you think, do me a favour, will you? Please go over to the equipment tent and check everything’s okay. One of our guys should be in there with the gear. If he’s not, come straight back to the dressing room and tell me. Will you please just fucking do that for us?”