‘He can’t get no satisfaction,’ says Mecca.
‘He should have chosen his pitch more carefully. You can’t just set up any old where and hope for the best.’
‘You do this busking a lot?’
‘In Amsterdam, in Dam Square. London’s riskier. As you saw. Or, people try to join in.’
The waitress brings their order and four plastic chopsticks. Jasper holds his face over the hot pond of noodles, pork, half a soy-stained boiled egg and Chinese cabbage. The steam softens his eyelids. Click, scrit-scrit. Jasper looks sideways into the round eye of Mecca’s Pentax and click, scrit-scrit. She replaces the lens cap.
‘Are you never off-duty?’ asks Jasper.
‘I want a souvenir. Before your band is famous.’
‘I want a souvenir of you. Would you lend me your camera?’
‘Would you lend just anyone your guitar?’
‘No. To you, I would.’
Mecca passes him her Pentax. Jasper looks through the viewfinder at customers slurping noodles, nodding, joking, sitting in silence. The viewfinder frames Mechthild Rohmer, this unusual woman. She’s staring back like a photographic subject.
‘That’s not the you I want to remember,’ remarks Jasper.
‘What is the me you want to remember?’
‘Imagine you’ve been away for two years in America. Imagine you’re home at last. Imagine ringing the doorbell of your parents’ house. They’re not expecting you. This is a surprise. Imagine hearing their footsteps in the hall …’ Mecca’s face is changing, but it’s still not quite right. ‘Imagine the sound of the bolt being slid. Imagine the looks on your parents’ faces when they realise it’s you.’
Click, scrit-scrit.
Elf’s boogie-woogie roll, Griff’s rim-shots and Dean’s bass go from muffled to loud as Jasper opens the third-floor door marked ‘Club Zed’. The band is playing Dean’s twelve-bar blues monster ‘Abandon Hope’. Mecca hesitates. ‘You’re sure they won’t mind?’
‘Why would they?’
‘I’m an outsider.’
Jasper takes her hand and leads her through the velvet curtain into a spacious room modelled on a Mitteleuropean salon. High armchairs sit around tables under dim chandeliers. Paintings and photographs of Polish military heroes watch from the wall. A Polish flag, riddled with bullet-holes from the Warsaw Uprising, is framed above the smoky-mirrored bar lined with a hundred vodkas. Many an anonymous Soho doorway, Jasper is learning, is a portal to another time and place. Club Zed is a jazzer’s hang-out as well as a Polish one, and it houses a fine Steinway grand and an eight-piece Ludwig drum-kit on which Elf and Griff are playing while Dean wrings howls from his harmonica. The audience of two consists of Levon and Pavel, Club Zed’s owner. They smoke cheroots. Dean notices Mecca and ‘Abandon Hope’ clatters off the tracks. Elf and Griff look up and stop a few notes later.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ says Jasper. ‘I was delayed.’
‘I bet you were.’ Griff’s looking at Mecca.
‘So this is her?’ Dean asks Jasper.
‘Yes, this is her,’ replies Mecca. ‘You are Dean, I guess.’
Griff twirls his stick and does a thump-thump.
Introduce her, remembers Jasper. ‘So everyone, uh, this is Mecca. Levon, our manager, and Pavel, who lets us rehearse here.’
Everyone says hello, except Pavel. He tilts his Leninesque head. ‘German, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You are not. To do a wild guess –’ she looks around ‘– you are from Poland.’
‘Kraków. Maybe you’ve heard of it.’
‘Why would I not know Polish geography?’
Pavel makes a hmm noise. ‘It’s the history you people prefer to forget. The Lebensraum glory days.’
‘Many Germans do not say “glory days”.’
‘Really? The ones who commandeered my family home did. The ones who shot my father did.’
Even Jasper senses Pavel’s hostility.
Mecca speaks carefully. ‘My father was a history teacher in Prague. Before the Wehrmacht took him and sent him to Normandy. He did not wish to go, but if he refused, he would be shot. My mother escaped Prague ahead of the Russians to Nuremberg with me. So I know about history. Lebensraum. Genocides. War-crimes. I know. But I was born in 1944. I gave no orders. I dropped no bombs. I am sorry your father died. I am sorry Poland suffered. I am sorry all Europe suffered. But if you blame me … for what I am – a German – why are you different from a Nazi who says, “All Jewish are this” or “All homosexuals are this” or “All gypsies are this”? That is Nazi thinking. You think this way if you want but I will not. That way of thinking made the war. I say, “Fuck all war.” Fuck old people who start them, who send young people to die in them. Fuck the hate that war makes. And fuck people who feed that hate, even twenty years after. The fucks is finished now.’
Griff fires of a quick volley of drums and hi-hat.
‘I will leave your bar, if you wish,’ says Mecca.
Don’t go, thinks Jasper. Pavel stares at Mecca for a while. Everyone waits. ‘In Poland, we appreciate a good speech. And that was a good one. Would you care for a drink? On the house.’
Mecca stares back. ‘In that case, I would like the very best Polish vodka, if you please.’
‘No, no, no,’ Elf huffs. ‘G, A, D, E minor.’
‘I bloody played E minor,’ protests Dean.
‘No you bloody didn’t,’ says Elf. ‘That was E. Here.’ She scribbles in her notebook, rips out the page and hands it to him. ‘Roll out the E minor at the end of the second and fourth lines, here, when I sing “raft and river” and again on “forgiven and forgiver”. Griff, could you play … featherier?’
‘“Featherier”?’ Griff frowns. ‘Like Paul Motian?’
Elf frowns back. ‘Paul who?’
‘Bill Evans’ drummer. Shuffly, breathy, whispery.’
‘Try it. Jasper, could you shorten the solo by two bars?’
‘Okay.’ Jasper notices Levon speaking in Mecca’s ear.
‘From the top, then,’ says Elf. ‘One and two and—’
‘Sorry, folks, sorry.’ Levon stands. ‘Quick band meeting.’
Griff plays a cymbal roll. Elf looks over. Dean lets his guitar hang. Jasper’s wondering what this has to do with Mecca.
‘We’ll be needing band photos,’ says Levon, ‘for posters, for press, for – who knows? – album covers. By a happy fluke, a photographer has landed among us. The motion is, do we commission Mecca to shoot off a few rolls? Right now.’
‘Isn’t Mecca off to the States tomorrow?’ Elf asks.
‘Yes. I shoot you now, develop the film tonight and bring the best shots to Denmark Street tomorrow on my way to the airport.’
‘What about clothes and hair and stuff?’ asks Griff.
‘Mecca’ll shoot while you’re playing,’ says Levon. ‘In situ. Nothing cheesy. Think of those portraits on the Blue Note album.’
‘You only said “Blue Note” so I’d agree,’ grumbles Griff.
‘You can see into my soul,’ agrees Levon.
‘I vote yes,’ says Elf.
‘I’ve seen Mecca’s work,’ says Jasper. ‘I vote yes.’
‘No offence to Mecca,’ says Dean, ‘but shouldn’t we hire a famous name? Terence Donovan. David Bailey. Mike Anglesey.’
‘Famous names,’ says Levon, ‘charge famous-name prices.’
‘Yer get what yer pay for in this world,’ says Dean.
‘North of two hundred. Per shoot.’
‘I’ve always said,’ states Dean, ‘famous names’re bloody rip-off merchants. I say we vote Mecca. Is it a full house, Griff?’
‘Can you make me look like Max Roach?’ the drummer asks the photographer.
Mecca considers. ‘If we apply much makeup, and print the negative, Max Roach’s mother will mistake you for her son.’
‘Ooo, sharp as a blade and dry as the fookin’ Sahara,’ says Griff. ‘The Ayes have it.’
The Duke o
f Argyll on Brewer Street opens at six on Sundays. At a few minutes after six, the band plus Mecca shuffle into a nook by the window. The glass is frosted, but for an engraved escutcheon through which Jasper can see passers-by and the chemist opposite. It’s a classy Victorian pub with brass fittings, upholstered chair backs and ‘NO SPITTING’ signs. Griff empties a paper bag of pork scratchings into a cleanish ashtray, and the band and Mecca clink their mismatched glasses. ‘Here’s to Mecca’s photos,’ says Dean, ‘being on our first LP cover.’ He downs half his pint of London Pride. ‘No harm being optimistic.’
‘Here’s to “A Raft And A River”,’ says Griff. ‘Could be a single.’
‘Or a damn good B side.’ Dean wipes froth off his lip.
Elf raises her half-pint of shandy to Mecca. ‘Safe travels in the States. I’m jealous as heck. Think of me now and then, stuck here with this lot, while you travel around like a Jack Kerouac character.’
Dean and Griff find this amusing, so Jasper acts a smile.
‘You’ll be touring America,’ predicts Mecca, ‘soon. You four have a special chemistry. It’s fühlbar – what is fühlbar? I feel it.’
‘“Palpable”,’ suggests Elf.
A group files in wearing Carnaby Street fashion and longer hair than Jasper. Nobody gawps. In Soho it’s the squares who are freaks.
‘Guys,’ begins Elf. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Uh-oh,’ interrupts Dean. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘I’ve tried to like the Way Out as a name. Truly. But I’ve failed. And half the people I’ve told it to keep saying “The Far Out” by mistake. It’s not sticking. Can we – please – think of a new name?’
‘What,’ says Dean, ‘right now?’
‘Soon it’ll be too late to change,’ says Elf.
Jasper lights a Camel. Griff asks, ‘Crash us a fag.’
‘“Crash us a fag”…’ Dean misunderstands; or pretends to, for comic effect. Jasper isn’t sure which. ‘Nah. A fag’s a queer in the States. It’ll give people the wrong idea. Keep looking.’
‘Write a joke book,’ says Griff. ‘Start with your sense of timing.’
‘I’m kind o’ getting used to the Way Out,’ says Dean.
‘Why settle for a name you’ve had to get used to?’ asks Elf. ‘Why can’t we have one that makes you think, What a great name! at first encounter? Mecca. “The Way Out”: do you like it?’
‘She’ll agree with yer,’ says Dean. ‘She’s a girl, too.’
‘I would agree with Elf also if I was a boy,’ says Mecca. ‘“The Way Out” is flavourless. It is not even properly bad.’
‘Yeah, but yer German,’ says Dean. ‘No offence.’
‘To be German is not an offence to me.’
‘I mean, yer’ve got German ears. We’re a British band.’
‘You do not wish to sell records in West Germany? We are sixty million. A big market for British music.’
Dean exhales smoke ceiling-wards. ‘Fair point that.’
‘To point out the obvious,’ says Griff, ‘most bands are “the”–somethings. The Beatles. The Stones. The Who. The Hollies.’
‘Which is why,’ says Dean, ‘we shouldn’t follow the herd.’
‘“The Herd”.’ Griff tries it for size. ‘“Ba-Ba-Black Sheep”?’
Dean sips his London Pride. ‘My second choice for the Gravediggers was Lambs to the Slaughter.’
‘Great,’ says Elf. ‘We can come onstage in bloodied aprons and with a pig’s head on a stick like Lord of the Flies.’
Jasper guesses this is sarcasm, but is less sure when Dean asks, ‘What did Lord of the Flies sing?’
Elf frowns, then asks, ‘Seriously?’
Dean asks, ‘Seriously what?’
‘Lord of the Flies is a novel by William Golding.’
‘Is it? Frightfully sorry.’ Dean does a posh accent. ‘Not all of us read English at university, you know.’
Jasper hopes this is banter and not a verbal knife fight.
‘New American bands –’ Griff muffles a burp ‘– have names that stick in the head. Big Brother and the Holding Company. Quicksilver Messenger Service. Country Joe and the Fish.’
Elf spins a beer mat. ‘Nothing too wordy or gimmicky. Nothing too obviously desperate for attention.’
Dean downs the rest of his pint. ‘So what is the perfect name, Elf? Fairy Circle? The Folk Tones? Illuminate us.’
Griff munches a pork scratching. ‘The Illuminators.’
‘If I had a corker,’ says Elf, ‘I’d suggest it. But at the very least, something less random than the 2i’s guy’s misunderstanding? A name that sends a message about who we are as a band.’
Dean shrugs. ‘So, who are we? As a band?’
‘We’re a work-in-progress,’ says Elf, ‘but looking at “Abandon Hope” and “A Raft And A River”, we’re oxymoronic. Paradoxical.’
Dean squints at her. ‘Yer what?’
‘An oxymoron’s a figure of speech made of contradictory terms. “Deafening silence”. “Folky R&B”. “Cynical dreamers”.’
Dean assesses this. ‘Okay. Based on our catalogue of two songs. Your turn, Jasper. It’s Moss, one, Holloway, one, de Zoet, nil.’
‘I can’t shit songs out on command,’ says Jasper.
‘Maybe not the best metaphor,’ suggests Mecca.
Griff does his gur-hur-hur. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a big hand to – the Song Shitters!’
Elf asks Jasper, ‘Do you think we need a new name?’
Jasper considers. ‘Yes.’
‘Any ideas up those embroidered sleeves?’ asks Dean.
Jasper’s distracted by an eye that appears in a clear swirl in the design on the frosted window. It’s an inch from the pane. It’s green. It meets Jasper’s gaze, blinks, and its owner moves on.
‘Sorry,’ says Dean. ‘Are we boring yer?’
I’ve been here before. ‘Wait …’ Dream-lit snow, or swirling blossom, or filigree moths … a street-sign, on a wall … Jasper closes his eyes. Words emerge from memory-hiss. ‘Utopia Avenue.’
Dean makes a face. ‘Utopia Avenue?’
‘“Utopia” means “no place”. An avenue is a place. So is music. When we’re playing well, I’m here, but elsewhere, too. That’s the paradox. Utopia is unattainable. Avenues are everywhere.’
Dean, Griff and Elf look at each other.
Mecca clinks her vodka glass against Jasper’s Guinness.
Nobody says yes. Nobody says no.
‘My darkroom is calling,’ announces Mecca. ‘I have a busy night.’ She tells Jasper, ‘You can be my assistant. If you want.’
Dean and Griff clear their throats and exchange a look.
It means something but I don’t know what.
Elf rolls her eyes. ‘Subtle as a brick, boys.’
Jasper and Mecca wait on the platform at Piccadilly Circus tube station. Groans, gusts and echoes from the mouth of the Underworld resolve into half-melted voices. Ignore them. He lights a Marlboro each for Mecca and himself. The Piccadilly line is the deepest in central London, according to Dean, so its stations were used as bomb shelters during the Blitz. He imagines people huddled here, listening to explosions on the surface as powder trickled from the ceiling. Further up the platform, a cultured drunk is half singing Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major General’ but he keeps forgetting the words and starts again.
‘Can I ask a question that is not my business?’ asks Mecca.
‘Sure.’
‘Is Dean taking advantage of you?’
‘He’s not paying rent, it’s true. But I’m not, either. I’m flat-sitting for my father. Dean’s truly broke. Elf’s flat only has one bedroom. Same story with Levon. Griff’s living in a glorified garden shed of his uncle’s. So, Dean either stays in my spare room or he leaves London and then we’d need a new bassist. I don’t want a new bassist. Dean’s good. So are his songs.’ The rails quiver. A train’s approaching. ‘He spends most of his d
ole on groceries. He cooks. He cleans. If he takes advantage of me, and I take advantage of him, is it still taking advantage?’
‘I guess not.’
A sheet of newspaper spins along the track.
‘He stops me staying too deep inside my head for too long.’
Mecca drags on her cigarette. ‘He’s very different from you.’
‘So’s Elf. She keeps a little notebook to record her purchases in. So’s Griff. The King of Chaos. We’re all pretty different. If Levon hadn’t assembled us, we wouldn’t exist.’
‘Is this a strength or a weakness?’
‘I’ll let you know when I do.’
The oncoming train blasts into the grimy light.
The darkroom at Mike Anglesey’s studio is crimson black, save for a small rectangle of brightness under the projector. Fumes from chemicals stiffen the air. It’s as quiet as a locked church.
Mecca murmurs, ‘One hundred seconds.’
Jasper sets the timer and flips the switch.
Using a pair of tongs, Mecca dunks the print in the tray of developer fluid and tilts it to and fro to keep the liquid moving over the paper. ‘If I do this a million times, even, still it is magic.’
As they watch, a ghost of Elf emerges on the paper, in a state of rapt concentration at Pavel’s Steinway. Mecca has the same expression now. Jasper remarks, ‘It’s like a lake giving up its dead.’
‘The past, giving up a moment.’ The timer buzzes. She lifts the print, lets it drip, and transfers it to the stop-bath. ‘Thirty seconds.’
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 7