The mods hoot and laugh, but Griff doesn’t get up. Levon and Elf hurry over. Dean peers at the damage. Griff’s face has a gruesome gash oozing blood. The zig-zag cap of the bottle, thinks Dean, or an edge on his drum-kit …
‘Griff?’ Levon’s saying. There’s blood on his shirt. ‘Griff!’
Griff mumbles, ‘Lemmegetmy’andsonth’fooker …’
Levon roars at the bar: ‘Barman! An ambulance! Now! An emergency! His eyeball’s half out!’ Dean doesn’t think an eye is out … but the mods don’t know that.
The barman shouts back, with a phone in his hand, ‘I called the porter! He’s calling the cops and an ambulance!’
Dean shouts at the onlookers: ‘Remember their faces!’ He points at the mods, whose smirks are fading. ‘The cops’ll want witness statements. D’you fuckers know what that is?’ He points at Griff. ‘That’s five years’ prison a head for GBH!’
A flash goes off. It’s Jude, with a camera.
The flash goes off again. The mods take a step back, and another, and another, except for Shark Eyes who marches at Jude, snarling, ‘Gimme that fucking camera!’ Dean drops his Fender and jumps down from the stage. Now Shark Eyes is in a tug-of-war with Jude over her camera. He’s roaring, ‘GIMME THAT, YOU BITCH!’ It’s a one-sided fight until Dean grabs a bottle of brown ale from a bystander and brings it down on Shark Eyes’s head with all his might. Dean feels something crack. Shark Eyes lets the camera go and turns to look at his assailant, woozily. Fuck, thinks Dean. Am I the one going to prison for five years? To Dean’s relief, Shark Eyes’s gang hustle their leader from the scene of the crime.
Drizzle coats the Students’ Union car park, and everyone in it, in a cool, wet layer. Most of the spectators have left. The mods have vanished into the night. ‘Your friend’s injury looks worse than it probably is,’ says the ambulance man, discussing Griff. ‘But I’m guessing the duty nurse’ll want to keep him in over the weekend. He’ll be X-rayed, he’ll need stitches and there’s a concussion risk with head injuries. On the whole, your friend’s lucky he didn’t lose an eye.’
‘I’ll follow you to the hospital in my car,’ says Levon.
‘I’m coming with you,’ states Elf.
‘There’s no need,’ says Levon.
Elf ignores him. ‘Dean can drive the Beast back, and …’ Dean guesses she’s stopped herself saying, ‘Jasper’s not going to be much use to anyone’. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Dean asks the ambulance man, ‘Can we say goodbye to Griff?’
‘Be quick, and don’t expect sparkling conversation.’
‘He’s the drummer,’ says Dean. He goes around the back and steps into the clean, cream-coloured interior where Griff is sitting up on a trolley. Half his face is bandaged. He looks at Dean. ‘Oh, bugger. It’s you. I’ve died and gone to Hell.’
‘On the bright side,’ says Dean, ‘if that scar turns out nice, yer’ll get a lifetime of work in horror movies.’
‘How’re you feeling?’ Elf holds his hand. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Getting glassed is light entertainment up in Hull,’ says Griff. ‘Who’s minding my drum-kit? I don’t trust them students.’
‘It’s in the Beast,’ says Jasper. ‘We’ll keep it at my flat.’
‘If yer snuff it,’ says Dean, ‘we’ll flog it to yer replacement.’
‘Good luck finding a drummer who’ll keep you on the beat.’
‘’Scuse me?’ There’s a girl’s voice behind them. Dean turns around to see Jude hesitating by the ambulance door. ‘Can I …?’
‘Come on up,’ says Levon.
‘Sorry to barge in. I just … I feel awful, for you.’
‘Apologies are due from the Students’ Union,’ says Elf, ‘but you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’
‘Your music was fab.’ Jude tucks a fallen strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Until you were so rudely interrupted.’
‘Wish I could agree,’ says Dean. ‘But thanks.’
‘Will you be back to finish the gig?’ asks Jude.
The band look at each other. ‘Not unless we’re paid blood money,’ says Dean. Levon pfffs. ‘We’ll wait until Griff is back to full strength before planning our next move.’
She glances at Dean. ‘So I guess it’s bye, then …’
The A23’s cat’s eyes vanish beneath the Beast in sweeping curves. Now you see ’em, now you don’t. The amps, drums and guitars shift around in the back. Four of us drove down, thinks Dean, and only two of us are going back. Jasper has retreated into Jasper. Or maybe he’s asleep. What’s the difference? Dean wishes the Beast’s radio worked. His mind is busy. Thank God Ray didn’t witness that shit-show. Shanks, Ray and Co would have fought off the mods, but Utopia Avenue’s disastrous debut would have had credible witnesses. Sounding good in rehearsal doesn’t count for shit if we can’t do it onstage. A band is only a band if it believes it is, and Dean isn’t sure if he, Jasper, Elf and Griff do. When push came to shove, they didn’t click. He’s got a working-class affinity with Griff, but Jasper’s from a different planet. The Planet of the Posh Weirdos. Dean’s lived with Jasper for eight weeks, but he still hardly knows him. Elf thinks Dean’s an oik. How could she not? Her naughtiest swear-word is ‘damn’. Her parents will bail her out if her adventures in showbiz go wrong. She lives life with a safety net. Even Griff’s got a safety net.
‘Not me,’ mutters Dean.
‘Did you say anything?’ asks Jasper.
‘No.’
The Beast enters a tunnel of trunks and branches.
A dead pheasant is smeared into the road.
I need the others more than they need me, thinks Dean. Jasper could jump ship tomorrow. Any band in London would want him. And then I can kiss my Mayfair flat goodbye. Griff has the jazz circuit. Elf has a solo career to go back to. Levon has Moonwhale, an office in Denmark Street and, after tonight, Dean guesses, serious doubts about throwing good money after bad. What have I got? Utopia Avenue. Dean’s future was supposed to take off tonight.
It blew up on the launch pad.
Smithereens.
Mona Lisa Sings The Blues
‘We decided an hour ago,’ groans Elf. ‘The third take’s best.’
‘Take six is more precise.’ Levon speaks on the control-room talkback. ‘Dean fluffed that descending scale.’
‘That adds to it,’ insists Elf. ‘It comes just as Jasper sings the word “broken”. It’s one of those happy accidents that—’
‘Jasper’s vocal’s better overall on take six,’ says Levon. ‘And Griff played it more “tick-tock-tick-tock”, too.’
‘If you want “tick-tock-tick-tock”,’ said Elf, ‘just get a giant hairy metronome in a vest to sit in the corner and record that.’
‘If the giant hairy metronome can get a word in.’ Griff lies on a saggy sofa, his angry new scar crossing his left temple. ‘Mosser’s bass bled into my snare. Can we do a take seven with an absorber?’
‘I left the absorber out on purpose,’ says Digger, Fungus Hut’s in-house engineer. ‘Like the Stones. They let it bleed on purpose.’
‘So?’ Dean is perched on an amp, picking his nose and not caring who sees. ‘We’re not Stones clones.’
‘Taking a leaf from the Stones’ book doesn’t make you a clone, guys,’ says the tanned, tooth-whitened, Playboy-esque co-owner of Moonwhale, Howie Stoker. ‘Those boys are a gold mine.’
‘They’re a gold mine ’cause they found their own voice, Howie,’ replies Dean, ‘and not by acting like bloody parrots.’
‘Nobody at Chess Records’d agree the Stones aren’t parrots.’ Griff blows a smoke ring.
‘None of this is the point!’ Elf feels trapped in a circular nightmare. ‘Can we please just—’
‘No, but, guys, here’s an idea.’ Howie Stoker accentuates his speech with hand-chops. ‘Ditch that line, “Down in the darkroom where a lie becomes the truth” and replace it with “sha-la-la-la-la-dah sha-la-la-la-la-bah”. I had dinner with Phil Spector
last week and he says sha-la-las are making a comeback.’
‘Definitely a thought, Howie,’ says Levon.
Shoot me first, thinks Elf. ‘Dean, it’s your bass part. Take three or six. Choose one. Put us out of our misery.’
‘I’ve listened to them so much, my ears’re on strike.’
‘That’s why God invented producers,’ said Levon. ‘Digger, Howie and I agree – take six is the one.’
‘We were agreed it was take three,’ Elf tries not to shout because then she’ll be the hysterical female, ‘until you—’
‘Take three led the field for a while,’ explains Levon, ‘but six rallied strongly and reached the finishing line first.’
God give me strength. ‘A badly-fitting metaphor is not a winning argument. Jasper. Three or six? It’s your song.’
Jasper peers out of the vocal booth. ‘Neither. I sound like Dylan with a cold. I’d like to do a croonier retake.’
‘Phil Spector has a saying,’ says Howie Stoker. ‘“Don’t let the good be the enemy of the best.” Is he right or is he right?’
‘I’d say that’s truly sound advice, Howie,’ says Levon.
You arse-licking pun-cracker, thinks Elf. ‘If we had all week I’d agree to try it five hundred ways. But we only have …’ the clock shows 8.31 a.m. ‘… four hours and twenty-nine minutes to do two songs because we’ve spent so much time on this one.’
‘“Darkroom”’s the A side,’ says Levon. ‘This is the song that’ll be coming out of a million radio sets. It has to be perfect.’
‘Shouldn’t we hear how my and Dean’s songs come out before deciding what’s the A side?’ asks Elf. ‘Otherwise—’
‘No, but—’ begins Dean, and a fuse blows in the brain of Elf, who slams her piano keyboard and tells the studio, ‘If anyone talks over me again I will ram my Farfisa up his arse.’
The men look shocked, except for Jasper. Then they swap uh-oh-someone’s-having-her-period looks.
‘Miss Holloway?’ Deirdre, Fungus Hut’s receptionist, is at the door. ‘Your sister’s in Reception. She says she’s expected.’
Bea’s been sent to save me from killing someone, thinks Elf. ‘Okay. Everyone. Do what you want with this damn song. I’m past caring. I’m going to the Gioconda. I’ll be back at nine.’
‘Go ahead,’ replies their manager. ‘It’ll do you good.’
‘I wasn’t asking for permission, Levon.’ Elf gathers her coat and bag and exits without a backward glance.
Out in Reception, fresh air wafts in from Denmark Street. Bea’s looking at a wall of photographs of Fungus Hut’s more famous clients. Elf admires her younger sister’s new boyish haircut, her violet beret, her lilac jacket and knee-length boots. Nails and lips are a matching shade of plum. ‘Little sis. Look at you.’
The sisters hug. ‘Did I go overboard? I was aiming at Mary Quant, but now I’m afraid I’ve gone Mary Mary Quite Contrary.’
‘If I was on the judging panel, I’d offer you a place based on your sartorial genius alone.’
‘You’re biased.’ Bea points to a photograph of Paul McCartney. ‘If I stay here long enough, will Paul waft in on a wave of fabness?’
‘’Fraid not.’ Deirdre looks up from her desk. ‘That was March. Abbey Road was all booked up for the night. Just a one-off.’
‘Let’s get breakfast,’ says Elf. ‘Better that I murder a bacon sandwich than a producer.’
Howie appears from the studio door, hoicking up his trousers. ‘My my. And who’s this delightful young lady?’
‘My sister, Bea,’ said Elf. ‘Bea, this is Mr Stoker, who—’
‘Gave birth to Moonwhale.’ Howie encases Bea’s hand in both of his. ‘Though I keep my fingers in a number of pies.’
Bea extracts her hand. ‘How jolly sticky for you.’
Howie switches his smile to high-beam. ‘And where are you in life’s great adventure, Bea?’
‘Finishing Sixth Form and aiming at drama school.’
‘Good. I’ve always said that beauty has a duty to be seen by the widest possible audience. You want to work in the movies?’
Deirdre slams her typewriter carriage back.
‘That might be a possibility in the long run,’ says Bea.
‘Funny you should say that,’ says Howie. ‘My old pal Benny Klopp – Benny’s a big cheese at Universal Studios – tasked me to scout for English roses during my London sojourn. And you, Bea – I can call you Bea, right? – are one. You got a head-shot on you?’
Bea frowns. ‘Do I have a what on me?’
‘Head-shot. A picture of your’ – Howie draws a frame around Bea’s breasts – ‘head. Benny’s casting a film about Caligula. The emperor. You’d look a-ma-zing in a toga.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Bea, ‘but I haven’t even got into drama school yet. I have an A-level exam tomorrow.’
‘It’s never too early to make connections in showbiz. Am I right, Elf?’
‘As long as they’re genuine. Sharks, shysters and shite-hawks swim in these waters. Am I wrong, Howie?’
‘Your sister,’ Howie tells Bea, ‘has an old head on her solid young shoulders. Do you know Martha’s Vineyard?’
‘No,’ says Bea. ‘Is it one of those pies you have a finger in?’
‘Martha’s Vineyard is a vacation resort in Massachusetts. I have a home there. Private beach, private quay, private yacht. Truman Capote’s a neighbour. I have a fascinating idea. When Utopia Avenue flies over to conquer the US of A’ – Howie presses his palms together like an Indian saying ‘Namaste’ – ‘you come too, and stay at Martha’s Vineyard as my house-guest. You’ll meet Benny Klopp. Broadway movers and shakers. Phil Spector.’ Howie licks the corner of his mouth. ‘Your life will change, Bea. Trust me. Trust your gut. What’s your gut telling you about me? Right now?’
‘Go castrate yourself with a rusty spoon, you crusty pervert were the words that sprang to mind,’ Bea looks both ways as they cross Denmark Street, ‘but then I thought, This is my sister’s boss … So I kept my mouth shut.’
‘Technically,’ says Elf, ‘he’s Levon’s boss, but it’s true, he could still press the ejector button on us. So thanks.’
A bicycle courier flashes by. Bea asks, ‘Dad’s lawyer friend’s still checking those contracts, right?’
‘Yes. Hopefully he’s up to the job. I could count the musicians who haven’t been shafted on the fingers of no hands.’
‘Extra, extra!’ hollers a raw-throated newspaper vendor in his tiny shack. ‘Harold Wilson Found Dead In A Coffin With A Stake Through His Heart! Extra, extra!’
Bea and Elf stop. They both look at the newspaper vendor who tells them, ‘I like to check if anyone’s listening. Listening’s a dying art. I mean, look at ’em all.’
People hurry along Denmark Street in the May sunshine.
‘Perhaps they hear you,’ suggests Elf, ‘but just think, Ah well, that’s another Soho eccentric.’
‘Nah,’ says the vendor. ‘Folks only hear what they expect to. Not one in a hundred has ears like you two.’
Three young men leaving the Gioconda café stand aside to let the sisters pass, and to get a better look at Bea. From their battered art folders and clothes, Elf guesses they are students at Saint Martin’s College of Art, a minute away on Charing Cross Road. Bea breezes by as if the boys don’t exist, and they file out of the café.
Elf asks, ‘What can I get you?’
‘Just a coffee. Milk, no sugar.’
‘Not much of a breakfast,’ says Elf.
‘I had half a grapefruit before I left.’
‘At the risk of sounding like Dad,’ says Elf, ‘is half a grapefruit enough for an audition? Let me get you a scone.’
‘No, really. I’m full of butterflies as it is.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Elf orders a bacon sandwich plus two coffees from Mrs Biggs, matriarch of the Gioconda, who relays the order through a hatch to a kitchen slave. The sisters take the window table. ‘What monologue did y
ou settle on for the audition?’
‘Joan of Arc from Henry the Sixth, Part One. And for my song, a pleasing ditty entitled “Any Way The Wind Blows” by English songstress Elf Holloway. I didn’t ask permission. Will she mind?’
‘I’d say that Miss Holloway – whom I happen to know slightly – will be utterly delighted. Why that one?’
‘It’s beautiful unaccompanied, and because I happened to be upstairs while you wrote it – a story I may let slip to the panel, because I’m a shameless name-dropper. Where’s the loo?’
‘Down the steps, under the Mona Lisa picture. Be warned. It’s a bit of a Journey to the Centre of the Earth …’
The Kinks’ ‘Waterloo Sunset’ comes on the radio. Elf looks out at Denmark Street. Hundreds of people pass by. Reality erases itself as it rerecords itself, Elf thinks. Time is the Great Forgetter. She gets her notebook from her handbag and writes, Memories are unreliable … Art is memory made public. Time wins in the long run. Books turn to dust, negatives decay, records get worn out, civilisations burn. But as long as the art endures, a song or a view or a thought or a feeling someone once thought worth keeping is saved and stays share-able. Others can say, ‘I feel that too.’
Across the road in a brick doorway, under a poster for Berkshire stockings, a couple are kissing. Elf’s line of sight, the depth of the doorway and the speed of the foot-traffic are such that, chances are, the lovers are visible to Elf alone. They press their foreheads together and talk. Arrangements, sweet nothings, promises, see-you-laters … He’s averagely good-looking but she’s the first day of spring in a female body, Elf decides. Her poise, her clothes, her tomboyishness, her throat-length dark hair and, most of all, that wild crooked smile.
You’re ogling. Elf fumbles in her handbag for her packet of Camels, ferrets about for a lighter, and lights up. I wasn’t ogling, I was just looking. Elf remembers the voice she heard on the 97 bus last January, shunting along Cromwell Road …
The doorbell at 101 Cromwell Road shrieked like a banshee. Music throbbed. ‘Sounds like the party’s started,’ said Bruce. They had travelled back from Cambridge that day and Elf would have preferred to stay at her flat, but Wotsit was Bruce’s oldest friend from Melbourne and he’d just arrived in London, so Bruce was going, and Elf was afraid that if she didn’t go, he might not be back until the following morning, full of easy-to-believe lies about where he had spent the night. The door of 101 was opened by a gangly man in a peach Afghan coat, beads and a straggly moustache. ‘Brucie Fletch! Get inside, it’s freezing out!’
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 11