Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘Far from it.’ Hershey lights a Chesterfield. Same brand as Guus de Zoet. ‘Everything you said is bang on the nail. I’m delighted you’ve connected with the script so perceptively.’

  Sorry I’m nibbling Tiff on the side, thinks Dean, but if yer weren’t nobbing starlets, she wouldn’t’ve come on to me …

  ‘Griff’s just added percussion,’ says Levon, ‘and we’re in the process of getting it down to a three-and-a-half minute radio edit.’

  ‘May I hear it as a work-in-progress?’ asks Hershey.

  ‘Dean, I think, should do the honours,’ says Levon.

  ‘My vocal’s rough as old guts –’ Dean presses rewind on the console ‘– and the scooby-dooby-doobies are placeholders, but …’ Tape goes from reel to reel. ‘Welcome to “The Narrow Road to the Far West”, take eleven.’

  Stop.

  Play.

  Needles of sweat ooze through Dean’s pores, coated with make-up. It’s like an extra plastic skin – how do women stand this? A brunette blows him a pouty kiss from the front row as he lip-synchs the dying notes of ‘Roll Away The Stone’. The production on Randy Thorn Goes Pop! is far slicker than on Top of the Pops and the audience livelier than their British counterparts. They whoop at Randy Thorn, a Brylcreemed, sequinned singer whose clutch of singles fizzled out during the British Invasion in the wake of the Beatles. ‘A seeensational song, by a seeensational band: “Roll Away The Stone” by Utopian Avenue. Now let’s meet the leader of the pack.’ He holds the mic in front of Dean. ‘And you are?’

  Dean gets a blast of Randy Thorn’s egg-and-whisky breath. ‘Dean Moss. But I’m not the leader.’

  Randy’s smile is undimmed. ‘You are the lead singer?’

  ‘On “Roll Away The Stone”, yeah, but the three of us –’ he indicates Jasper and Elf ‘– all sing lead on songs we’ve written.’

  ‘Democracy in action, folks. Now, something tells me’ – Randy switches to a Texan drawl – ‘y’all aint from these parts, boy.’

  A sign is held up: ‘LAUGHTER’. The audience laughs.

  ‘Right. We’re from Great Britain.’

  ‘And how are you finding Great America so far?’

  ‘Pretty cool. As a boy, America was the Land of Elvis ’n’ Little Richard ’n’ Roy Orbison. I’d dream about playing here. Now—’

  ‘Seeensational. Randy Thorn makes another dream come true.’ He winks at the camera and strolls over to Griff. ‘Let’s meet this, uh … and you are?’

  ‘Griff.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Griff.’

  ‘Like the “Billy Goat Gruff”?’

  Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

  ‘Griff,’ says Griff. ‘With an “i”.’

  ‘And where’s that adorable accent from, Gruff?’

  ‘Yorkshire.’

  ‘“Yorkshire”? What country’s that?’

  ‘It’s up on the English border with Norway. Visit us when you’re over. We do love a pillocky prat in Yorkshire.’

  Randy turns to the camera. ‘Who knew, Mom ’n’ Pop? The things you learn on Randy Thorn Goes Pop! Now let’s quit Gruff while the going’s good and pay a call to …’ he steps down from the riser ‘the fair lady of Utopia.’ He walks towards Elf, then veers to Jasper, acts confused, gurns at the camera, looks back at Jasper and covers his mouth in fake mortification.

  Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

  ‘Just my little gag – hope you’re not offended.’

  ‘I’m not good at getting offended.’

  ‘That’s a red flag to a bull, my friend. What’s your name?’

  ‘My first name or my full name?’

  Randy Thorn gurns at the camera. ‘Your first name’s enough.’

  ‘It’s Jasper.’

  ‘You know, I thought Jasper was a boy’s name?’

  Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

  That’s not bloody funny, thinks Dean.

  ‘Couldn’t resist it, folks,’ says Randy Thorn. ‘Could not resist.’

  ‘I’m surprised you think my hair’s effeminate, Mr Thorn,’ says Jasper. ‘Many American men have long hair. Have you considered that your culture’s moving on, but you aren’t?’

  Randy Thorn’s grin strains its seams. ‘Folks, Jasper the joker! Last but not least is the rose among the thorns, or is she …’ the presenter crosses the stage to Elf ‘… the she-wolf among the sheep? Let’s find out! What’s your name, sweet cheeks?’

  ‘Elf Holloway.’

  ‘Elf? “Elf”? As in “Pixie”?’

  ‘It’s a nickname, from when I was little.’

  ‘And are you hiding pointy ears under those golden locks?’

  ‘It’s a nickname, from when I was little.’

  ‘Do you work on Santa’s Naughty ’n’ Nice lists? I’m both, by the way. Very naughty and very nice.’ Up goes the LAUGHTER board. The studio laughter, at last, is dimming. ‘What’s it like being Little Orphan Annie in a band of big bad boys, like Jasper, Gruff and Derek? Boys will be boys, right?’

  Elf looks around at the producer offstage who has the decency to look embarrassed: ‘They’re gentlemen.’

  ‘Whoooooopsie! Folks, I think we’ve touched a raw nerve!’

  ‘Oy, Randy!’ says Dean. ‘We’ve written a special song for yer.’

  Randy Thorn walks over and into the trap. ‘A special song?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s called’ – Dean takes the mic and looks into the live camera, enunciating each word like a newsreader: ‘“Randy Thorn’s Career Lies A-mouldering In Its Grave”. Want to hear it?’

  The silence in the studio is silent.

  Dean drops the mic at Randy’s feet, pats his cheek, drops the fake bass and makes a throat-slashing gesture at the others. Utopia Avenue walk off the set. Low-level chaos is boiling over. A hand grips Dean’s collar from behind and squeezes, constricting his windpipe. ‘Shitty limey cocksucker!’ Randy Thorn drags Dean back a few paces. ‘This is MY SHOW! NOBODY walks off MY SHOW!’ He hurls Dean to the studio floor, his eyes bulging. He kicks Dean’s ribs. Dean rolls back, trying to get up, but another kick lands in his jaw. He tastes blood. Then he glimpses Elf, swinging the fake bass smack into Randy Thorn’s face. She must have wielded it with force to make it shatter the way it does. Bits of instrument fly off. A few rain on Dean.

  Randy Thorn’s face has gone from blood-lustful to dazed. Griff and Levon are helping Dean up when a voice shouts out, ‘KILL THE CAMERAS! NOW! ALEX! KILL THE CAMERAS!’

  Kill the cameras? They were still rolling? This show’s live – so people at home saw that? Through a haze of pain, implications swarm into Dean’s brain.

  The band troop onto a low stage and sit at a table in a conference room at the Wilshire Hotel. Cameras click like a locust attack. The big clock says 7.07 p.m. Dean’s face is still throbbing. Elf pours him a glass of iced water and mutters, ‘Keep an ice cube on where it hurts.’ Dean nods. A TV camera is recording the proceedings. Thirty or forty reporters and photographers are seated in rows. Max sits with Griff and Jasper on one side and Elf and Dean on the other. He taps the microphone. ‘Folks, can everyone hear me?’

  A few nods and ‘Yep’s and a ‘Loud and clear’.

  ‘I’m Max Mulholland, head of Gargoyle Records. Apologies for keeping you past happy hour. Send your complaints to Randy Thorn, who went pop live this afternoon.’ Genuine laughter from the press pack. ‘It’s great to see so many of you. Clearly the old maxim, “Nothing travels faster than light except gossip in Hollywood” is still as true as it’s ever been …’

  Dean looks out through the glass wall of the conference room over a lush lawn to a row of palm trees. His jaw hurts.

  ‘Griff, Jasper, Elf and Dean are here to answer any questions,’ Max is saying. ‘Time’s short, so with no further ado, fire away.’

  ‘Los Angeles Times,’ says a man with the air and five o’clock shadow of a Raymond Chandler detective. ‘A questio
n for Mr Moss regarding his future best man Randy …’

  ‘Please don’t make me smile.’ Dean touches his jaw. ‘It’s tender.’

  ‘Apologies. Randy Thorn issued this statement an hour ago: “That faggoty English sonofabitch set out to provoke me, just to get attention for his shitty music. Deport that drug fiend now.” Any responses?’

  Dean sips his water. ‘It’s one o’ my better reviews.’ Laughter. ‘Is Randy saying that I knew – in advance – that he’d be grabbing my neck, decking me and kicking my face? How? How could I know that?’ Dean shrugs. ‘I’ll let yer draw yer own conclusions.’

  ‘Will you file assault charges?’ asks the journalist.

  Max swoops in: ‘We’ll be consulting our lawyers.’

  ‘Nah,’ says Dean. ‘I’m not suing anyone. Randy was drunk before the show. His career’s over. Anyway, it was worth it, just to see Elf do a Pete Townshend on his head.’

  There’s a cheer: Elf buries her embarrassed grin in her hands and shakes her head.

  ‘Was that the love and peace we hear so much about from the counter-culture?’ asks a reporter in a banana yellow jacket.

  Elf uncovers her face. ‘Love and peace aren’t push-overs.’

  ‘Billboard magazine.’ The reporter puts Dean in mind of the jack of spades. ‘Hi. I’d like to ask each of you to name one US artist who inspires you, and why.’

  ‘Cass Elliot,’ says Elf. ‘For proving that female singers don’t have to look like a Playboy bunny.’

  ‘Elvis,’ says Dean, ‘for Jailhouse Rock. He showed me what I wanted to do with my life.’

  ‘A drummer died,’ says Griff, ‘and at the Pearly Gates he heard drumming so incredible, it had to be Buddy Rich. So he said to St Peter, “I didn’t know Buddy Rich had died.” St Peter said, “No no, that’s God. He thinks he’s Buddy Rich.” That’s my answer.’

  ‘Emily Dickinson,’ says Jasper. The reporter looks surprised. An approving murmur breaks out. Dean wonders, Who?

  ‘I’m from Ramparts.’ A reporter stands up. He’s the only coloured reporter in the room. ‘What are your views on the ongoing carnage in Vietnam?’

  Huffs, clucks and phews break out. Max says, ‘Look, I’m not sure if that’s really relevant, so—’

  ‘“Roll Away The Stone” references an anti-war demo in London, or were you not actually there in Grosvenor Square, Dean?’

  ‘Dean,’ Max leans behind Elf, ‘you don’t have to—’

  ‘No, I’ll answer. Took balls to ask that. Yeah, I was there,’ he tells the Ramparts man. ‘Mate, I’m British. Vietnam’s not my war. But if Vietnam was winnable, then after all these months gone, all that money spent, all them bombs dropped, all them lives lost, America would’ve won it already. Wouldn’t yer?’

  ‘Herald Examiner.’ A man raises a pen. ‘What do you say to those who maintain that by defending Vietnam, the USA is defending all liberal democracies from a domino effect of Communist takeovers?’

  ‘“Defending Vietnam” did you say?’ Elf asks. ‘Have you not seen the pictures? Does Vietnam look “defended” to you?’

  ‘Sacrifices happen in war, Miss Holloway,’ says Herald Examiner. ‘It’s a nastier job than singing about rafts and rivers.’

  ‘The immigration man who stamped my passport in New York had a son in Vietnam,’ says Elf. ‘That son was blown up. Do you have sons, Sir? Have they been drafted?’

  Herald Examiner shifts his body. ‘This is your press conference, Miss Holloway. I’m not sure, if—’

  ‘I’ll translate,’ says the Ramparts reporter. ‘He’s telling you, “Yes, I do have sons: no, they will not be going to Vietnam.”’

  ‘They have legitimate medical exemptions!’

  ‘How much did those bone spurs set you back, Gary?’ asks Ramparts. ‘Five hundred bucks? A thousand?’

  ‘Questions for Utopia Avenue over here,’ announces Max. ‘Political kickboxing outside, gentlemen, please.’

  ‘San Diego Evening Tribune.’ The speaker is a woman. ‘A simpler question than Gary’s: Can songs change the world?’

  Too much like hard work for me, thinks Dean, looking at Elf, who looks at Griff, who says, ‘Hey, I just drum along.’

  ‘Songs do not change the world,’ declares Jasper. ‘People do. People pass laws, riot, hear God and act accordingly. People invent, kill, make babies, start wars.’ Jasper lights a Marlboro. ‘Which begs a question. “Who or what influences the minds of the people who change the world?” My answer is “Ideas and feelings.” Which begs a question. “Where do ideas and feelings originate?” My answer is, “Others. One’s heart and mind. The press. The arts. Stories. Last, but not least, songs.” Songs. Songs, like dandelion seeds, billowing across space and time. Who knows where they’ll land? Or what they’ll bring?’ Jasper leans into the mic and, without a wisp of self-consciousness, sings a miscellany of single lines from nine or ten songs. Dean recognises, ‘It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’, ‘Strange Fruit’ and ‘The Trail of the Lonesome Pine’. Others, Dean can’t identify, but the hardboiled press pack look on. Nobody laughs, nobody scoffs. Cameras click. ‘Where will these song-seeds land? It’s the Parable of the Sower. Often, usually, they land on barren soil and don’t take root. But sometimes, they land in a mind that is ready. Is fertile. What happens then? Feelings and ideas happen. Joy, solace, sympathy. Assurance. Cathartic sorrow. The idea that life could be, should be, better than this. An invitation to slip into somebody else’s skin for a little while. If a song plants an idea or a feeling in a mind, it has already changed the world.’

  Bloody hell, thinks Dean. I live with this guy.

  ‘Why’s everyone gone quiet?’ Slightly alarmed, Jasper asks the band. ‘Was that weird? Did I go too far?’

  Max ushers the band out and along a corridor carpeted in blood-and-coffee coloured zigzags. ‘The photographer’s set up in the big room at the end. I’ll quickly call Doug Weston to say we’ll be a little late.’ Dean walks on ahead, following the twists and turns of the corridor, and finds himself alone. They’ll be along in a minute. He passes through swing doors into a makeshift photo studio. A slim woman stands with her back to him, taking a light-meter reading as a flash bounces off a reflector. She turns and looks at Dean. Skinny, blonde, thickish lips … Have we slept together? She takes a picture with the camera around her neck. ‘Mecca? Bloody hell!’

  Click. Scrit-scrit. ‘How’s things, Dean?’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I am your photographer.’

  ‘But …’ Get a grip. ‘So you live here in LA?’

  ‘Now, yes. I’ve been travelling around since London. But I started working for an agency here exactly two weeks ago.’

  ‘Your accent’s gone all … German-American.’

  ‘Language is a virus, like Burroughs says.’

  Burroughs? A new boyfriend? ‘Does Jasper know?’

  The doors open. Elf’s mouth gapes like a cartoon character: ‘Mecca!’ She sails over for a long hug. Mecca looks over Elf’s shoulder at Jasper and her face says, Hello, and Dean feels envy and an unpleasant recollection of the morning’s call about photographs and blackmail. Mecca finishes the hug. ‘Hello, Griff. Hello, Levon.’

  Levon does not look surprised. The Dark Arts, thinks Dean. Griff looks delighted. ‘Small world, eh?’

  ‘It is. Hello, Mr de Zoet.’

  The ex-lovers stare at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘You look a little bit older,’ says Jasper. ‘Around the eyes.’

  ‘Oh, dear God, Jasper,’ groans Elf. ‘I despair of you …’

  Mecca’s laughing. ‘Your Troubadour show last night was very great. I thought the first album was out of this world, but Stuff of Life blows my mind.’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Elf. ‘You were at the Troubadour?’

  ‘I bought a ticket when I hear you play there.’

  ‘Why didn’t yer bloody tell us?’ asks Dean.

  ‘I did not want to be the girl who says, “Hey, I used to
date the guitar god, so give me special treatment.” Also …’

  ‘Oh, Jasper’s single,’ says Dean. ‘Since you left, none o’ the baby-sitters’ve lasted more than a week or two.’

  ‘Are you free this evening?’ asks Jasper. ‘Come to the show.’

  ‘There’s a party at Cass Elliot’s house after,’ says Levon.

  Mecca sighs and looks uncertain. ‘Unfortunately, Friday night is my Black Forest Gateau and Lederhosen Club Night. So sad …’

  Jasper needs a few seconds. ‘Irony.’ Then he’s not so sure. ‘Or a lie? No. A joke. Dean? Was it a joke?’

  Max Mulholland sails in. ‘Doug Weston says every last ticket sold within a quarter-hour of Elf whacking Randy Thorn on his head. There’s a line outside already. We’d best hurry …’

  The queue is still there an hour later. The band, Levon and Mecca watch from across Santa Monica Boulevard. Under a roof of dark glare, warm lights illuminate the club’s frontage and a sign in a Gothic font: ‘Doug Weston’s Troubadour’. Lower down, in block letters: ‘UTOPIA AVENUE’. Mecca’s holding Jasper’s hand, Dean notices. Looks like they’re picking up where they left off … No ‘Who have you slept with?’ No fuss. No love-child. No paternity lawsuit. A gun-metal grey Ford Zodiac cruises by. Next, an eye-blue Corvette Sting Ray. Then a ruby-red Pontiac GTO.

  ‘Night four,’ says Griff. ‘Anybody getting used to it yet?’

  ‘Not me,’ says Elf. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I was shitting myself the first night,’ says Dean. ‘But now I’m like, Ah, we knocked it for six before, we will again.’

  ‘Tuesday to Thursday,’ says Levon, ‘you were building buzz. Tonight’s the pay-off. A good run at the Troubadour unlocks Los Angeles. Los Angeles unlocks California. And California’s the key to America. Not New York. Here. Things are falling into place.’