Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  Griff sits in Ringo’s seat because it has a sight line on the Beast, parked close to the restaurant. He isn’t assuming a brother performer would be so low as to smash a window and make off with an amp, but he can’t assume they won’t. He tucks in. After the drive to Birmingham, playing support for the Move at the Carlton Ballroom, and the drive back here, he’s famished. The fish isn’t fresh by Hull standards, but he’s too hungry to care. He sprinkles vinegar from the sticky bottle and bites into the slab of cod. Jasper sits down with a plate of eggs, beans, grilled tomatoes, and toast. “Nice and warm in here. Is this the Beatles’ table?”

  “Aye. That’s George’s seat you’re sitting in.”

  Jasper cuts a precise square of toast and loads it with a cargo of baked beans. “Are you sitting in Ringo’s?”

  “You’re a mind reader, Zooto.”

  Jasper chews slowly. “ ‘The Hook’ sounded good.”

  “It’s Dean’s best song. Don’t tell him I said that.”

  Dean rolls up next with his bacon butty and a hill of chips and takes McCartney’s seat. “Seen who’s over in the corner?”

  Griff follows Dean’s nod. “Herman’s fookin’ Hermits. Purveyor of poppy jingles so sugary your teeth’ll fall out.”

  “Those poppy jingles took them on a twenty-date tour o’ the States,” says Dean. “Think we could play support for them?”

  Elf takes John Lennon’s seat. She has a pie. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with HH.”

  “I was just saying,” says Dean, “wouldn’t it be great if we were their support act in America?”

  Elf tucks a paper napkin into her blouse. “I’d rather we got there under our own steam than hanging on Herman’s coattails.”

  “It takes a hell of a lot o’ steam to cross the Atlantic,” says Dean. He forks a chip, glumly. Meaning, Griff translates, more than a number sixteen hit and a flop that peaked at number seventy-five. Levon told the band that their second single has dropped out of the Top 100 after the Birmingham show, and Dean was unusually quiet on the long drive over.

  “We’re not bland enough to be a support act,” says Jasper. “The headliners want you to make them look better.”

  “Same story tonight,” says Elf. “The Move’s manager was all ‘Have a great show’ when we started, but after ‘The Prize’ he was telling Levon, ‘Get ’em off, they’re only the sodding warm-up act.’ ”

  “Archie Kinnock once took the Yardbirds along for a twelve-night tour of the north,” says Griff. “Know how long it lasted? Three dates. They stole the fookin’ show every night. Archie couldn’t stand it. Eric Clapton wrote ‘Green-Eyed Monster Blues’ about it.”

  “I thought that was about a woman,” says Jasper.

  Griff squishes mushy peas onto a big chip. “Now you know. Eh, wasn’t it classic when Elf said ‘If you hold your ticket over a naked flame, you’ll see the words Our LP is out now’—and that one wazzock actually did it and set his fookin’ ticket on fire!”

  “I stole that from Peggy Seeger.” Elf squirts ketchup onto her chips. “So ‘The Hook’ went down a storm again tonight, Dean.”

  Dean scowls at his bacon sandwich. “Unlike ‘Abandon Hope,’ which went down like a lead balloon. Ilex didn’t push it. That’s the problem. They should’ve put adverts in NME and Melody Maker.”

  Griff looks at Elf. Elf looks back. “Lots of great songs don’t sell shit, Mr. Sulkypants. Lots of shit songs sell like hotcakes. Look at Herman’s Termites. Ilex won’t drop us yet.”

  “Griff’s right, Dean,” says Elf. “It’s not the end of the—”

  “It’s a bloody disaster.” Dean shoves his plate away.

  “Oh f’ fooksake!” Griff loses patience. “A famine in China, an earthquake in the Philippines, Hull City losing to Leeds: that’s a fookin’ disaster. Fookin’ get over it or go and get a job in a café.”

  Dean huffs and puffs. “Next time I try to push for something, if there is a next time, Ilex’ll be all ‘Don’t think so: what ’bout the time yer thought “Abandon Hope” was a Top Ten hit?’ ”

  The Blue Boar plays a syrupy Muzak “Silent Night.”

  “If we’d released ‘Mona Lisa,’ ” says Dean, “we’d have a song in the Top Ten over Christmas.”

  “There’s no way of knowing that,” insists Elf.

  “That’s what Amy reckons. It’s what you reckon too.”

  “Self-pity really doesn’t suit you, Dean.”

  “Hey.” Jasper dangles his watch. “It’s officially Christmas Eve.”

  “Kiss and make up,” says Griff, “or you’ll be on the naughty list.”

  “I’m not kissing that,” snorts Elf. “I’d rather kiss…”

  “Peter Pope?” suggests Dean.

  Elf’s anger wilts, a little. “Mmm.”

  “Sorry,” says Dean.

  “Blame the dice,” says Elf.

  “Here’s to never abandoning hope.” Jasper raises his glass of Tizer. He betrays an occasional fondness for puns.

  “Here’s to Utopia Avenue,” says Dean. “Now in all good record shops, between T for Shirley Temple and V for Gene Vincent.”

  Griff lights a cigarette. “Nine songs we got down, in two weeks. Most LPs have shit in to pad out the sandwich. Not ours.”

  “All we need,” says Dean, “is for a million people to agree and…” He’s distracted by someone over Griff’s shoulder. “Marcus?”

  Griff turns around to find a guy wearing a pink caftan, turquoise glasses, a black cape, and a runic headband.

  “Dean! Fancy meeting you here.”

  “That’s the Blue Boar for yer. Elf, Griff, Jasper: this is Marcus Daly. Guitarist of the Battleship Potemkin.”

  “The same Marcus,” asks Jasper innocently, “who sacked Dean for saying the Chairman Mao song was sonic gonorrhea?”

  Marcus looks shifty. “Water under the bridge. Dean ought to thank me, by rights. Top of the Pops? An LP? I mean…shit.”

  Dean smothers a burp. “What’s with the new wizardy look? Can’t imagine that going down too well on the picket lines.”

  Marcus scratches his neck. “Chris is an accountant, Paul went to India after a girl, so me and Tom formed Battleship Aquarius.”

  Dean stares. “What happened to using the capitalist pop song to turn the proletariat on to Marxism?”

  “One night at a gig in Dartford a fight broke out during ‘Workers United.’ It turned into a brawl. We had to leave the stage. I mean, chairs were flying. Teeth were flying. The pigs were called. Eight people were arrested, another dozen got taken to hospital. When we went back for our gear, it had all been nicked. There was nothing for it but to drive back. But we couldn’t because our van was gone, too. That’s when I realized: the real revolution that people are crying out for isn’t political, it’s spiritual.”

  “So you boot Dean out for not kowtowing to your red flag,” says Griff, “then you scrawl cosmic runes all over that same flag?”

  “Everything happens for a reason,” says Marcus. “At Dartford, the cosmos spoke to me. I wrote a bunch of songs around mystic themes, updated our image”—he holds up his cape—“and, lo and behold, our gig fee’s fifty pounds a shot.”

  Dean’s eyes go wide. “Fif-ty or fif-teen?”

  “Fif-ty—five-oh. We’ve got a manager now. He’s in talks with Decca. It’s all about energy flow. Potemkin was blocked. Aquarius flows. Come see us at Middle Earth in the New Year. Our music says it all better than I can. Got to rush, but Merry Christmas and all that. Nice meeting you all…Ta-ta.” Marcus Daly is gone.

  “You look in shock,” Griff tells Dean.

  “He used to insist we call him ‘comrade.’ ”

  “The decade is going insane,” says Elf.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” asks Jasper.

>   * * *

  —

  “EVENING, ALL.” STEVE arrives less than a minute later. He’s wearing an oxblood leather jacket, a thick sweater, and a pleased smile. “Elf, Jasper, Dean, good to see you again and uh…” He frowns at Griff. “What’s-his-name, the drummer guy? I always forget that one.”

  “My first name’s ‘You May Be Older Than Me,’ ” replies Griff. “My surname’s ‘But I’ll Still Kick Your Arse You Cheeky Git.’ ”

  Steve smiles and sits down. “Sorry I’m late. There was a crash near Luton.” His smile fades. “Traffic was down to a single lane.”

  “It was slow going from Birmingham, too,” says Elf.

  “Like an ice rink in parts,” says Dean. “Freezing fog.”

  “We just finished our grub,” says Griff. “Are you hungry?”

  “I had a pasty before I left. We ought to be off soon. Any tea left in that pot, mind? I could do with a whistle-wetter.”

  “I’ll get yer a cup,” says Dean.

  “How was the Birmingham show, then?” asks Steve.

  “Not too shabby.” Griff looks at Jasper and Elf.

  Elf nods back. “We’ve got some new songs since you saw us at Derby. Griff here played like a demon. As usual.”

  “You’re exactly like him.” Jasper looks from Steve to Griff and back. “And exactly different.”

  “I got the looks and brains,” says Steve. “Obviously.”

  “And all the bullshit, too,” adds Griff. “Obviously. You picked up the car without any trouble?”

  “Aye. Uncle Phil’s pal lives out Wembley way, so it’s the right side of the city. A Jag. Three years old, only twenty thou on the clock. Suspension like driving on air. Worth the trip down.”

  “It’s worked out well for getting you home on Christmas, too,” remarks Elf. “I feel like a gangster, handing over a witness.”

  “If he wasn’t coming back to Hull for Christmas,” says Steve, “Mum was going to have him kidnapped and brought back in the boot of a car. This way, he gets to drive.”

  Dean returns with a cup. “Here you go, milord.”

  “Thanks, pal. I’m ready for this.” Steve pours himself a cup, slurps, and tilts his head back. “Ah…that’s better. Before I forget, I’ve got a job for you all.” Steve takes out three copies of Paradise Is the Road to Paradise and a black marker. “Would you all mind signing these?”

  “The thrill hasn’t worn off yet.” Dean takes the marker. “Who’re they for?”

  “One’s for Wally Whitby, one’s for our Mum and Dad, and one’s for me. When you’re bigger than the Beatles I’ll flog it and retire from my career in the motor trade.”

  “Wally does know it’s not trad jazz, right?” checks Griff.

  “ ’Course he does. He saw you do ‘Darkroom’ on Top of the Pops. He were down Price’s Records the very next morning, telling everyone how he discovered you when you were twelve. He still brings your press clippings to Mum.”

  Dean passes the records and the marker to Griff.

  “You must be right pleased with that cover,” says Steve.

  They all gaze at the photograph of the Gioconda café, with Elf, Jasper, Dean, and Griff in the window seats. By using a long exposure, the photographer added the blurry ghost-trails of passersby, a dog, and a cyclist. A street sign reading UTOPIA AVENUE was fixed to the wall on the top left; on the bottom right, a newspaper board reads PARADISE IS THE ROAD TO PARADISE.

  “I bloody love it,” replies Dean.

  “It took a while to get right,” replies Jasper.

  “We blew Ilex’s art budget twice over,” says Elf.

  Griff signs his name over a pale window.

  “An LP’s like a baby,” says Elf. “Us four made it…”

  “…not sure where you’re going with this,” says Dean.

  Elf goes ugh. “You know what I mean. You want what you’ve made to have the right face. The artwork’s the face.”

  * * *

  —

  THE FRIGID AIR penetrates Griff’s coat and fillets his flesh from his bones. “It’s fookin’ Siberia out here!” Each word is a puff of white vapor. The party reaches the Beast. “Right, then,” Griff tells his bandmates. “See you on the thirtieth.”

  “Me ’n’ Jasper’ll cook something at De Zoet Towers,” Dean tells him. “Our last supper of ’sixty-seven can’t be the Blue Boar.”

  “Right you are,” says Griff. “I’ll bring the stomach pump.”

  “Don’t open your prezzie till Christmas Day,” says Elf, “or it’ll vanish in a puff of regret. Have a lovely time with your family.”

  “Aye, you too.”

  Jasper shakes his hand. It’s formal and oddly intimate.

  “Merry Christmas, yer northern wazzock,” Dean tells him.

  “Peace on Earth, you great southern ponce,” replies Griff.

  Utopia Avenue minus Griff climb into the Beast. Elf sits at the wheel and coaxes it into life on the third try, with the choke out. She wipes condensation from the windscreen and gives Griff one last fluttery wave before driving away onto the slip-road.

  Steve leads him over to a moonlit S-type Jaguar.

  “Look—at—you.” Griff strokes the bonnet.

  “Want to drive?”

  * * *

  —

  THE M1 HURTLES out of the northern dark, bringing a sign reading HULL 102 and motorway lamps on tall poles. A truck’s rear lights stay at a constant hundred yards. The Jaguar is warmer, comfier, and quieter than the Beast. It handles like a dream. Safer, too, thinks Griff. “If the album sells, would you look out for a better van for us? A Bedford, maybe.”

  “ ’Course,” says Steve. “You’ll be needing a roadie.”

  “At some point. Why? Fancy the job yourself?”

  “Debs would not be impressed. All them groupies.”

  Griff thinks of Venus and Mary and wonders. “The musician’s life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be from the outside.”

  “Stardom’s getting stressful, is it?” asks Steve.

  “One song in the Top Twenty isn’t ‘stardom.’ ”

  “Do you get recognized much?”

  “Can’t say I do. We’ve only been on the telly the once. Dean’s the pretty one, Jasper’s Mr. Guitar God, and Elf’s the golden lass in a gang of likely lads. People forget the drummer. Suits me to a T.”

  A Triumph Spitfire overtakes them in the fast lane.

  “Too fast, you daft twat,” Steve tells the driver.

  “How’s Debs?” Griff asks. “Still at the hairdressers?”

  “Debs. Aye. She’s a bit…it’s not easy, all her friends are having babies, or second babies, or third, and Debs is pleased for them, of course, but every time, every christening, she’s like, ‘When’s our turn?’ Every month, it’s like, ‘Maybe this time.’ But every time, it’s like, ‘Nope.’ It hits Debs really hard.” Steve lights a cigarette. He’s never discussed the topic as directly as this.

  Griff sees it isn’t easy. “Must be tough, like.”

  “There comes a time when you think, Maybe it’s not going to happen for us. So…well, this is our big news, really, Pete. We’ve got a meeting with the adoption people, in the New Year. To explore what’s involved, like.”

  Griff glances sideways. “Big step, Steve.”

  “Big step.” Steve pulls out a fancy ashtray from the dashboard and taps his cigarette. “Feels right. There’s nothing wrong in hoping for the best, but…after five years, you start thinking, Hang on—I’m a fookin’ ostrich, here. It’s time we face the facts and try something else.”

  “Does Mum know?”

  “Aye, it were Mum who gave Debs that little nudge. We’ve been thinking about it, but the first step’s hard, like.”

  Griff overtakes a slow Morris Minor. “I
can imagine.”

  A motorway bridge passes overhead at 50 mph.

  “I also imagine you and Debs being brilliant parents.”

  “Fingers crossed, eh.”

  “I’ll teach your kids to drum.”

  * * *

  —

  A SIGN READING HULL 75 glows, grows, and is gone.

  “I always liked that ‘Hull’ is such a short word,” says Griff.

  “Makes sense.”

  “It’s got the same number of letters as ‘home.’ And starts with an h.”

  “So does ‘hell,’ mind.”

  “Aye.”

  “There’s lots of Bs down south. Brighton, Bristol, Bournemouth, Bedford. They’re bastards. They all merge into one big ‘Birmstolmouthford.’ ”

  “Do the others know?”

  “Elf’s guessed, but she’s too classy to ask. When I’m driving, she reads the signs out, like she’s talking to herself. Dean hasn’t twigged. I doubt he’s heard of dyslexia. Jasper…who knows?”

  “Is Jasper a bit…” Steve searches for a word. “Touched?”

  “He’s a strange ’un. When Archie Kinnock got him in for the Blues Cadillac, I thought, He’s up his own arse. When I got to know him better, I thought, Maybe all toffs are like that. But Jasper’s no toff. His dad’s a millionaire, but Jasper’s eking out a small dollop of money his granddad left him. He needs Utopia Avenue to work too, or he’s fooked. These days my take on Jasper is, he’s just a bit mental—but who isn’t, to some degree, so live and let live, right? It’s Dean who gets my goat the most. A human fookin’ yoyo! Half the time he thinks he’s God’s gift: the other half, he’s a bag of nerves that he’s not God’s gift. Sure, his mum died when he was a boy and his dad slapped him about, but fook it. We’ve all got a sob story, but we don’t all act like bolshy pricks.”