Maybe in the next few minutes.
Maybe in the next few seconds.
PROVE IT
Aglow in the stage lights of McGoo’s, eight women rest their pints of bitter on the stage. Four are in tears. Two are mouthing the words, prayerfully. Gotcha! thinks Elf. Until two Thursdays ago, Utopia Avenue was thought of as a male acid-flecked R&B band with a novelty girl. Elf suspected that most of the women at their gigs were girlfriends in tow. Since she mimed singing “Mona Lisa Sings the Blues” for the ten million viewers of The London Palladium Show, however, things have changed. McGoo’s is a Jack-the-laddish venue in Edinburgh—Steve Marriott and the Small Faces are here next weekend—but nearly half of the house tonight is female. As Elf hits the high E of the final chorus and Jasper, Dean, and Griff fall quiet, her vocal is accompanied by, surely, a two-hundred-strong female choir blasting at top volume. I couldn’t sing off-key if I tried, she thinks, and doubles the usual length of her final “Bluuuuuu-uuuuuues…” Screw it, she thinks, I’ll go another four bars…Dean gives her a my-my-my smile. Jasper extends his falling note, and Griff sits out the extra beats before playing the cymbal crescendo. The band is only two songs into a twelve-song set and he’s on industrial painkillers but he’s doing well. The sound of his gong is buried under cheers, stomps, and applause. “Thank you,” says Elf into the mic, looking at the eight women up front. One, the Queen of the Picts with wild black hair and arms like cables, makes a megaphone of her hands: “We came althaway fro’ Glasgee f’ thassong, Elf, an’ ye fookin’ nailed it!”
Elf mouths, “Thank you,” at her and leans into her mic. “Thanks, everyone. I wish we’d come here months ago.”
More applause, and blurred shouts, calls, and whistles.
“Holy God, I’ve missed this,” continues Elf. “There were times in the last couple of months when the future didn’t look so great…”
The Pictish Queen calls out, “We know what ye’ve been through right enough, Elf!”
“…but Edinburgh and Glasgow, you’ve brought us back and—” People shout, “Perth!” and “Dundee!” and “Aberdeen!” and “Tober-fookin’-mory!” and Elf laughs. “Okay, okay—Scotland, you’ve blown away the darkness. So, our next song is…” Elf looks for her set list. “My set list just combusted. Dean? What’s next?”
Dean calls over, “How ’bout yer new one?”
Elf hesitates. She’s pretty sure “Smithereens” was the third song, and Dean isn’t one to give up the spotlight. “ ‘Prove It’?”
Dean speaks into his mic. “Scotland, help us out. Elf’s written a new song and it’s bloody great. D’yer want to hear it or what?”
McGoo’s roars with approval. Griff plays a drumroll. Dean cups his hand to his ear. “Didn’t quite catch that, Scotland. Was it Some Old Bollocks yer want next? Or was it Elf’s new one?”
The roar articulates itself: “ELF’S NEW ONE!”
Dean looks at Elf with a seems-pretty-clear face.
“Okay. Okay. You’ve done it now.” Elf flexes her fingers and starts her piano intro. Hush falls. She stops. “It’s called ‘Prove It’ and it’s kind of, sort of, semi-, quasi-autobiographical…so, it’s about wounds that are still raw, so if I rush offstage halfway through, leaving a vapor trail of misery and tears, you’ll know why.” She resumes her intro. The triad-based short piece was in her notebook for years, waiting for a home. Now it has one. Once its sixteen smoky bars are played out, Elf looks at Dean, who checks with Jasper, who glances at Griff, who counts off, “One, two, one-two one-two—” Boom! Chacka-boom! Chacka-chacka-chacka-chacka-boom! In comes Dean’s bass march and Elf’s doomy piano riff, and by the fifth bar, the audience are clapping out the rhythm already. Elf leans into her mic:
“They’re jealous of me!” he left with a shout.
She was his fool so she followed him out.
He was the Romeo, she his subplot.
A dignified scene I’m afraid it was not.
“I’ll prove it,” she cried, “my love for you —
I’ll prove it, I’ll prove it, I’ll prove it.”
* * *
—
THE CLOCK IN Fungus Hut said 7:05 and Elf had to think: 7:05 P.M., or 7:05 A.M.? The evening, she decided. The band had started the November sessions for their first album with the low-hanging fruit of the older songs, but these kept evolving in the studio. By Friday of the first week—day five of ten—they were still on song three, Elf’s “A Raft and a River,” and badly behind their schedule of a song per day. Elf wanted jazzier drums and worked with Griff on a rippling, choppy arrangement with wire-brushes. By the tenth take, she was happy. The RECORDING sign went off and Bruce slipped in, winking at Elf and taking a stool in the corner of the control room. Digger pressed playback. The tapes revolved.
The song began. Elf kept glancing at Bruce.
Bruce just sat and listened with his eyes shut.
Elf loved the take, and wanted Bruce to love it too.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” said Levon.
“Done ’n’ dusted,” said Dean.
“Nice work,” said Griff.
“Agreed,” said Jasper.
Bruce appeared still to be making up his mind.
“Great.” Elf told herself that just because she and Bruce loved each other didn’t mean he had to love everything she recorded.
“I’ll mark this tape as the master, then,” said Digger. “You’ve got till a quarter to eight before I kick you out.”
“Who’s in after us?” asked Dean.
“Some kid of Joe Boyd’s. His name didn’t stick. Nick Duck, Nick Lake, or something. I need to clean some of your shit up.”
“Time for a run-through of ‘Wedding Presence’?” suggested Levon. “It’ll save time tomorrow morning.”
Elf couldn’t stop herself. “Did you like it, Bruce?”
She sensed Dean, Levon, and Griff swapping looks.
Bruce breathed in. Bruce breathed out. “Honestly?”
Elf’s heart shriveled. “Of course.”
“Well. If you want a folk-jazz curio, mission accomplished. I know, I’m not in the band”—Bruce glanced at Dean—“but in my asked-for opinion, the song’s suffocating. What’s wrong with playing the beat on the first and third?”
“I asked Griff to ‘drum the river,’ ” said Elf.
Bruce paused. “Right.”
“If my girlfriend’d put together a song like ‘Raft and a River,’ ” stated Griff, “I’d be less of a cold fookin’ fish about it.”
Bruce sniffed. “Elf and I believe honesty matters.”
“Oh, aye? ‘Honest,’ like when you fooked off to Paris?”
Elf felt scorching up her neck, face, and ears.
Bruce did his easy smile. “It’s a good song, but it’s buried under too much smart-arsery on top. Word to the wise. If you want to know how to record Elf, play Shepherd’s Crook.”
“We could try another take,” began Elf, “with a more basic—”
“No, Elf,” said Dean. “It’s great as it is.”
“I wouldn’t touch it,” said Jasper.
“No fookin’ way,” said Griff.
“If a basic drum pattern’s beneath you, Griff,” said Bruce, “I’ll play it, and you can—”
“Lay one fookin’ finger on my kit and I’ll ram—”
“Stop it,” groaned Elf. “Just stop it. Stop it.”
“If your corner needs defending, Elf,” Bruce told his girlfriend, “it’s my duty to do that.”
“Yer Knight in Shining Armor act’d be more convincing, Sir Bruce,” said Dean, “if yer weren’t such a bloody leech.”
Bruce laughed. “I’m a leech? And you’re living rent-free in a luxury flat in a Mayfair mews how, again?”
Dean stood up. “Yer want to take this outside?”
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“Guys, let’s just cool it,” intervened Levon.
“I am cool.” Bruce put on his jacket. “No, I don’t want ‘to take this outside,’ Dean. Not because I’m afraid of you. I’m just not fifteen years old anymore. Elf, love, I’ll see you later.”
Bruce left without another word.
“Dean!” Elf is quivering with anger. “What if I insulted Amy in front of you? Or discussed Jude, or all your Away Dates, just to rub her nose in it? Griff, how dare you bring up Paris? Bruce was only trying to help—and you tore strips off him? What is it with you two? Un-be-fucking-lievable!”
Dean and Griff looked at each other, unimpressed.
Elf grabbed her bag and walked out.
* * *
—
THREE MONTHS LATER, onstage at McGoo’s, Elf goes operatic on the last “Prove it!” of the first verse, and hyperenunciates the t of “it.” Jasper bends the G down, like a motorbike roaring off a quarry’s edge. He glances up at Elf, who nods at Griff tapping on his hi-hat: five, six, seven, eight…Next verse. Elf glances at the Pictish Queen and the Seven Sisters. They’re all staring up at her, wide-eyed, hooked, smoking, nodding in time. Word has reached Scotland about who and what inspired the song, Elf guesses…if “inspired” is the right word. Even Felix Finch wrote about the rumors surrounding Shandy Fontayne’s Top Five hit in his Daily Post column last week. Levon was pleased the band had won its first inches in a real newspaper, without him lifting a finger. Unless it was Levon who told Finch, it only now occurs to Elf, who dismisses the idea. Whatever the source, the column inches doubled the following day with an angry denial from Shandy Fontayne’s office and a letter to Moonwhale promising legal ruination if the “public slander” against Bruce Fletcher is traced back to Elf Holloway. No doubt there’s more to come. Melody Maker and New Musical Express are stirring the pot. When next week’s editions hit the newsstands, the story looks set to boil over. If asked by anyone, Elf’s supposed to say, “Our legal counsel has advised me not to comment”—but Ted Silver, Moonwhale’s lawyer, didn’t say she couldn’t sing about it. Elf plays the glissando into the second verse and sings with sharpened edges:
He’d write a hit that’d prove ’em all wrong
And he’d run at the front of the pack. But
He hunted a hit and no hit came near.
He stared at the page but the page stared back.
“I’ll prove it,” he swore, “I’ve the Midas touch —
I’ll prove it, I’ll prove it, I’ll prove it.”
* * *
—
AFTER RUNNING OUT of Fungus Hut, Elf caught up with Bruce outside the Gioconda café. They went in and sat at the back and ordered two bacon sandwiches. Traffic’s “Hole in My Shoe” played on the radio. “Dean and Griff were prize shits to you just now. Yet you’re so calm. You’re…just great.”
Bruce stirred sugar into his coffee. “As the Good Lord said, ‘Let he who has never been a prize shit cast the first stone.’ And”—he made a guilty face—“they had a point. About Paris. To my shame.”
Elf kissed her forefinger, reached across the table and planted it between his eyebrows. “Ancient history.”
Bruce smiled an I-don’t-deserve-you smile. “Fact is, I think Fletcher and Holloway make Utopia Avenue a bit insecure. ‘Darkroom’ was a minor hit—but what would it be without Elf Holloway’s keys and harmonies? A third-rate ‘See Emily Play.’ What’ve they ever done to compare to Shepherd’s Crook? Griff played drums on two lesser Archie Kinnock LPs. Dean’s got Battleship Potemkin on his CV, who only ever recorded a couple of demos, and Jasper’s got ‘Darkroom.’ As for Levon—sure, he’s a decent manager, but being Mickie Most’s gopher for a few months doesn’t mean you know your way around a control desk. I just wish they were man enough to say, ‘Bruce knows stuff we don’t. Let’s learn from him.’ But that’s guys for you. Competitive idiots.”
Elf wished her family could meet this new improved Bruce. No invitations to Chislehurst Road had been issued. Bea had been over a few times after drama school, which Bruce was grateful for. He said he was willing to wait and prove by his actions that he’d done a lot of growing up in the last twelve months.
Mrs. Biggs arrived with their bacon sandwiches. Bruce sank his teeth in and ketchup oozed out. “God, I need this.”
Elf dabbed ketchup off Bruce’s chin with a napkin…and an abdominal twinge told her that her period was on its way. She wasn’t late, but she felt relief. Then, she wondered if, just if, she and Bruce ever had a kid, what a half-Fletcher-half-Holloway co-creation would look like.
“I finished off ‘Whirlpool in My Heart,’ ” said Bruce. “It’s sounding pretty sweet, if I do say so myself.”
“What did you decide about the chorus?”
“Like you said, it sounded better slower. Thanks.”
“You’re so welcome. You’re making a real go of this.”
“You’re the inspiration, Wombat. You, ‘Any Way the Wind Blows,’ and Messrs. Moss, Griffin, and de Zoet. I’m not your bandmates’ favorite person, but I dig how they’ve shaken the Soho music tree to see what falls out. Your best teachers aren’t always your friends. Sometimes your best teachers are your mistakes.”
“Write that line down,” Elf insisted, “or it didn’t happen.”
Bruce obeyed, using a biro and paper napkin.
“Wouldn’t it be easier,” asked Elf, “to get a band together?”
Bruce clicked his tongue and shook his head. “We’ve been through this, darling. If I was away as often as you four, we’d drift apart. I’m not losing you twice. No. And think about the big-name solo artists who can’t, or don’t, write their own songs. Elvis. Sinatra. Tom Jones. Cilla. Really, there’s loads. Cliff Richard. I can do this. I live with a piano. I’ve got contacts. Freddy Duke. Howie Stoker. Lionel Bart. Look how good ‘Any Way the Wind Blows’ has been for you. Three or four of those out in the world and I could plan for our future a little. So. Songwriter-for-hire. That’s the ladder to the stars I’m on, and that’s the one I’m sticking to.”
Elf leaned across the table and kissed her boyfriend.
Bruce licked his finger. “I don’t deserve you, Wombat.”
“I’ll help any way I can. What’s mine’s yours, Kangaroo.”
* * *
—
JASPER SLOTS A solo into “Prove It” unlike anything he’s tried in rehearsal. It’s glorious. I don’t know how he does it. She glances at Dean, whose face tells her, I don’t know either. Jasper eschews guitar-theatrics, but the music finds a way onto his face. There’s muted bliss at a sweet chord, muffled surprise when an improvisation swings up to a new place, or a half-hidden ferocity when his Stratocaster howls. Only when he’s playing, realizes Elf, is his face legible. Jasper’s solo ends on a blistering Iron Man yowl, and his glance her way means, Your turn. Elf takes up the piano figure and expands it into a boogie-woogie solo. I love my job, thinks Elf. If there is a deeper fulfillment than watching strangers connect with a song she’s written, she has never found it. Musically, “Prove It” is closer to Chicago blues than to the folk music Elf played from the Richmond Folk Barge to the Les Cousins chapters of her life. Maybe a brass section, if we ever put this on record. Yet, to Elf’s mind, folk is more an attitude than a genre and its tropes. If a song acknowledges the lives of the lowly, of servants, the poor, the shafted, immigrants and women, then in spirit Elf calls it folk music. It’s political. It says, We matter, and here’s a song about us to prove it. She ends the solo on D2, the second D from the bottom, her favorite note on the keyboard. She looks down at the Pictish Queen and her sisters and thinks of barmaids in Toulouse-Lautrec paintings. They’re worn, tired, ill-used, and dream-lit, yearning for a better life…but unbreakable, too. The boys play quietly now, to usher in the “sleep verse.” Elf sings hard against the mic so she can soften her voice.
As Soho dreamed deep she played her piano,
The chords came first, the lyrics by stealth.
He lay in her bed and he liked what he heard —
“What’s hers is mine—she said it herself—so
I’ll take it, adapt it, and smarten it up,
And improve it, improve it, improve it.”
* * *
—
THE MORNING AFTER returning from Steve’s funeral in Hull, Elf woke in the predawn murk. The city played its backing track while Bruce snored softly. Elf heard a waltz. It came from her piano, in its nook off her kitchen. She wasn’t afraid. Nothing threatening could play music so soulful, so divine. She saw the pianist’s hands. The right hand played overlapping minims: C to C an octave below; F to F, the same; B flat to B flat; E to E. The left hand played jazzlike sixths; blue jazz, not red jazz. It ended. Elf wanted to hear it again. The pianist obliged. This time Elf paid attention to the right-hand thirds: E and G; D and F; C and E; then a yo-yo back up to A and G, where the hand opened wider; a thumb on F and pinkie on B flat…
Utopia Avenue Page 31
