The Alternative Hero

by Tim Thornton

  “Uh.”

  “You’re a bloody fool. It made me so much more suspicious than I ever would’ve been. Can’t believe you made me go through all those stupid explanations when we were going round the art gallery.”

  “Well,” I admit, “if it’s any consolation, it was pretty excruciating for me to listen to.”

  “Thanks, arsehole,” he snaps. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “I didn’t really know what else to do,” I mutter pathetically. “Didn’t want you to think I’d heard of you.”

  He stands up again, grandly replaces his shades and announces: “There are some people in the world who’ve heard of Kurt Cobain, but who haven’t heard of me. They exist. But I can take it. I’m a big boy.”

  I blink up at him, at a loss for further responses. Then he dashes off—to the loo, presumably.

  I exhale and lean back in my chair. I feel pretty drained. His energy has multiplied tenfold compared to the times we sat discussing writing, and it’s hard to navigate his ups and downs. It’s a skill, I reflect: the feisty rock ’n’ roll interview. Every bit as important as singing or playing guitar. A certain amount of his former warmth has gone—the price I’ve paid, I suppose, for gleaning his darkest, grimmest secrets. There’s still heaps I want to ask him, not least about his kid, but I know I’m quite ridiculously privileged to have been told as much as I have. Not just because he’s Lance Webster, but simply because he’s a human being and I’m just … someone he doesn’t know terribly well. Which is still the oddest thing. Why the hell has he chosen to tell all this stuff to me? I suppose there might be some limited catharsis in getting it all off his chest, but surely he can pay a professional for that sort of thing? Not some weirdo who puts silly notes through his—

  Silly notes through his door.

  I scrabble around on the table but only find empty sugar packets, Alan’s scrapbook, Webster’s newspaper and his boarding pass. Then I spot what I’m looking for on the seat, poking out of his jacket pocket. I lean over, snatch up the scruffily folded piece of paper, take a deep breath and open it:

  Webster has returned by the time I finish reading.

  “You enjoying that?”

  I toss it onto the table with distaste. “It’s … amazing.”

  “I rather like it.”

  “Why on earth did I lay it out like that?”

  “Probably something primal,” he muses. “Like, that’s the shape your subconscious wants to write in. The Christmas tree of desperation, Freud might call it.”

  I pick it up again. I feel like I’m examining my own drunkenness through a microscope. This could turn out to be more educational than expected. I’m astonished that the pissed me thinks this sort of thing is a good idea. Having said that, it’s not quite as bad as those roadies made out. In fact …

  “Um … funny thing is … it’s embarrassing, desperate, and really rather sad, but it’s not … threatening at all, is it?”

  “Not really,” he replies. “Just a bit creepy.”

  “But I don’t understand. If it’s not threatening … then why did you send your stooges round to see me?”

  “Ah. Well … I didn’t, really. That was Malcolm’s idea. He’s overcautious.”

  “Oh my God! They told me what I’d written was hugely threatening, and to fuck off, basically, insinuating they’d come back and break my legs if I didn’t!”

  “Shit,” he chuckles. “Sorry. I guess they were nipping it in the bud. But I also wanted them to size you up, see what sort of, er … enthusiast we were dealing with. I’ve had a bit of trouble with that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Um … yeah, I know.”

  At this point he takes off his sunglasses again, revealing a face with a different tone—far more serious, heavy with intent. His eyes are bloodshot and I realise once again how emotional this must have been for him. But I couldn’t be less prepared for the gear change to come. He puts both elbows on the table, leans forwards and narrows his eyes slightly, as if composing himself for some complicated scientific explanation.

  “I have to say,” he begins, “after they visited you, I was planning to get in touch.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, I really was. But to randomly show up at someone’s flat isn’t really my style, and as you’d forgotten to give me any other—”

  “Fucking hell!” I gasp. “I never put my bloody email address on it!”

  He shakes his head and sips his coffee.

  “Then how the fuck did you … ?”

  From his shoulder bag he fishes out a tatty-looking coloured booklet. A rather familiar booklet, with a poorly printed picture of what looks like Belle and Sebastian on the cover. I reach out to take it. And bugger me with a pitchfork, it’s a copy of Definitely Not. One of the final few copies of Definitely Not, from May 1998 (interview with Cable, review of the second Garbage album). I flick straight to the last page, and there it is: my email address, which I must’ve had for all of two months.

  “Where the fuck did you get this?”

  “Gloria gave it to me.”

  “Gloria gave it to you? How did Gloria get it?”

  “Gloria was on the mailing list.”

  I gape at him for a few astonished moments, then absentmindedly flick through the pages. This isn’t one of the issues I kept, so it’s strange to see the various features again, the editorial, the letters, the appalling photos … but to be honest, I’m busier wondering how the hell I could’ve missed Gloria Feathers among the two-hundred-odd names I sent the rag to every quarter.

  “Gloria was a complete fanzine hound,” he continues. “You surely knew that?”

  “Yeah, but …”

  I notice one of my rambling discourses about Webster himself and snap the booklet shut.

  “You used to send it to a Lucille Sanson in Lyon, France.”

  “Um … perhaps, yes—I do remember sending a couple abroad …”

  “She’s one of Gloria’s school friends.”

  “No!”

  “Yup. She sent stuff on for Gloria … to wherever she was.”

  I’m flummoxed. I’ve a feeling I should be realising something important, but my brain’s processors are too jammed to function properly. Does this mean Gloria gave it to Webster recently, or … back then?

  “That’s who I had to send all my letters to,” he explains, “until Gloria told me where she really was.”

  This is too bizarre. I gulp some coffee, praying it’ll have some sort of untangling effect on my brain.

  “Which page were you on?” he asks.

  “Oh … nothing, just some feature about—”

  “It’s the editorial, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Go on, read it,” he instructs.

  I open the fanzine again. Dear oh dear, the thought that he’s seen all this nonsense is acutely embarrassing. But he has seen my note, so we’ve kind of hit the bottom of that particular barrel already …

  I’d like to thank Mary Ryder in Norwich for her letter of last week, in which she put my thoughts into words perfectly regarding Webster’s latest incident. He is indeed not a man who should be mocked. He’s trying, in his own heartbroken way, to say many things to a world which will no longer listen. He’s attempting to warn us of the dangers ahead for the alternative music world, when sales figures and chart positions will kill new bands before they’ve even had a chance to break into their stride. Music will cease to be about passion, intelligence, humour and warmth, but will be governed by the likelihood of a certain song being used in a car advertisement, or by what designer jeans a so-called indie group are sporting on the cover of the NME. We’ll be surrounded by faceless, charmless dullards with nothing to say and no decent music to say it to. Webster’s own wrenching experiences of the last few years should speak volumes to us, but everyone’s decided to ignore him or laugh at him instead.

  “Fuck me,” I wince. “What a pile of earnest bollocks!” />
  “Read the last paragraph,” says Webster. “Out loud.”

  “Oh, God, do I really have to?”

  “Read it,” he commands.

  I look down, hot and exasperated. Perhaps this is what he means by burying the past: getting Clive Beresford to read the past aloud to him in the middle of an airport terminal. Each to their own.

  “Uh … it just says, ‘I’m going to close the correspondence regarding Webster for a while now, but I’d like to finish by saying, to him, wherever he is, remember all that you’ve achieved, and don’t ever forget that no matter what the music press or anyone else says, you’ve composed and played music which has enriched the lives of thousands of confused, frustrated and lonely young people around the world, played gigs that have sent legions of punters home ecstatically happy, and written lyrics that will remain permanently lodged in the head of anyone with an ear for a good line and a spark of wit. You’re fragile right now, and you deserve to give yourself a break. Hear it from someone who’s been with you since the autumn of 1988: you don’t need to fight anymore. Take it easy zeitgeist man, you’ll always be our alternative hero.’”

  I quickly close the booklet and knock back the last of my coffee. I’m nervous again and I can feel myself blushing. Webster’s put his shades back on—his standard interview punctuation mark, I’m now realising—so I’m quite literally in the dark as to his point of view. The sight of those impossibly black lenses on his impassive, featureless face reminds me of something, but I’m presently too frazzled to place it. By the fact he hasn’t said anything, I’d almost guess he’s angry. Perhaps because I made him sound like such a casualty. He’s not known for being nice to interviewers who point out his weaknesses, so I grip the edge of my chair and clench my teeth for the ride.

  “So, d’you think I liked seeing all this stuff, at the time?” he asks flatly.

  “I, um, dunno … I guess I was a little bit passionate about the whole thing.”

  “Mmm, it seems so.” He stares back at me, inclining his head slightly. “And can I ask … what exactly were you trying to achieve by writing all that?”

  “Well … I was trying to … y’know. I was angry. At the way you’d been treated. I wanted to, er … defend you.”

  “You thought I needed defending.”

  “Um … er … well, not exactly defending … I guess it was more … redressing the balance. Trying to blow the lid on some of the … um … the nonsense that was being written.”

  “And you’re still trying. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I nod. “I suppose I am. That’s what I mean when I say I’m after vindication.”

  “For me or for you?”

  That bloody question again. I shift uneasily in my seat, aware that my sodden shirt is now sticking to my back.

  “Well, for you mainly. But it’s been difficult … not having the full story.”

  “And now you’ve got it,” he states sternly. “Haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” I squeak.

  He leans back and folds his arms.

  “So. What are you going to do with it now, then?”

  I’ve been dreading this. It’s going to sound so unfathomably mercenary. How I wish he’d take those fucking sunglasses off.

  “Um … well, I suppose I’ll …”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, I’ll start by writing it up, y’know … properly … so it can be read by people other than just me, and then I’ll …”

  His black lenses are saying nothing. They seem to be getting even darker, but that must be my imagination.

  “Then I suppose I’ll try to interest some people in it. You know, people who’ll appreciate what it all means, and so on …”

  “Like who?”

  “Um … y’know … the usual … I’ll start with Q perhaps. They might like to do a retrospective feature.”

  “Possibly.”

  Then it hits me. The video for “Bad Little Secret.” He wore shades throughout the whole bloody clip, staring straight at the camera, mouthing the words as if in some sort of zombie trance. Their shittest video. Doubtless he decided looking cold, blank and detached would perform wonders with the American market. It worked. And he’s using the same tactic to freak me out. It’s working now, too. What a fucker.

  “Um,” I continue desperately, “then there’s Mojo and Uncut, they sometimes—”

  “Know any of the editors there?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Um … ah, yes, a friend told me you’re still fairly well-known in the States, so maybe I’ll try …”

  He’s shaking his head already. Oh shit.

  “… Rolling Stone,” I conclude pathetically, Alan’s words from eighteen years ago leaping into my head: “You’ve got to have your strategy worked out, man.”

  Webster drums his fingers on the table and looks away, directing his pair of black voids towards the centre of the restaurant.

  “And you think these people will be interested in all this bullshit, do you?”

  “Well, I would be, if I were—”

  “And you imagine they’d actually pay for it?”

  I let out a rather large sigh.

  “Look, Lance—”

  “Geoff.”

  “Sorry: Geoff … Look, it sounds bloody awful, I know … It’s your life. But really, the whole point of me doing it is so you can be vindicated, and …”

  Here I run out of steam. Arse. He’s got me.

  Silence.

  “I know someone who’d buy it,” he announces.

  “Uh?”

  He’s still looking over at the bar, perhaps eyeing up one of the waitresses.

  “Who?”

  “Someone who’d make really good use of it, and make it worth your while, too.”

  “Who do you mean?” I demand, tired of this tortuous exchange.

  He turns and looks straight back in my direction.

  “Me.”

  I snigger disappointedly.

  “You what?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No, sorry … what are you saying?”

  “I’ll buy it from you,” he insists. “Exclusive rights, of course.”

  I’ve run out of ways to ask what the hell he’s talking about, so I stay quiet.

  “I’ve told you what you wanted to hear … now here’s your side of the bargain. I’ll buy it off you for ten grand.”

  Oh God. He’s gone bonkers again. Next he’ll be shaving off his hair and putting on his white suit.

  “Um …”

  “Ten grand. Sterling,” he adds.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m totally confused.”

  Now he’s even getting his bloody chequebook out.

  “Wait, hang on,” I protest, trying to grab his pen. “What are you doing?”

  He drops the pen and again takes off his shades.

  “Listen, Clive … I don’t mean to patronise you, but you’re being really naïve. I’ll be totally honest: you’re not going to get much out of this story. No one will care. Screw any false modesty: who really gives a fuck about me? You might get one of those silly half-page ‘where are they now’ pieces, if you’re lucky. As for any money, forget it.”

  “But that’s not the point, it’s …”

  “And frankly, I don’t want everyone knowing all this stuff. I’m not going to be around much anymore, but … my family’s still here, a few friends … They’d find it … well, difficult.”

  “So why the hell have you told me?”

  “Because you deserved to know.”

  I study his face for a moment. I see no humour—and very little of anything else, in fact.

  “Is that it?”

  “Look at it this way okay? I’ve been living with this shit for years, and gradually I’ve managed to patch up a few old wounds. But the one thing I’ve never done is say sorry, and explain … to someone who was there.”

  “At Aylesbury?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah. And the couple of years after that.”

  “But that’s just it,” I persist. “If I write this thing, you’ll be able to apologise and explain it to everyone…”

  “No,” he frowns. “Not in the way you’re hoping. Oh, a few people might say, All right, well, fair enough, then’—and instantly forget about it. But it’ll just mean more embarrassment for me, and the whole thing’ll rise to the surface again.”

  “But …”

  “And there are others involved.”

  It’s this last bit that shuts me up. Call me slow on the uptake, but for the first time I have the slightest idea where he’s going after all this.

  “But you,” he states, pointing at me, “are probably one of the only people left who it genuinely means something to.”

  He opens his chequebook again, and starts to write.

  “Look, Lance—”

  “Geoff,” he corrects me again, not looking up.

  “Sorry, Geoff … I don’t think I can—”

  “Clive, listen to me. One of the old songs just got licensed for a big advert in America. Ten grand is roughly what I’ll get, and it may sound insane, but that’s ten grand I don’t want. It’ll be a reminder of a past life, hanging around like a bad smell. And also … well, there are other reasons why I don’t want it. It’s a single R in Beresford, isn’t it?”

  “Um … yeah, but …”

  “Plus, you have earned it,” he nods, “running around like a twat for the last few months, listening to me prattle on today. Oh, and the work you did on Sainsbury Sid, and who knows what’ll happen with that?”

  Bloody hell, Sid the fly. I’d almost completely forgotten.

  “So … you take this,” he breezes, flinging over the mammoth cheque, “and you bloody well sort yourself out. You’re a fucking good writer. You should be doing something with it … other than hankering after ex-indie pop stars.”

  I gaze down at the row of zeros in the box, and look back up at him.

  “I still don’t understand why you’re giving me this.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Clive, don’t make me spell it out to you—I’ll miss my bloody plane.”

  I can’t help but continue to wordlessly gape at him.

  “You don’t get it, do you? Cast your mind back. I was at my fucking wits’ end in ninety-six. My career was fucked, my girl was thousands of miles away with a child I hadn’t even met … didn’t even know what gender it was … my bloody dad was dying of cancer and I was surrounded by people laughing at me and calling me a cock. It often felt like you were the only person on my side.”