by Louise Voss
Still, I don’t resent them. Not really. I probably wouldn’t be in the band if it weren’t for them. And it’s not as if they haven’t given me a lot of love and encouragement, too, in their own way. They’d better just understand that Sam always comes first, that’s all.
Salisbury
June 20, 1988
Dearest Sam,
I can’t believe that I’m here and you don’t want to see me. I can’t begin to understand how ill you feel, but I know how hard it’s been for you to have to go through radiotherapy as well as the chemo.
Your mum says you’re too frightened to see anybody. Oh Sam, if you only knew how heartbroken I am that you’re so afraid. Please, please don’t be scared; we’re all here for you. I hope this doesn’t sound too trite, but I really believe that angels are watching over you, too.
I wish there was something I could do to help you—you know I’d go through this for you, if I could.
I’m in the U.K. for ten days, so I can come down again at any time. We’re opening for Simply Red on their tour. No pressure, of course, but I would love to see you while I’m here, even just for a few minutes.
Listen to the enclosed tape. It’s the soundtrack from The Big Blue, and it’s all about struggle and achievement and bliss. I’ve been learning to meditate, and this is the best music to do it to. Listen to it and imagine yourself well again. If it works for you, visualize yourself floating weightless in a warm, clear sea, full of light. Imagine that you’re made of light. Please listen to it over and over again. Even if you don’t have the energy to meditate, I’m sure it will help you to feel more relaxed.
All my love,
Helena xxx
P.S. I’ve written a song for you; hopefully it’ll be on the next album. It’s called “Over This.” As soon as we’ve recorded it in the studio, I’ll send you a tape. x
BLUEZINE
SUMMER 1988
Hi Fans,
What do you think of the impressive, new-look, glossy BLUEZINE? Do send in your comments for the band.
At the moment they’re still out on the road, but they want to let you all know how much they appreciate you coming out to see them in your hundreds of thousands, and for keeping Spin Shiny on the charts for so long.
They were in the U.K. for ten days in June, opening for Simply Red (see page 3 for photograph of Justin and Mick Hucknall meeting Princess Diana), and this fall they’re off on another big world tour–THE BLUE CEILING TOUR. Check out the attached dates, and see page 4 for a fabulous chance to win a pair of tickets to their show in Tokyo; flights, accommodation, and backstage passes included!
Blue Idea has leased a new, top-of-the-line tour bus, which you may have spotted outside a venue–it’s the size of a barn and therefore pretty hard to miss. It even has its own recording studio inside, so not only is the band traveling in way more comfort, they’ve also been whiling away those long hours on the road by recording demoes for their new album! The title will be Painting the Ceiling, and it’s scheduled for release in October.
The lucky winners of the competition in the last issue of Bluezine were Julie Weatherley and Charlotte-Emma Moore, from Lawrence, KS (both aged sixteen). Well done, guys! They joined the band on the road for a day, and wrote the following note describing their experiences:
We are Blue Idea’s biggest fans in the world, and we couldn’t believe it when we won! The band treated us real good, they even sent a black stretch limousine to meet us at the Chicago airport and take us to the bus! The bus was so neat, it had everything on there. Ovens and showers and beds and recording gear and everything. We had an awesome time, it was the coolest thing that ever happened to us, ever. Everyone in the band was real nice, Justin is a beautiful person, and David gave us some drumsticks, and Joe gave us the shirt he wore in the video for “Conditions of Love”! Helena had real bad hay fever, her eyes were streaming the whole time, so we gave her some shades to wear onstage that night, and she wore them! The concert was unbelievable. It was the second time we’d seen the band (but the first time without our folks being there).
Thank you, Blue Idea, WE LOVE YA!!!
Love from Charlotte-Emma and Julie xxooxx
The band wants to thank all of you who’ve sent them gifts while they’ve been on the road. They’re promising to write up a letter to send out to all fan club members, but please be patient, there’s a whole bunch of you fans out there!
Finally, here’s a personal note from each of the guys, and what they’ve all been listening to on the road this summer:
JUSTIN: “Hey! Thanks so much for all the soft toys, people, but please stop sending them—I have so many on my bunk in the bus that there’s no room for me to sleep! Seriously, we’re gonna have to start giving a few away to charity soon. Appreciate it, though. Catch you later.” (Lovesexy by Prince)
JOE: “Did you hear the one about the guy who visited his doctor, naked except for some Saran Wrap around his waist? He said, ‘Doctor, doctor, am I going crazy?’ and the doctor goes, ‘Yes, I can clearly see your nuts.’ Geddit?” (Tougher than Leather by Run DMC)
DAVID: “Oh well, at least Joe didn’t tell you one of his drummer jokes. Thanks for coming out to see us, everyone. We love ya, too.” (Tracy Chapman by Tracy Chapman–buy this album, it’s awesome)
HELENA: “Another summer, another tour. The sands of time slip on by, folks, so take my advice and make the most of everything in your life. Tell your family and friends you love ‘em as often as you get the chance.” (Soundtrack to the movie The Big Blue)
Love from us to you,
Justin, Joe, David, and Helena xxxx
Review in Q Magazine, November 1988
Painting the Ceiling
Blue Idea
Ringside RNG 2075
Presumably there is something about Freehold, New Jersey, that drives the youth of the town to need to escape. Perhaps the high school forces each pupil to study the social insights of the self-appointed “Boss” of blue-collar rock—if so, no wonder this quartet left town on tour when the youngest of their number was just sixteen.
They started out as darlings of the American college scene in 1983, purveyors of bubbly post-post-punk, and since then have gone from strength to strength, learning how to adapt to the times in the way that only those in the highest echelons of the rock world—R.E.M. and U2—have managed.
Despite the rather facile and dated title (Blancmange, circa 1982, anyone?), British-born songwriter Helena Nicholls has pulled off the not-inconsiderable feat of creating a complete change of direction, without losing the lively intensity hallmarking Blue Idea’s earlier material. Rumor has it that Nicholls is going through some unspecified “personal difficulties,” but if that’s the case, they’ve certainly taken her writing up to another level. The songs have a much more wistful air to them than the boisterous energy of the band’s three previous albums: The subdued loveliness of “Over This,” for example, forces an unconscious overly emotional response that seems at odds with the adrenaline-filled passion of their hallmark sound; “Take Me Away” manages to be effortlessly breezy and grin-inducing, but with heavy overtones of bleeding-heart vulnerability (“If you’re easily pleased, you’ll be happy with me”); and “Pop Artie,” “National Health,” and “Royal Flush” are all vogueishly attractive pop songs, but with a detached and stylish coolness to them.
Vocalist and lead guitarist Justin Becker is still as engaging as ever—surprisingly, this more mellow delivery seems to suit him—while keyboard player Joe Jennings and drummer David Somerstein are able to turn their hands equally expertly to anything from a polka to a punk anthem. Fine songs, fine musicianship. Beautiful artwork by Russell Mills.
There isn’t a weak track on this mature, complex album. Painting the Ceiling will turn Blue Idea from interesting intercontinental journeymen into heavyweight contenders.
Auckland
November 27, 1988
Dear Sam,
Thanks for your letter—that’s wonderful news
, about Dylan being compatible (would it be churlish of me to suggest that this is about the only time in his life he’s ever been compatible with anyone, apart from that fiancé of his!).
Will I be able to visit you during the transplant? It looks as if we’ll have a few days off after we’ve toured Japan, and I could fly back for a quickie visit then. I did ask your mum this question on the phone the other day, but she thought that you might have to be in isolation, my poor baby. Another six weeks in hospital—God, you must be so fed up with it all. Well, if I’m not allowed to see you this time, I’ll be over for Christmas.
Hang in there. I think it’s fantastic that the doctors are saying you’re now strong enough to go through with the operation. I have a very positive feeling about this. You can do it. This’ll be the end of this whole nightmare; I know it will.
Good old big brother. I was just kidding before—I knew Dylan would come into his own one day. Will he have to take a lot of time off work to donate the bone marrow, or is it a quick in-and-out-of-hospital job? (Does he actually do any work in that pub, anyway? I have this vision of him being “mine host,” drinking the profits, and only getting up from the bar stool for a couple of leisurely games of darts.… Although now, of course, that he’s giving you his bone marrow, I am his number one biggest fan. I’ll even marry him, if it all goes horribly wrong with Fiona. As long as he promises not to give me any more Chinese burns, of course.)
I’m so happy that you’re still playing The Big Blue so much. It feels like a kind of spiritual lifeline between us, don’t you think? (“Pretentious, moi?”)
I realized something profound this morning, Sammy. I woke up in this posh Auckland hotel, and the first thing I saw was a huge half-opened pile of fan mail on the table in my room—as much of it addressed to me as to Justin or Blue Idea. It blew my mind, the idea that all those strangers had taken the time to sit down and write to me, another stranger, to try and make me a part of their lives. Or for them to become a part of mine. And seeing that big stack of letters brought something home to me, in a way that all our increasingly luxurious hotel rooms, the flights on the Concorde, and screaming fans hadn’t—in all the horror of you being so ill, it seemed to have somehow passed me by. But suddenly it really sank in. I’m twenty-two years old, Sam; our new album is number one on both sides of the Atlantic, and I’m really, really famous. But you know what else? I’d give it all up in a heartbeat, if it would make you better.
All my love,
H xxx
P.S. I’m glad you like “Over This”—Ringside is going to release it as a single next year, in the U.K. as well as over here.
FAME
FAME HARDLY EVER LASTS, THOUGH, NOT UNLESS YOU REALLY WORK at it. You have to water it and feed it and pamper it, plumping up its own brittle ego in the hope that it will reward you with its continued existence. That was what the Plan was for, so I could stay famous, without the hassle. I thought I was still famous as a DJ, but it seemed people forgot so quickly.
After all, fame was all I had left. It was my anchor, the thing that reminded me of who I was and what I’d achieved. Perhaps other people had friends whose faces lit up with pleasure to see them, and that was their reminder. But now that Sam was gone, I could only get that from my fans. There was no one else, not now that I’d decided Toby was out of the picture—I simply couldn’t run the risk of getting hurt by anyone, ever again. I felt like Blanche DuBois, depending on the kindness of strangers.
For the second time in the month since I’d been home, I was going out. Not publicly, as such, after the riverfront disaster, just into town for a meeting with my agent, Ron. I could have insisted he come round to me, but once again I was filled with the desire to feel the thrum of London’s streets, to see office girls out on their lunch hour buying their Pret A Manger avocado wraps and their Boots reinforced-gusset tights; to watch faceless motorcycle couriers give taxis the finger, and prowling traffic wardens tap into their handheld ticket machines. As long as I could observe it all from the safety of my car, I’d be fine. I was people-hungry, and I missed my listeners, living their ordinary lives with their secret hearts.
Not that they were my listeners anymore.
I’d scheduled our meeting for ten A.M., to coincide with the late rush-hour traffic. I actually felt well enough to want to pretend that I was a Normal Person, commuting into town for a Normal Job; plus, it afforded me another opportunity to drive my car. I hadn’t yet bothered to inform the DVLA about my mislaid eye, as the doctor had told me I was required to, but since I was never, never going to touch cocaine again, driving, and drinking (separately, as opposed to drinking and driving), were about my only remaining pleasures.
Taking no chances this time, I put on my smallest eye patch, my darkest shades, and the Abba wig. Then I tied a cotton bandanna around my fake hair—the “belt and braces” approach to anonymity.
With a mixture of trepidation and exhilaration, I left the house. As I was opening the garage door I found five cigarette butts, clustered together by the corner of the garage, and my heart sank. There was only one person I knew who smoked Gauloises. I had discovered the identity of my lurker.
I decided not to even think about it until after my meeting with Ron.
After a careful lookout for paparazzi loitering in cars on the road outside, I backed my neutral metallic-blue 5-series BMW out of the gate and pulled away toward the A316 and Central London. I felt very lucky that the papers didn’t seem to have discovered where I lived—I’d been sure that I’d be fending them off night and day, as they tried to worm confessions of drug addictions and God knew what else, but all had been surprisingly quiet.
I was thankful that I’d always been almost paranoically circumspect about my home and possessions, even if it had had the corollary of turning me into something of a recluse. I could have afforded a much flashier car, for example, and a mansion in the country, but after the band broke up, and the trial, I had vowed that I’d make every effort to keep my public and private personas completely separate.
Very few people knew where I lived, and most of those who did believed that I was someone else. I had no close neighbors (my house looked out over the Thames, and was on a secluded plot with only four other houses in the immediate vicinity), all work-related inquiries went directly to Ron, and I’d never thrown parties.
When I first moved in I’d entertained a notion of myself having intimate little soirees, impressing all my yet-to-be-made friends with my skill in the kitchen, but since I never actually got around to making any of those friends, the dinners remained uncooked.
Consequently the only people who knew where I lived were Mum and Dad; Mrs. Grant and Sam (who, of course, had practically been a lodger); Justin, Joe, and David, who’d all visited on separate occasions; Vinnie; and Ron (although he’d never been to the house). I had a sweet Serbian cleaner who couldn’t speak English, and everyone else who visited had come to give me some kind of private lesson in something spiritual, esoteric, or fitness-related (Pilates, yoga, tai chi, etc.), and I told all of them my name was Dora. None of them ever let on if they recognized me. The locals knew me as Dora, too, although since almost all of them were elderly millionaires, I doubted that they had ever even heard of Blue Idea.
I drove slowly over Twickenham Bridge, crawling along in a fog of exhaust with hundreds of other anonymous commuters, reveling in my proximity to the outside world. I loved to watch people singing in their cars, their silent yodeling through the windscreen, and the way they picked their noses or pulled faces in the mirror as if convinced no one else could see in.
Feeling extra-brave, I switched on the car radio—tuned to New World, naturally. I hadn’t listened to my show since that brief snippet in hospital, and to my surprise, Ralph Porter wasn’t on air. Rather, it was Millie Myers, a twenty-five-year-old pneumatic “It” girl (“It,” in my opinion, being an acronym for Intensely Thick). Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d had her eye on my slot ever since she arr
ived at New World a year ago, doing the afternoon show. Consequently she’d constituted the hard-core base of the Anti-Helena Brigade.
I had never had any time for her and her frothy, silly-girly style of broadcasting; I thought it was too frivolous for words. Why on earth did she think London gave a shit about the tragic fact that her Jimmy Choos gave her blisters, or that she’d lost her sodding pashmina? I wondered if she was doing a request show, too. Bet she’d only play a listener’s record if they could verify at least one celebrity shag, or prove that they’d spent over £500 on one item of clothing.
News, travel, ads. Millie gushing over some execrable TV program from the night before. Meatloaf, back-to-back with a Steps record. Oh, please. Still, I supposed that Millie had to let the computer pick her records if she wasn’t doing a request show. Geoff probably didn’t give her as much freedom as I’d had.
Nonetheless, Geoff Hadleigh was a sucker for cleavage and some spindly legs in a miniskirt. I bet he loved Millie—although it was the listeners whose opinions really counted. I was fully expecting to find several sacks of fan mail at Ron’s office, demanding to know when I’d be back on air. He wouldn’t have forwarded them, since I’d told him I was away recuperating in the U.S.
“And that, darlings, was the fab-ulous Steps, who you recently voted seventeenth best band ever in our New World poll, between dinosaurs like Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood Mac. Well-deserved success for a happening new band! And next up, we’ve got, um, Lucy and Meg from Bounds Green! Hi, are you there, girls?”
