by Wesley Stace
“They don’t have a National Health over there, Dad.”
“No, that’s right. Because they’re deathly afraid of Communism.”
“You’ve never really been that keen on Communism yourself, have you?”
“Are you going to have more of the jam, Sweet? If not, would you mind putting the top back on?”
And on it went.
As we left, Barry threw a copy of American Notes by Charles Dickens at me. “It’ll be useful. Pay attention.”
“So what’s the story with your mum?” I asked Blake in the cab. He was scrutinizing the meter.
“I’m sorry to go on about it, but why does the meter keep going up even when you’re not moving? That would never happen in America. I’d never even noticed that before. What did you say?”
“Your mum. What happened?”
“She died when I was eight. You know that, right? Why?” He wasn’t avoiding the question, just intent on getting to the bottom of the meter mystery.
“I didn’t actually. Your dad never married again?”
“No. Once was enough. Put him off for life. Look at that! We’re sitting completely still, going nowhere, doing nothing, and the meter’s rising. We’re paying for this.”
“I just noticed there weren’t a lot of pictures of her in your father’s place.”
“Oh yeah. She died, but not until after she’d left him for another man. We never saw her after she left. If I told you it was a Yank, would you believe me?”
“Yes, I would. Sorry.”
“Old news.” He couldn’t help laughing. “He hated America long before that though. That just confirmed his every prejudice. Jack and I both look a lot like her.”
“What was she like?”
“She sang; she loved poetry; she had me recite “The Jumblies”; she had long brown hair and she smelled of cloves; and then she abandoned us; and then she died. And I have fought against considering that her punishment, as certain other family members have implied, ever since. So what she’s like is an absence, a double absence.” He looked at me. “But you’d know all about that, right?” I nodded, but I didn’t really feel that double absence. “And I’ve got my dad,” he said, winking.
“And I’ve got you.” I imitated his wink. We didn’t speak.
He went back to watching the meter. “But no mums then.”
“Well, there’s Becca.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Fuck this place. Let’s go back to the land of chocolate milk and tupelo honey.”
After leaky London, Los Angeles was even lovelier than I remembered. The band had been rehearsing; the record label had been strategizing; Mitchell was in bureaucratic nirvana; the bus was ready to roll; Randy had grown his moustache in preparation.
The front of the WonderBus, the parlor, was where we chatted and browsed magazines; Jack always had some gear porn handy. He’d flick through guitar catalogs with the same kind of rapt attention other men reserve for the top shelf, giving the occasional throaty growl of appreciation. Once in a while, he’d hold a page up, asking only that we join in for a moment before he returned to his private pleasure. And while he read, as if to complete the picture, he’d relentlessly exercise his left hand with one of those little plastic finger-strengthening gizmos. He was scared stiff of carpal tunnel, but, well . . . it looked like he was wanking.
The rest of the time he read the music papers; he didn’t care which one. He never lost the need to keep up: “Don’t like the sound of this lot,” he’d say out loud to no one in particular, as though we were in direct competition with Jane’s Addiction anywhere but in his mind: “They’re going to make us sound very old-fashioned.” Or, “New Primal Scream sounds like it’s going to be good. They got Jimmy Miller working on it.” These conversations never went anywhere, but he liked to keep us updated with his oral Random Notes.
Becca always sat front left beneath the television, listening privately to headphones—always droney trance music with her, sometimes German, nothing with lyrics: Jack called it “music for people who do yoga.” “Tai chi,” she once pertly corrected him during one of the few breaks between songs.
Curtis, meanwhile, sat on the other side of Mitchell’s desk, never once complaining about what was on the big speakers. In every area but music, he’d done away with punkish things. He read only paperback-thick magazines—Esquire, Vogue, Vanity Fair. He liked the ads, designer watches and fountain pens, the photo spreads, as much as the articles: that was all he showed us anyway, often with a little laugh and shake of his head at the insane luxury of it all. Then he’d toss the book-priced magazine away like it was garbage and buy another, but not before he’d detached all the little perfume samples and the bus smelled like a Body Shop. Finally Jack told him: “knock it off with the frou frou juice”; Curtis responded: “think of it as secondhand perfume.” When Jack looked at him uncomprehendingly, he explained: “to combat the secondhand smoke.” That was the end of that.
Blake staked his claim to the back of the bus; it became his undisputed domain, home to a growing library of secondhand books, repository for various pieces of purloined hotel paraphernalia. Smoking was always allowed there, more or less insisted upon, and out of consideration for Becca and Curtis, Jack used to head back for his cigarette. It got very hazy. I’ve never actually had a cigarette myself, but I’m surely one of the most addicted secondhand smokers of all time.
The gigs themselves settled down into a comfortable routine over the next month. We never played actual rock venues, but there were libraries, performing arts centers, Unitarian churches; they treated us well.
“This is where you want to be,” said Mitchell. “Where they’ve cut you a check before you even play. That is class.”
The tour was sprinkled with various TV and radio appearances—Blake was often required to mime on the former; but never (his joke) on the latter—all simultaneously unique and repetitive: “Where did you get the name from?” “What’s it like being in a band with your brother?” “Do you have a message for the kids out here?” It’s like that bit in Teletubbies when they show the same movie twice: you think it’s going to be pointless the second time, and then you realize how much you missed, almost as though you hadn’t seen it at all.
We were very lucky to have Mitchell. Road manager is an easy position to abuse, but Mitchell had style.
He had warned us about a promoter in the Midwest: “He’s a real character. A dick. I’ve got great stories about this guy.” At the venue, this same promoter had left a copy of our rider, the various backstage requirements that the agency forwards to the venue, in the dressing room. Every page had one solid Sharpie line of erasure through it. He’d nullified the entire thing: no rider at all. Mitchell picked it up and fanned himself.
“Pawn to King Four!” he said with admiration. “A brilliant opening gambit, because it’s Sunday and we can’t ring the agent.” He perused the redacted rider and consulted the contract. “Aha!” It was all a little Hercule Poirot. “His Achilles heel. It’s petty but it’ll do.” Mitchell stuck his head out the door and yelled for the promoter. I was wondering whether there’d be a confrontation, but that wasn’t Mitchell’s M.O.
“Hey! Welcome to the Recreation Room,” said the incoming bearded dick. “There’s tea and coffee.”
“Great. I see the rider no longer applies—no problem about that at all—but I note that, here, the line doesn’t reach the bottom of the page, look, so it appears that we’re missing 14 9-volt batteries. Could you pick them up?”
The bearded dick looked at the offending line, considering his options before concluding: “Sure. I’ll send someone out. If there’s anything else you guys need, give a shout.”
When he’d left, Mitchell said: “That’s the thing about the real dicks of America. They respect you for treating them like a dick back. But it must be done in their language, because they speak no other.”
And when the batteries came, Mitchell lined them up on the mantelpiece like Stonehenge, and they w
ere still standing when we left the dressing room after a victorious show. Perhaps they’re still standing now. Stonehenge is.
There was more to Mitchell than met the eye. Back in a theme park one sunny afternoon, I walked into his day office to ask him about set-lists. The door was closed, but I didn’t think anything of it.
“Sweet, old chap,” he said, looking round at me with unflustered charm. “Don’t they knock where you come from? No matter.” He turned back to his business with the promoter. “Meet Mr. Ray Rosenbloom; his boss has these parks sewn up. He’ll be paying us. Mr. Ray Rosenbloom, meet Sweet. Sit down, young man. Here,” he added firmly. I admired his decisiveness, his fairness.
Mr. Rosenbloom, glasses propped on forehead, was otherwise occupied in the strenuous reading of fine print and did not offer me a greeting. Mitchell opened his attaché briefcase, its entire contents (seen only by the two of us) a gun—a gun!—and a single piece of paper in a see-through folder. He removed the gun and placed it on the desk, barrel towards Mr. Rosenbloom, then took out the sole piece of paper, placing the gun back in the briefcase, which he closed.
“Here’s the contract, Ray, and . . . let me check . . . I do believe . . .” he scanned the page, actually going to the trouble of assuming a studied pose of concentration . . . “Yes, yes, I thought so: cash.”
Mr. Rosenbloom was flustered. “Well, I have a check. I have most of the cash.”
“Well, that’s fine, Ray. But are you seriously telling me that in the entirety of this thriving, money-making family complex, there isn’t enough cash to pay my charges their due for the hard work they’re going to do for you and your patrons?”
“Five songs,” said Rosenbloom ill-advisedly.
“Whose signature is this?”
“Mine,” said a weakened Rosenbloom.
“Okay. Okay. Ray, this problem doesn’t seem insurmountable. See you back here in fifteen minutes?”
“Sure,” said Rosenbloom, who left to locate the cash.
Mitchell turned to me with a broad smile. “I love this bit.”
“What bit is it?”
“The nightly drama. Do you like David Mamet?
“I don’t really know.”
“I think of Mamet a lot during these transactions. The pauses. I love them.”
“Is the gun loaded?”
“That question is loaded. The gun is purely a precaution.” He hadn’t answered the question.
“Have you ever had to use it?”
“No. Its very presence ensures that it will not be required.”
“It’s a deterrent?”
“What’s your real name?” I told him. He continued: “I think you’re going to do this job one day.”
“Why?”
“I can tell.” He was a dapper gypsy reading my fortune. “I have wisdom for you; wisdom I have earned.”
“Did Blake put you up to this?”
“No. He doesn’t even want you to do the merch. He just wants you on the bus, on his side, number one son.”
“Okay. Well . . . wisdom . . . sure. Can I touch the gun?”
“No. What did you want?”
“Oh, Blake wanted some copies for the stage.”
“Ah, second only in importance to getting paid: the setlist. There’s the machine. There’s the paper. There’s the on/off switch. There’s the pass code. There’s your finger to prod the keypad with. And, next time, please, don’t ever walk into my room when I’m in the middle of a settlement. It’s a pleasure to work with you.”
So, preppy Mitchell was slightly eccentric, perhaps a little murderous. “Ripley” was perfect: Blake had known the moment they met. And you kept finding out about him, his life a slow reveal. One foul rainy day, there was some inadequately or wrongly advertised gig to which no one came. As we drove up, Curtis pointed out that a P had dropped from the sign outside, which now announced J PRODUCTIONS PROUDLY RESENTS THE WONDERKIDS! I mean, I’ve done gigs with bands where no one came; so let’s say that there were ten people at this gig, of which 60 percent were under three feet tall. It was likely to be a bit depressing—Jack was grousing, Curtis was arguing against unpacking the entire drum kit, even Blake seemed a bit put out—but, before the band went on, Mitchell gave a speech, the rock ’n’ roll equivalent of the big moment in the Kenneth Branagh Shakespeare movie, the gist of which was this—I’ll never forget it, and I’ve recreated it in similar situations:
“My friends, there is no one here. There is little point in playing. You could go out there right now, have a bad attitude, phone it in, and that would be that: we’d get paid and leave. You could complain about the size of the audience; you could complain about the sound. But here’s why you’re not going to do that: because by complaining you are saying ‘sorry,’ and apologizing is the least rock ’n’ roll thing in the world. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t only seem to be, it is the hardest word. Audiences don’t want to hear ‘sorry.’ Rise above it, and when you make a mistake, smile. Because audiences love mistakes; they love it when you screw up, because it makes them feel special. ‘That was the night Blake ended up with only two strings!’ ‘That was the night Jack fell over, continued playing and laughed through the whole thing. I was there!’ A mistake made with confidence isn’t a mistake at all: it’s a gift from the Gods. It’s the moment they see the real you.
“And forget the size of the crowd: it doesn’t matter to them how many of them there are, because they have eyes only for you, and you are playing just for them, individually. They actually like the fact that nobody’s there, because it means that, for one night only, you’re their little secret. You are theirs alone. And what they’ll tell their friends is this: ‘there were only a few people there, but they did an amazing show, because they really just love what they do.’ Bingo! But if you point out how few of them there are, if you make them self-conscious, then all they’ll think is ‘assholes,’ because you’re treading on their dreams. That cannot end well for anyone. And they’ll never come to see you again. So, don’t cheat them. Play your greatest show!”
There was more. His battle cry had been reaching a Shakespearean climax, but he abruptly dropped his voice for the final twist.
“Because, ladies and gentlemen, in a few years’ time that little girl out there will be fifteen, and she’ll come up to you at an in-store or at the gate of your flight, and she’ll say: “I’m sorry to bother you, but that time I saw you at the Whatever, Wherever in Sonoma, California, that was so incredible, it changed my life. I’ll never forget it.” She won’t remember how few people were there; she’ll just remember how great you were. And you, remembering that that was the gig you were so pissed about, because there was nobody there, and you didn’t give it your all, you, at that moment, will feel small. Because you conned her. You didn’t bother. And she loved it anyway. And, ladies and gentlemen, that will happen. So . . . there’s a show to do. Don’t play for the people who aren’t here; play for the people who are. We didn’t drive all this way for the scenery. C’MON! DO IT!”
He was so great; a magician. You wanted him to teach you all his tricks, but there was nothing to learn, no sleight of hand. It was all above board, in plain sight; the guy was just good at his job. In this instance, the Wonderkids filed past onto the stage and played a very mediocre show to ten people. But that’s not the point—at least they went on. In fact, I think Mitchell was playing an even longer game; he was encouraging Blake and the band to dig a little deeper. That was part of his job too.
Things did get deeper one afternoon in Northern California. We were playing an arts center at four one Sunday—“just between nap and bedtime” said Blake, talking about the kids, though he might as well have been talking about himself. He generally dozed in his clothes in the afternoon in the back of the bus, which was starting to look like a Bedouin tent. I loved hanging out back there among the amassed bric-a-brac, the nomad’s possessions, but I was more or less the only one who did, apart from its indigenous person. Even Jack was smoking less.
The rock band, which looked like an MTV recreation of the Velvet Underground, disappeared, and we were left to do our show. The kids filed in, and the mayhem began. Blake’s dressing-up box was bulging with little doodads he’d picked up at truck stops—a small hand puppet of the devil, red-faced and horned in a black cape, which he used for a silly ventriloquist routine during a break-down in one of the songs; random T-shirts that he’d throw out to the audience.
It was the first time I’d seen so much breastfeeding at a show. It was hard not to stare. There were boobs everywhere: the mothers nursed babies while the slightly older kids—playgroupies was the backstage term—dived into the mosh pit. It wasn’t as violent as a punk concert—more drool, less spit—but the noise was immense and the energy ferocious. The stage was high, a rare blessing, in that it prevented otherwise unmonitored children from clambering up to dance where the action was. This saved Blake from taking time out in the middle of a song to get down to eye level, sending a tot toddling off in the direction of waving parents.
Breasts, tots, loud music—all the makings of a Bacchanalian frenzy, and it was in that little performing arts center that the show hit warp speed for the first time. The dads and mums (though it was mostly lactating mums, unself-consciously nursing, boobs akimbo) chatted at the back as the kids ate it up at the front. Blake was in a crazy playful mood. Before the climax, “Rock Around the Bed,” he announced “you know what, I’m hungry. It’s snack time!” and scampered off stage. I thought for a horrible moment that he was going to reappear with the entire deli tray and initiate a food-fight. Instead, he returned with a loaf of sliced bread, some plastic utensils, and a couple of jars, which he placed on top of the dressing-up box: “Are you guys hungry?” The kids were already standing on a sawdust of crumbled tortilla and shredded graham cracker. “You know what I like most of all? A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Who likes PB&J?” The band were looking on, amused, knowing this was going to escalate, getting ready to count off “Rock Around the Bed.” The kids cheered. As a matter of fact, they loved PB&J! He took two slices of bread and opened the peanut butter tin, spreading its contents with a bendy white knife.
