by Wesley Stace
The only downside was that I was evacuated from my coffin, the consensus being that Mei-Xing should be opposite Becca. I found myself below Blake and Curtis, though Blake generally sacked out in the back room anyway among his secondhand books, dusty vinyl, hangings, and hookahs.
Curtis had his project: a fourteen-year-old Mei-Xing who made tea and said very little. I didn’t want to take an uncharitable view—wasn’t I Blake’s project too?—but it seemed like she was his doll. He loved to take her clothes shopping. Soon she was out of those loose white smocks and wearing much more modern, less attractive clothing. Who’s to judge? Nevertheless, his sweet little dolly.
And there we were in the bus: growing in number by the day. It was around this time that Sam, Mum’s actual son, joined us for the odd trip—that was when the fun really began: Hide and Seek, Tickle Monster, Dinosaur Races (“Pterodactylus vs. the Edmontosaurus”)—and there I was, back to reading to the “little ones” again, organizing pre-bedtime Olympiads. What a funny kid he was: he’d wait until he was sure you were watching and then make you laugh with some quick eye movement, just to show you he could. And his walks were good too.
When Sam was around, Becca and I took a break. Everyone loved having Sam on the bus, but sometimes I counted the days till he was gone. Jack bore it without grinning. It wasn’t quite his idea of touring in a rock band, having all these children underfoot, but, then, what about the Wonderkids was normal?
Blake sat in the back and wrote songs. One began:
We might indeed be out of tea
Out of tea we might well be
Who will make the tea for we
Mei-Xing! Mei-Xing!
And we all called back, because that’s how the song went: “She’s from Beijing, and she’s Mei-Xing!” The next verse was about Sam; and the last one was about me.
Cartoons are not drawn overnight, nor theme parks built in a day, and plans were already afoot for both Wonderkids to the Rescue! and Wonderland itself. The TV show I could just get my head around; but the theme park? Ludicrous, and yet it was all part of WBA’s plan: make your own audience, blaze a trail, “if you build it they will come.” Storyboards with amusing caricatures of the band dressed as superheroes vied for the band’s attention with designs for bizarre fairground rides. These were ideal projects for Blake and Jack: things at which you could simultaneously laugh and stare in awe.
The Wonderland engineers—“imagineers” in Disney terms —arrived with cute scale models that they placed carefully on the table, prior to a demonstration involving little hand-painted carriages and toy humans. Blake would sit back, the picture of contemplation, and consider the miniature WonderWaltzer, the WonderKinderGarten play area for tots, or the WonderWander nature ramble. Our park was never going to compete with the big boys, but the money behind it had staked out some land in the southern valley, and the whole thing seemed like it was veering towards reality.
First things first: it’s every performer’s fantasy to be able to play concerts and not travel, to stay in one place; that’s why all those country guys open their own theaters: let the mountain come to Missouri. With the WonderTheater, we would now have our own venue. Sure, the band could go play wherever they liked, whenever they liked, but this would be home base: a gig with some rides attached. And if the band wasn’t around: no problem. Some excited youngsters with Equity cards would be the Wonderkids, and mime to the backing tracks. The intention wasn’t to fool people, just to let them enjoy a reasonable facsimile: The WonderKindas. Maybe that’s who’d play all the time. I could be in them, Blake suggested—he was always trying to push me in that direction. I already subbed for him at soundcheck when he couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t do a bad impression either; at least enough to make Becca laugh.
Blake’s only, but overwhelming, objection to the theme park was its lack of a magical theme. There was the band, and their characters, and their songs, but beyond that, no particular narrative. Blake suggested Edward Lear. Disney probably had some proprietary claim over Lewis Carroll, after that psychedelic cartoon of Alice In Wonderland, and obviously no one wants to mess with a Disney lawyer. But Lear—he was still up for grabs, until such time as Disney decided to sink its money into a full length feature of “the Dong with a Luminous Nose” with the very amusing voice of Robin Williams in the title role and “Julia Roberts is the Jumbly girl.” It wasn’t going to happen. “The Owl and the Pussycat”? Surely it was made for a ride lasting “a year and a day” in a beautiful pea green boat over an expanse of sea that ends with a dance by the light of the moon. They could have a couple of thrill rides, small ones, to keep the imagineers happy, but what Blake wanted was the nonsense come to life: Gromboolian plains, slices of quince.
And with their new instructions, these purposeful men-children went back to the drawing boards in their imagineeria. Clearly, they were happiest designing the big room with all the feathers floating around, and the one really fast ride that wasn’t appropriate to children under 42” tall, but they’d put their all into the quainter rides too. Though demographic research did not point to the popularity of a theme park based on the poetry of Edward Lear, the band’s own brand was somehow considered sturdy enough to incorporate Blake’s whimsy. And so those rides, those stately, beautiful, old-fashioned rides were imagineered. And within a few weeks, the imagineers were back, and Blake was as happy as I’d ever seen him. He’d taken a lot from nonsense and now he was giving a little back.
Life was a series of meetings on the bus. The next set featured a new breed: the record producer. This was Jack’s department; Blake merely reported his intuitions about the applicants. One by one, confident, mostly tanned men, climbed aboard to hear new songs, see a show, get the feel of the band, make sure everyone is on the same page, each introduced by Andy as though he had all the answers. Some producers, slightly older and with shorter hair, seemed ready to throw a good party. Others, longer hair, sometimes bald on top, talked technical, how easily, how updated, how automated, how fast the faders flew; others just wanted to make a good impression, hardly mentioning the music. Jack asked the technical questions; every now and then Blake asked for their star sign as though this might affect a decision, or their opinion of Jonathan Richman’s new record.
“If the label’s happy, I’m happy,” said Andy, who was himself to all intensive purposes (oh, how we missed Greg) the label. WBA had put these producers forward, so why wouldn’t they be happy when one of their puppets was finally on the throne? Jack had suggestions of his own—but such producers, we were told, weren’t really interested in the Wonderkids . . . yet. That was always the word. Yet. But people invariably go where the money is, so what was the problem with the Wonderkids’ money, the Wonderkids’ points?
“Daniel Lanois is just not about to make a kid’s record,” said Andy, assuming this was whom Jack wanted; though Jack of course knew this. He was just making a point. “Mutt Lange is not about to make a kids’ record.” They would these days, of course. They wouldn’t even think twice about it. Hell, they’ve probably done it.
“George Martin made hundreds of kids’ records,” argued Jack. “Listen to ‘Nellie the Elephant,’ pristine Ron Goodwin arrangement, and who else but George Martin?”
“Let’s ask George Martin,” said Andy.
“Too tall,” said Blake. “Who’s next?”
Next was Denny, who had a Grammy under his belt, corkscrew curls, dark glasses, and drawled as though he’d had a minor stroke or his teeth were in funny. He was perfectly nice, very boring. It was all work to him, but he and Jack bonded and he uttered a few magic words as though primed by Andy: “It doesn’t really sound like kids’ music to me; it’s all just music, isn’t it?” I never saw him without the glasses on. “It reminds me of the Kinks. And that’s what it should sound like.” When he name-dropped George Martin, I wondered whether the fix was in. The procedure had been lengthy, a decision had to be made, and Denny was the least bad option.
“I like a lot of
focus in the studio,” he said. “I have some of my own guys who can help out, but they’ll never get in the way of your band, and if you’re uncomfortable with anything, you tell me. I’m here to make you happy.”
No one who says that is telling the truth, but he did give them a hit record. I never liked him.
The tour ended at just the right time; there was an “end of term” feeling around the bus, but everyone was too knackered for practical jokes. You know you’ve been playing too much Gameboy when you get close to a city, see the skyline, and wonder between which buildings the next Tetris block will neatly drop. I no longer wanted to be reminded daily, when brushing my teeth, that I had forgotten or was in need of essential toiletries. Becca and I had stayed our course with ferocious focus, but even we were flagging.
Also, Curtis’s obsession with Mei-Xing had become a little unnerving. At one point, I was eavesdropping on them in the dressing room. I didn’t mean to be, and, to be fair, she was technically too quiet to eavesdrop on.
“You’re going out wearing that?” It was a tone I’d never heard from him. Her reply was inaudible. “Turn around,” he said. I was painting a surrealist picture in my mind. “Bend over . . .” Slight pause. “No, you’re not.”
“Curtis!” I heard that. It was whiney.
“Did I buy you that?”
Another inaudible reply.
“Well, put on whatever you changed out of. I love you.”
“I love you too, Curtis.”
“Now change.”
She emerged in blue jeans and smock top over a T-shirt, always that little purse dangling around her neck, and waved at me as she disappeared.
He didn’t like smoke anywhere near her. Before Mei-Xing appeared, he hadn’t loved the backstage routine, which involved a little weed when possible, or the back of the bus routine, which involved a lot of weed more or less all the time; now he didn’t like it at all. He started to get quite verbal, and it got a bit awkward—it seemed like Jack and Blake (which basically meant Jack) might have to remind him that it wasn’t his band. But just as things seemed to be reaching a head, the tour was done and there was nothing to complain about. We all looked forward to glimpsing real life again—even the thing that passed for it in that Hitchcock house at the top of the canyon. Perhaps our blotches might disappear, our wrists recover, our skin stop flaking.
Becca and me, Curtis and Mei-Xing, Jack’s nightly excursions around the MILF bars—it was hard to tell where everyone was headed. Only Blake seemed constant. He was working on his songs for the second record; he was daydreaming about the theme park; every late afternoon, and sometimes even into the evening, he put on an amazing show, as did the whole band. Yes, he smoked; yes, he drank; and yes, he got stoned. But he never let the crowd down. The records were selling; his eye was on the ball. Jack was the businessman, but Blake was the captain of the ship, the leader of the gang. The only trouble was: I wasn’t sure he was really enjoying himself much. Perhaps we were all just tired.
One of the turning points, as I look back, was on the way home at the Burbank airport. We’d flown separately from the rest of the band, and it felt good to be on our own.
“Good ride idea for the theme park,” Blake said. “A baggage carousel. Everyone travels round and round in their parents’ luggage. It’s a ride, with bonus metaphor.”
And that was when we saw a very famous rock star, someone he really admired, a hero—I just can’t even write down which one he was, but think of the two biggest bands in the sixties, okay, not them, but then think of the other one, and it was him—bearded, scruffy looking, stoopingly tall, epic nose, definitely him, with an obtrusive entourage
Blake walked up and said, quite casually, “Hi, I’m a big fan and I’m in the band the Wonderkids.” This, mind you, when the Wonderkids were officially a huge success. He didn’t ask for the bloke’s autograph or a photo or anything like that; nor did he get in his face. He was just friendly and efficiently fanlike; he even made it clear that that was as far as he wanted the conversation to go. He knew how to handle that stuff, being the victim of so much silliness himself.
And the rock star stopped, looked Blake straight in the face and said with a smirk, taking care also to address his coterie: “Congratulations! You’re in the worst fucking band in the whole universe!”
Then he walked on.
Blake’s mouth fell open, and he looked at me and let out a little laugh of disbelief, shaking his head. We made no mention of it until we got in the limo.
“Am I in the worst fucking band in the whole universe?” I didn’t answer, since he seemed to be asking the window or the passing scenery. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, confirming how much it did. Then he turned to me: “If you ever tell Jack . . .”
“Mum’s the word,” I said.
Coincidence or not, that’s when it started to fall apart.
11
“Does anyone remember laughter?”
BECCA, CURTIS, AND MEI-XING WENT INTO THEIR RESPECTIVE hibernations. It may have been time to get out of each other’s pockets, but going cold turkey after such an intense period together makes you feel like you’re missing key teeth. And you can’t stop your tongue checking.
As Blake readied the songs for the new album—the nonsense tumbled out of him quite naturally, but he liked to tinker—Jack and I spent a lot of time hanging out, watching TV; he even started teaching me guitar. You have a lot of great notions of how you’ll spend your time on the road—ambitious sightseeing, reading improving literature, Spanish in thirty days—but the hours aren’t conducive to anything much except playing gigs, flipping through magazines and chatting. The bigger projects never quite get off the ground. Learning the guitar: that’s a commitment—one we now had time to make.
Jack took me to one of the old hair farmer places on the strip where every employee was dreaming either of a gig at Gazzarri’s or an appointment at Hair Guitar, and the soundtrack is a cacophony of metal riffs. Among the transparent flying Vs and the flame-colored right-angle-necked ESPs, which Jack roundly mocked, he found an off-white 1978 Telecaster that he carried as though he was my roadie. When we got home, he sat me down and placed it in my arms gently, a sleeping baby.
“Nice, right?” He smiled. “How does she feel?”
Right, it’s female. I balanced the guitar, using my thigh as a fulcrum, thinking that that might be the right thing to do, like when you taste a glass of wine that’s more or less the same as any other and pretend to notice a big difference. I considered her curve, the way she fit under my ribcage. I had no idea.
“First I’m going to teach you how sound works. Then I’m going to explain why a guitar has six strings. Then I’m going to tell you how to tune it and why it’s tuned that way. And then I’m going to relate it to the wider world.”
“Can you just teach me some chords?”
“This is how I work. Now the bottom string,” he twanged it, “is an E. Why?”
“First letter of the alphabet?”
“Don’t be like Blake. Wrong. And stand up. Let’s get this strap the right length.”
The goal was that I’d play one rhythm guitar part at the next recording session. Unrealistic. I could hardly make a barre chord—it’s a tricky thing to do—and he wouldn’t let me pop my thumb over the top as Blake did. No. Bad habit, best avoided.
Bass lessons with Becca had quickly become an excuse to loll around. She taught me stuff, mostly about fingering (that was her big joke), but I did know where all the frets were and where you pressed the string down. With Jack, all that had to be unlearned, because I was going to do it his way or not at all. To my great surprise, there turned out to be a touch of the Barry about him.
The problem with being an expert at nothing is that you’re always at the mercy of the teacher. This can also be a good thing too—see above—but it was time for me to work out what I actually wanted to master, what would be mine. It wasn’t going to be the guitar, but for now, that seemed as good as anything
.
Off the road, with no merch to inventory, hawk, or reorder, my status was unclear.
When recording began, I was hardly required at the studio. They didn’t even need anybody to get food; you just ordered from a flip file full of menus and lo, it was delivered. I couldn’t drive anyway, so my orbit was limited to where I could walk, which was, basically, nowhere. Besides, it took half an hour—slight exaggeration—to cross the road. It was too hot to bother walking half a long block to the crosswalk, and a policeman stopped me for jaywalking: I hadn’t even known it was a crime. He heard my accent, didn’t like the thought of the paperwork, and let me off with a warning, before offering me a lift to the other side of the street, and asking me to elucidate the rules of cricket.
Inside the studio, beyond the front desk, there was an annex of sofas, a TV that showed nothing but baseball, a pinball machine, and a kitchenette with a library of tea bags. Beyond this comfortable holding cell was the recording studio itself, where, though officially welcome, I wasn’t made to feel at home. Once, I made the mistake of complimenting Jack on a guitar part, to which Denny replied: “You a producer now, kid?” I would have expected Blake to leap to my defense, take Denny down a peg or two, but he hadn’t heard: he was scratching down lyrics on a piece of paper and decorating them with elaborate doodles. I kept quiet after that and stuck to the decompression chamber, into which the band emerged only occasionally to get, or to pass, water. Only when they’d finished a basic was there any fun to be had.
