“We don’t need much, Georgie,” his mum has explained on numerous occasions. “We wouldn’t want our friends to think we were showing off. It’s hard enough having to hear all the envious comments about the triplets!”
The triplets. Archie, Padstow and Trevor—Polly’s precocious four-year-olds. The rotten apples of his parents’ eyes. George detests the matching outfits she forces them to wear like uniforms and the way they yell when they see him, “Uncle Georgie…you’re FAMOUS!” stressing the word famous like it was a contagious disease. Which of course it sometimes felt like—but for God’s sake, at least the little brats might look up to him, instead of following the rest of the family unwittingly into the lair of disdain.
He distractedly pays for his items, feeling a twinge of guilt as he accepts a plastic bag. Just thinking about his family darkens his mood. Christmas isn’t that far away. He has the trip to LA and the latest video to make before that, but even so, he can feel the dampness looming.
LEXI
November 4th, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles
Lexi has parked her car and is scanning the street for number fifty-five. Based on the ad Andrew had shown her, she was anticipating one of those funky, architect designed office buildings off Abbot Kinney.
Up and coming environmental awareness company, looking for enthusiastic, earth loving public relations specialist. Must have prior experience and plenty of ideas. Fantastic opportunity to be part of a grass roots business and work in a creative space. E-mail resume and references to Russell Hazleton. Only apply if you are willing to Let the Green Times Roll!
Promising, right? So the last line might have been slightly suspect, but Andrew thought it was cute and Lexi was willing to overlook excessive perkiness if it meant a paycheck and a new beginning. But walking down Victoria Avenue, she is finding herself feeling slightly more dubious. There are no funky office buildings, just a row of run-down houses looking rather sorry for themselves. Lexi can empathize.
When she’d returned to California from Columbia in her early twenties, she had a degree in marketing and public relations and an addiction to cappuccinos. Though severely battered, her commitment to positive thinking was still limping along and she’d hoped that coming home would instigate a full recovery. She showed up just in time to be a bridesmaid at Meg’s wedding, to discover that Andrew was gay, and to land a PR job for a small internet start-up company selling maternity wear called “Bumps Ahead.” Really the name should have been a give-away.
Ten years on, she is godmother to both of Meg’s children and unemployed after a string of PR jobs that always appeared to be ‘perfect’ but soon revealed themselves to be as shaky as the economy. Lexi’s optimistic hardwiring is beginning to dangerously short circuit, after recently being let go from an interiors magazine because yet again, the company had lost their funding. She had dreamt once of opening her own PR company, but has convinced herself that clients would be impossible to hold onto. In fact these days, Lexi feels as if she can’t hang onto much of anything.
She finally spots number fifty-five and attempts to summon her inner Maria, an old trick her mother had taught her as a girl when her self belief needed bolstering. She imagines Julie Andrews, suitcase in hand, striding away from the convent, arms swinging forcefully. I have confidence in me! What is so fearsome about a captain and seven children? But it seems that her once loyal Maria has long since gone into retirement, because the only thing Lexi can summon is a sinking feeling that this job, like all the others, is not going to be the one.
GEORGE
4th November, 2009
Maida Vale, London
George is crashed out on his sofa balancing his notebook on his knees and eating his third Crunchie. Just as he did at fifteen, he relies on good old-fashioned paper and pen, and has stacks of archived books piled in an empty kitchen cupboard. He promised Simon he’d work on the lyrics for “Over Time,” a song they’ve been playing with for the last few weeks, but instead he’s made some notes and sketches for a lighting idea he has for the North American tour. It’s crucial to George that the shows do not become a circus act. He likes to keep things simple and let the music speak for itself.
The truth is, George can’t come up with the line he needs to ground the song. He’ll recognize it when it arrives. The lyric that embeds itself under the skin and finds a way to resonate with a million people he’ll never meet. How to transform the intimate into the universal—a magical skill he knows he has, but can’t always rely upon. He fishes around between the sofa cushions, stretching his long, lanky legs, and pulls out a yellow rubber ball with a worried grimace drawn on one side in thick black pen. George contorts the ball in his hand, causing the anxious expression to look even more pronounced.
It’s his stress ball. A present from Simon three years ago when George’s creative flow might have been better described as a creative concrete mixer. The inevitable pressures of producing a sophomore album that would favourably compare to their collectively adored first try, had seriously stalled him. The right side of his brain had gone on hunger strike, literally. He was starved of inspiration. Simon had panicked. It was he and George who grew the seed of the band into the massive, many-limbed tree it had become. It was they who had barricaded themselves in their student digs at university, writing songs until their fingers blistered. George will never forget the intensity of that time. They knew they were creating something special, but it was hard to imagine that releasing their music into the world would see that inkling confirmed.
So when George came to a standstill after Twelve Thousand Words, Simon kicked into motion. He overloaded his friend on a daily basis with new chords and riffs and rousing choruses. They ran laps around Regent’s Park every afternoon. They ate Nando’s extra hot chicken sandwiches and they kicked a football endlessly around the studio. His friend’s tenacity drove George crazy, because really all he wanted to do was hide under his duvet and mope, but eventually George started writing again, and Sounds As If, their second album, was born.
The agony paid off: NME, May 2007 - Sounds As If Thesis have avoided the sophomore slump. The follow-up to Twelve Thousand Words raises the listener high in all the right places.
Simon knew how to resuscitate George, something George had never experienced before. When he was a child, it was always Polly who had some intense drama going on. It was Polly who garnered all of his parents’ attention because she had grazed her knee, or lost her precious bookmark, or found a spider, or didn’t like her haircut, or had argued with a friend. George had learned early on how not to ask for help, mostly because it never seemed to be available.
He gives his stress ball another tight squeeze and frowns back at the misshapen mouth, silently defying the creative concrete to build another wall.
LEXI
November 4th, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles
Number fifty-five is a ramshackle bungalow with a rickety front gate. A dilapidated lime-green Mini parked in the front yard has been converted into a makeshift garden, an explosion of vibrant wildflowers blossoming where the hood once was. A massive black and white cat is fast asleep on the warm roof. It’s unexpected and Lexi is momentarily charmed, remembering the phrase Creative space from the ad. She takes a deep breath and knocks boldly on the front door.
Russell Hazleton opens the door with what can only be described as a flourish. He is a short man, probably somewhere in his late forties, with a long white blond ponytail hanging over his shoulder and a black fluffy goatee—a disarming combination.
“You’ve met Boris, I see…” he says, gesturing to the sleeping cat. “When he’s not running the show around here you’ll be dealing with me, second in command, Russell Hazleton, pleasure to meet you. You must be Lexi, because you don’t look like the UPS driver.” He greets her with a very weak handshake that slowly builds into a firm pumping action. She isn’t certain if he has any plans to let go.
“That’s right, Lexi Jacobs. It’s very nic
e to meet you too, Russell,” she says nervously, as he keeps a tight grip on her hand and continues to shake it vigorously.
“I can see you’re wondering right about now, Lexi, what might be going on here. Well, I’ll fill you in on my little secret and let you know that you’ve passed the first test.”
“Test?” asks Lexi, confused, and suddenly feeling overdressed in her grey Theory suit and leather ballet pumps. Russell is wearing denim shorts and a Barack Obama tank top. He finally lets go of her hand.
“Yes, test. It’s this nifty character study I’ve invented to assess suitable job candidates. I call it the shake and fake. You can tell a whole lot about somebody from how they shake your hand, you know. I operate on a spectrum from limp to powerful, all the while noting your response. You hung on in there. You didn’t recoil. I felt you were willing to meet me in my energetic vibrations. You’ve got the job!”
Lexi is tempted to turn and run. She is, after all, still only at the front door.
“You look surprised,” he adds.
“Well, um, yeah, you could say, surprised. That would be a good word. It’s just I was expecting more of an interview and, maybe, you know, a chance for me to ask a few questions, so that I can decide if I actually want the job.”
“Very sensible,” he says, moving aside and allowing room for her to enter. “We can make that work. Come on in…”
Lexi steps tentatively over the threshold, trying not to hear her mother’s voice warning ominously, “Stranger danger!” But once inside, it’s impossible not to be overwhelmed by curiosity. Russell’s house is an eccentric emporium of recycling. Every object imaginable appears to have been reincarnated and given a second chance in life. Toasters hold CDs. CDs are lampshades. Lampshades are fruit baskets. An upside-down oven is acting as a wine rack. Old t-shirts have been patchworked together and transformed into tablecloths and cushion covers. Bicycle wheels with painted tires hang on the walls like modern works of art. It really is quite captivating.
“This is extraordinary,” she says.
“Perhaps,” Russell replies modestly. “But my true aim is to take the ordinary items in life and save them from the well-worn fate of trash.”
“Well, you’ve certainly achieved that,” says Lexi.
“I love myself, Lexi, but I love the greatest mother of all above and beyond that. We are all children of the earth and we owe it to her to behave with respect and integrity. I don’t know about you, but I for one have had it up to here with humans flipping the bird at our ailing matriarch. It is in our power to save her…”
His fervor is certainly compelling.
“Looking around here,” says Lexi, “I can see you clearly intend to make a difference.”
“I really do,” says Russell.
“But, if you don’t mind my asking,” says Lexi cautiously, not wanting to offend him, “What is the business exactly? What do you do?”
Russell sucks in his breath, as if preparing to duck under water.
“Anything. Everything. I have a lot of excellent ideas on how to improve our commitment to the earth. I have volumes of valuable information stored in a paperless vault,” he taps the side of his head pointedly. “I’ve already transformed a local retail outlet. They now run all their delivery vehicles on vegetable oil and they’ve cut down on trash output by eighty percent.”
“That’s very impressive,” says Lexi.
“I just need a bit of assistance getting focused and getting out there. I find myself in somewhat of a jumble,” Russell admits, glancing around his jam-packed living room. “I sure don’t have a lot of money, Lexi, but I could pay you a small salary to begin with, and my bet is that Let The Green Times Roll will soon rocket. If things work out with you and me, I would gladly cut you in on a percentage.”
Lexi is hesitant. She knows she really isn’t in a position to be picky, and while Russell seems harmless, she is skeptical as to what kind of business could be fashioned from this museum of oddities.
“I think what you’re doing here is admirable, Russell, and your passion is evident, but I’m just not certain what the future of all this could be.”
Russell scoops up a dozy Boris, who has squeezed his way through a cat flap (previously a Supertramp album cover).
“That’s just it, Lexi. No one is certain of the future. Our whole planet is in jeopardy unless people like you take a risk on people like me. I’ve read your resume. You have plenty of experience. I like your energy. Just say yes.”
Lexi is caught off guard by Russell’s directness. He might be making a more pertinent point than he realizes. She flashes back to all the jobs of the past few years that had initially appeared so suitable, only to unravel time and time again. Maybe for once she should stop trying to get it right and risk getting it wrong instead? She knows her mother wouldn’t agree, but perhaps a little reverse psychology is exactly what she needs to turn things around.
“Okay, Russell. I accept the challenge,” she says, deciding the only thing she has to lose is another job.
“You do?” he asks, looking shocked, leaving Lexi questioning how many applicants have declined the position before her.
“I do,” she responds, feeling only half as confident as she sounds.
GEORGE
7th November, 2009
Camden, London
“It’s a croissant, you see, but with two types of chutney, one sweet, one sour, and layers of thinly sliced roast beef.” Simon licks his lips longingly, running his hand through his spiky red hair.
“Dude, you need to get laid,” says Duncan, throwing a baseball cap across the room. Simon ducks as it skims over his head. “In fact, so do you, George—what is it with us? Am I the only one getting any action around here?”
“I am,” offers Mark, the bass player and the only member of the band who is married.
“You don’t count!” says Duncan. “What happened to Fanny, George? She’s desperate to give you a guided tour.”
“Yeah, maybe,” says George, noncommittal. “She’s just a bit weird.”
Fanny Arundel—the UK’s answer to Katy Perry. Irreverent, wry and super sexy, she provokes controversy wherever she goes, singing about puppies and nipples and the war in Afghanistan, sometimes covering all three subjects in one song. She used to be a nurse before being discovered by Sebastian Stonehill, a respected record executive, who happened to be her patient in Intensive Care. He signed her to his label two weeks before succumbing to an infection, post open heart surgery. Much to the public horror of his wife, Fanny sang at his funeral and now wears numerous variations of a nurse’s uniform on stage in his memory. She drives young men to distraction.
“George, mate, weird is wonderful. Who knows what she might get up to—all sorts of kinky shit. Handcuffs, whips—you ever tried any of that?”
George should be accustomed to Duncan by now, so why does he still squirm when Duncan talks about sex? He’s almost positive Duncan should have been diagnosed with ADHD when he was a child. He is in his element perched behind the drums, but even without his sticks in hand, he is in perpetual motion.
The band have gathered together at their recording studio in Camden to continue brainstorming ideas for the next album and to discuss the upcoming North American tour with their manager, Gabe. George likes to describe Gabe as half Prince Charles, half Bob Marley. He is the product of a very rebellious aristocratic mother from Hampshire and an equally rebellious music producer from Kingston, Jamaica. As a result of straddling the two worlds effortlessly, he has all the finesse of a diplomat and his strategic choices for Thesis have been crucial to their rise. He also buys lunch.
Gabe walks into the room with a tray piled high with sandwiches, conveniently allowing George to dodge answering Duncan’s question.
“It’s my boys!” he says with a big grin. “Names are on the wrappers, dig in, and Simon, keep your comments to a minimum.” Simon lunges to grab his baguette and unwraps it carefully, holding it up to savour the moment before t
aking a bite.
“Now you’ve all got food in your faces, let’s get down to business,” says Gabe, pulling out his Blackberry. “We’re scheduled to fly to Las Vegas on the twelfth of November where we have a three-day video shoot for ‘I Knew It’. On the 16th we’ve got five radio drop ins and some print interviews. On the 17th we fly to LA. I’ll give you the schedule of interviews and TV appearances closer to the time, but we’re booked in for The Tonight Show for certain. Then there’s breakfast with the competition winners—”
“Oh man, Gabe, give us a break! I hate those bloody breakfast things—do you remember the whack job last time with the rancid breath?” Duncan shakes his head disgustedly.
“Dunc, these things are important,” says George, “I mean what’s the point of all of this if we become too superior to meet with our fans?”
“Meet with them is one thing, having to smell them while we eat with them is another.”
“Don’t come, then,” says Mark, renowned for being blunt.
“Well, of course I’ll come, I was just—”
“Whingeing,” interrupts Mark. “You were just whingeing as usual.”
“Sorry we can’t all be so bloody unflappable like you!” mimics Duncan in a forced English accent, his unpredictable temper rapidly heating up.
“Now, now, children,” says Simon.
George starts to feel the familiar anxiety rising in his chest again. Sometimes he has a nightmare that this… all of this… could crumble and deteriorate as quickly as it appeared and then he would be… and then he would be who? The horrible question haunting him more and more frequently.
The room is suddenly silent.
“Okay, then,” says Gabe, “can we get back to the schedule before we have to call in the group therapist and all do our Metallica impersonations? Duncan?”
“What, mate?” Duncan is up, pacing back and forth behind the sofas.
Playing Along Page 3
