Chinaski

by Frances Vick

  He looked around at all the soft, pliable kids draped on the furniture and each other and felt incredibly out of place, out of step with the suddenly generated atmosphere. People began to go back to the bar, ordering quietly so as not to drown out the music, and everyone appeared calmer, relieved; as placidly cocooned as a middle aged motorist listening to drive time on the radio.

  Chris Harris leaned in, “I’ve made some calls and arranged for some people to play.” He mentioned two up-and-coming bands, regularly written up in the music press. “So you need to get those children of yours out of the gig area now. I’ll put the word about so people know what’s happening, and if you’ve got any sense you’d play as well.”

  “And how are we meant to do that?”

  “Find someone else. Loads of these kids would like to do it. That’s it – make an event of it. Get people from the crowd to fill in. Let them be Carl for a few minutes. They’ll jump at it.”

  “No, Chris...it’s not – there’s no respect in that.”

  Chris was exasperated, “You want a gathering, but just not with many people. You want a tribute with no fuss.”

  “I– I don’t know what I wanted really. My friend had just died. I wasn’t thinking.” Peter realised that it sounded like an apology. Why was he apologising to this jumped-up little prick anyway? Had he ever expressed any grief? Any shock, or anything? “You knew him too. Why aren’t you – why isn’t it affecting you? Why do you want to be at the centre of all of this anyway? If you cared about him at all you wouldn’t want to turn this into a fucking circus.” Peter was shaking and lightheaded, in the same way he was the few times he spoke out of turn to a teacher at school.

  Chris Harris’ expression was a confusing mixture of pity and derision. “Carl loved the circus, Peter. He loved it. You didn’t know that?”

  * * *

  Chris Harris worked hard to turn failure into success, and it became, as he intended, a bona fide event. Now that the evening had been reconfigured to something more familiar, the carefully picked and hyped bands played their impromptu sets and the crowd calmed down and behaved like any other crowd at a gig. The conversation became more general. It was almost relieving to be able to talk about something else other than Carl. Sloughing off the weight of a hard afternoon’s grief they felt stronger, like they’d survived something, passed an exam or grown two inches. A few girls carried on the weeping longer than necessary, but stopped once they realised that the boys’ sympathy had dried up.

  * * *

  Counting her photographs, Miriam realised that one was missing. She emptied out her bag and clawed through the contents, but no, definitely, his First Communion picture was gone. She twisted her head about in raging panic, trying to catch sight of one of those little bitches who had been sitting with her, but they all looked the same, with their knotted hair and makeup free faces. Why didn’t girls take a little more care of themselves nowadays? Ducking too quickly under the table to look on the floor she felt sick, dizzy. The photo wasn’t there either. It had been taken. It must have been. Some moon-faced kid had her treasured photo! Someone had their sweaty pampered hands on her darling! She got up, staggered a little, lightheaded in the cigarette smoke, and knocked over a drink. A few people looked at her, but nobody thought about who she was anymore.

  Through the haze a small, upright figure walked towards her. He wore a trilby hat and an old fashioned, too big jacket. Christ, these kids will wear anything. But, no. Miriam squinted. It wasn’t a kid. It was Bob. Bob Howell, come to save her, come to help her.

  “Oh Bob! I lost the photo! They took the photo, Bob. Bob! I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  Bob gripped the flesh above her elbow and firmly pulled her towards the door. Miriam staggered again and sagged against his shoulder.

  “Bob, they had him talking. On the radio or something. Or a tape. They had him talking and it was more than I could stand.”

  The muscles in Bob’s jaw tightened and he put his arm around Miriam. Despite the difference in their heights, Miriam seemed almost fragile, bolstered against the firm arm that half led, half carried her towards the door.

  “I knew you’d come Bob. I knew you’d come.”

  Chris Harris appeared at Peter’s side and dug his nicotine fingers into the soft meat of his shoulder. “You’re needed upstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve got to start playing, it’s all arranged. Chinaski’s last stand!” Chris Harris waved an imaginary flag.

  “How?”

  “Like we agreed. Let a bunch of them do the vocals. Pluck lucky fans from the audience and let them have their place in the sun. You’ve got a 30 minute set before last orders and an impromptu after party to take care of. Chop chop.”

  Peter motioned towards Lydia and leaned in to Chris, “I don’t want her up there. Not after what she’s done. I don’t want her anywhere near it.”

  “Oh, her,” Chris gazed at her blankly. “Oh, she’s not going anywhere anymore is she?” He turned away. Grasping Peter’s hands, his face became solemn. “It’s important that you do this Peter. I know you weren’t keen earlier on, but trust me, it’s important. It’s something that I know Carl would approve of, and it’s going to be the cornerstone of an article I’m planning that will make sure Chinaski do well, even now. It will help you too, you personally.”

  Peter smiled, worried that it made him look heartless, replaced the smile with an earnest nod. Chris knew best.

  * * *

  Just after Miriam left, Dom sat next to Lydia.

  “Time to go, girly,” he said. “You look sick. Time to go.”

  “I am sick. I’ve been in hospital.”

  Dom nodded, as if he’d known all along, “Time to go. It’ll make you worse, staying here.”

  Lydia nodded with her head down, but stayed where she was. She saw Chris Harris standing at the bottom of the stairs, laughing up at someone. “He’s happy.”

  “Well,” Dom lit a cigarette, “it’s his night.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Whose was it? The boy’s? Nah. Nah. The boy’s dead. It’s all his now,” nodding at Chris. “It’s his. He’ll do it all now.”

  “What do you mean do it all?”

  “Make sure it all happens, girly, make sure it all happens. Make sure the boy isn’t forgotten. He can do that, and we should help him along with it. There’s no choice anyway. Stars are made, they’re not begotten.”

  “Carl wouldn’t want this.”

  Dom pushed out his crumpled cheeks and let the air out slowly, “Oh he would.”

  “No.”

  “Oh he would. It’s in his chart.”

  “Oh, horoscopes...”

  “I done his. I done yours too.” Dom leaned in. His breath smelled of pennies. “I know what you did, just a bit ago. It’s in your chart.” When he touched her wrist, his fingers were cold. “You need to take care of yourself, ’cause you’ll be around a long time. A long time. Don’t worry. But the boy, I saw it coming. I saw it. Didn’t know when but I knew what he wanted, he just didn’t have time. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But it’ll happen anyway. It’s all being taken care of.”

  Lydia gazed at him and murmured, “God you’re creepy.”

  Dom pulled his mouth apart to show his teeth, chuckled and moved away. A little later a drink arrived at her table, a gift from Dom. It was whisky, which she didn’t like, but she drank it anyway and it hit her hard, making it tougher to get up. But by the time she heard the band start to play, and the first excited fans aping Carl’s idiosyncrasies, she had no trouble leaving. No trouble at all.

  20

  The Evening Chronicle

  14th August 1993.

  Hundreds Mourn Local Rock Star

  Hundreds of young people descended on the city centre yesterday to attend a memorial concert for Carl Howell, singer with rock band Chinaski. Teenagers gathered in the Queens Park area of the city before heading to the centre to the legen
dary Bristolian pub and music venue to celebrate the life, and mourn the unexpected death, of one of pop’s most charismatic frontmen.

  Fans sat in circles, swapping stories and spontaneously bursting into song. Says Judith Seaton, 20, “He was the voice of our generation. I followed them from the beginning, and Carl always had a smile for everyone. He really cared about his fans.” Asked how she feels now, her face darkens – “I think all the talk about a drug overdose is terrible. I don’t believe that, and none of the real fans do.”

  Howell’s friends and family were also present, hugging fans and passing round pictures. Carl’s mother, Miriam Howell, was especially touched – “Every mother thinks her son is special, but Carl really was. He had talent from being a baby.” Ex-girlfriend Lydia Hunt also accepted condolences from the crowd.

  Band mates Peter Hamilton and John Coleman were unavailable for comment, but NME journalist Chris Harris – one of the earliest fans of the band – had this to say:

  “Millions of fans can’t be wrong. I think that Chinaski will go down in history as being one of the most influential bands to come out of this country. It’s tragic that Carl was taken from us so soon, but his spirit will live on.”

  The tribute concert, featuring local bands as well as international acts, went on until the early hours.

  Howell, 24, was found dead at his grandmother’s house in the Brigham area of the city. Reports suggest that he had been there for some time before the body was found. The results of the post mortem are expected in the next few days.

  * * *

  NME

  18th August 1993.

  In Memoriam, By Chris Harris

  Last week a young man died who, let me nail my colours to the mast from the start, I saw as extraordinary. Two weeks after their album’s release, Chinaski’s singer – Carl Howell – was found dead. So far nobody knows how. For the life of me I can’t see any way that Chinaski can continue. And once the album goes gold (as it will, as it must) I can’t see how we will be able to continue without them.

  Four days ago I found myself at an impromptu gathering of people who knew and loved Carl. I arrived, not with my hack hat on, but because I, too, found myself profoundly affected by his passing. Public mourning is not something we do well in this country, and all I was prepared for was a drink or two with the band and their closest friends in their local bar. Just a few drinks and a toast to What Might Have Been. What I saw instead was a heaving, glorious, cohesive mass of fans, friends and family, united in experience, united in a love of music and a belief in its restorative powers that I haven’t seen since I hatched from the egg at NME towers. To be honest I’d lost hope of ever really experiencing anything like that. Oh sure, we’ve all heard smug baby boomers banging on about the sixties, and to be honest I’ve gotten pretty damn sick of imagining all those messy flabby love ins with all those messy, flabby rock stars. But a real, genuine, happening? On these shores? Never. Until that night.

  Kids poured in from far away towns, bands arrived, unannounced, to play (including my Singles Choice from last week, Gag). I was taken aback, I was genuinely stunned. This is the country where cynicism has planted its roots in our hearts so deeply that I didn’t think we had it in us to be so unaffected about love, about grief and, crucially, about music.

  If you began this column expecting my usual facetiousness, verbal crescendos and printed pyrotechnics, well, so much for that. Come along again next week and maybe one of my colleagues can satisfy you. Today I am plain and simple. Because the plain and simple truth is that something important died with Carl Howell, something maybe as vital as our musical future.

  If you do anything this week, buy a Chinaski record. And play it, play it, play it to hear what might have been, and perhaps if their seeds are sown, what could be again.

  * * *

  The week after the gathering at The Bristolian, Chris was excited, gleeful. He’d been invited to be on the panel of a late night cultural discussion show, ‘Near Dark’. It would be his first TV appearance. He told Peter that he was doing it for Carl.

  “I despise the medium. I do. But I’ll make headlines with this. Watch.”

  Peter told John and Ian. John told everyone at DiscKings, Ian told Freida, who told Lydia. No-one knew what Chris was going to do, but NME carried tantalising hints, the story spread, and opinions varied. A rumour went round that he had evidence that Carl had killed himself. Lawrence heard from an excitable teenager in The Bristolian that Carl had been murdered, and Chris had the proof. Freida told Lydia that whatever it was would be cathartic for both of them. Lydia, fortified with Mother’s Valium, sat like a lump on the sofa, refusing to let her parents change the channel. Teenagers all over the country sat in their bedrooms and waited, setting the video to record history. They tied up phone lines discussing it, and made pacts to call each other as soon as it finished. Nobody questioned that something was going to happen; the only conjecture was around what would happen, and how impressive it would be.

  * * *

  On ‘Near Dark’, the great and the good, the notorious and the available-on-short-notice, gave their opinion on the week’s cultural events live on air. Guests were picked for their potential to disagree with each other, and this potential was encouraged by a generous bar in the green room. In the show itself, they were corralled into a fake pub and pressed to drink more. It aired, live, at 11pm.

  Topics on discussion this week included Buckingham Palace being open to the public, Raymond Carver’s legacy assessed with the forthcoming release of Short Cuts, and an exhibition at the Saatchi called Icons Inc. Chris Harris took his place at the bar alongside a bishop noted for his leftist views, an acerbic art critic, and an ex-MP whose minor disgrace was gradually being erased through relentless TV appearances. Although the show was live, each segment was prefaced with a pre-recorded introduction – a montage of sequences to support the debate. Hearts all across the country sank to the strains of Purcell; Buckingham Palace was first.

  The camera rarely strayed from the faces of the female presenter and the art critic. Occasionally the bishop made a syrupy intervention, and the ex-MP nodded into his drink. All that could be seen of Chris Harris was a corduroyed elbow and some yellowed fingers digging into the nuts on the bar. Next up was the Robert Altman section. Again, the art critic and the presenter held sway. The ex-MP allowed for the fact that it was very modern and very clever to weave together so many disparate stories, but was it Art? Or was it Truth? This time the bishop nodded into his ginger ale. Chris Harris said nothing and the camera didn’t even register movement.

  Fingers twitched closer to remote controls; trips were made to the kitchen; impatient sighs collided with each other down phone lines. Lydia’s mother began to tell a story about her brother’s tasteless conservatory. Freida started thinking about touching up her roots. Peter, sitting in John’s freezing flat, wandered off to see what was wrong with the boiler.

  On screen there was a brief disagreement about the merits of Raymond Carver’s editor, but nobody’s heart was really in it, and they went into a commercial break. In the studio, the guests were given toilet privileges and Chris headed towards the gents and came back refreshed and energetic. He’d taken off his jacket and was wearing a Chinaski t-shirt. A make-up girl leaned in to wipe his brow with a sponge.

  “Got some big pores there, love. Let’s fill ’em all in with goo.”

  The floor manager began the countdown. Chris poured a drink, took a deep breath and shoved himself into shot, jogging the bishop’s elbow and tipping crisps on the floor.

  Now the topic was Icons Inc. A series of photographs of Jim Morrison, JFK, and Marilyn Monroe accompanied footage of the presenter walking around the Saatchi gallery, peering at scratchy lithographs of famous corpses, arranged under a neon scrawl that flashed ‘Immortal’.

  “What is it that grants a certain type of person immortality?” she intoned. “Why is beauty, that most ephemeral of possessions, so venerated?”

  Back
in the studio, the panel sprawled on their stools. The bar was littered with glasses and the camera caught the tail end of an altercation between Chris Harris and the art critic. Chris was leaning into his neck, talking through a smile, while the critic was grimacing and shaking his head violently.

  The presenter, a strained beauty of 42, asked the panel their opinion on the exhibition.

  “Bollocks!” shouted Chris Harris.

  There was a silence. The art critic swelled like a toad and the ex-MP gaped. The cameras rounded on Chris, who obliged by staring into the red light, smiling amiably. “Bollocks,” he said again.

  The ex-MP tittered nervously; the bishop coughed; the art critic went for the throat: “It can be accused of being, jejeune. Possibly undergraduate in its reasoning. It’s very definitely not the strongest curated show I’ve seen this year, but it doesn’t warrant the, uh, the profanity we’ve just heard.”

  Chris mouthed, “Profanity,” into the red light.

  The presenter jumped in to save the situation, “Some of the artists represented are, or have been accused of being, derivative. I suppose what I’m wondering is that is this deliberate? Can these images be seen as self reflexive homages, rather than distinct pieces, if you see what I mean?”