Flying Saucer Rock & Roll

by Richard Blandford

  But then music didn’t really mean anything to me any more. I’d still listen to it and buy it out of force of habit, but I wasn’t hearing it, not really. It was just noise. And in all honesty, even though I had a credible collection, with loads of things like Dylan, the Clash, the Stones, Pixies, Mercury Rev and everything, I’d come to the hard realisation that absolutely none of it had ever given me as much pleasure as Metallica, or Napalm Death, or even Stryper, all those years ago, back in the golden age. And I couldn’t listen to those records any more – they’re terrible, I think, now. But I’d spent years trying to rediscover that old thrill, and never quite finding it. It’s gone. It’s gone for good. A lot of the time I prefer quiet.

  I was thinking about doing a course so I could teach guitar in a community college or something, but what would be the point? Lead more young kids up the garden path, have their hearts broken? Nah, fuck it. Fuck music. Music’s shit.

  I broke up with Jools a while back. My heart wasn’t in it really, and, besides, I hated her friends. Then the agency said the wholesalers didn’t want me any more. Said I wasn’t bonding well with the other staff, which I suppose means the tattoo Queen-man didn’t like me, seeing as he was the only other person in the room. Fair enough, I didn’t like him. The agency hasn’t been that helpful in finding me anything else since then, and I haven’t been pushing them that much.

  I’m on the dole. Thanks to music, I don’t have the experience I need to get a job worth having, or half the qualifications. I don’t have any friends here, and I’m not bothered about having any. Occasionally my mum phones me, then puts me on to my dad, and occasionally I phone my sister, but that’s about it. I just want to be left alone, to be honest with you.

  Of course, that’s not true really; I want out of this desperately. I can’t believe I’ve let myself get in this situation. It’s not me at all. I had to see the new century in by myself, watching the Hootenanny. It wouldn’t be so bad, but they pre-record that programme months ahead, which really rubs it in. But starting again, new life, new job, new friends. It all seems such a risk.

  I suppose I should say a bit about what’s happened to everybody else. Thomas and Jase, I have no clue. I haven’t seen either of them since the day I drove off from Jase’s flat all that time ago. Maybe Thomas is still fixing the vending machines. Would be pretty funny if he was, to be honest. Jase probably owns the garage by now. Married his bird and had seven kids and now lives in a mansion.

  Ben came out good in the end. He joined a Brighton band called The Blow-Up, who are doing quite well for themselves. A couple of singles out on their own label, national tours, some good support slots and a bit of radio play. He phones occasionally to say when they’re playing locally, but I’ve never quite got round to going. I suppose I should. They’ve got a TV spot coming up on late-night telly and he’s going to play my old guitar on it apparently. Yeah, I should definitely see them next time they play round here.

  And then there’s Neil. Of course, there was that box the other day. Well, not really a box, more a bloody crate. Must have got my address off my mum or dad, I should imagine. The return address was somewhere in Newcastle. What the fuck’s he doing up there? I opened it up, and inside were not only hundreds of records, tapes and CDs, but a load of books, and a lot of Neil’s art, going back years, even to his coursework for A-level and GCSE, and even before that. It was like a whole chunk of his life, in one crate. Haven’t a clue what I’m going to do with it all, it’s just sitting in a corner of the flat at the moment. I’ve looked through it a bit, and there’s some pretty crazy stuff in there. Can’t really throw it away. I guess I’m stuck with it.

  There was a note. It read:

  Hi Chris

  Hope this box finds you well. I’ve been having a bit of a clear-out and thought you might enjoy some of these things. Feel free to distribute amongst friends.

  Best

  Neil

  That’s it. That’s all it said. What the fuck am I meant to make of that? But it got me thinking. Maybe it means he’s OK. Because people who are OK have clear-outs, whereas people with problems hold on to stuff. That’s why they have problems, most of the time, because they can’t let go.

  So maybe it’s time for me to let go of what happened to Neil. I’ll be honest, when I started telling this, I was all ready to beat myself up over what we did and what I didn’t stop from happening. And sure, I’ve done that. But that’s not all there is to it. Yes, I recognise that. And I know I should have allowed myself to explore what it was he was showing me. That door in me he opened at the talent show, that was his gift to me, and I did nothing with it. Not until it was too late, anyway. But Neil, he could fuck things up for himself without anybody’s help. I mean, did any of that mad shit make him happy? Look, I fucked up, don’t get me wrong. But I did OK too, some of the time, at some things. And I gave him a hell of a lot more time and attention than anybody else did over the years, even when he was obviously trying to mess with my head. Perhaps the problem was Neil was so busy trying to open doors in other people, he forgot to allow them to open doors in him. Maybe there was stuff we could have taught him, if he’d have let us. I don’t know, maybe Neil’s a mystery I’ll never solve.

  Still, there was something in the box that I thought might be a clue. First thing I found when I opened it. It was some artwork he did, years ago, for GCSE probably. I think I remember it, vaguely. It was essentially an Andy Warhol thing, rows of photocopies of a photograph, all in different colours, with the image getting darker and darker with each one. But it’s only looking at it now that I can see the first image, before it gets too dark to make out properly, is an old family photo. Neil’s family. You can make out a little Neil, very little, and his mum, who doesn’t look mad in it, and … his dad. His dad’s there, in the photo. Just some bloke in a seventies diamond—pattern jumper, losing his hair, smiling at the camera, waiting to go.

  Does it mean anything? The image being obscured, the happy family disappearing, everything becoming dark. Is this what lies at the centre of Neil, looking right back at me? Or does it mean nothing, other than some stuff about reproduction and democratic art that Neil got out of some library book.

  Time to stop. That’s it. Here I am. Just me. And my regrets. More and more, I think what I did to Caroline was fucking stupid. But I know, time to let go. Start again.

  Look what else I found in the box. All those tapes of that programme Neil used to tape off the radio back when we were at school full of all the music that seemed so weird back then. Now I can see it’s mostly just things like Syd Barrett, Echo and the Bunnymen and the Chocolate Watchband. I’ve got a lot of this stuff myself now. And here, on the tape marked 6 July 1992, is ‘Flying Saucer Rock ’n’ Roll’ by Billy Lee Riley. The name sounds familiar. Rockabilly, I think, Sun Records. Finally, I can find out what this thing sounds like. Whatever the fuck it was we were meant to be playing, or not playing, at band practice in Neil’s front room, all that time ago.

  I open the cassette case. And I snap it shut again. I don’t want to hear it. I can imagine it instead. And in my head, I hear it, almost. No, it’s not that I hear it, I feel it. In the silence, I feel it, and it’s like hearing Metallica for the first time, with Barry warning me that it was evil, and me not caring. He was right. It is. It all is. Music can control your soul. The sledgehammer wasn’t such a bad idea. But you don’t have to destroy something to stop it from taking you over. You just have to know who you are. And against that, it will be defenceless. I know who I am. I’m the man who was a boy, who had it all and lost it, who didn’t believe enough and then believed too much. But now I’ve worked out where belief ends and insanity begins, I think. I hope Neil has too. And now it’s time to start again.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2008 by Jonathan Cape

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield,
Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Richard Blandford, 2008

  The moral right of Richard Blandford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781911591122

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author is grateful for permission to reprint material from the following: ‘Music’ (John Miles) – Orange Songs (Velvet Music). Reproduced by kind permission of RAK Publishing Ltd. ‘Doctor! Doctor!’ (Bailey/Currie/Leeway) – Universal Music Publishing MGB Ltd. Used by permission of Music Sales Ltd. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. ‘Foxey Lady’ written by Jimi Hendrix © Experience Hendrix, LLC. Used by Permission/All Rights Reserved. ‘Flying Saucer Rock ’n’ Roll’ by Ray Scott. Used by permission of Ridgetop Music.

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