‘I hope Judge Block makes a proper example of ’em,’ says the brigadier. ‘No doubt you think they’re the bee’s knees.’
Jasper remembers he’s here. ‘I’ve never met them. Though I’d chance my arm and say their best music will outlive all of us.’
‘Their primitive mating calls aren’t “music”,’ scoffs Don Glossop. ‘“Strangers In The Night” by Frank Sinatra is music. “Land of Hope and Glory” is music. This “rock ’n’ roll” is a poisonous racket.’
‘Yet to Sir Edward Elgar,’ says Jasper, ‘“Strangers In The Night” might have been a poisonous racket. Generations pass. Aesthetics evolve. Why is this fact a threat?’
‘Jasper.’ It’s Elf’s sister Bea, the one who’s got into RADA. ‘Um, you’re sitting at the wrong table.’
‘You can ruddy well say that again,’ says the brigadier.
‘Oh.’ Jasper stands up and gives the guests at the wrong table a slight bow. Be polite. ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you all …’
At the correct table, Jasper survives the prawn cocktail and the coq au vin, but by dessert he is drowning in dialogues. Levon is discussing changes to the tax system with an accountant from Dublin. Dean is discussing Eddie Cochran with Lawrence’s best man. Griff is whispering into a giggling bridesmaid’s hot pink ear. Look at them all. Question; answer; witticism; fact; morsel of gossip; response. How effortlessly they do it. Jasper speaks fluent English and Dutch, good French, passable German and Latin, but the languages of face and tone are as impenetrable as Sanskrit. Jasper knows the tell-tale signs that he’s failing to engage: the diagonal head-swivel; a gluey nod; narrowed eyes. He can disguise it as eccentricity, but after an hour, he crumples. Jasper doesn’t know if his facial and tonal dyslexia is a cause or effect of his emotional dyslexia. He knows what grief, rage, jealousy, hatred, joy and the normal spectrum of feelings are – but he experiences them only as mild changes of temperature. If Normals learn this about him, they mistrust him, so Jasper is condemned to act like a Normal and to fail. When he fails, Normals think he’s shifty, or mocking them. Only four humans and one disembodied entity have ever accepted Jasper as he truly is. Of these, Trix is in Amsterdam, Dr Galavazi is retired and Grootvader Wim is dead. Formaggio is in nearby Oxford, but the Mongolian will never pass his way again.
Mecca, who might have been a fifth, is lost to America.
A person is a thing who leaves. Jasper estimates the time required by dessert, coffee and further speeches. His watch says 10.10. That makes no sense. He holds it to his ear. Time stopped. Unable to concoct a plausible lie, Jasper slips away. He finds himself in a hallway lined with inoffensive English landscapes and carpeted with swarms of dots. A party of golfers spills through the front doors. They are talking at baffling speeds and volumes. A flight of stairs offers him a way out …
The rooftop terrace has a bench, flowers in pots, views over a golf course and the roofs and trees of Epsom. The afternoon is drowsy and pollenated. Jasper lights up a Marlboro and lies on the bench. Rudderless cloud-wrecks float, unmoored. Breathe it in and breathe it out. Jasper remembers summers in Domburg, at Rijksdorp Clinic, and in Amsterdam. Time is what stops everything happening at once. Jasper remembers last Thursday, looking out through the window of Levon’s third-floor office. Garbage fumes ebbed in. On a flat roof a couple of streets away, three women sunbathed in bikinis. Possibly it was a knocking shop, Soho being Soho, and the women were between shifts. Two had black skin. One turned up a transistor radio and Jasper caught a faint whiff of Ringo Starr singing ‘With a Little Help From My Friends’.
‘Care to join us, Jasper?’ It was Levon.
‘I’m here.’ Jasper turned around.
‘So what did they say?’ asked Dean. ‘Have we got a deal?’
‘Your second question first,’ said Levon. ‘No. We don’t have a deal. All four labels turned us down.’
For a moment nobody spoke.
‘Hallejulah,’ said Dean. ‘Praise the Lord.’
‘You could’ve told us that on the phone,’ said Griff.
‘What did they say?’ asked Elf.
‘Tony Reynolds at EMI liked the demos, but they already have one underground band in Pink Floyd.’
‘But me ’n’ Elf sound nothing like Pink Floyd,’ objected Dean. ‘He did listen to all three demos? Not just “Darkroom”?’
‘Yes. I sat with him. But he wasn’t budging.’
‘What about Vic Walsh at Phillips?’ asked Elf.
‘Vic liked the general sound but he kept asking, “Who’s the Jagger? Who’s the Ray Davies? Who’s the face?”’
‘Who’s the face of the fookin’ Beatles?’ asked Griff.
‘My words exactly,’ said Levon. ‘Vic said, “The Beatles are the exception that proves the rule,” and I said, “No, the Beatles prove the rule that every great band is an exception.” He said, “Utopia Avenue’s not the Beatles.” I said, “That’s the whole point.”’
‘What was Pye’s fookin’ excuse?’ asked Griff.
‘Mr Elliot told me – I quote – boys won’t “get tribal” about the band because of Elf while girls won’t “cream their knickers” over Dean and Jasper because Elf’s in the band.’
‘That’s … absurd, insulting and kind of incest-y, all at once,’ objected Elf. ‘What a limp reason for not signing us.’
‘Mr Elliot hinted that if we ditched Elf and turned Utopia Avenue into Small Faces clones, he might be interested.’
Elf did a hfff noise as if somebody had punched her.
‘Obviously,’ said Levon, ‘I told him to take a hike.’
‘They take all of us or none of us,’ stated Griff.
Dean lit a cigarette. ‘What about Decca?’
‘Derek Burke,’ Levon leaned back in his creaky chair ‘saw you at the Marquee. He likes your energy, but isn’t sure enough about the hybrid of styles to invest Decca’s money.’
‘That’s us snookered, then,’ said Griff. ‘The Big Four’ve given us the bum’s rush. What now?’
‘I won’t deny it’s a setback,’ said Levon, ‘but—’
‘I’m skinter than I was in January,’ groaned Dean. ‘Half a year I’ve been living on solid air, and what’ve I got to show?’
‘A great band,’ said Levon, ‘three great demos, a small but growing cohort of fans, five or six great songs. Momentum.’
‘If we’re so fookin’ great,’ growled Griff, ‘where’s our record deal? Chas Chandler got Hendrix his in three weeks.’
‘And what about them?’ Dean pointed at the posters of Dick Sposato and the Spencer Sisters. ‘They’ve got deals.’
Levon folded his arms. ‘Hendrix is freak-out guitar R&B. Dick’s an older crooner I’ve taken on as a favour for Freddy Duke. The Spencer Sisters sing arias for the masses and the Songs on Sunday audience. They’re all easy to pitch. Utopia Avenue is not. You are unclassifiable: people will reject you, at first. If this upsets you – or if you think I’m not busting my ass – there’s the door. You’re free. Go. I’ll have Bethany send the release documents.’
Griff and Dean looked at each other and didn’t move.
Jasper watched the clocks above Levon’s head. One showed the time here, one the time in New York, one in Los Angeles.
‘I was a bit out of order,’ admitted Dean.
Griff breathed in and out. ‘Aye. I might’ve been too.’
‘Half-assed apologies accepted,’ said Levon.
Elf tapped her cigarette. ‘What’s our next move?’
Four men sit around a low table: a shaven-headed abbot whose face is engraved on Jasper’s memory; the abbot’s acolyte; the magistrate of the city; and his trusted chamberlain. Dream-lit screens are adorned with chrysanthemums. The acolyte pours a glassy liquid from a gourd as red as blood into soot-black shallow cups. Birdsong is chromatic and glinting.
‘Life and death are indivisible,’ declares the magistrate.
The four raise a cup to their host’s strange toast.
The
abbot drinks only when he sees the magistrate has drunk first. A few pleasantries are exchanged before Jasper realises that a fifth guest – Death – is here too. Dabs of odourless poison were smeared inside the rough-hewn cups before the guests arrived. The poison dissolved in the rice-wine and is now in the blood of hosts and guests alike. To ensure the abbot drank the poison, the magistrate and his secretary drank it too.
The abbot understands. This script is written. He reaches for his sword but his arm is stiff and wooden. All he can do is swing his fist at his cup. It skips across the empty floor. ‘The Creeds work, you human termite!’ he tells the magistrate. ‘Oil of Souls works!’ They speak of revenge, justice, buried women and sacrificed babies until the chamberlain topples forward, quivering, scattering black and white pieces of the game of Go. He is followed by the acolyte. Spit and blood foam on their lips. A black butterfly lands on a white stone, and unfolds its wings …
Knock-knock … Knock-knock … Knock-knock …
‘Look at you, Sleeping Beauty.’
Jasper opens his eyes and sees Bea, inches away, gazing down at him. She leans in and kisses his lips. Jasper lets her. Her fingers rest on his face. It’s nice. Birdsong is chromatic and glinting. They’ve met twice: once when Elf brought her to see the band rehearse at Pavel Z’s, and once at Les Cousins where Utopia Avenue played a semi-acoustic set. Bea pulls her head back. ‘Don’t tell Elf.’
‘As you wish,’ says Jasper.
‘If you come across Sleeping Beauty, there’s only one thing to do. But don’t get any big ideas.’
‘I shan’t. Princess Charming.’
She sits on a bench opposite.
The roof garden. The country club. The wedding party. Jasper swivels himself upright. Rudderless cloud-wrecks float by, unmoored. Breathe it in and breathe it out. ‘Are the speeches over? How long was I asleep? We’re supposed to be playing soon.’
Bea counts off her replies: ‘Nearly. I didn’t set a stopwatch. Yes, you are.’ She’s wearing an ink-blue body-hugging dress. She possesses a sharp vivid beauty lacking in her sisters.
‘You’ve changed your dress,’ says Jasper.
‘Bridesmaids’ dresses aren’t my thing. Elf sent me to find you and give you a message.’ Below, a car door slams. Bea helps herself to Jasper’s Marlboros and lighter.
Jasper waits patiently.
Bea breathes out smoke. ‘She says, “Get your arse onstage in twenty minutes.” That was five minutes ago, so make it fifteen.’
‘Tell her, “Thanks for the message: I’ll be there.”’
Bea looks at him oddly.
Is she waiting for more? ‘Please.’
‘What’s it like, being in a band with my sister?’
‘Um … enjoyable?’
‘How so?’
‘She’s talented. She’s a good keys player. Her voice is ethereal and husky. Her songs are strong.’ An aeroplane scrapes by.
Bea slips off her shoes and sits cross-legged. Her toenails are sky-blue, like Trix’s lamp.
Maybe I’m supposed to ask her a question. ‘How did you know where to look for me?’
‘I just pretended I was you and thought,’ Bea mimics Jasper quite well, ‘How do I get out of here?’
‘Was that difficult or easy?’
‘I found you. Didn’t I?’
A summer breeze sways lavender in pots.
Bea smokes and passes Jasper her cigarette. It’s smudged pink with her lipstick. ‘Play “Darkroom”,’ she says. ‘I like “Abandon Hope” and “Raft And A River” too, but I think “Darkroom”’s your first hit. It’s quite Sergeant Pepper’s-y. Its colours. Its mood.’
Jasper wonders what would happen if he touched her hand, but Trix told him to always let the lady lead. His throat is dry.
‘You have heard Sergeant Pepper’s, yes?’
The curtain billowed out through Levon’s half-open sash window. Jasper lay on the sofa and watched the others as they listened to side one. Elf sat cocooned in the velvet armchair, studying the lyrics. Dean was stretched out on the rug. Levon sat at the dining table, gazing at a bowl of apples. Griff was propped up against the wall, his hands and wrists twitching in sympathy with Ringo’s. Nobody spoke. Jasper recognised the song that Rick Wright had told him about at the UFO Club.
After the carnivalesque ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!’, Levon flipped the record over. George Harrison’s sitar cascaded around like a skittish comet … and metamorphosed into the clarinet of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’. Jasper noticed how two sounds make a third. The last track, ‘A Day In The Life’, was a miniature of the whole album, like the way that the Book of Psalms is a miniature of the whole Bible. Lennon’s ‘found’ lyrics contrasted with McCartney’s kitchen-sink lines. Together they glowed. The song’s closer was an orchestral day-mare finale spiralling upwards to a final chord, slammed on dozens of pianos. The engineer raised the recording levels as the note fell away. Jasper thought of the end of a dream when the real world seeps in. It ended with backwards laughing gibberish.
The stylus lifted off and the arm clunked home.
Pigeons cooed in the June trees of Queens Gardens.
‘Shit the bed.’ Dean breathed a long and winding sigh.
‘Wow,’ said Levon. ‘Wow. It’s an inner travelogue.’
‘I always pegged Ringo as a jammy beggar,’ said Griff, ‘but … how’d he play them drum parts? I do not have a fookin’ clue.’
‘The whole studio’s a meta-instrument,’ said Elf. ‘It’s as if they recorded it on a sixteen-track. But sixteen-tracks don’t exist.’
‘The bass,’ said Dean, ‘is that crisp, it’s like they recorded it last, as an overdub. Is that even possible?’
‘Only if they recorded the other parts to a rhythm track playing inside their heads,’ speculated Elf. ‘Is that possible?’
‘Good job they’ve stopped touring,’ said Dean. ‘They couldn’t play that live in a month o’ Sundays.’
‘Not touring,’ replied Griff, ‘freed ’em up to make this. They thought, Fook it, we’ll record what the hell we want.’
‘Only the Beatles can get away with not touring,’ Levon said. ‘Nobody else. Not even the Stones. Managerial footnote.’
‘Look at this sleeve.’ Elf held it up. ‘The colours, the collage, the way it opens up to reveal the lyrics. It’s stunning.’
‘Our LP should look that classy,’ said Dean.
‘That,’ Levon warned, ‘needs real love from the label.’
‘The lyrics in “Darkroom” are pushing it,’ said Griff, ‘but “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”? Surely that’s LSD?’
‘What ’bout that stuff ’bout “I’d love to turn yer on” in that last one?’ said Dean. ‘He’s not talking about light switches.’
‘Have the Beatles just killed psychedelia?’ asks Elf. ‘How could anyone possibly top that?’
‘They’ve lit a fuse,’ said Levon. ‘“Darkroom” is perfect for the summer of Sergeant Pepper’s. This settles it, for me. “Darkroom” has to be the first Utopia Avenue single.’
An ice-cream van was playing ‘Oranges and Lemons’. The shimmering chords echoed off the stuccoed Georgian frontages of Queens Gardens. Jasper heard his name.
Everyone was looking at him. ‘What?’
‘I asked,’ said Dean, ‘what yer thought o’ the album.’
‘Why stick labels on the moon? It’s Art.’
Two weeks later, Jasper sees a familiar face in the mirror above the adjacent washbasin. The reflected face belongs to Elf’s dad. ‘Congratulations on the wedding, Mr Holloway.’
‘Ah, Jasper. Enjoying yourself?’
Jasper stops himself saying no but yes would be a lie so he says, ‘The prawn cocktail was excellent.’
For some reason Mr Holloway finds this amusing. ‘These occasions are for, and by, the womenfolk. I never said that.’
Jasper notes that now he shares a secret with Elf’s sister and Elf’s father. ‘Thanks for having your lawyer look
at our contracts.’
‘Time will attest to Mr Frankland’s financial probity, but my lawyer assures me you didn’t sign your soul away this time around.’
Jasper attempts a witticism. ‘They come in handy, I’m told.’
Mr Holloway’s reflection frowns. ‘I beg your pardon?’
It fell flat. ‘Um … in folklore and religion, the soul is a useful thing to hang on to. That’s all.’
The roller-towel rattles. ‘Ah.’ The older man’s voice changes timbre. ‘Elf tells me you went to Bishop’s Ely. The top brass at my bank includes a few Old Elysians.’
‘I was only at Ely until I was sixteen. Then I moved to the Netherlands. My father’s Dutch, you see.’
‘How does he feel about you forfeiting the advantages of a top education on a “pop group”?’
Jasper watches Elf’s father dry his hands, finger by finger. ‘My father leaves me to my own devices.’
‘I’ve heard the Dutch are a permissive bunch.’
‘“Indifferent” might be truer than “permissive”.’
Mr Holloway pulls down the towel for the next user. ‘This much I do know. Any candidate for a job at my bank who played in a “band” would be rejected. Whatever school he went to.’
‘So you disapprove of Utopia Avenue?’
‘I’m Elf’s father. The band harms her prospects – and what about the occupational hazards? What if that bottle at Brighton had hit Elf? Scars may suit a chap, but they disfigure a girl.’
‘The worst clubs have cages to protect the performers.’
‘Was that meant to reassure me?’
‘Well –’ a trick question? ‘– yes.’
Mr Holloway’s stab of a laugh echoes off the walls. ‘To top it all, this so-called “underground culture” is awash with drugs.’
‘Drugs are everywhere. Statistically, a fifth of the wedding guests are taking Valium. Then we have tobacco, alcohol—’
‘Are you being wilfully dim with me?’
‘I don’t know how to be wilfully dim, Mr Holloway.’
The bank manager frowns as if a column of figures won’t add up. ‘Illegal drugs. Drugs that – that “hook” you and … make you jump off buildings, and so forth.’
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 14
