by John Niven
‘ARSSSS!’ he says. Oh Jesus.
‘Are you having fun with Uncle Steve?’ Pandora is back. ‘Are you!’ She tickles him.
‘ARSSSSS!’ the kid shrieks in her face. Pandora frowns.
‘We were, uh, playing pirates,’ I say, turning back to the kid. ‘ARRRR!’ I growl.
‘ARRRSS!’ Henry says.
‘Oh! Good stuff,’ Pan says, picking him up. ‘Right, young man, where is your nanny? Time for your nap. Steven, I’ll be back in a tick. I want all the latest gossip from London.’ She trots off across the grass, Henry looking back at me, over her shoulder, grinning, waving goodbye with his tiny fingers. Something in me turns over. There’s a feeling of … what? What the fuck is this? I look around at the party, straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad. The masters of Beverly Hills and their wives. I look at my watch – 4.30. Nothing really to do until Monday evening, until the Murphys Round Two and final planning with Terry. What the fuck am I going to do with the rest of the weekend? This is the other thing that happens when you reach your late forties childless. Suddenly I remember something. I get my phone out and dial the number.
‘Really?’ she says. ‘Sure. That’d be great. I’d appreciate the help. Danny’s going to be there. You can catch up. Want me to book you into the same hotel? No problem. Flight’s at eight, you sure you can make it?’
‘I’ll make it,’ I say. ‘See you there.’
Fifteen minutes later I’m out of there and motoring down past the Beverly Hilton, heading for the 405 out to LAX. This is the great thing about having no kids and a fuck ton of cash – you can literally do whatever you want, whenever you want.
SIXTEEN
‘I mean – just look at that lot. Fuck me. Fuck me.’
‘Oh man,’ she says, laughing.
America’s playground.
We’re people-watching, through the windows of the Lincoln Town Car as it rolls down the strip, taking us towards the MGM Grand. There’s a family of four on the sidewalk, standing there staring up in mute awe at a demented replica of the Eiffel Tower that’s all lit up, multi-coloured, red and green and pink and blue. The collective weight of this family of four (mum, dad, teenage girl and boy) must be in excess of a thousand pounds – half a fucking ton of mad toler standing there, cracking the fucking sidewalk. Dad and son are dressed identically, billowing tent-like untucked check shirts, three-quarter-length shorts, sandals and baseball caps. (Dad literally wearing a MAGA one.) Mum and daughter match up too – both in some kind of kaftan or muumuu, hiding as best they can the rippling, unimaginable rolls of blubber. They’re all clutching those Big Gulp cups, doubtless holding about a quart each of the Diet Coke they all think is going to sort them right out. They’re motionless, bathed in neon light, and could well be a sculpture titled USA. I love Vegas, the ultimate expression of the American dream.
‘How did they even reproduce?’ Chrissy says of the mum and dad. ‘I mean – how do they actually fuck?’
The one-hour flight was actually … tolerable. I upgraded us both to first, snicking my credit card down on the check-in counter, and, with eternal good grace and forbearance, even managed to turn flying commercial into some kind of funny adventure. We gossiped and bitched all the way here, me indiscreetly telling her about some of the milder episodes of Trellick’s youth, Chrissy in turn telling me about some of his rumoured transgressions in more recent years, at conventions, retreats, when Pandora’s been away with the kids. ‘What are you really in LA for?’ she asked me again, halfway through her second Bloody Mary. ‘I told you,’ I said, sipping nothing stronger than mineral water, ‘I’m just on holiday.’
‘Oh, oh, Steven, check this out. Eleven o’clock …’ she’s saying in the car now, pointing out of the window towards two women striding up the steps into the Bellagio. They’re wearing tight black cocktail dresses, spiked heels, platinum-blonde hair tumbling down. It’s not like the old days here. You can’t rock up in leather or PVC with a pair of vibrators for earrings and a couple of hundred condoms and a few litres of KY jelly spilling out of your handbag. This pair are dressed respectably enough to gain entrance, to get through the doors, where they’ll lurk in one of the dark bars until Ian from Iowa, Willy from Wisconsin or Akira from Osaka has got enough Johnnie Walker down him to be talked into a thousand-dollar double-ender.
‘Oh yeah. Ostros,’ I say.
‘What’s an ostro?’ Chrissy asks. She’s wearing a more upscale take on her ususal jeans and T-shirt. Tight black trousers tucked into thigh-high suede boots, a clinging velvet top, her thick red hair worn up. More make-up than usual too. It’s good. I’m having it.
‘A hooker.’
‘Oh yeah. Major hookers.’
Where did the Americans decide to make the epicentre, the ground zero, of EDM? New York? Chicago? Detroit? Nah, fuck that. Let’s do it here. In Vegas. The equivalent back home would have been the decision to move London’s dance scene lock, stock and barrel up the M6 to fucking Blackpool. You drive down Sunset Strip and you see them, massive posters bearing down, advertising residencies, at the MGM, at Omnia, at Jewel, by toerags you’ve never heard of – MC Fried Rice, Tetris, the BungeeJumper, DJ Registered Sex Offender – all of these animals pocketing something like half a million shitters a week for banging out the poof doof to a roomful of MDMA-crazed Middle Americans in cargo pants who think that Juan Atkins played for Real Madrid. Again, it is capitalism at its finest.
‘Here we are, folks,’ the driver is saying over his shoulder, through the partition, as we pull up in front of the enormous golden lion outside the MGM.
It’s all business as usual from here: we are given our own personal greeter – Shelley, replete with clipboard and headset – who whisks us past the gigantic line of animals who will be queueing for hours to get in and takes us up into Hakkasan, the relentless thud of the bass drum already kicking our chests as we approach the nightclub. Once inside we are led to a table in the roped-off VIP section by the dance floor, where a huge silver ice bucket holds bottles of Grey Goose and Dom Perignon. All of this is complimentary obviously, a courtesy from the management of tonight’s headliners Norwegian Dance Crew. On a night like tonight, Saturday, the vermin at the tables all around us will be paying something like eight thousand dollars just to sit there and then another thousand bucks a bottle, plus an eye-watering gratuity. ‘And this is you here,’ Shelley says. ‘This is Agnes,’ she gestures to a smiling, hotter, younger version of herself who has materialised behind her, ‘and she’ll be taking care of you tonight. Enjoy, Mr Stelfox. Huge fan by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, having to shout over the blaring cobblers pounding out of the speakers as I slip Shelley a hundred-dollar bill.
‘Thank you,’ she says. You do get treated like a king in America. The only problem is you have to spend like an emperor in order to get this treatment. If you just spend like a king you’ll get treated like a prince and so on down the chain until you reach the people who spend normally, who obviously get treated like cunts.
It’s a recent development in the entertainment industry, people not wanting to get treated like utter cunts. Turns out, they’ll pay well over the odds for that. VIP packages. Small businessmen from Hull, Russian bankers, gook computing magnates, they’ll all pay a fortune so they can get a limo to the gig, skip the queue and get to hang out at the soundcheck, where they’ll get a thirty-second ‘all right, mate?’ from Paul McCartney/Sting/An Actual Fucking Rapist while they snap a selfie to put up on Instagram like they’ve just been on holiday together. That’ll be five grand please, Mr VIP. It’s too fucking good. (It’s so good that Hollywood is starting to catch on. Not for actual A-listers. Don’t be stupid. But, if your star is waning a bit and the IRS, or all those ex-wives, are on your case, you could do worse than pocket half a mil for getting interviewed in front of a theatre full of dog-fucking toerags who think your ‘that-time-the-DOP-farted-while-I-was-doing-a-take’ stories are endlessly fascinating.)
Agnes is pouring us both
a glass of champagne when a south London voice booms out of the darkness behind me, cutting through the music.
‘OI! OI! STELFOX! YOU FUCKING CUNT!’
I turn to see Danny Rent, coming through the darkness towards me, his arms extended, his mad face beaming. ‘Danny fucking Rent …’ I say.
‘Fucking hell, mate,’ he says as we embrace. ‘Been too long! I couldn’t believe it when she told me you was coming!’ He says this as he releases me and turns towards Chrissy. ‘All right, Chrissy?’ They embrace too. ‘You got everything you need? They taking care of you? Love,’ he says to the waitress, ‘this pair here. Anything they want is on us, yeah?’
‘I’ve already been told, Mr Rent.’ Tolers at the other tables are staring, impressed. We sit down.
‘So, what you doing in Vegas, mate?’ Rent asks, his broad cockney not at all dented by however much time he’s been spending here.
‘WHAT?’ I say, cupping my ear.
‘WHAT YOU DOING OUT HERE?’
‘In LA for a bit, doing some consultancy stuff with Trellick, for Unigram, and Chrissy told me she was looking to sign your guys –’
‘WHAT?’ he says, cupping his ear.
‘I’M IN LA FOR A BIT …’ I go through it again.
‘Sweet. Hey, Chrissy, you better watch this one –’ Rent says, hooking a thumb at me.
‘WHAT?’ Chrissy says, leaning over the table.
‘I SAID, YOU –’
‘LOOK, DANNY,’ I cut in. ‘FUCK THIS. CAN WE GET OUT OF THIS TOILET?’
‘Yeah, course, mate. Come on backstage. Meet the guys.’
We follow him off, leaving a couple of grand of untouched booze on the table.
‘The thing you need to understand about Norwegian Dance Crew is that it was never something we built for profit, man. We always come in and want to make the best show possible, something where we can test and push the boundaries and take bigger risks. We always bring in a big production, even though we might only break even. It’s all about being true to the music at the end of the day. Not selling ourselves out. It’s about energy. Peace …’
This cunt Thorsten goes on in his soft Norwegian accent. Danny and Chrissy are both nodding away like this pile of utter reeking human logs posing as words is coming from the burning fucking bush. Thorsten, very much the leader of the group, sweeps his long blond hair up out of his blue eyes, revealing a tattoo on his neck – some kind of mad Celtic symbol. His two bandmates, whose names I fail to catch, flank him. Unsmiling. I’m trying to remember the last time I did this: sat in a dressing room and listened to an artist telling me his philosophy. It’s been a while. The only thing he’s said so far that makes sense is about the necessity of having a big production. Yeah, I want to say. I get why you’d need that – being just three Vikings standing up there playing a fucking CD. In their T-shirts, jeans, beanies and tattoos, Norwegian Dance Crew have the collective charisma of a bunch of Deliveroo drivers taking a break before the evening rush kicks in. It’s another brilliant refinement of popular culture. Like they say, for a long time now you could become rich without having any talent, thanks to the scratchcard or the rollover. You could become famous without having any talent, by going on Big Brother and wanking a dog off or something. However, you couldn’t actually become talented without having any talent. That was tricky. So we sorted that one out too. Talent no longer required. It’s been headed this way for a while, but these guys, Jesus Christ. They almost make me pine for my youth. Let’s face it, in the talent and charisma stakes Norwegian Dance Crew make even a twenty-four-carat chancer like Rage look like the bastard child of Hendrix and Jagger. ‘There’s a thing with house music,’ Thorsten is saying, ‘when the level of intensity is so high in a club it almost becomes … calm. Serene. Like in the eye of a storm.’ Another thing – he’s not young, this guy Thorsten. Got to be at least thirty-five. Remember when one of the very few prerequisites of being a pop star would have been youth? Well, dance music seems to have taken care of that too. Look over there – the fifty-eight-year-old DJ still cranking it out. They’re not even off their nuts any more, half of these cretins. There you are, flying around the world, sober, jacked up on nothing more than Evian and caffeine, standing in front of a mass of pilled-up fools one third of your age and urging them to have it? You’re doing interviews where you’re banging on about the vibe at X club, about the energy at Y festival. What are you doing, you fucking disgrace? Why aren’t you at home with the wife and kids counting your money? Or, more hauntingly, down the pecking order, there’s the guys who never made any real money, relics from the nineties who never quite banked the big cash, but who still have just enough juice that some Eastern European promoter will book them. A few years back, before I stopped flying commercial, you’d see some of these guys, at Heathrow, at Gatwick, striding across the terminal, shades on, headphones around their necks, larging it on the way to DJ in Zagreb on a Friday night for a thousand quid and a few cans of Red Bull, all the while wishing they were at home with the kettle on, flicking through Sky movies. Nasty. Very fucking nasty.
‘What’s your favourite track on the album?’ one of them is asking Chrissy.
‘Track three,’ she says. They nod. I do like this girl.
‘Guys?’ Danny’s assistant Jamie is poking her head around the door. ‘The girl from Mixmag is here to do that interview.’ Shit, I think. Mixmag is still a thing? Who knew?
‘Well, fellas,’ I say, standing, shaking hands, ‘really great to meet you.’
‘Yeah, man,’ one of them says. ‘That was, uh, pretty amazing on your show, a few years ago. When you had that kid on who thought he was Jesus? I loved him.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It was something.’ People bring this up remarkably often. ‘Anyway, really looking forward to seeing your set. Thorsten – nice meeting you. Danny – see you after, mate.’
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I check the screen – Terry.
I leave and light a cigarette in the corridor outside the dressing rooms while Chrissy hangs back talking to Danny, about the deal, about the insane amounts of money these clowns are now being offered. ‘Terry,’ I say.
He says one word – ‘Tuesday’ – then hangs up. Tuesday for what we’ve taken to calling Operation Elvis.
Chrissy comes out, closing the door behind her. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘That was great, thank you, Steven. Thanks for coming. I think it really helped.’
‘No problem,’ I say, pocketing my phone.
‘So, shall we grab a drink before the show starts?’
‘The show?’ I realise she is actually intending to watch these fools. Well, she’s young. ‘Piss on that. You’ve met the band. Let’s get the fuck out of here and go for dinner. Come on. I made a reservation …’ I take her hand and, kind of scandalised, but laughing, she follows me.
SEVENTEEN
We’re deep in the bowels of the MGM Grand, at a corner table in L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, the only three-star Michelin gaff in Vegas, where we’re drinking an exceptionally good white burgundy while I order a lot of food: langoustine fritters with a smudge of basil pesto, prosciutto with toasted tomato bread, poached Kumamoto oysters on the half-shell, sautéed duck liver with minced-citrus gratin. Chrissy is live-streaming the gig on her phone with the sound down and checking a fan site where the records they’re playing are being listed in real time. Later, our account of having seen the show will be absolutely seam-less. A vast improvement on my days in A&R when you could be in a dressing room telling a band how great the show was only to be asked if you enjoyed the part where a naked tramp invaded the stage and started dry-humping the lead singer, the part you somehow missed, because you were finishing dinner in some fuck-off restaurant. ‘Jeez,’ she says as the food starts to arrive. ‘Hungry much?’ It dawns on me that, aside from that omelette served by a junkie whose life I destroyed, I haven’t really eaten much in thirty-six hours.
‘So, how you feeling about it?’ I ask.
‘The NDC deal? I
think we’ve got a decent shot. It’s, you know, XL are the competition here, they’re … hard to beat.’
She’s not wrong. Fucking Richard Russell. ‘Who’s your label got, mate?’ ‘Fucking Adele. Suck on this.’ She’s sold more records since we started this meal than half the lowlifes you take meetings with will ever sell in their lifetimes. And as if that wasn’t enough it’s also oh, and by the way, if that’s too mainstream for your tastes, we’ve got Radiohead and Jack fucking White too. ‘Tough one,’ I say. ‘What do you do when you’re up against that? You could get a videotape of Richard Russell calling the entire band cunts while crouching down and cranking a log out onto a photograph of the lead singer’s mother, and the fucking act would still sign with XL …’
She laughs and looks around the expensive restaurant, still capable, at twenty-eight, of being flushed with pleasure at being somewhere like this. Incredible eyes. Really. Her face, not yet hammered senseless by life, loss and cocks. I briefly flash on being her age, wanting to get on, get ahead. Still enjoying things like this, before it all became routine. You fuck someone over, you wreck a life, you order the fifty-six-dollar portion of black cod and you move on to the next thing. Then, more unwelcomely, I flash on something I haven’t thought of in a long time: Rebecca, laughing in a place like this a very long time ago. Wanting to get on, get ahead. Now just the remnants of some bones in a suitcase at the bottom of a reservoir in Essex. Maybe not even that. Chrissy catches my look and says in her Texan twang, ‘What you thinking about?’
‘Money,’ I say, which is always, to some degree, true. ‘So come on then, Chrissy Price, what’s your fucking story?’ I ask.
She tells me. It doesn’t take very long. What is there to say at her age? She grew up in Austin. Went to a good school on a scholarship. Was the poorest kid in her class, lit a fire within her to show those fuckers. Aced her boards, went to Berkeley, moved to LA right after and got an internship at Capitol, was thinking about law but it looked too boring. Always loved music. Tipped the A&R department off early on a couple of acts who became hot deals, got hired at Unigram as full A&R two years ago, has been close on a couple of big deals but has yet to sign the act that will make her name. Young, smart and hungry in full effect. Something occurs to me. ‘What did you major in?’ I ask.
