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avevale_intelligencerCrossover, Still Crazy/TBA: rated PG for language.
BREAKING DOWN THE WALLS OF TIME
It’s been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. The only wee quibble I might have with that is that it’s also the definition of most of humanity. Certainly in the music business.
Strange Fruit: prog rock giants in their day, surfing the mad wave, living the dream, till it caught up with them and they went into meltdown, fortuitously just in time for punk to be born and drown all the giants in a welter of spit. And then, by the sort of deranged magic that can only happen in our little corner of the musical world, they got a second chance. It was a bankrupt time in many ways, including the creative, with record companies frantically recycling revival after revival, rebranding, relaunching, panning for the fleeting glitter of nostalgia that would squeeze a few more pennies out of an increasingly cumbersome backlist. And thanks to the tireless efforts of Tony Costello and the fragrant Karen—and a certain amount of what you might call information management on the part of yours truly, Hughie the grizzled old road-dog—their reunion gig at Wisbech was a triumphant climax to a European tour not without its hiccups.
And so the Fruits reformed. Or perhaps I should say “reunited,” because I'm happy to report that reformation was the last thing on their minds. But as any road-dog will tell you, putting old kit back together can be a wee bit dodgy. Sometimes it’s easier. Some bits go in sweet as a nut, because they’re worn in all the same places, and it’s like they’ve never been apart. Like Beano. Ray was right, he really had stood still for twenty years. It was as if he’d known that sooner or later things would come round again and he could just jump on, right into his twenty-year-old footprints. Maybe they breed them that way, on Pluto.
Then there are the bits that never worked together right, and probably never will. Ray and Les tried to get along—Ray even changed his image, ditched the capes and the make-up and tried to be what Les wanted him to be—but since what Les wanted him to be was Keith, there was never much hope for that. And then there was Brian. Brian, the guitar god, who had spent the wilderness years safely tucked away in a home for the bewildered, who had tried every mental state going and had finally managed to score himself some of the most elusive drug of all, the one they call “sanity.” Brian, who had over a hundred songs, in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag.
That, let me tell you, was more of a problem that you might think. Okay, we went through them and about forty per cent were a bit experimental, or to put it another way, shite. Brian’s journey had been a long and winding one, and his writings spanned the whole trip. That still left enough really good songs for three or four albums. Les was over the moon, or at least I think so; it’s hard to tell with Les. He definitely looked less disgusted for a moment there, while he was sorting them out and putting them into track order. Four albums, ready made, and all the guys had to do was play the notes.
As if it could be that simple.
*
“A-a-a-a-a-a...” That was Ray, making that stuttering noise that meant he was about to shove his oar in. Les claimed he thought it sounded like a motorbike and was therefore cool and rock’n’roll. But then, Les claimed Ray practiced everything in front of a mirror, including going to sleep and having sex. “So, just to clarify...is this...is this Brian’s band now? I mean, am I the frontman for Brian’s band?”
Tony stepped in, drowning out Les’s emphatic “Yes.” On the last day, when the armies of light and darkness are facing off across the plains of Megiddo, Tony’ll be the wee one in the middle talking about finding common ground and opening up a dialogue. “’Course not, Ray. We’re all equal partners, you know that, mate. All for one and one for all?”
“’Cos you know...I-I-I do write songs too, in case anyone’s forgotten.” Ray Simms, the prince of passive-aggressive.
“Well, tell you what, mate.” Les. “You go home and write us sixty-seven songs, and we’ll come back tomorrow and see which ones are best.”
“Aw, bollocks to this.” Beano, sitting behind his kit. “I thought we came here to play, not hold a bloody mother’s meeting.” He didn’t give a toss who wrote the song, as long as he got to hit stuff.
“What you don’t seem to realise, Les, is that I-I-I’m a craftsman.” Ray. “I have to wait for the muse to strike.”
“Bloody muse’s been on strike for twenty years,” Beano put in.
“I can’t just scribble down any old tat and call that it,” Ray went on, obliviously digging himself in deeper. “I spend hours sometimes seeking the mot juste, the perfect phrase.”
“Are you saying these songs are tat?” Les growled.
“No, no, n-n-n-no...” Meaning yes, of course. Ray had never seen the point of Brian’s lyrics, or his fancier ventures into the esoteric realms of fourth and fifth chords.
At this point it penetrated Brian’s consciousness that his songs were the cause of the argument, and he started to say something apologetic.
“Don’t you dare, Brian,” Les warned him. “You’re fine, mate.”
“Look, Ray—“ Tony began.
“No, no, that’s fine.” Ray threw up his hands. “You sort out which of Brian’s songs you want to do, and just call me when you want some, you know, disposable stooge to sing them. I mean, it’s not as if the lyrics will be difficult.”
And, for the third time that day, he stalked out. And for the third time that day, Tony went running after him, and Les’s “Aw, let him go” was cut in half by the closing door. It being the third time, though, any lingering embarrassment arising out of the fact that we were rehearsing in Ray’s house had long since dwindled away. Beano shrugged and reeled off a fancy break on the toms, and Les went back to poring over Brian’s songs, and I went outside for a fag. By now Ray would be down by the lake, doing his tai chi or his meditation or whatever, and Tony would have got lost looking for him. That was gonna be about it for the day, I thought.
And then, about ten minutes later, Ray came rushing back in, white as a sheet and babbling. Now I’ve been around this business for a wee while, and I’ve never encountered anything that could give you that kind of a rush that quickly, so I pricked up my ears. Turned out he’d had a vision, just like the time he was sitting down by the lake going OMMMM and he saw Brian. Course, that turned out to be the real Brian, but as far as Ray was concerned it was still a vision.
Only this time it was Keith.
BREAKING DOWN THE WALLS OF TIME
It’s been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. The only wee quibble I might have with that is that it’s also the definition of most of humanity. Certainly in the music business.
Strange Fruit: prog rock giants in their day, surfing the mad wave, living the dream, till it caught up with them and they went into meltdown, fortuitously just in time for punk to be born and drown all the giants in a welter of spit. And then, by the sort of deranged magic that can only happen in our little corner of the musical world, they got a second chance. It was a bankrupt time in many ways, including the creative, with record companies frantically recycling revival after revival, rebranding, relaunching, panning for the fleeting glitter of nostalgia that would squeeze a few more pennies out of an increasingly cumbersome backlist. And thanks to the tireless efforts of Tony Costello and the fragrant Karen—and a certain amount of what you might call information management on the part of yours truly, Hughie the grizzled old road-dog—their reunion gig at Wisbech was a triumphant climax to a European tour not without its hiccups.
And so the Fruits reformed. Or perhaps I should say “reunited,” because I'm happy to report that reformation was the last thing on their minds. But as any road-dog will tell you, putting old kit back together can be a wee bit dodgy. Sometimes it’s easier. Some bits go in sweet as a nut, because they’re worn in all the same places, and it’s like they’ve never been apart. Like Beano. Ray was right, he really had stood still for twenty years. It was as if he’d known that sooner or later things would come round again and he could just jump on, right into his twenty-year-old footprints. Maybe they breed them that way, on Pluto.
Then there are the bits that never worked together right, and probably never will. Ray and Les tried to get along—Ray even changed his image, ditched the capes and the make-up and tried to be what Les wanted him to be—but since what Les wanted him to be was Keith, there was never much hope for that. And then there was Brian. Brian, the guitar god, who had spent the wilderness years safely tucked away in a home for the bewildered, who had tried every mental state going and had finally managed to score himself some of the most elusive drug of all, the one they call “sanity.” Brian, who had over a hundred songs, in a Sainsbury’s plastic bag.
That, let me tell you, was more of a problem that you might think. Okay, we went through them and about forty per cent were a bit experimental, or to put it another way, shite. Brian’s journey had been a long and winding one, and his writings spanned the whole trip. That still left enough really good songs for three or four albums. Les was over the moon, or at least I think so; it’s hard to tell with Les. He definitely looked less disgusted for a moment there, while he was sorting them out and putting them into track order. Four albums, ready made, and all the guys had to do was play the notes.
As if it could be that simple.
*
“A-a-a-a-a-a...” That was Ray, making that stuttering noise that meant he was about to shove his oar in. Les claimed he thought it sounded like a motorbike and was therefore cool and rock’n’roll. But then, Les claimed Ray practiced everything in front of a mirror, including going to sleep and having sex. “So, just to clarify...is this...is this Brian’s band now? I mean, am I the frontman for Brian’s band?”
Tony stepped in, drowning out Les’s emphatic “Yes.” On the last day, when the armies of light and darkness are facing off across the plains of Megiddo, Tony’ll be the wee one in the middle talking about finding common ground and opening up a dialogue. “’Course not, Ray. We’re all equal partners, you know that, mate. All for one and one for all?”
“’Cos you know...I-I-I do write songs too, in case anyone’s forgotten.” Ray Simms, the prince of passive-aggressive.
“Well, tell you what, mate.” Les. “You go home and write us sixty-seven songs, and we’ll come back tomorrow and see which ones are best.”
“Aw, bollocks to this.” Beano, sitting behind his kit. “I thought we came here to play, not hold a bloody mother’s meeting.” He didn’t give a toss who wrote the song, as long as he got to hit stuff.
“What you don’t seem to realise, Les, is that I-I-I’m a craftsman.” Ray. “I have to wait for the muse to strike.”
“Bloody muse’s been on strike for twenty years,” Beano put in.
“I can’t just scribble down any old tat and call that it,” Ray went on, obliviously digging himself in deeper. “I spend hours sometimes seeking the mot juste, the perfect phrase.”
“Are you saying these songs are tat?” Les growled.
“No, no, n-n-n-no...” Meaning yes, of course. Ray had never seen the point of Brian’s lyrics, or his fancier ventures into the esoteric realms of fourth and fifth chords.
At this point it penetrated Brian’s consciousness that his songs were the cause of the argument, and he started to say something apologetic.
“Don’t you dare, Brian,” Les warned him. “You’re fine, mate.”
“Look, Ray—“ Tony began.
“No, no, that’s fine.” Ray threw up his hands. “You sort out which of Brian’s songs you want to do, and just call me when you want some, you know, disposable stooge to sing them. I mean, it’s not as if the lyrics will be difficult.”
And, for the third time that day, he stalked out. And for the third time that day, Tony went running after him, and Les’s “Aw, let him go” was cut in half by the closing door. It being the third time, though, any lingering embarrassment arising out of the fact that we were rehearsing in Ray’s house had long since dwindled away. Beano shrugged and reeled off a fancy break on the toms, and Les went back to poring over Brian’s songs, and I went outside for a fag. By now Ray would be down by the lake, doing his tai chi or his meditation or whatever, and Tony would have got lost looking for him. That was gonna be about it for the day, I thought.
And then, about ten minutes later, Ray came rushing back in, white as a sheet and babbling. Now I’ve been around this business for a wee while, and I’ve never encountered anything that could give you that kind of a rush that quickly, so I pricked up my ears. Turned out he’d had a vision, just like the time he was sitting down by the lake going OMMMM and he saw Brian. Course, that turned out to be the real Brian, but as far as Ray was concerned it was still a vision.
Only this time it was Keith.