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avevale_intelligencerBRIAN: Keith?
VOICE: Yeah, it’s me, mate.
BRIAN: I wasn’t sure. I mean, Les told me, but I—
VOICE: I know. You been away for a while, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But I’m real, Bri.
BRIAN: Why can’t I see you?
VOICE: You will. Just a little while longer, okay?
BRIAN: It’s been a long time, Keith.
VOICE: Yeah. But that won’t matter soon.
BRIAN: It all changed, didn’t it? Les told me.
VOICE: Everything. The music, the world. It all went wrong, Bri. Now it’s up to us to put it right. With the music.
BRIAN: I don’t see how, Keith. I mean, it’s just music, isn’t it?
VOICE: Nothing’s ever just anything, brother. You know that. I taught you that.
BRIAN: “Everything is meaning/And meaning is the key...”
VOICE: You got it.
BRIAN: So all that...that punk and everything...
VOICE: That was where it started. The bands lost faith. We’d opened the gates of perception, see? And then we left them open, and something evil crept in.
BRIAN: And the world lost its soul.
VOICE: Not lost. Just...trapped. We can set it free again. We can roll everything back to when it was good.
BRIAN: If I was back at the...at that place...
VOICE: They’d be coming round with the medication, yeah? “Oh, nurse, I think an extra sweetie for Mister Lovell today, don’t you?”
BRIAN: Another heavy medication day.
VOICE: But it’s true, Bri, it’s all true. We can do it, just like we talked about at the start.
BRIAN: Change the world with our music.
VOICE: Bring back the love. Make all the shit go away. All the greed, all the stupid wars, all the pollution and corruption...all the madness.
BRIAN: It’s—I don’t know, it just sounds...it sounds mad.
VOICE: That’s the voice of despair, mate. Don’t listen.
BRIAN: But it—it was all just people, wasn’t it? People doing what people do.
VOICE: Nothing’s ever just anything. People can choose. We can give them the choice again. Free them from the evil.
BRIAN: Yeah...
VOICE: I need you, Bri. I need you all with me. It’s...a mission.
BRIAN: Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you, Keith.
*
I stopped the tape. By this time I was starting to get a handle on what the mystery voice was talking about, and at first I was inclined to dismiss it as a pile of crap. I mean, saving the world with music? See the interminable plot synopsis of every shite concept album ever created. It was just the kind of stupid story the guys might have come up with back in the old acid indigestion days. Besides, there was nothing evil about punk rock. It was a necessary corrective to the overblown excesses of the mid-seventies, a breath of fresh air blowing away all the dinosaurs. I knew this, because all the rock journalists had said so. Punk meant that music was freed from its dependency on technical brilliance and vast amounts of kit, it put rock and roll back in the hands of the people, it...
...well, it was a horrible noise, for a while there, till the decent musicians emerged from the woodwork. It was meant to be. And then came the New Romantics and the synth bands, and we were back where we’d started. Sort of. Only that nihilistic, who-gives-a-shit attitude that started with the punkiest of the punk bands seemed to have left the music and permeated everything else. Punk meant that nothing mattered. You not only didn’t have to be good, you weren’t supposed to be good. The fact that every inept bunch of teenagers who staggered on stage clutching guitars they couldn’t afford needed someone like me being as bloody good as possible to keep the kit working, well, that kind of got ignored. And yes, in the years that followed you could see it happening. Thatcher, for all her immaculate outfits and polished diction, was the first truly punk Prime Minister. The people at the bottom who’d been keeping everything going got shafted, and the people at the top just didn’t care any more...
At which point I took a firm grip on myself and stopped that train of thought before it got out of the siding. This had to be some kind of joke, even though I couldn’t work out who was doing it, or what the punchline was supposed to be. I needed to talk to the guys.
But first, I needed to talk to Karen.
“What is it, Hughie? I’m on the clock.” She was actually on the point of getting into her car. An opportunity for a gig had come up, some sort of benefit just outside London, and Karen was on her way to do the negotiation thing again.
“Well...” I don’t often find myself lost for words, but this was a first. “Have you noticed anything strange about the guys lately?”
“What? They’re getting on? They’re playing better than they’ve ever done?”
“Well, yeah, that, but—“
“Listen, Hughie, don’t knock it, okay?” She looked at me pleadingly. “These are my boys. They’re finally where they should have been twenty odd years ago. Don’t do anything to destabilise that, please. Otherwise I’ll probably have to impale you on a microphone stand so hard the mike’ll come out of your gob. And I know how you feel about your kit getting damaged.”
Her smile took none of the menace from the threat. I could see her point. The Fruits were functioning as a unit at last, and it was a precarious balance that could so easily be wrecked. I watched the little car receding down the drive, and decided to leave things as they were a bit longer.
VOICE: Yeah, it’s me, mate.
BRIAN: I wasn’t sure. I mean, Les told me, but I—
VOICE: I know. You been away for a while, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But I’m real, Bri.
BRIAN: Why can’t I see you?
VOICE: You will. Just a little while longer, okay?
BRIAN: It’s been a long time, Keith.
VOICE: Yeah. But that won’t matter soon.
BRIAN: It all changed, didn’t it? Les told me.
VOICE: Everything. The music, the world. It all went wrong, Bri. Now it’s up to us to put it right. With the music.
BRIAN: I don’t see how, Keith. I mean, it’s just music, isn’t it?
VOICE: Nothing’s ever just anything, brother. You know that. I taught you that.
BRIAN: “Everything is meaning/And meaning is the key...”
VOICE: You got it.
BRIAN: So all that...that punk and everything...
VOICE: That was where it started. The bands lost faith. We’d opened the gates of perception, see? And then we left them open, and something evil crept in.
BRIAN: And the world lost its soul.
VOICE: Not lost. Just...trapped. We can set it free again. We can roll everything back to when it was good.
BRIAN: If I was back at the...at that place...
VOICE: They’d be coming round with the medication, yeah? “Oh, nurse, I think an extra sweetie for Mister Lovell today, don’t you?”
BRIAN: Another heavy medication day.
VOICE: But it’s true, Bri, it’s all true. We can do it, just like we talked about at the start.
BRIAN: Change the world with our music.
VOICE: Bring back the love. Make all the shit go away. All the greed, all the stupid wars, all the pollution and corruption...all the madness.
BRIAN: It’s—I don’t know, it just sounds...it sounds mad.
VOICE: That’s the voice of despair, mate. Don’t listen.
BRIAN: But it—it was all just people, wasn’t it? People doing what people do.
VOICE: Nothing’s ever just anything. People can choose. We can give them the choice again. Free them from the evil.
BRIAN: Yeah...
VOICE: I need you, Bri. I need you all with me. It’s...a mission.
BRIAN: Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you, Keith.
*
I stopped the tape. By this time I was starting to get a handle on what the mystery voice was talking about, and at first I was inclined to dismiss it as a pile of crap. I mean, saving the world with music? See the interminable plot synopsis of every shite concept album ever created. It was just the kind of stupid story the guys might have come up with back in the old acid indigestion days. Besides, there was nothing evil about punk rock. It was a necessary corrective to the overblown excesses of the mid-seventies, a breath of fresh air blowing away all the dinosaurs. I knew this, because all the rock journalists had said so. Punk meant that music was freed from its dependency on technical brilliance and vast amounts of kit, it put rock and roll back in the hands of the people, it...
...well, it was a horrible noise, for a while there, till the decent musicians emerged from the woodwork. It was meant to be. And then came the New Romantics and the synth bands, and we were back where we’d started. Sort of. Only that nihilistic, who-gives-a-shit attitude that started with the punkiest of the punk bands seemed to have left the music and permeated everything else. Punk meant that nothing mattered. You not only didn’t have to be good, you weren’t supposed to be good. The fact that every inept bunch of teenagers who staggered on stage clutching guitars they couldn’t afford needed someone like me being as bloody good as possible to keep the kit working, well, that kind of got ignored. And yes, in the years that followed you could see it happening. Thatcher, for all her immaculate outfits and polished diction, was the first truly punk Prime Minister. The people at the bottom who’d been keeping everything going got shafted, and the people at the top just didn’t care any more...
At which point I took a firm grip on myself and stopped that train of thought before it got out of the siding. This had to be some kind of joke, even though I couldn’t work out who was doing it, or what the punchline was supposed to be. I needed to talk to the guys.
But first, I needed to talk to Karen.
“What is it, Hughie? I’m on the clock.” She was actually on the point of getting into her car. An opportunity for a gig had come up, some sort of benefit just outside London, and Karen was on her way to do the negotiation thing again.
“Well...” I don’t often find myself lost for words, but this was a first. “Have you noticed anything strange about the guys lately?”
“What? They’re getting on? They’re playing better than they’ve ever done?”
“Well, yeah, that, but—“
“Listen, Hughie, don’t knock it, okay?” She looked at me pleadingly. “These are my boys. They’re finally where they should have been twenty odd years ago. Don’t do anything to destabilise that, please. Otherwise I’ll probably have to impale you on a microphone stand so hard the mike’ll come out of your gob. And I know how you feel about your kit getting damaged.”
Her smile took none of the menace from the threat. I could see her point. The Fruits were functioning as a unit at last, and it was a precarious balance that could so easily be wrecked. I watched the little car receding down the drive, and decided to leave things as they were a bit longer.
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 11:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 12:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 12:41 pm (UTC)By the way, what happened to the Mrs... um... Curbinand(?) mystery? So sorry to be rude enough to forget the name - but the one with the women in the shelter.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 01:12 pm (UTC)It's still there. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with it, but things have been known to be on the back burner for years and still be finishable, so don't despair.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 01:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 06:01 pm (UTC)