Russell Hoban - Come Dance With Me

‘I’ve seen the name. Are they the real thing?’

‘They rehearse here. George Michael?’

‘Didn’t he die?’

‘That was Freddie Mercury.’

‘Right. George Michael is the one who was had up for cottaging, yes?’

‘Yes. He rehearses here too.’

‘What does he rehearse?’

‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘Not on the first date.’

‘This isn’t a date, remember?’ We were now at Building D. ‘Waterloo Sunset Studios are in here.’

We were admitted by a pretty young woman called Claire who was wearing a beige jumper and black silky-looking trousers. As she led the way to the lift I was thinking that Mobile Mortuary might be more of a class act than I’d assumed.

‘I’m reading your mind,’ said Christabel.

‘Musical thoughts,’ I said.

‘Ben’s booked you into the new South Studio,’ said Claire as she slid the heavy metal door shut.

‘Who’s Ben?’ I asked Christabel.

‘Ben Saltzman. He’s our production manager. He makes everything happen. He books our flights and we fly to wherever it says on the tickets. Or a bus pulls up and we jump in. All we have to do is make music or whatever it is that we do when we get there.’

‘I wish a bus would pull up for me to jump into. Or a plane.’

‘And what would you do when you got to wherever it was going?’

‘I’d work that out when I got there.’

The freight lift smelled of old iron and machine oil and I expected the South Studio to smell of old flooring and radiators that knocked as they got too hot. With fluorescent lighting that buzzed and flickered. But when we came out of the lift everything we saw was new and bright. We passed several studios, from one of which issued a volume of noise that I could feel from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. ‘What in the world is that?’ I said.

‘Unholy Din,’ said Claire.

‘I noticed, but what band is it?’

‘Unholy Din is the name of the band,’ said Christabel.

The South Studio was full of clear grey winter daylight. The new grey carpet and the dark-blue fabric walls had no smell at all, only an air of waiting for things to happen. There were black oblongs as big as doors suspended from the high ceiling. Other black shapes like giant frogs crouched on the floor. ‘What are those?’ I asked Christabel.

‘The overhead things are sound deflectors — they focus it and keep it from bouncing all over the place.’

‘And the giant frogs?’

‘Monitor wedges. So we can hear what we’re doing.’

‘And what about the electrified steamer trunks?’

‘Speakers, amps — we’re only using one cabinet each.’

‘What’s in the cabinets?’ I said, thinking of drinks.

‘Speakers,’ said Christabel.

‘If you’re not already famous, you could get famous,’ said the giant frogs, and suddenly I wished I were young, and good with a guitar.

Looking around at the studio and the equipment I was impressed by the logistics of rock and said so to Christabel.

‘You’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘Here’s Ben with a couple of kilos of paperwork.’ She introduced us, then said to Ben, ‘If you’ve got a moment, show Elias some of what you’re doing.’

Ben was a not very big man who looked as if he might do bare-knuckle fighting in his spare time. He came up to scratch, fixed me with a beady eye, and said, ‘Ever seen a production rider?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t.’

He led with a wodge of printed pages. ‘See if you can guess what’s in here.’

‘Well, it would have to be production details, yes? Transport, catering, scheduling and so forth?’

‘Have a look.’ His roundhouse right was a contract between THE ARTISTE [Mobile Mortuary] and THE MANAGEMENT [Maccabee Enterprises]. It started with percentages and payments and other money matters including MARKETING. Then came PRODUCTION RE-QUIREMENTS beginning with STAGE SIZE and SOUND WINGS, STAGE CONSTRUCTION, STAIRS, LOADING RAMPS, POWER REQUIREMENTS FOR LIGHTING, FOR SOUND, moving on to MAIN DRESSING ROOM, TUNE-UP ROOM etc. but soon arriving at HOT COOKED ENGLISH-TYPE BREAKFAST PLUS CEREALS, TOAST &JAMS X 10, progressing through LUNCH X 10 and DINNER X 17 to the dressing rooms and 8 X BOTTLES OF GOOD WINE 4 X RED 4 X WHITE (NOT CHARDONNAY), 12 X BOTTLES OF GOOD BEER, 12 X CANS OF DIET COKE, 12 X LARGE BOTTLES OF STILL WATER, 12 X SMALL BOTTLES OF STILL WATER, 2 X LARGE BOTTLES OF PERRIER WATER, thence onward with 1 X KETTLE AND COFFEE MACHINE, BISCUITS, BANANAS, KIWI FRUIT, STRAWBERRIES, ETC., SELECTION OF CHOCOLATE INC. KIT KAT, more drinks I HOUR PRIOR TO SHOW TIME and 30 MINS PRIOR TO SHOW TIME and BAND BUS AFTER SHOW. There was a great deal more of this on the production rider, and while my mind was still boggling and gurgling with it, Ben, who already had me in chancery, delivered a facer with more sheets of paper including the equipment freight list, diagrams of the band setup on stage, input channels and microphone lists, the light rig and theatre lighting, all with recondite nomenclature and endless specifications.

‘More to it than you thought?’ said Ben, graciously stepping back.

‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how you keep track of it all.’

‘Years of experience,’ he said, and retired to his office.

In a mentally flattened state I was led carefully over cables and around large objects to be introduced to Christabel’s colleagues: Jimmy Wicks and Howard Dent, guitars; Bert Gresham, bass; Buck Travis, keyboards; Shorty Strong, drums. Jimmy had a grand-fatherly paunch and was mostly bald but with a pony-tail; watching his right elbow and wrist when he checked his guitar I could see that he suffered from repetitive strain injury; Howard was presenting with what I’ve heard described as the Hendrix hunch as well as RSI; Bert had some kind of tic; and from the way Shorty cupped his ear when they were talking I assumed that his hearing was impaired.

Christabel followed my glance and shrugged. ‘But we’re famous,’ she said.

When the band were ready to work they went into a huddle. They stayed that way without saying anything for about a minute, then the huddle broke up and the band took up their instruments and produced various levels of feedback. Christabel sat down with me while they noodled around with sundry riffs. ‘Every tour it takes longer for them to get their chops together,’ she said.

‘Chops?’

‘Their technical and physical fitness, their Make-It-Happen.’

‘What was the huddle for?’ I asked her.

‘We always have a moment with Anubis before we start work.’

‘Anubis!’

‘The Egyptian jackal-headed god who conducts your soul from this world to the next.’

‘I know who Anubis is, but how come Mobile Mortuary huddle with him?’

Christabel told me about Sid Horstmann’s suicide and the note he left. ‘We don’t know where he is now,’ she said, ‘so in the huddle we give Anubis the latest news and our love to pass along to Sid.’

‘His suicide must still be with you. What an awful thing!’

‘Please! People always feel they have to say something when there’s nothing to say’

‘Sorry. Do you really believe in Anubis?’

‘I believe in everything and nothing. Anubis is a way of focusing our Sid thoughts. Am I too crazy for you?’

‘Not at all, I’m catching up fast.’

‘Let’s do “Gypsy Me, Django” from the top,’ said Jimmy as he and Christabel stepped up to the microphones. The band started very quietly with a slant version of ‘Two Guitars’ that made my throat ache. The music faded to a whisper behind Jimmy’s guitar as he sang:

Django, gypsy on the edge of night,

Long time gone on roads nobody knows, …