Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Possibly the most erudite answer ever heard on Locomotive 97.8FM,’ says Bat. ‘Yet Stuff of Life ’s songs, you’ll agree, come not from “scenius” but from experiences you’ve lived through. Some are so personal, it hurts. In a good way.’

Dean and Elf look at each other. Dean says, ‘True … it’s been a bit of a roller-coaster year. In our personal lives, like. We’ve lived through stuff that like, can’t not get into the songs.’

‘Exposing your heart and fears isn’t always pleasant or easy,’ says Elf. ‘But if a song isn’t felt – if not even its writer ever believed it – it’s phoney. It’s a steak sandwich made of paper and glue. It may look okay but it tastes wrong. I can’t write fake songs. I know Dean and Jasper are the same.’

‘You’ve been quoted as saying “Even The Bluebells” is an elegy for a young relative of yours who passed away, Elf?’

‘My nephew died in May. The song’s for him. For Mark. I … don’t want to kill the vibes by sobbing on your live show, Bat, so …’

‘My point is, Stuff of Life proves what a few of us have been saying since Rubber Soul and Bringing It All Back Home : the best pop music is art. And art is about whatever the artist wants it to be. Falling in love for the first time? Yes. But also grief. Fame. Madness. Betrayal. Theft. The whole caboodle.’

‘Even – can yer say “sex” on the radio?’ asks Dean.

Through the glass, Bat’s producer is making a NO gesture.

‘Sure,’ says the DJ, ‘as long as you in no way suggest sex might be pleasurable, because that would be pure filth. Elf, could we give “Bluebells” a spin before we hear a message from our sponsors?’

‘Fire away. It’ll be a North American exclusive.’

‘Then to all you passengers aboard Locomotive FM’ – Bat positions the stylus over the quiet groove on the LP and shucks an earphone over an ear – ‘Great till Late on 97.8FM, this is “Even The Bluebells”, by our special studio guests Utopia Avenue …’

Elf, Dean and Griff slalom through the afternoon’s interviews at the office of Gargoyle Records on Bleecker Street. After each round of questions, Elf hopes that Levon or Max will appear with the news that Jasper has shown up at the office or the Chelsea. This does not happen. Max is hunting for a session musician who knows Paradise and Stuff of Life and who might step in to save the Ghepardo show. This, so far, is too tall an order. Howie Stoker has called in a favour at the NYPD to put out a city-wide alert for a ‘tall white Caucasian with long red hair in a purple jacket’. Like looking for a needle in a needle factory , thinks Elf . They return to the Chelsea Hotel at 6 p.m. to prepare for a show that may never happen. Dean is furious with the absent Jasper. Griff is silent. Elf’s more worried than angry. She’s also feeling guilty. She wishes she could rewind to last night when Levon told her about Jasper’s behaviour. I should have checked on him then. I should have checked on him this morning …

At 7 p.m. they depart for the Ghepardo. Levon brings Jasper’s Stratocaster in case he appears at the club. Manhattan lights up, but Elf barely notices. She is certain Jasper would be here if he possibly could. Her rosiest explanations are now that Jasper’s had a crack-up, or has been mugged: the bleakest ones end in a city morgue. Max still hasn’t found anyone able to play Jasper’s parts from the Stuff of Life , but he has tracked down a session player who can make a decent fist of the Paradise songs. The plan is to wait until the very last minute, plead appendicitis, and perform Dean’s and Elf’s Paradise material plus a few covers. ‘It’ll only be half as good as it should be,’ says Dean, ‘at bloody best.’

The car turns onto 8th Avenue and shunts along in stop-and-start traffic. Elf combs the crowd’s countless selves for a tall, stooping figure. A man bangs on the car window, yelling, ‘I’m hungry! Hungry! Hungry! I’m hungry!’

The driver veers the Lincoln into the middle lane.

‘He’d better be in hospital after this,’ says Dean.

‘Don’t wish that,’ says Elf. ‘However pissed off you are.’

‘Why bloody not? The selfish prick’s—’

‘I’ve been in hospitals, Deano,’ says Griff. ‘Elf’s right.’

A pink neon sign inscribes ‘The Ghepardo’ on the glowing dusk over a street-level entrance under unlit anonymous offices. Max opens the car door. ‘No news.’ A poster says, ‘ Take a trip down UTOPIA AVENUE’, using the Stuff of Life font. Luisa is waiting in the lobby. Her smile vanishes when she sees the band’s faces. ‘What?’

‘Jasper’s been missing all day,’ explains Elf.

‘Don’t assume the worst,’ says Luisa.

Brigit, the matriarch of the Ghepardo, is less fazed. ‘Hey, musicians may be walking ass-cracks or they may be God’s mouthpiece on Earth, but punctual they ain’t.’

Elf looks at Levon. Jasper is always punctual.

Brigit shows the band onto the stage for the soundcheck. The Ghepardo is a big old once-grand ballroom. Nine glitter-balls hang from a panelled ceiling in need of renovation. The shoulder-high stage is well equipped with speakers, lights and a stage curtain. A capable sound technician helps Elf, Dean and Griff find levels that suit them and the space. Dean plays the Stratocaster and guesses at the levels Jasper would ask for. Sound checks are usually fun. This one feels like a rehearsal for a funeral.

8.15 p.m. The substitute session player is caught in uptown traffic and won’t arrive for another half-hour. Even Brigit is concerned now. Max is glum. Levon maintains a calm façade, but Elf guesses he’s screaming inside. Elf is resorting to prayer: not, Let him walk in now , but Let him be alive and well ; failing that, she’ll take, Let him be alive. She finds the words to ‘Prove It’ have faded from memory. How many hundreds of times have I sung those lines? She studies her emergency crib-sheet, with Luisa’s help. Howie Stoker arrives with a honey-skinned girlfriend a third of his age with green eyeshadow, arachnid eyelashes and satin-white hair. He introduces her as Ivanka. Naturally, Howie is disturbed that the star guitarist in ‘his’ first signing is nowhere to be found thirty minutes before their American debut. ‘Where is he?’

‘Up my bloody arse,’ mutters Dean. ‘I hid him for a joke.’

‘Shouldn’t bandmates look out for each other?’ asks Howie.

Griff puffs a smoke-ring of indifference.

Howie’s partly right , thinks Elf . We’re so used to Jasper’s eccentricities, we stopped watching out for him.

Levon comes back from the ballroom. ‘It’s filling up.’

It’s 8.45 p.m. Neither Jasper nor his stand-in has arrived. Elf has a sense of déjà vu, and traces it to anxiety dreams where she has to perform at a pre-doomed show. There’s no waking from this one. ‘Why don’t the three of you just play a few of the new tunes?’ suggests Howie.

‘Why don’t greyhounds have three fookin’ legs?’ asks Griff.

‘Who exactly is impressed by your cussing?’ asks Howie.

‘Haven’t got the fookiest idea, Howie.’

Aretha Franklin’s Lady Soul LP is playing on the Ghepardo’s speakers. Elf wishes it was something less good. Howie lumbers over to meet Luisa, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘We haven’t,’ Luisa confirms.

‘Howie Stoker, mover and shaker. And you are?’

‘A friend of Elf’s.’

Howie purses his lips and nods. ‘I connect with señoritas . An ex-wife was a past-life therapist. I was a matador in Cádiz in Viking times. We may be cousins. Sufficiently distant ones.’