Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Far from it.’ Hershey lights a Chesterfield. Same brand as Guus de Zoet. ‘Everything you said is bang on the nail. I’m delighted you’ve connected with the script so perceptively.’

Sorry I’m nibbling Tiff on the side , thinks Dean, but if yer weren’t nobbing starlets, she wouldn’t’ve come on to me …

‘Griff’s just added percussion,’ says Levon, ‘and we’re in the process of getting it down to a three-and-a-half minute radio edit.’

‘May I hear it as a work-in-progress?’ asks Hershey.

‘Dean, I think, should do the honours,’ says Levon.

‘My vocal’s rough as old guts –’ Dean presses rewind on the console ‘– and the scooby-dooby-doobies are placeholders, but …’ Tape goes from reel to reel. ‘Welcome to “The Narrow Road to the Far West”, take eleven.’

Stop.

Play.

Needles of sweat ooze through Dean’s pores, coated with make-up. It’s like an extra plastic skin – how do women stand this? A brunette blows him a pouty kiss from the front row as he lip-synchs the dying notes of ‘Roll Away The Stone’. The production on Randy Thorn Goes Pop! is far slicker than on Top of the Pops and the audience livelier than their British counterparts. They whoop at Randy Thorn, a Brylcreemed, sequinned singer whose clutch of singles fizzled out during the British Invasion in the wake of the Beatles. ‘A seeen sation al song, by a seeen sation al band: “Roll Away The Stone” by Utopian Avenue. Now let’s meet the leader of the pack.’ He holds the mic in front of Dean. ‘And you are?’

Dean gets a blast of Randy Thorn’s egg-and-whisky breath. ‘Dean Moss. But I’m not the leader.’

Randy’s smile is undimmed. ‘You are the lead singer?’

‘On “Roll Away The Stone”, yeah, but the three of us –’ he indicates Jasper and Elf ‘– all sing lead on songs we’ve written.’

‘Democracy in action, folks. Now, something tells me’ – Randy switches to a Texan drawl – ‘ y’all aint from these parts, boy. ’

A sign is held up: ‘LAUGHTER’. The audience laughs.

‘Right. We’re from Great Britain.’

‘And how are you finding Great America so far?’

‘Pretty cool. As a boy, America was the Land of Elvis ’n’ Little Richard ’n’ Roy Orbison. I’d dream about playing here. Now—’

‘Seeensational. Randy Thorn makes another dream come true.’ He winks at the camera and strolls over to Griff. ‘Let’s meet this, uh … and you are?’

‘Griff.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Griff.’

‘Like the “Billy Goat Gruff”?’

Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

‘ Griff ,’ says Griff. ‘With an “i”.’

‘And where’s that adorable accent from, Gruff?’

‘Yorkshire.’

‘“Yorkshire”? What country’s that?’

‘It’s up on the English border with Norway. Visit us when you’re over. We do love a pillocky prat in Yorkshire.’

Randy turns to the camera. ‘Who knew, Mom ’n’ Pop? The things you learn on Randy Thorn Goes Pop! Now let’s quit Gruff while the going’s good and pay a call to …’ he steps down from the riser ‘the fair lady of Utopia.’ He walks towards Elf, then veers to Jasper, acts confused, gurns at the camera, looks back at Jasper and covers his mouth in fake mortification.

Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

‘Just my little gag – hope you’re not offended.’

‘I’m not good at getting offended.’

‘That’s a red flag to a bull, my friend. What’s your name?’

‘My first name or my full name?’

Randy Thorn gurns at the camera. ‘Your first name’s enough.’

‘It’s Jasper.’

‘You know, I thought Jasper was a boy’s name?’

Up goes the LAUGHTER board: out comes the laughter.

That’s not bloody funny , thinks Dean.

‘Couldn’t resist it, folks,’ says Randy Thorn. ‘Could not resist.’

‘I’m surprised you think my hair’s effeminate, Mr Thorn,’ says Jasper. ‘Many American men have long hair. Have you considered that your culture’s moving on, but you aren’t?’

Randy Thorn’s grin strains its seams. ‘Folks, Jasper the joker! Last but not least is the rose among the thorns, or is she …’ the presenter crosses the stage to Elf ‘… the she-wolf among the sheep? Let’s find out! What’s your name, sweet cheeks?’

‘Elf Holloway.’

‘Elf? “Elf”? As in “Pixie”?’

‘It’s a nickname, from when I was little.’

‘And are you hiding pointy ears under those golden locks?’

‘It’s a nickname, from when I was little.’

‘Do you work on Santa’s Naughty ’n’ Nice lists? I’m both, by the way. Very naughty and very nice.’ Up goes the LAUGHTER board. The studio laughter, at last, is dimming. ‘What’s it like being Little Orphan Annie in a band of big bad boys, like Jasper, Gruff and Derek? Boys will be boys, right?’

Elf looks around at the producer offstage who has the decency to look embarrassed: ‘They’re gentlemen.’

‘Wh oooooo psie! Folks, I think we’ve touched a raw nerve!’

‘Oy, Randy!’ says Dean. ‘We’ve written a special song for yer.’

Randy Thorn walks over and into the trap. ‘A special song?’

‘Yeah. It’s called’ – Dean takes the mic and looks into the live camera, enunciating each word like a newsreader: ‘“Randy Thorn’s Career Lies A-mouldering In Its Grave”. Want to hear it?’

The silence in the studio is silent.

Dean drops the mic at Randy’s feet, pats his cheek, drops the fake bass and makes a throat-slashing gesture at the others. Utopia Avenue walk off the set. Low-level chaos is boiling over. A hand grips Dean’s collar from behind and squeezes, constricting his windpipe. ‘Shitty limey cocksucker!’ Randy Thorn drags Dean back a few paces. ‘This is MY SHOW! NOBODY walks off MY SHOW!’ He hurls Dean to the studio floor, his eyes bulging. He kicks Dean’s ribs. Dean rolls back, trying to get up, but another kick lands in his jaw. He tastes blood. Then he glimpses Elf, swinging the fake bass smack into Randy Thorn’s face. She must have wielded it with force to make it shatter the way it does. Bits of instrument fly off. A few rain on Dean.

Randy Thorn’s face has gone from blood-lustful to dazed. Griff and Levon are helping Dean up when a voice shouts out, ‘KILL THE CAMERAS! NOW! ALEX! KILL THE CAMERAS !’

Kill the cameras? They were still rolling? This show’s live – so people at home saw that? Through a haze of pain, implications swarm into Dean’s brain.

The band troop onto a low stage and sit at a table in a conference room at the Wilshire Hotel. Cameras click like a locust attack. The big clock says 7.07 p.m. Dean’s face is still throbbing. Elf pours him a glass of iced water and mutters, ‘Keep an ice cube on where it hurts.’ Dean nods. A TV camera is recording the proceedings. Thirty or forty reporters and photographers are seated in rows. Max sits with Griff and Jasper on one side and Elf and Dean on the other. He taps the microphone. ‘Folks, can everyone hear me?’

A few nods and ‘Yep’s and a ‘Loud and clear’.

‘I’m Max Mulholland, head of Gargoyle Records. Apologies for keeping you past happy hour. Send your complaints to Randy Thorn, who went pop live this afternoon.’ Genuine laughter from the press pack. ‘It’s great to see so many of you. Clearly the old maxim, “Nothing travels faster than light except gossip in Hollywood” is still as true as it’s ever been …’

Dean looks out through the glass wall of the conference room over a lush lawn to a row of palm trees. His jaw hurts.