Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Griff, Jasper, Elf and Dean are here to answer any questions,’ Max is saying. ‘Time’s short, so with no further ado, fire away.’

‘ Los Angeles Times ,’ says a man with the air and five o’clock shadow of a Raymond Chandler detective. ‘A question for Mr Moss regarding his future best man Randy …’

‘Please don’t make me smile.’ Dean touches his jaw. ‘It’s tender.’

‘Apologies. Randy Thorn issued this statement an hour ago: “That faggoty English sonofabitch set out to provoke me, just to get attention for his shitty music. Deport that drug fiend now.” Any responses?’

Dean sips his water. ‘It’s one o’ my better reviews.’ Laughter. ‘Is Randy saying that I knew – in advance – that he’d be grabbing my neck, decking me and kicking my face? How? How could I know that?’ Dean shrugs. ‘I’ll let yer draw yer own conclusions.’

‘Will you file assault charges?’ asks the journalist.

Max swoops in: ‘We’ll be consulting our lawyers.’

‘Nah,’ says Dean. ‘I’m not suing anyone. Randy was drunk before the show. His career’s over. Anyway, it was worth it, just to see Elf do a Pete Townshend on his head.’

There’s a cheer: Elf buries her embarrassed grin in her hands and shakes her head.

‘Was that the love and peace we hear so much about from the counter-culture?’ asks a reporter in a banana yellow jacket.

Elf uncovers her face. ‘Love and peace aren’t push-overs.’

‘ Billboard magazine . ’ The reporter puts Dean in mind of the jack of spades. ‘Hi. I’d like to ask each of you to name one US artist who inspires you, and why.’

‘Cass Elliot,’ says Elf. ‘For proving that female singers don’t have to look like a Playboy bunny.’

‘Elvis,’ says Dean, ‘for Jailhouse Rock . He showed me what I wanted to do with my life.’

‘A drummer died,’ says Griff, ‘and at the Pearly Gates he heard drumming so incredible, it had to be Buddy Rich. So he said to St Peter, “I didn’t know Buddy Rich had died.” St Peter said, “No no, that’s God. He thinks he’s Buddy Rich.” That’s my answer.’

‘Emily Dickinson,’ says Jasper. The reporter looks surprised. An approving murmur breaks out. Dean wonders, Who?

‘I’m from Ramparts .’ A reporter stands up. He’s the only coloured reporter in the room. ‘What are your views on the ongoing carnage in Vietnam?’

Huffs, clucks and phew s break out. Max says, ‘Look, I’m not sure if that’s really relevant, so—’

‘“Roll Away The Stone” references an anti-war demo in London, or were you not actually there in Grosvenor Square, Dean?’

‘Dean,’ Max leans behind Elf, ‘you don’t have to—’

‘No, I’ll answer. Took balls to ask that. Yeah, I was there,’ he tells the Ramparts man. ‘Mate, I’m British. Vietnam’s not my war. But if Vietnam was winnable, then after all these months gone, all that money spent, all them bombs dropped, all them lives lost, America would’ve won it already. Wouldn’t yer?’

‘ Herald Examiner .’ A man raises a pen. ‘What do you say to those who maintain that by defending Vietnam, the USA is defending all liberal democracies from a domino effect of Communist takeovers?’

‘“ Defending Vietnam” did you say?’ Elf asks. ‘Have you not seen the pictures? Does Vietnam look “defended” to you?’

‘Sacrifices happen in war, Miss Holloway,’ says Herald Examiner . ‘It’s a nastier job than singing about rafts and rivers.’

‘The immigration man who stamped my passport in New York had a son in Vietnam,’ says Elf. ‘That son was blown up. Do you have sons, Sir? Have they been drafted?’

Herald Examiner shifts his body. ‘This is your press conference, Miss Holloway. I’m not sure, if—’

‘I’ll translate,’ says the Ramparts reporter. ‘He’s telling you, “Yes, I do have sons: no, they will not be going to Vietnam.”’

‘They have legitimate medical exemptions!’

‘How much did those bone spurs set you back, Gary?’ asks Ramparts . ‘Five hundred bucks? A thousand?’

‘Questions for Utopia Avenue over here,’ announces Max. ‘Political kickboxing outside, gentlemen, please.’

‘ San Diego Evening Tribune. ’ The speaker is a woman. ‘A simpler question than Gary’s: Can songs change the world?’

Too much like hard work for me , thinks Dean, looking at Elf, who looks at Griff, who says, ‘Hey, I just drum along.’

‘Songs do not change the world,’ declares Jasper. ‘People do. People pass laws, riot, hear God and act accordingly. People invent, kill, make babies, start wars.’ Jasper lights a Marlboro. ‘Which begs a question. “Who or what influences the minds of the people who change the world?” My answer is “Ideas and feelings.” Which begs a question. “Where do ideas and feelings originate?” My answer is, “Others. One’s heart and mind. The press. The arts. Stories. Last, but not least, songs.” Songs. Songs, like dandelion seeds, billowing across space and time. Who knows where they’ll land? Or what they’ll bring?’ Jasper leans into the mic and, without a wisp of self-consciousness, sings a miscellany of single lines from nine or ten songs. Dean recognises, ‘It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’, ‘Strange Fruit’ and ‘The Trail of the Lonesome Pine’. Others, Dean can’t identify, but the hardboiled press pack look on. Nobody laughs, nobody scoffs. Cameras click. ‘Where will these song-seeds land? It’s the Parable of the Sower. Often, usually, they land on barren soil and don’t take root. But sometimes, they land in a mind that is ready. Is fertile. What happens then? Feelings and ideas happen. Joy, solace, sympathy. Assurance. Cathartic sorrow. The idea that life could be, should be, better than this. An invitation to slip into somebody else’s skin for a little while. If a song plants an idea or a feeling in a mind, it has already changed the world.’

Bloody hell , thinks Dean. I live with this guy.

‘Why’s everyone gone quiet?’ Slightly alarmed, Jasper asks the band. ‘Was that weird? Did I go too far?’

Max ushers the band out and along a corridor carpeted in blood-and-coffee coloured zigzags. ‘The photographer’s set up in the big room at the end. I’ll quickly call Doug Weston to say we’ll be a little late.’ Dean walks on ahead, following the twists and turns of the corridor, and finds himself alone. They’ll be along in a minute. He passes through swing doors into a makeshift photo studio. A slim woman stands with her back to him, taking a light-meter reading as a flash bounces off a reflector. She turns and looks at Dean. Skinny, blonde, thickish lips … Have we slept together? She takes a picture with the camera around her neck. ‘Mecca? Bloody hell!’

Click. Scrit-scrit. ‘How’s things, Dean?’

‘But …’

‘I am your photographer.’

‘But …’ Get a grip. ‘So you live here in LA?’

‘Now, yes. I’ve been travelling around since London. But I started working for an agency here exactly two weeks ago.’

‘Your accent’s gone all … German-American.’

‘Language is a virus, like Burroughs says.’

Burroughs? A new boyfriend? ‘Does Jasper know?’

The doors open. Elf’s mouth gapes like a cartoon character: ‘ Mecca! ’ She sails over for a long hug. Mecca looks over Elf’s shoulder at Jasper and her face says, Hello , and Dean feels envy and an unpleasant recollection of the morning’s call about photographs and blackmail. Mecca finishes the hug. ‘Hello, Griff. Hello, Levon.’