Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

What’s the next bloody line?

How can I have forgotten?

I’ve sung it five hundred times!

Then what is it? There’s just a noisy druggy glow in his brain where the words should be. Why why why did I do the fucking cocaine? Now Dean’s panicking, all hope of finding the lyrics is gone, and they’re going to realise I’m an amateur and an impostor and I shouldn’t bloody be here , and Dean feels the eyes on him finding me out, finding me out, finding me —

and slung you in a pauper’s grave

Elf’s voice arrives, like a sonic angel, as if the long pause was deliberate. Dean turns to her. I love yer , he thinks. Not like a boyfriend: I love yer deeper than that. She nods to say, ‘You’re welcome,’ and sings the next line:

down where the dead men lie –

On ‘lie’, Dean and Griff come in. Four bars later, Elf joins in and Jasper kerangggs his guitar into urgent life.

If life has shot yer full of holes

and hung yer out to dry –

and slung yer in a pauper’s grave

down where the dead men lie –

He fluffs the riff a little – if his fingers were a sports car, the brakes would need seeing to – but at least he remembers the words. Swear to God, I’ll never do cocaine before a show again, ever, ever. Here come Jasper and Elf to join in the chorus:

I’ll roll away the stone, my friend,

I’ll roll away the stone –

put my shoulder to the rock

and roll away that stone.

Verse two: the Ferlinghetti Verse. Dean plays his Fender safely and solidly, a fraction of a beat behind Griff, like a drunk sober enough to know he’s drunk and needs to let someone else lead:

If Ferlinghetti frames yer

and throws away the key –

if you were there in Grosvenor Square

where Anarchy killed Tyranny –

Dean realises his mistake immediately: it’s ‘Tyranny killed Anarchy’. Anarchy killed Tyranny means the good guys won. Maybe no one will notice , he tells himself, o r maybe everyone noticed . Jasper adds fills to the chorus’s second and fourth lines:

We’ll roll away the stone, my friend,

we’ll roll away the stone –

we’ll get yer on yer feet again

and roll away that stone.

Jasper keeps his first solo close to the album’s. They have ninety minutes to fill and, as Eric Clapton told them, always keep your best fireworks for the second half.

The eunuchs in the harem

will twist the words yer meant,

but they can’t make yer hate yerself

without yer give consent.

Elf plays the Hammond part with her left hand and adds piano with her right:

So ro-oooll away that stone, my friend,

Ro-oooll away that stone –

grip it, heave it, kick its arse and

roll that goddamn stone.

Last is the verse Elf suggested. Dean thinks it’s the best, but finds that cocaine has boosted not his confidence but his self-doubt, and he’s afraid the verse will sound glib. Dean lets his Fender hang and grips the mic like a man throttling a chicken that refuses to die:

If death touches one yer love,

if grief grips yer in its fist,

honour those who left too soon –

Dean looks over at Elf, knowing who she’s thinking about. On one side is her nephew, an infant everybody wanted but who didn’t survive past the bluebell season. On the other side is Amanda Craddock’s boy. Dean, at least, would rather the boy didn’t exist: but there he is, in a poky flat in North London, thriving and growing and being. Life has a sick sense of humour. The band waits for four beats …

exist, exist, exist.

Until recently, Griff tapped the four beats on the rim of his drum, but they’ve been so musically tight over the last month that he stopped. Dean is so anxious not to jump the gun – and jittery with the coke – that he jumps the gun half a beat earlier. I keep misfiring ’n’ slipping gears. The others stumble to catch up:

Let’s roll away the stone, my friends,

let’s roll away the stone –

persistence is resistance, so

roll away that stone.

The applause is solid, but not ecstatic. Dean is furious with himself. He wants to rush offstage. I want to hide for the rest of the century .

‘Stay,’ says Jasper, into his ear. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Yer mystery, de Zoet , thinks Dean. ‘Sorry.’ Jasper clasps Dean’s shoulder. He’s never, ever touched me before …

Elf has picked up the slack. ‘It’s great to be here, and not in a cell in the county jail facing a charge of aggravated assault with a plywood guitar.’ More laughter. ‘This next is a voodoo curse about art, love and theft. It’s called “Prove It”.’ She checks everyone’s ready. Still floored by Jasper’s empathy, Dean nods.

‘A- one and a- two and a one-two- three —’

Dean steps into the illuminated garden of Cass Elliot’s house. The pool is twice the size of Anthony Hershey’s. Lanterns glow in the trees. Revellers laugh. Lovers enter wigwams and lie in hammocks smoking weed. This is the party I’ve been looking for all my life , thinks Dean. The band’s temporary neighbour Joni Mitchell’s vodka-on-ice voice escapes through a window. The song is ‘Cactus Tree’. Her voice pulses, dives, aches, swivels, regrets, consoles, avows. Dean peers in through the insect screen. Joni’s hair and skin are golden under a marigold lamp. She sings with her half-closed eyes watching her fingers. Her tuning never stays still. This song is DADF#AD with the capo on the fourth fret. I should mess around with tunings more … It changes the voice o’ yer guitar. Mama Cass looks on with a face like that of a woman in prayer. Graham Nash sits cross-legged, gazing up at his candlelit girlfriend. California has worked its King Midas magic on him, too. Everybody here is 15 per cent better-looking than they are elsewhere. A white moth lands on Dean’s watch. Joni finishes the final verse on a strummed discordant ka-dannngggg .

Dean heads for the lookout deck at the end of the garden. Peacocks wander aimlessly underneath the orange tree. A pockmarked half-moon hangs above the wooded mountain. Moonlight is sunlight, bounced. The moon is eclipsed by a black cowboy hat. ‘Congratulations, Dean.’ The cowboy is soft-spoken and intense. ‘Tonight was quite something.’

‘’Ppreciate yer saying so. It had its ups ’n’ downs.’

‘Your downs are higher than most artists’ ups. If I’m any judge of these matters, you’re destined for greatness.’

‘Nobody knows what’s waiting round the next bend.’

‘Prophecy is a fancy name for an intelligent guess. Joint?’ A silver box of reefers is produced from thin air.

‘Why not?’

The cowboy lights one for Dean and slips a second into his jacket pocket. ‘What one thing do all bands have in common?’

‘What one thing do all bands have in common?’

‘One fine day, they cease to exist.’

‘Yeah, but yer can say that ’bout anything.’

‘Jasper and Elf are gifted, yes. But you’re the best songwriter. You also have the looks and charisma to be a solo star. I don’t deal in flattery, Dean. I deal in facts. “Roll Away The Stone” should be a worldwide Top Five hit. With the right marketing, it would be.’

‘What did yer say yer name was?’

‘My name’s Jeb Malone. I work for Mr Allen Klein.’

Dean knows the name. ‘The Stones’ new manager?’

‘None other. Mr Klein admires your songs, your voice, your spirit and your potential. Here’s his direct line.’ Jeb Malone slips a card into Dean’s shirt pocket. ‘If your situation changes vis-à-vis the band, Mr Klein will be happy to discuss your options.’