Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

A priest from long ago,

hid in the family tree.

Generations passed until

the priest demanded liberty.

A stranger from Mongolia,

turned me back from suicide.

He walled the priest up in my mind,

and gave me five more years to hide.

When Dean asked Jasper who the priest and the Mongolian were, he just replied, ‘A long story. The short version is, they were voices in my head.’ Jasper now plays a solo. The level’s wrong on his wah-wah pedal and it buzzes, half drowning the guitar. It sounds like an icebreaker smashing through ice. Actually it sounds bloody great , thinks Dean. Jasper must agree: he waves away the sound guy and extends the solo by another round. Even the mishaps are on our side tonight. Jasper steps up to his mic:

One dark day, the walled-up priest

erupted from the past –

I tripped into Hell in the Chelsea Hotel.

I wasn’t the first, I won’t be the last.

A psycho-surgeon for the damned,

A shelter in the gale –

If not for Marinus of Tyre,

I’d not be here to tell the tale.

These two verses have been modified since Dean last heard them: ‘Marinus of Tyre’? Is ‘Tyre’ a place? Or just a tyre? The song’s like ‘Desolation Row’, Dean decides. I can’t say I understand it, but I know ’xactly what it means. He notices Mecca crouching between the spotlights, taking an upwards shot of Jasper. Jasper sees her too, and gives her a look. Since his collapse at the Ghepardo, Jasper’s been present and calm and different. If I believed in curses, I’d say a curse was lifted. Jasper’s third cosmic solo spirals over the showground, like a thing with wings. Dean joins Jasper at his mic and Elf leans into hers for the final three repeats of – verse? Chorus? Bridge? Who cares?

Who shall I say is calling?

Who shall I say is calling?

A ghost now asks a ghost-to-be,

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

The ending is a minute-long Wait for it of whirling dervish keyboards, bass runs, yowling feedback and drum cascades before the band comes to a sudden, perfect stop.

The crowd doesn’t react. What’s wrong?

Dean looks at Elf. Did we fuck it up?

The showground ignites with the noise of eight thousand people yelling, cheering, whistling and clapping as loud as they possibly can.

All that it cost us to get here was worth it.

Griff, Elf and Jasper line up by his side.

Venus is a glint in the eye of the sky.

Utopia Avenue take a bow.

The Narrow Road To The Far West

On Monday, the band went to record in Studio C at Turk Street Studios, a short walk from their hotel. They laid down solid demos of Elf’s ‘Chelsea Hotel #939’, a bluesy waltz about their New York digs, and ‘What’s Inside What’s Inside’, a love song with zithers, an Appalachian dulcimer, and a flute solo played by a friend of Max’s from the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra. They finished at ten p.m., ate at a Chinese restaurant and crawled into bed. Yesterday, the band recorded a diamond-bright version of ‘Who Shall I Say Is Calling?’ during the course of the morning, then an eight-minute composition of Jasper’s called ‘Timepiece’ featuring amplified clockwork, wind chimes, Elf on harpsichord, a backwards twelve-string guitar solo, an ethereal vocal stack and recordings Mecca made on Monday of a funeral bell, the sea and a railway terminus. Today, their last full day in San Francisco, has been spent on two new songs of Dean’s: a riff-heavy number, ‘I’m A Stranger Here Myself’, and a spacier, mystical song, ‘Eight Of Cups’. Dean, Elf and Jasper are offering and accepting suggestions for each other’s songs more than they ever did at their Fungus Hut sessions. Griff listens closely to each new song as its writer introduces it, and by the third or fourth run-through is laying down a rhythm track.

Levon comes from an afternoon of meetings and the band stop to play him the latest take of ‘Eight Of Cups’. He leans back, listens intently, and pronounces, ‘Glorious. Paradise was a few months behind the trend. Stuff of Life is kind of marching in lockstep with the trend. This new stuff is going to be the trend. When Max hears it, he’ll wet his pants.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asks Jasper.

‘Good,’ says Dean. ‘What about Günther?’

‘Günther’s not a pants-wetter, but he will tap along with one finger. During the racier passages, maybe two.’

‘Bloody hell. Yer reckon?’

The light flashes on the telephone. Levon picks up. ‘Hello?’ Pause. ‘Oh, yeah, sure. Put him through.’ Levon cups the mouthpiece and tells the others, ‘It’s Anthony Hershey.’

Of course it is . He’s found out ’bout me ’n’ Tiff . Dean’s not as scared as he should be. What’s there to be scared of?

‘Tony,’ begins Levon. ‘How the hell are you? Did—’ A pause. Levon frowns at Dean. ‘Uh … Okay. Is it anything I can help with?’ A pause. ‘Then let me see if he’s still around.’ Levon cups the mouthpiece and whispers, ‘He wants to speak to you, but he sounds homicidal.’

Let’s get it over with. Dean presses the speakerphone button so everyone can hear. ‘Tony. How’s the weather down in Los Angeles?’

Anthony Hershey’s outraged upper-class voice blasts through the tinny speaker. ‘How dare you? How RUDDY DARE you?’

‘How dare I what, ’xactly, Tony?’

‘Oh, you know ! You’ve VIOLATED my marriage.’

‘Howdy, Mr Pot – have you met Mr Kettle?’ Elf’s jaw has dropped. Griff is frowning. Levon is already making calculations. Jasper lights a cigarette and passes it to Dean. ‘It’s an eight-hour drive up from LA, if yer fancy pistols at dawn. Or I could meet yer halfway.’

‘You’d not be worth the bullet, you pig-ignorant, yobbish, flash-in-the-pan, coke-snorting, wife-snatching … oik.’

Griff has shut his eyes and is shaking his head.

‘Nobody’s perfect, Tony, but at least I didn’t snatch my wife’s career off her and give it to Jane Fonda. I mean, if you were Tiff, would you think, Oh, well, I’ll just have to put up ’n’ shut up ’n’ scrub Tony’s shirts ’n’ undies ? Or would yer think, Sod this for a lark, what’s good for the gander’s good for the goose ?’

‘My wife is the mother of my children!’

‘See, that’s yer problem, Tony.’ Dean mimics Hershey’s accent. ‘“My wife is the mother of my children.” Yer not a feudal lord, matey. Tiff’s not yer possession. She’s a human being. If yer care so much, go back to The Narrow Road to the Deep North starring Tiffany Seabrook. She’s a great actor. So what if she’s not a Hollywood name? Make it anyway. It’ll be a better film. Yer’ll rescue yer marriage.’

Anthony Hershey makes outraged popping, hissing noises, then: ‘I’m not taking marital advice from you! ’

‘Yer bloody need it from someone. Acting is Tiff’s art. You took it from her. Give it back. She still likes yer, deep down. Even if yer do drop her like a dish-rag the moment the phone goes.’

The timbre of Hershey’s anger goes from hot to icy. ‘You’ll do film work in London or LA over my dead body.’

‘Oh, Tony, don’t tempt Death like that. Look, before one of us hangs up on the other, I’m curious: were these glad tidings brought to yer by one Rod Dempsey? East End gangster-y kind o’ voice?’

The director does not say, ‘Who?’: he hesitates, then says, ‘If you touch my wife again, I’ll crush you like a cockroach. If I see you again, I’ll give you the thrashing of your ruddy life. Am I clear?’