Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Does that mean Utopia Avenue isn’t going to be doing the soundtrack for—’

The phone line from Los Angeles goes dead.

If that’s Rod Dempsey’s revenge , Dean thinks, I can take it. ‘Sorry,’ he tells the band. ‘There goes our shot at Hollywood glory.’

‘And I thought I was a dark horse,’ says Elf.

‘On the bright side,’ says Jasper, ‘we don’t have to worry about hacking ninety seconds off “Narrow Road” any more.’

‘I can’t say I don’t wish you’d keep it in your trousers,’ says Levon, ‘but Warners’ lawyers were a pain in the hole.’

‘Tiffany Seabrook?’ Griff winces with admiration. ‘Back o’ the fookin’ net, Deano.’ His stomach growls. ‘Is Jerry Garcia still expecting us for a bite to eat?’

710 Ashbury Street is a tall, bay-and-gable, wood-fronted, black-and-white house on a hefty slope. Steep steps climb from the pavement to an arched porch on the second floor. Up on the porch sits a man in a rocking chair. A baseball bat leans against a pillar. To Dean’s eyes, he looks Red Indian . ‘My sisters and I had a doll’s house like this,’ says Elf. ‘The front opened up like a book.’

Jasper faces the afternoon sun. ‘Everything’s a few degrees more real after a day in the studio.’

A small tour bus painted in psychedelic swirls pulls up. ‘This, folks,’ declares the guide, ‘is the home of Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir and Ron “Pigpen” McKernan – better known to the world as rock phenomenon the Grateful Dead.’

‘No mention of the fookin’ drummers,’ says Griff. ‘Typical.’

Tourists jostle to take a photograph. The possible Indian on the porch blesses the coach with a finger.

‘If this house could talk,’ says the tour guide, ‘Ashbury Street would blush. Who dares to imagine what scenes of rock ’n’ roll abandon are going down behind those windows right now?’

The bus pulls off. ‘Fingers crossed,’ says Dean. They begin the ascent, gripping the handrail. A stumble could cost a broken neck. Up on the porch, the possible Indian has a moon grey cat on his lap. ‘Hello,’ says Dean. ‘We’re Utopia Avenue.’

‘You’re expected.’ The possible Indian leans back to call through the half-open door. ‘Jerry, your guests are here.’

The cat rubs against Elf’s legs. Elf picks the animal up. ‘Aren’t you adorable?’ Its leaf-green eyes stay on Dean.

‘Utopians!’ Jerry Garcia, beaming, bearded, flannel-shirted and barefoot, appears. ‘I thought I heard friendly voices climbing up the stairway to Heaven. So, you found us okay.’

‘We told our taxi, “Follow that tourist bus,”’ says Griff.

Jerry Garcia’s smile turns to a grimace. ‘First they revile us, then they turn us into an attraction. Come in. Marty and Paul from Jefferson Airplane have dropped by. They’re cool. Obviously.’

Tibetan mandalas, an American Stars and Stripes and scrolls decorate the wall. Somewhere in 710, John Coltrane’s saxophone is playing. Dope-smoke, incense and the aroma of Chinese food mingle in the air. A few people drift in and out of the kitchen including a girl wearing nothing but a sheet. Nobody seems too sure who lives here and who is visiting. Dean dunks a spring roll in the sweet chilli sauce. ‘God, I bloody love these.’

‘Too bad you’re not staying longer,’ says Pigpen, who, Dean can’t help thinking, looks like his name. ‘I’d take you to Chinatown. One dollar, you eat like an emperor.’

Dean thinks of Allen Klein’s offer to meet and discuss a quarter of a million. ‘Next time.’

At a corner of the table, Jerry Garcia and Jasper are swapping scales over a pair of guitars. ‘This one’s called the Mixolydian,’ the Dead-head tells the Utopian, ‘and it uses a flattened seventh …’ He plays it through. Marty Balin – short, round and mushroom-coloured – is flirting with Elf.

Good luck with that , thinks Dean, as the eerily golden Paul Kantner asks him, ‘So did you ever run into Jimi in his London period?’

‘Only in passing,’ says Dean. ‘We never hung out.’

‘Jimi played at the Fillmore the week after Monterey,’ says Paul. ‘Started below us on the bill, but after a couple of days, he was headlining. What – a – cat .’

Marty slurps noodles. ‘You and me, we play with hands and fingers, right? We taught ourselves, sitting down in rooms. Jimi’s a street guitarist. Plays with his whole body. Calves, waist, hips.’

‘Balls, ass and cock,’ adds Pigpen. ‘He’s the first black cat who white women, y’ know, frothed for. I’ve never seen anything like it. They kinda … dripped lust.’

‘ Some white women,’ Elf corrects Pigpen.

‘Sure, I hear ya. But lots. Guys too, that’s the thing. The first black leather pants I ever saw were Jimi’s.’

‘That scarf round the knee and scarf round the head thing he does?’ adds Paul. ‘It spread through San Francisco faster than the clap during the Summer of Love.’

‘My Summer of Love was spent driving a van up and down the M1 with this lot.’ Griff indicates the band. ‘Right time, wrong place.’

‘’Sixty- six was the year.’ Marty slurps egg-drop soup. ‘The summer before the Summer of Love. You agree, Jerry?’

‘Yup.’ Jerry Garcia looks up from his fretboard. ‘The Summer of Granted Wishes. If you were a band, you had an audience. Bill Graham opened the Fillmore and put on four or five bands a night. You didn’t even need to be that good. A whole new scene sprang up, unlike anything in America. Or on Earth. Or in history.’

‘This is the Bill Graham?’ asks Dean. ‘The same Bill Graham who manages Jefferson Airplane?’

Marty makes a face and looks at Paul, who munches a rice cracker. ‘Uh-huh, though Bill’s only technically our manager.’

‘You’ll hear many views about Bill,’ says Jerry. ‘Detractors say he’s only fed the psychedelic cow to milk it. But he works like crazy, he never denies wanting to get rich, he holds benefits for HALO – lawyers for busted kids – and for the Diggers, a radical community group who feed hungry people.’

‘Most revolutionary of all,’ says Pigpen, ‘he actually pays bands what he promises to pay. There’s none of this “We didn’t make as much on the door as we hoped, so here’s a beer and a ball of dope, now piss off” bullshit. Not ever. Not with Bill.’

‘Levon’s having breakfast with him tomorrow,’ says Dean.

‘He’ll want you for the Fillmore,’ states Pigpen. ‘Word’s getting round about your set at Knowland Park. That was some show.’

Griff twists his fork into his chow mein. ‘How did Knowland Park festival compare to the Human Be-in?’

‘Chalk and cheese,’ says Golden Paul. ‘Knowland Park was to make its organisers money, while pretending not to. The Be-in made nobody jack-shit, but it will make the history books.’

‘It was w aaay bigger,’ says Marty. ‘Thirty-thousand of us at the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park. Haight-Ashbury hippies preaching peace and love. Berkeley radicals preaching revolution. Comedians, poets, gurus. Big Brother with Janis, the Dead, Quicksilver, us. Tibetan chanters to greet the sun.’

‘And no violence,’ says Pigpen. ‘No muggings. Owsley Stanley handing out LSD like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘Free LSD?’ asks Dean. ‘What ’bout the cops?’

‘Acid wasn’t illegal yet,’ says Paul. ‘City Hall hated it, but how could they withhold permission that nobody had asked for?’

‘The mayor of Chicago found a way,’ said Elf.

‘San Francisco’s not Chicago,’ says Pigpen.

‘And just for a while,’ says Jerry, ‘maybe a few months, enough of us believed that a new way of living might be possible. Starting right here. The Diggers gave out free meals. There’s still a free clinic on Haight Street.’