Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

It blew up on the launch pad.

Smithereens .

Mona Lisa Sings The Blues

‘We decided an hour ago,’ groans Elf. ‘The third take’s best.’

‘Take six is more precise.’ Levon speaks on the control-room talkback. ‘Dean fluffed that descending scale.’

‘That adds to it,’ insists Elf. ‘It comes just as Jasper sings the word “broken”. It’s one of those happy accidents that—’

‘Jasper’s vocal’s better overall on take six,’ says Levon. ‘And Griff played it more “tick-tock-tick-tock”, too.’

‘If you want “tick-tock-tick-tock”,’ said Elf, ‘just get a giant hairy metronome in a vest to sit in the corner and record that.’

‘If the giant hairy metronome can get a word in.’ Griff lies on a saggy sofa, his angry new scar crossing his left temple. ‘Mosser’s bass bled into my snare. Can we do a take seven with an absorber?’

‘I left the absorber out on purpose,’ says Digger, Fungus Hut’s in-house engineer. ‘Like the Stones. They let it bleed on purpose.’

‘So?’ Dean is perched on an amp, picking his nose and not caring who sees. ‘We’re not Stones clones.’

‘Taking a leaf from the Stones’ book doesn’t make you a clone, guys,’ says the tanned, tooth-whitened, Playboy -esque co-owner of Moonwhale, Howie Stoker. ‘Those boys are a gold mine.’

‘They’re a gold mine ’cause they found their own voice, Howie,’ replies Dean, ‘and not by acting like bloody parrots.’

‘Nobody at Chess Records’d agree the Stones aren’t parrots.’ Griff blows a smoke ring.

‘None of this is the point !’ Elf feels trapped in a circular nightmare. ‘Can we please just—’

‘No, but, guys, here’s an idea.’ Howie Stoker accentuates his speech with hand-chops. ‘Ditch that line, “Down in the darkroom where a lie becomes the truth” and replace it with “sha-la-la-la-la-dah sha-la-la-la-la-bah”. I had dinner with Phil Spector last week and he says sha-la-las are making a comeback.’

‘Definitely a thought, Howie,’ says Levon.

Shoot me first , thinks Elf. ‘Dean, it’s your bass part. Take three or six. Choose one. Put us out of our misery.’

‘I’ve listened to them so much, my ears’re on strike.’

‘That’s why God invented producers,’ said Levon. ‘Digger, Howie and I agree – take six is the one.’

‘We were agreed it was take three,’ Elf tries not to shout because then she’ll be the hysterical female, ‘until you —’

‘Take three led the field for a while,’ explains Levon, ‘but six rallied strongly and reached the finishing line first.’

God give me strength. ‘A badly-fitting metaphor is not a winning argument. Jasper. Three or six? It’s your song.’

Jasper peers out of the vocal booth. ‘Neither. I sound like Dylan with a cold. I’d like to do a croonier retake.’

‘Phil Spector has a saying,’ says Howie Stoker. ‘“Don’t let the good be the enemy of the best.” Is he right or is he right?’

‘I’d say that’s truly sound advice, Howie,’ says Levon.

You arse-licking pun-cracker , thinks Elf. ‘If we had all week I’d agree to try it five hundred ways. But we only have …’ the clock shows 8.31 a.m. ‘… four hours and twenty-nine minutes to do two songs because we’ve spent so much time on this one .’

‘“Darkroom”’s the A side,’ says Levon. ‘This is the song that’ll be coming out of a million radio sets. It has to be perfect.’

‘Shouldn’t we hear how my and Dean’s songs come out before deciding what’s the A side?’ asks Elf. ‘Otherwise—’

‘No, but—’ begins Dean, and a fuse blows in the brain of Elf, who slams her piano keyboard and tells the studio, ‘If anyone talks over me again I will ram my Farfisa up his arse.’

The men look shocked, except for Jasper. Then they swap uh-oh-someone’s-having-her-period looks.

‘Miss Holloway?’ Deirdre, Fungus Hut’s receptionist, is at the door. ‘Your sister’s in Reception. She says she’s expected.’

Bea’s been sent to save me from killing someone , thinks Elf. ‘Okay. Everyone. Do what you want with this damn song. I’m past caring. I’m going to the Gioconda. I’ll be back at nine.’

‘Go ahead,’ replies their manager. ‘It’ll do you good.’

‘I wasn’t asking for permission, Levon.’ Elf gathers her coat and bag and exits without a backward glance.

Out in Reception, fresh air wafts in from Denmark Street. Bea’s looking at a wall of photographs of Fungus Hut’s more famous clients. Elf admires her younger sister’s new boyish haircut, her violet beret, her lilac jacket and knee-length boots. Nails and lips are a matching shade of plum. ‘Little sis. Look at you .’

The sisters hug. ‘Did I go overboard? I was aiming at Mary Quant, but now I’m afraid I’ve gone Mary Mary Quite Contrary.’

‘If I was on the judging panel, I’d offer you a place based on your sartorial genius alone.’

‘You’re biased.’ Bea points to a photograph of Paul McCartney. ‘If I stay here long enough, will Paul waft in on a wave of fabness?’

‘’Fraid not.’ Deirdre looks up from her desk. ‘That was March. Abbey Road was all booked up for the night. Just a one-off.’

‘Let’s get breakfast,’ says Elf. ‘Better that I murder a bacon sandwich than a producer.’

Howie appears from the studio door, hoicking up his trousers. ‘My my. And who’s this delightful young lady?’

‘My sister, Bea,’ said Elf. ‘Bea, this is Mr Stoker, who—’

‘Gave birth to Moonwhale.’ Howie encases Bea’s hand in both of his. ‘Though I keep my fingers in a number of pies.’

Bea extracts her hand. ‘How jolly sticky for you.’

Howie switches his smile to high-beam. ‘And where are you in life’s great adventure, Bea?’

‘Finishing Sixth Form and aiming at drama school.’

‘Good. I’ve always said that beauty has a duty to be seen by the widest possible audience. You want to work in the movies?’

Deirdre slams her typewriter carriage back.

‘That might be a possibility in the long run,’ says Bea.

‘Funny you should say that,’ says Howie. ‘My old pal Benny Klopp – Benny’s a big cheese at Universal Studios – tasked me to scout for English roses during my London sojourn. And you, Bea – I can call you Bea, right? – are one. You got a head-shot on you?’

Bea frowns. ‘Do I have a what on me?’

‘Head-shot. A picture of your’ – Howie draws a frame around Bea’s breasts – ‘head. Benny’s casting a film about Caligula. The emperor. You’d look a- ma -zing in a toga.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said Bea, ‘but I haven’t even got into drama school yet. I have an A-level exam tomorrow.’

‘It’s never too early to make connections in showbiz. Am I right, Elf?’

‘As long as they’re genuine. Sharks, shysters and shite-hawks swim in these waters. Am I wrong, Howie?’

‘Your sister,’ Howie tells Bea, ‘has an old head on her solid young shoulders. Do you know Martha’s Vineyard?’

‘No,’ says Bea. ‘Is it one of those pies you have a finger in?’

‘Martha’s Vineyard is a vacation resort in Massachusetts. I have a home there. Private beach, private quay, private yacht. Truman Capote’s a neighbour. I have a fascinating idea. When Utopia Avenue flies over to conquer the US of A’ – Howie presses his palms together like an Indian saying ‘ Namaste ’ – ‘you come too, and stay at Martha’s Vineyard as my house-guest. You’ll meet Benny Klopp. Broadway movers and shakers. Phil Spector.’ Howie licks the corner of his mouth. ‘Your life will change, Bea. Trust me. Trust your gut. What’s your gut telling you about me? Right now?’