Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

A ghost of a smile. ‘Good lad.’

‘Sorry if I woke yer.’

‘There’s no nicer way to be woken.’

‘Do yer want to hear another one?’

‘“Play it again, Sam”.’

So Dean stuck with ‘The Tennessee Waltz’. The son focused on the fretboard, and missed the exact moment his mother slipped away …

Jasper plays a pyrotechnic solo at the end of ‘Smithereens’. Elf lays down glowing slabs of Hammond chords. Griff is drumming thunder and lightning. Dean’s fingers, not Dean, are playing his bass-runs, letting Dean look out over two hundred heads in the annex of the Captain Marlow. He glimpses friends who want to see him succeed; one-time rivals who hope he crashes and burns; older men who see in the band something they once had, or once could have had; young men out on the piss and the pull; girls with Camparis and Babychams and cigarettes; and Dean thinks, Gravesend, yer punched my face, yer kicked my balls, yer told me I was useless, a joke, a tosser, a fairy, but LISTEN to Utopia bloody Avenue. We’re getting bloody good and behind that scowl, that sneer, yer know it. There’ll be a few of Harry Moffat’s cronies out there. You tell him we set this place on fire. Jasper reaches the end of round one. Dean looks over and, as he expected, Jasper keeps his eyes on his Strat’s fretboard to signal that he wants another round. Most people have never heard a wah-wah pedal played live, and Jasper’s mastery of the gadget is stupendous. I’ll take credit for the song, mind, thank yer very much. A couple of practices ago, Elf suggested changing the lyrics from ‘All dreams end as smithereens’ to ‘Smithereens are seeds of dreams’. Dean tried it, and the song’s gone from being a downer to an upper. Jasper suggested Elf sang harmony on that one ‘seeds of dreams’ line: and everyone in the room, Pavel Z included, groaned with pleasure. Towards the end of his time in Battleship Potemkin, Dean gave up sharing his songs: that band always made the songs worse. Utopia Avenue is the opposite. The band is a song-refining machine.

Jasper’s coming down from his solo; Dean looks at Griff who nods; four bars to go … three bars to go … two … one … and an Okay look from Elf … and Jasper pauses – they all count off a shared clock – one, two, three, four – and smash the ending into drummed, pounded, plucked, twanged molecules …

Applause is the purest drug , thinks Dean. He wipes his face on a cloth beer mat and slurps his pint of Smithwick’s. ‘Cheers, everyone.’ The applause goes on and on. There’s less velveteen on view than you get at a London gig, more plain shirts, denim and flat caps. The Captain Marlowe is a both-fish-and-fowl pub. It’s just a few doors down from the Gravesend Working Men’s Club and the first good pub the men from Blue Circle Cement reach with their pay-packets. A hipper crowd – by Gravesend standards – is lured in with pinball, a jukebox and a live act twice a month. Off to one side, Levon is standing with a man Dean doesn’t know. If he’s a boyfriend, they’d better be bloody careful . The applause is subsiding, and Dean leans into the mic. ‘Thanks for coming out, and thanks to Dave and Sylv for having us.’ He peers at the bar at the back where Dave Sykes, the teddy-bear-faced landlord, waves back. ‘I’m Dean Moss, I’m Gravesend born ’n’ bred, so if I still owe anyone a fiver from when I skipped town, I’ll pay yer back after the show –’ Dean tightens his G-peg ‘– if yer lend me a tenner first.’

Griff fires off a comedy Psssh … ta-boom !

‘So here’s the band: on keyboards, Miss Elf Holloway!’

Elf plays the intro to Beethoven’s Fifth on the Hammond. A genius calls out, ‘Yer can play with my organ any time, darlin’!’

‘Sorry’ – Elf uses her stock reply – ‘but I don’t play on toy instruments.’ Griff does another Psssh … ta-boom !

‘On drums,’ says Dean, ‘from the People’s Republic of Yorkshire: Peter “Griff” Griffin – or, for short, Griff!’

Applause. Griff performs a drum explosion; stands and bows.

‘On guitar,’ says Dean, ‘Mr – Jasper – de Zoet !’ Jasper wah-wahs the final line of ‘God Save The Queen’. Applause.

Someone calls out, ‘Jasper the fuckin’ Fairy, more like!’

Jasper steps forwards, shields his eyes and scans the crowd for the heckler. ‘Who’s talking to me?’

‘Over ’ere!’ The heckler waves. ‘Get a fackin’ haircut!’

Shit , thinks Dean, here comes Brighton Poly part two.

Jasper peers closer. ‘What? And look like you ?’ He said the first thing that came into his head, but even the heckler’s laughing. Dean hurries things along while the going’s still good. ‘This next one’s by Jasper. It’s called “Wedding Presence’ , and a- one and a- two and a-one two three —’

Next up is Dean’s old song ‘Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time’, a gutsy, rootsy ‘Mona Lisa Sings The Blues’, Booker T’s ‘Green Onions’, ‘Darkroom’, a ten-minute ‘Abandon Hope’ – by the end the whole room is yelling out, ‘ I’ll rip-rip-rip your heart out, just like you ripped mine ’ as if they’ve known it for years – ‘A Raft And A River’, an Animals-esque ‘House Of The Rising Sun’, a beefed-up ‘Any Way The Wind Blows’ and The Beatles’ ‘Day Tripper’ sung by Elf with all the ‘she’s’ turned into ‘he’s’. For a second encore they play the Gravediggers’ best song, ‘Six Feet Under’, penned by Dean when he was seventeen. Dean’s two fears – that the trippiness of Jasper’s songs would be lost on the brown ale crowd, or that Gravesend wouldn’t let Elf play without bombarding her with smutty heckles – don’t come to pass, and when Dave Sykes switches on the house-lights Dean is sweaty, his voice is croaky and his fingertips are raw, but he’s high on the gig. Dean, Jasper, Elf, Levon and Griff make an impromptu rugby scrum by the drum-kit.

‘Lads, we fookin’ stormed it!’ states Griff.

‘You can say that again,’ says Elf.

‘Lads, we fookin’ stormed it,’ repeats Griff.

‘That is such a corny gag,’ says Elf.

‘Sensational,’ says Levon. ‘Something’ll happen soon. Yer can’t play that well and word not get out.’

I bloody well hope so , thinks Dean .

‘Your turn, Jasper,’ says Elf.

Everyone looks at Jasper. ‘To do what?’

‘Say how you fookin’ feel, you nonce,’ says Griff.

Jasper considers. ‘I feel … we’re getting better?’

Their circle of five is entered and dispersed by the world. ‘Yer’ll be paying me back that fiver any day soon,’ says Kenny Yearwood.

Dean says, ‘Believe me, I cannot wait.’

‘If Mum could’ve seen yer,’ says Ray, ‘she’d be so proud.’

‘She did see it, love,’ says Aunt Marge, pinching Dean’s cheek.

More encounters with old classmates, teachers and people from Dean’s old life continue until, after a couple of pints, a girl comes up. ‘You won’t remember me,’ she begins, ‘but—’

‘Jude. Brighton Poly. Yer lent Elf a guitar. How are yer?’

She’s pleased. ‘You need a record deal. Right now.’

‘I’ve written to Santa,’ says Dean. ‘Fingers crossed.’

‘It’s only July. But have you been naughty or nice?’

Flirty flirty. ‘How’s Gaz? Was that his name?’

‘I do not know and I do not care to know.’

Praise be the Lord. ‘I’m dead sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah, I bet you are.’

Dean inhales her perfume. ‘What’re yer doing here?’