Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘If you screw up in a folk-club, there’s nowhere to hide. There’s no hordes of screaming girlies to cover you. You’re naked.’

‘Sounds like I’ve been visiting the wrong clubs,’ quips Howie.

‘So the question is,’ says Bruce, ‘which of Elf’s songs is going to be the follow-up single?’

‘Let’s discuss this another time,’ says Elf.

‘We settled this in June, Bruce,’ Dean looks for an ashtray and uses a saucer, ‘while yer were dipping in and out and in and out of Gay Paris. Jasper gets the debut, I get the follow-up and Elf gets the third single. That’s also why Elf got the B side on “Darkroom”. Which she’s paid the same royalties for as Jasper’s A side, by the by.’

‘It might be wiser,’ says Victor French, ‘to see what comes out of the first few sessions at Fungus Hut before deciding.’

‘Victor’s right,’ says Bruce. ‘He’s seen a hundred one-hit wonders die early because they cocked up the second single. The follow up must display the band’s range of flavours.’

Dean’s turning pink. ‘We’re not a bloody ice-cream parlour.’

‘Mate,’ says Bruce, ‘this is the autumn of the Summer of Love. When I hear “Abandon Hope” I hear doom and gloom. To adapt Howie’s pithy phrase, it’s Not Very Now. Elf’s new song, though – “Unexpectedly” – it’s so now, it’s next year. Right, Howie?’

Jasper doesn’t think that Howie has heard ‘Unexpectedly’, but Moonwhale’s chief investor purses his lips and nods. ‘Surely there’s no harm in seeing what comes out of the sessions.’

‘I appreciate everyone’s interest,’ says Elf, ‘but—’

‘If the second hit’s an Elf Holloway song,’ says Bruce, ‘our fans will dig that Utopia Avenue is yin and yang. They’ll think, There’s nothing this band can’t do. Girls will dig the band. “Abandon Hope”’s a fab little tune, Dean, don’t get me wrong, but if it follows on from “Darkroom”, Utopia Avenue’ll get put into a pigeonhole labelled “Cream Clones”. Then when Elf sings lead on the third single, all your blues fans’ll think, What’s this girl doing in my band? Imagine a new Rolling Stones single, sung by some chick. Di- saster . We have to establish that Elf’s a core singer now .’

Dean addresses the room. ‘Ain’t no-one going to say it?’

‘Say what?’ Bruce’s smile is illegible to Jasper.

‘Sleeping with Elf doesn’t earn yer voting rights.’

A few gasps, a few mumbles: everyone looks at Elf.

‘Guys,’ says Levon, ‘let’s just mellow out a little …’

‘How Elf amuses herself in her spare time’s her business,’ says Dean. ‘What is my business is the band. Long ’n’ short of it is, Bruce, yer’ve got no bloody vote in Utopia Avenue. None.’

Elf sighs. ‘Can we all stop this? We should be celebrating.’

‘I don’t want a vote, Dean.’ Bruce speaks like a patient teacher. ‘Yes, I’m Elf’s feller, yes, I’m a lucky man, no, I’m not in the band. But if I see you cruising straight at an enormous iceberg, I’m not going to shut up. I’m going to yell, “ Watch out for that bloody enormous iceberg! ” And if “Abandon Hope” is your next single, I’m afraid that’s an iceberg.’

‘Remind me,’ says Dean. ‘How many Top Twenty hits’ve you had lately, Mr McCartney? I’ve gone ’n’ forgotten.’

Bruce smiles, confusing Jasper. ‘You don’t have to be a Beatle to have valid views about the music business. Dean.’

‘Acting like yer the King of Showbiz when yer’ve got fuck-all on yer CV’ll make yer look a twat. Twat.’

Brakes screech on the cobbles of Mason’s Yard. The stars are out. A few doors away, the Indica Gallery is having a late private view. Jasper hears laughter. ‘Here we go again,’ says Dean. The two Utopians stand before the door of 13A. Four months have passed since they tried to blag their way in using Brian Epstein’s name. The Beatles’ manager took his own life only a fortnight ago. It was global news for a day or two. ‘Yer new pal promised he’d put our names down, yeah?’

‘Yes,’ replied Jasper. ‘Though it was just after he’d had a bump of cocaine in the BBC toilets, so … No guarantees.’

‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Dean presses the golden doorbell. It rings. The window-slot snaps open and the all-seeing eye appears. ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

‘Hi,’ says Dean. ‘Um, so we’re, um, uh, actually—’

‘Mr Moss, Mr de Zoet,’ says the eye. ‘How are you?’

Dean looks at Jasper, then back to the eye. ‘Fine. You?’

‘Congratulations on Top of the Pops ,’ says the all-seeing eye. ‘The first of many appearances, I’m sure.’

‘Cheers,’ says Dean. ‘I didn’t expect, uh …’

The eye-slot snaps shut and 13A opens, revealing a bald man with a wrestler’s build dressed like a stagecoach driver. Music and chatter spill out. ‘Welcome to the Scotch of St James. I’m Clive. The management instructed me to offer you membership. The office’ll send the paperwork along to Moonwhale in the morning, but for tonight, please step inside …’

High walls, beautiful people, next year’s fashion, eyes that don’t miss a trick, a corridor that ends in a salon. Smoke is thick, lamplight is golden, mirrors might be doorways or might be mirrors. Jasper avoids these as best he can. Diamonds dangle, laughter boomerangs, champagne is foaming, walls are tartan, bottles line shelves, rumours are spreading, faces are famous but at odd angles, talent is hungry, talent is assessed, lips are glossy, teeth are shown, perfume is French, yobs are northern, debutantes loll and flirt with the rough and the smooth, age woos youth, youth weighs up the pros and cons, senses commingle. Booths line walls. A real stagecoach sits in a corner. Music throbs up from the cellar. ‘Stick with me, darlin’!’ exclaims a man’s voice, ‘and you’ll fart through silk. ’ Jasper feels as if he’s wandered into a zoo without cages.

Dean mutters in Jasper’s ear, ‘ Look! Michael Caine. George Best. No, don’t look .’

Jasper looks. The famous actor’s laughing at something a swarthy, bearded, shorter man’s saying. ‘Who’s George Best?’

‘Yer seriously don’t know who George Best is?’

‘I seriously don’t know who George Best is.’

‘One o’ the best three footballers on the planet.’

‘Right. I’ll get the drinks. What’ll you have?’

Dean makes a face. ‘What d’yer drink in a place like this?’

‘My grandfather always used to say, “If in doubt, ask for a whisky on ice.”’

‘Perfect. Cheers. I’ll pop to the bogs. Be right back.’

Jasper edges a path to the bar, where three voices are bellowing to penetrate the dim din. ‘Yes, Eppy made the Beatles a fortune,’ says Voice One, ‘but he gave the merchandising away. Eppy was just a furniture salesman who got very, very lucky.’

‘How come the boys stuck with him?’ asks Voice Two.

‘Aha,’ says Voice Three. ‘ My driver heard it from Ringo’s driver that they’d agreed to give him the heave-ho when they got back from their weekend with the Maharishi in Wales.’

‘But Eppy got wind of the dastardly plot,’ says Voice One. ‘See? His “accidental overdose” starts to look less accidental.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ says Voice Two. ‘He swilled down too many pills, that’s all. Eppy always was more ham than bacon …’

‘Stand and deliver.’ Sporting a Mexican hat, Brian Jones is ensconced in a booth with two women. ‘Your whisky or your life. Glad you got here.’ There’s no sign of Dean, so Jasper hands Brian Jones his glass of Kilmagoon. I can always get another when Dean shows up. ‘Meet Miss Cressy –’ Brian Jones indicates a willowy girl with dark ringlets ‘– and Miss Cressy’s bosom friend …’