Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Levon’s office in Moonwhale is not, today, an oasis of calm. A toilet cistern burst in the Duke-Stoker office downstairs. Tradesmen are repairing the damage noisily.

‘Does our music sound manufactured?’ asks Jasper.

‘Are you saying we’re the fookin’ Monkees?’ asks Griff.

‘Not the Monkees’ biggest fans, then?’ asks Amy Boxer.

Levon intervenes. ‘We wish Davy, Michael, Peter and, uh …’

‘Scrotum-chops,’ grunts Griff, from his hangover-recovery position on the sofa, with a black cowboy hat over his face.

‘Micky Dolenz,’ says Elf. ‘Don’t be mean.’

‘We wish the Monkees all the very best,’ says Levon.

Amy Boxer’s fishnet tights make a nylon scratching noise when she crosses her legs. Dean tries to focus on her hands. Ruby fingernails and three or four rings on both hands. Her biro leaves a trail of longhand. Her tendons flex in her forearm. Her accent is Essex. ‘ The – very – best … Got it. So that night at Les Cousins, Elf, when a suave Canadian, a corblimey Cockney, a starving Viking and a wildman drummer invited you to join their merry band, what passed through your mind?’

‘Hang on,’ interrupts Dean: ‘A “corblimey Cockney”?’

Levon’s hand-gesture says, Let this one pass, let it pass.

‘Readers love a good creation myth. “ We formed after getting locked in a barn ” or “ We were adrift in a lifeboat and nearly had to eat each othe r” is so much meatier than “ Our manager assembled us like an Airfix kit. ” Our female readers are also curious, Elf, about being the only girl in a band of guys.’

In Bethany’s office, three typewriters clatter and ping: space has been made for two sister-secretaries from Duke-Stoker.

Elf biffs the question back. ‘How is it for you at Melody Maker ? Pop journalism isn’t known for respecting women.’

‘God, Elf, don’t get me started. Sweary, preening, horny boys who rewrite the rulebook as it suits them. Sound familiar?’

Elf nods wearily. ‘If a man makes a mistake, it’s a mistake. If a woman makes one, it’s “Told you so!” Does that sound familiar?’

Levon looks neutral. Jasper’s staring into space. Griff stays under his hat. ‘Who here treats yer like that?’ asks Dean.

‘In the studio, anyone with testicles treats me like that.’

‘I bloody don’t.’

‘Watch. Watch how everyone reacts to one of my ideas, compared to an idea from a guy. Watch and learn.’

Dean lights a Dunhill. Either someone’s on her period or Bruce is putting ideas into her head.

‘Let’s focus on the forming of the band,’ suggests Levon.

‘So why did you join this band of brothers?’ Amy Boxer’s pen is busy. She’s looking pleased with herself.

Elf sips her coffee. ‘The morning after we met at Les Cousins, we went to Club Zed up on Ham Yard, just to jam for a while. The musical chemistry was good, for four strangers.’ She gestures at the sleeve of Paradise Is the Road to Paradise , propped up on the glass table. ‘It’s only improved since.’

‘Nice …’ Amy Boxer’s pen scratches. The sound of sawing starts up. ‘You and your boyfriend, Bruce Fletcher, put out an EP last year. “Shepherd’s Crook”. Which I enjoyed, by the way. I’m curious, is Bruce jealous of your success in Utopia Avenue?’

‘You’re allowed to say, “No comment”,’ says Levon.

‘Bruce is happy for me and the band …’ replies Elf.

Only ’cause there’s more cash to sponge , thinks Dean.

‘… and he’s put together a demo of his own songs. Our success has got his creative juices flowing.’

Bruce Fletcher doesn’t ‘flow’ , thinks Dean. He dribbles.

Amy Boxer looks a little dubious. ‘Any luck so far?’

‘There’s some early interest. Duke-Stoker have been plugging it in the States, and Dean Martin’s people have been in touch. Gladys Knight too. Shandy Fontayne.’

‘Shandy Fontayne?’ The reporter looks at Levon, reluctantly impressed. ‘When Bruce’s first song goes gold, maybe I’ll interview him. But Elf, don’t you miss your artistic independence, now you have to haggle over musical decisions with these three?’

‘Yer such a bloody shit-stirrer,’ mutters Dean.

The reporter is amused. ‘Just doing my job.’

Elf hesitates. ‘Obviously, a band’s a democracy.’ Elf taps ash from her Camel. ‘You get your own way sometimes, but if you want your own way every time, you have to not be in a band any more.’

Amy Boxer transcribes the quote. ‘You’re sitting quietly at the back, Jasper. First, that surname, “de Zoet”. Am I saying it right?’

‘No. “Zoet” rhymes with “loot”, not with “poet”.’

‘Noted. Is it true you’re from aristocratic stock?’

‘Once upon a time, my father was sixtieth in line to the Dutch throne, but recent babies expelled him from the top hundred.’

This is news to the others. ‘Yer never told me,’ says Dean.

‘The subject never came up,’ says Jasper.

‘Why the fook would it?’ asks Griff.

Jasper shrugs. ‘Does it matter?’

Dean nearly tells Amy Boxer, ‘ That’s Jasper in a nutshell ’ but she’s asking, ‘Do you think of yourself as British or Dutch?’

‘I don’t think about it at all, unless people ask.’

‘And when people ask, how do you respond?’

‘By saying, “I feel both . ” Usually, they reply, “You can’t be both . ” I say, “I feel both . ” And the conversation grinds to a halt.’

She taps her teeth with her biro. ‘What does Bishop’s Ely School think of an alumnus on Top of the Pops ?’

‘No idea,’ says Jasper. ‘TV sets are banned there.’

‘Several musicians I’ve interviewed in the last month used the word “genius” to describe your guitar work. How do you plead?’

‘People should listen to Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton before lobbing language like that at me.’

‘How gratifying was it when “Darkroom” hit the Top Twenty?’

It peaked at number sixteen , thinks Dean, then sank like a bloody stone, despite Top of the Pops.

‘Dean and Elf write too,’ Levon reminds the reporter. ‘That’s why Paradise is so varied and devoid of padding.’

‘I’m curious,’ says Amy Boxer. ‘The first time you played the LP to your record company, how did they react?’

Günther Marx sat in his office, framed by a view of Tower Bridge, and uttered not one syllable. Squally rain tumbled up the Thames. Victor French sat beneath a canvas of red and yellow dots. Publicist Nigel Horner sat by a state-of-the-art Grundig turntable. Paradise Is the Road to Paradise pumped through four Bose speakers. Günther’s gnarly index finger might have tapped during ‘Smithereens’. He tilted his head during Elf’s piano solo in ‘Mona Lisa Sings The Blues’. He made a ‘turn it over’ gesture to Nigel Horner at the end of side one. Jasper’s ‘Wedding Presence’ and Elf’s ballad ‘Unexpectedly’ came and went without prompting a flicker. Dean found himself sweating during ‘Purple Flames’. Elf did a Procol Harum-esque organ solo, which Dean loved and had got Digger to splice onto an earlier take. It ruled the song out as a single, which cut Dean’s field of contenders for the glory and publishing money down to ‘Abandon Hope’ and ‘Smithereens’. Halfway through Jasper’s song ‘The Prize’, Günther’s head began, very slightly, to bob in time. Dean felt sick. ‘The Prize’ finished. The stylus lifted. The Grundig clicked off.

Neither Victor French nor Nigel Horner was going to commit to an opinion before their overlord had spoken. Which he did not do before Dean ran out of patience. ‘Do yer like it or not, Günther? Or are we s’posed to guess?’