Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘We’ve never officially met,’ said one.

‘But we’ve watched you play,’ said the other. ‘Often.’

‘We’re your biggest fans,’ they said together.

Griff was both spooked and wanted to laugh.

‘I’m Venus,’ said one. ‘As in the goddess.’

‘I’m Mary,’ said the other. ‘As in the virgin.’

‘Here’s yer Guinness, Wild Man o’ Rock.’ Dean handed him a pint. ‘It’s the Battle o’ Waterloo in the bar. Who do we have here?’ He gave Griff a sly-old-dog look; Griff fired back a never-met-’em-before look. ‘This is Venus and Mary,’ he replied. ‘In person.’

‘Hello, Dean.’ Venus and Mary spoke in perfect stereo.

Dean looked from one to the other. ‘Wow.’

‘We’ve seen you eleven times now,’ said Mary.

‘We’ve played Paradise Is the Road to Paradise over two hundred times,’ said Venus. ‘We’re on our third copy.’

‘We’ve memorised the lyrics. We collect your press clippings. Even from the Hull Gazette . We know your birthdays.’

‘Know the colours of our front doors too, do yer?’ joked Dean.

‘Your and Jasper’s door is bright red,’ said Venus. ‘Elf’s door down on Livonia Street is bare metal, but the internal one to her apartment is black. Yours used to be creosoted wood.’ Venus looked at Griff. ‘But now it’s mushy-pea green.’

Before Griff could work out what to think about this, Amy arrived holding a huge Martini. ‘It’s bedlam down there.’ She saw the two groupies and read the situation. ‘My God, I love your look. The lacework on those corsets …’

‘We ransacked our dead grannies’ wardrobes,’ said Mary.

‘We thought, Why leave it to the moths? ’ said Venus.

‘Why indeed?’ said Amy. ‘Are you sisters?’

‘Sisters on Utopia Avenue,’ explained Venus. ‘We enjoyed your feature, Amy. You’re Melody Maker ’s best writer.’

‘By a mile,’ said Mary. ‘You never suck up to bands, but you never shit on them. We think you’re good for Dean.’

Amy glanced at Dean and sipped her drink. ‘I’m glad you deem me to be worthy of him.’

‘He’s glowing,’ said Venus. ‘More than he did when he was going out with that hairdresser. Just don’t break his heart.’

‘Or we’ll eviscerate you,’ they intoned together.

Amy could only smile. ‘I have been warned.’

Mary touched Griff’s pint. ‘May I wet my whistle, Griff?’

Griff found himself handing her his stout. She drained off a quarter and passed it to Venus, who drank a similar quantity.

‘Guinness tastes to thirsty people …’ began Mary.

‘… how blood tastes to vampires,’ said Venus. ‘It’s the iron.’ She handed Griff back his half-empty glass.

Levon, standing on a chair, was hailing the room through a hand megaphone, ‘Okay, folks, okay, folks, a few words, IF YOU PLEASE … ’ The racket subsided. ‘Thank you, one and all, for being here, at the end of a hectic day, a hectic week, a hectic year. We have a lot to celebrate today. Not only the release of Utopia Avenue’s brand new single, Dean’s song “Abandon Hope”…’

A cheer went up and Dean raised a hand.

‘… but also Paradise Is the Road to Paradise .’ Levon held up the LP to louder cheers. ‘Only eleven weeks ago, it was a gleam in the band’s eye. Only seven weeks ago, Elf, Jasper, Dean and Griff finished recording the last song at Fungus Hut. To my mind, the results speak for themselves.’

A ragged shout of approval; much applause.

‘A few reviewers pissed on our strawberries …’ Levon dampened down cries of ‘ Death to Felix Finch! ’ and ‘ Eunuchs in a harem! ’ ‘… but, on the whole, the album earned the reception we’d hoped for. The British music press has no wiser critic than Miss Amy Boxer of Melody Maker – who happens to be with us tonight.’

Cheers broke out. Amy waved. Dean clapped hard.

‘If Amy doesn’t object,’ Levon continued, ‘I’ll read from her review for Paradise .’ The reporter made a be-my-guest gesture, while Levon unrolled a copy of Melody Maker , put on his glasses and turned to the right page: ‘Here we go: Question: What do you get if you cross an Angry Young Bassist, a folk-scene doyenne, a Stratocaster demigod and a jazz drummer? Answer: Utopia Avenue, a band like no other. Their debut LP, Paradise Is the Road to Paradise , is one of the Must Own albums of 1967. The range and quality of the songwriting is formidable. Bassist Dean Moss serves up “Abandon Hope”, a slice of mean streets R&B. “Smithereens” is a lonesome howl for broken dreams. “Purple Flames” is a seven-minute epic of riffs, power, soul-searching and maturity. ’

Cries of ‘Hear, hear’ and ‘Well said, Amy’ break out.

Levon sipped his rum. ‘ Elf Holloway’s ethereal, gutsy voice is well known to her legions of fans. Revelatory on Paradise , however, are her chops as a keyboard player. Listen to her scorching Hammond solo on “Purple Flames”, or the prismatic playing on “Darkroom”. Miss Holloway’s new songs are also top notch. “A Raft And A River” is an electric-folk ode to music, while “Unexpectedly” is a torch song whose torch flares up again. ’

‘White hot, baby!’ Bruce held his arms aloft like a champion, then kissed Elf. Griff looked at Dean. They rolled their eyes.

‘ “Mona Lisa Sings The Blues” is the mightiest of the three. No wittier exposé of the roles a woman has to navigate in a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World has ever been etched into vinyl. A future single, surely? ’ Levon looked up. ‘I think we would all agree, yes?’

More applause. Venus and Mary applauded in rhythmic unison, Griff noticed, like a single pair of hands.

‘ Which brings us, ’ Levon continued, ‘ to Jasper de Zoet. Comparisons with Messrs Clapton and Hendrix are, for once, merited. De Zoet plays acoustic passages, feedback squalls, space-blues with startling alacrity. He wrote Utopia Avenue’s breakout hit, “Darkroom”, the strangest love song ever to grace Top of the Pops. “Wedding Presence” is a dreamy waltz to dance among the chandeliers. De Zoet’s third offering is “The Prize”, about a journey to the brink of stardom. It echoes Dylan’s “Desolation Row” but, like the LP it concludes, it is its own glorious beast. ’ Applause.

Griff fished out a Marlboro, put it into his mouth and patted his pockets to locate a lighter; Mary was ready with a match. Venus blew it out. Their eyes were four full moons.

‘Home lap,’ said Levon. ‘ To overlook Griff Griffin’s role in Utopia Avenue would be criminal. Griffin chugs like Charlie Watts, explodes like Keith Moon, swings like Ginger Baker. ’ Venus and Mary gently squeezed Griff’s right and left biceps. It was both spooky and arousing. ‘ The Moss-Griffin rhythm section is the invisible force that unifies this remarkably diverse album. Paradise Is the Road to Paradise …’ Levon swept his gaze around the upstairs room ‘… has the makings of a classic. Amy, I could not have declared my love for Utopia Avenue so skilfully myself.’

More applause. It was all getting too lovey-dovey for Griff. He put down his glass on the mantelpiece.

‘Where’re yer off to?’ asked Dean.

‘Busting for a wazz.’

Graffiti was written on the calamine-pink wall at eye level above the urinal. Maybe it was witless smut, or maybe it was witty smut, but Griff couldn’t muster the energy to turn the letters into words, so he let the hieroglyphics be. The plughole gurgled. He sucked the last life out of his Marlboro and dropped the stub into the small yellowish pond. It hissed. The door banged open and Friday night pub noise swilled in. A moment later Dean was unzipping his fly at the adjacent urinal, singing the theme tune to Born Free. ‘So,’ said Dean. ‘Venus ’n’ Mary.’