Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

The M1 hurtles out of the northern dark, bringing a sign reading ‘HULL 102’ and motorway lamps on tall poles. A juggernaut’s rear-lights stay at a constant hundred yards. The Jaguar is warmer, comfier and quieter than the Beast. It handles like a dream. Safer, too , thinks Griff. ‘If the album sells, would you look out for a better van for us? A Bedford, maybe.’

‘’Course,’ says Steve. ‘You’ll be needing a roadie.’

‘At some point. Why? Fancy the job yourself?’

‘Debs would not be impressed. All them groupies.’

Griff thinks of Venus and Mary and wonders. ‘The musician’s life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be from the outside.’

‘Stardom’s getting stressful, is it?’ asks Steve.

‘One song in the top twenty isn’t “stardom”.’

‘Do you get recognised much?’

‘Can’t say I do. We’ve only been on the telly the once. Dean’s the pretty one, Jasper’s Mr Guitar God, and Elf’s the golden lass in a gang of likely lads. People forget the drummer. Suits me to a “T”.’

A Triumph Spitfire overtakes them in the fast lane.

‘Too fast, you daft twat,’ Steve tells the driver.

‘How’s Debs?’ Griff asks. ‘Still at the hairdressers?’

‘Debs. Aye. She’s a bit … it’s not easy, all her friends are having babies, or second babies, or third, and Debs is pleased for them, of course, but every time, every christening, she’s like, “When’s our turn?” Every month, it’s like, “Maybe this time”. But every time, it’s like, “ Nope ”. It hits Debs really hard.’ Steve lights a cigarette. He’s never discussed the topic as directly as this.

Griff sees it isn’t easy. ‘ Must be tough, like.’

‘There comes a time when you think, Maybe it’s not going to happen for us. So … well, this is our big news, really, Pete. We’ve got a meeting with the adoption people, in the New Year. To explore what’s involved, like.’

Griff glances sideways. ‘Big step, Steve.’

‘Big step.’ Steve pulls out a fancy ash tray from the dashboard and taps his cigarette. ‘Feels right. There’s nothing wrong in hoping for the best, but … after five years, you start thinking, Hang on – I’m a fookin’ ostrich, here . It’s time we face the facts and try something else. ’

‘Does Mum know?’

‘Aye, it were Mum who gave Debs that little nudge. We’ve been thinking about it, but the first step’s hard, like.’

Griff overtakes a slow Morris Minor. ‘I can imagine.’

A motorway bridge passes overhead at 50 m.p.h.

‘I also imagine you and Debs being brilliant parents.’

‘Fingers crossed, eh.’

‘I’ll teach your kids to drum.’

A sign reading ‘HULL 75’ glows, grows and is gone.

‘I always liked that “Hull” is such a short word,’ says Griff.

‘Makes sense.’

‘It’s got the same number of letters as “home”. And starts with an “h”.’

‘So does “hell”, mind.’

‘Aye.’

‘There’s lots of “B”s down south. Brighton, Bristol, Bournemouth, Bedford. They’re bastards. They all merge into one big “ Birmstolmouthford ”.’

‘Do the others know?’

‘Elf’s guessed, but she’s too classy to ask. When I’m driving, she reads the signs out, like she’s talking to herself. Dean hasn’t twigged. I doubt he’s heard of dyslexia. Jasper … who knows?’

‘Is Jasper a bit …’ Steve searches for a word. ‘Touched?’

‘He’s a strange ’un. When Archie Kinnock got him in for the Blues Cadillac, I thought, He’s up his own arse . When I got to know him better, I thought, Maybe all toffs are like that. But Jasper’s no toff. His dad’s a millionaire, but Jasper’s eking out a small dollop of money his granddad left him. He needs Utopia Avenue to work too, or he’s fooked. These days my take on Jasper is, he’s just a bit mental – but who isn’t, to some degree, so live and let live, right? It’s Dean who gets my goat the most. A human fookin’ yoyo! Half the time he thinks he’s God’s gift: the other half, he’s a bag of nerves that he’s not God’s gift. Sure, his mum died when he was a boy and his dad slapped him about, but fook it. We’ve all got a sob story, but we don’t all act like bolshy pricks.’

‘Is he as bad as Archie Kinnock?’ asks Steve.

‘Oh, compared to Kinnock, Dean’s a walk in the park.’

A sharp moon rises over a pale hill.

Steve turns up the heater. ‘What about Elf?’

On the last morning of the Paradise sessions, back in November, Jasper and Dean were twenty minutes late. Griff had been listening to Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’, so he tried keeping a 5/4 time signature, just to warm up for the session. Elf joined in on Dave Brubeck’s piano part. Griff asked himself, How many women in the world could do that? Elf stopped the improv, asked Digger to set up the drum mics and asked Griff to lay down a 5/4 drum track. He kept the five-legged shuffle going for five whole minutes until Elf – now in full producer mode – waved him to a stop. She instructed Digger to replay the drum track through Griff’s headphones, and asked Griff to improvise cymbals, hi-hat, gong and tubular bells over it – anything he wanted – within the 5/4 frame. Elf held her earphones over one ear to catch both the drum-track and Griff’s overlay. ‘Don’t overthink it, Griff. Just play what’s in your head.’

Griff started with a tom-tom and came in with a minute’s solo in the style of Cozy Cole. Then he grabbed his sticks and played a solo, heavy on back-beats and rim-shots, with a snare interlude. Elf watched his hands with a faraway smile on her face. Griff showed off an Art Blakey press-roll; a skipping run of ostinato; an Elvin Jones rolling triplet pulse; some swing era cymbal-playing; and a glorious free-form crescendo as Elf’s hand slowly rose … and … fell. Griff stopped his overlay. The original drum-track ran for five bars.

Thump! two three four five

Thump! two three four five

Thump! two three four five

Thump! two three four five

Thump! two three four five – and …

Stop .

Elf just shook her head. ‘Fabulous.’

Digger’s voice came through on speaker. ‘Got it.’

Griff took off his earphones. ‘So what’s it for? Is it a song you’re working on? Or …’

‘I’d call it a song we ’re working on . If I do anything with it, you’re getting a writing credit.’

Griff imagined their names in brackets on the record label – ( Holloway-Griffin ). The studio door burst open. Dean and Jasper burst in. ‘Our train got stuck in the tunnel for a quarter of an hour up by Tottenham Court Road. Some poor sod threw himself on the line. What’ve yer been up to? Twiddling yer thumbs?’

‘They broke the mould when they made Elf,’ says Griff. ‘I weren’t sure about her at first. I couldn’t see her surviving the slog of clubs. I thought Dean, Jasper and me were fine as a trio. But Levon insisted we ask her for a try out, and … yeah, he was right. I was wrong. She drives. She carries the gear. She’s bullet-proof against hecklers. Onstage, she’s two musicians for the price of one: a fookin’ great keys player – and that voice. It’s instantly her.’

‘That “Mona Lisa” gets under your skin. It makes Debs cry.’

‘Elf’s problem’s her taste in men,’ says Griff. ‘Fookin’ chronic. She’s back with this Australian singer …’

‘Love’s blind,’ says Steve, ‘and is no fan of eye-doctors. So … do you see you and her as an item?’