The Alternative Hero (41 page)

“Okay, one at a time. Let’s have it.”

It’s pretty much autopilot from here on in. You like press conferences.
There’s not the inconvenience and pressure of having to talk to just one person, and you can play off all the daft stuff hacks say in public. It’s like playing a gig with none of the music and just the between-song banter, which has always been your favourite part. Petra passes by occasionally, refilling your champagne glass; none of the other guys say an awful lot, but then they never do. Overall, you prefer it that way. Stops them from saying anything stupid, like that time in Zurich when Dan described Switzerland as “basically part of Germany.”

In the main, the session is a public hearing of the battle currently raging between the older writers (Kenny Mann, Vincent Bates) and the newer ones (Blair Cooper, Toby Johnson, plus that knob from
Craze)
over who can out-hip and out-reference the other. You’re a little disturbed to find you usually agree with the older ones, even Mann, whom you and Gloria always detested. You’ve never laughed so hard as when she socked him in the face that time. “Hell hath no fury …,” etc.

But you can’t help feeling irritated when some little shit from
Select
smugly notes “the unexpected success of
The Social Trap.”
Time for a spot of your sleeping-alligator routine.

“I’m sorry … ‘unexpected’?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand. Why was it unexpected?”

“Well …”

“Did you read that somewhere? Was it in
Music Week?”

“Well, you’ve been away for a while, and—”

“A year.”

“But, I mean, since your last studio release—”

“Which sold four million copies, yes.”

“And the musical map has—”

“Ooh, here we go, it’s a geography lesson! The musical map. Is
that a map that whistles a Black Sabbath song when you stick a pin in Birmingham?”

“No, but—”

“It’s never as cut and dried as that, my friend.”

“Sure, but what’s your view on the whole Britpop movement?”

“Britpop?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is Britpop?”

“Um …”

“Brit. Pop. Brit …
ish
. Ah! And Pop …
ular music
. I get it! Well,
we’re
Britpop! The Beatles were Britpop. Manfred Mann were Britpop. The Real Thing, Hot Chocolate, Thompson Twins, The Lotus Eaters, The Associates, The Goombay fucking Dance Band.”

“Actually, they were German,” puts in Martin, above the rising murmurs.

“Well done,” you smile, clinking Martin’s champagne glass with yours and knocking it back. “Spotted the odd one out. Martin Fox, ladies and gents! Petra, can I have a refill?”

Amazingly, the journo is persisting.

“Okay, call it the current explosion of new music. What do you think of it?”

There’s a bit of unease in the air and you realise a serious answer might be required.

“Oh, it’s all
right
. I mean, I can sort of see why you lot are getting your knickers in a twist over it, that’s pretty predictable. But in reality, it’s just a decent crop of new bands, and they’re all doing fairly decently. It happens. I’m not convinced it’s earth-shattering. I haven’t heard anything that, like, radically influences me or sends me scratching my head back to the drawing board. But it’s pretty healthy, I s’pose. A fuck sight better than the crap around when we first came out. I quite like Sleeper, she writes good lyrics. Supergrass
are cool. Will that do? Can I start talking about The Goombay Dance Band again now?”

Heidi picks a serious-looking chap at the back.

“Kai Johansson,
Svenska Dagbladet
, Stockholm. I’d like to ask who you would like to be number one from Blur and Oasis.”

Feeling the need for some variety you look at your band.

“Guys?”

“Uh … dunno,” mutters Martin.

“Blur,” answers Craig, firmly.

“Anyone but Oasis,” offers Dan.

“And you, Lance?” asks the writer.

“Neither. I think both songs are shit.”

“But which band do you prefer?”

“Slade.”

Then you notice that tool from
Craze
has his hand in the air. You’re bored. Time for one more scrap, after which it really would be nice to see some music.

“Heidi, pick him,” you instruct.

“Who?”

“The guy over there from
Craze,”
you say over the microphone in a stupidly loud voice, pointing at him, “who’s had his hand up for about forty minutes.”

“Okay, you,” she squeaks.
Craze
bloke smiles cordially, so you smile back even wider.

“Tony Gloster,
Craze.”

“Tony! Welcome! How
nice
that you made it along. How …
difficult
it must have been to drag yourself away from Noel Gallagher’s arsehole.”

You’re rewarded with a gratifyingly loud blend of laughter and outrage.

“There’s no need for that,” frowns Gloster.

“Oh, yes? Just like there’s no need for some of those intelligent, thought-provoking things you wrote in your album review. What was it … ‘like a bitter, alcoholic old uncle arriving for Christmas—they’re back’?”

“Er … it’s called a bad review. Live with it.”

“Well, you’re right, it most certainly
was
a bad review. And there was another thing that tickled me: ‘Quite why Webster and others believe they are required in 1995 is baffling.’ You want me to explain it to you?”

“If you want.”

“Was that what you put your hand up to ask?”

“Well, as you haven’t given me a chance to even speak yet—”

“Aw … Tony. Poor Tony! Sorry, please … ask me what you wanted to ask me.”

“It’ll be a letdown now.”

“Just ask, and ye shall be answered.”

“I was just wondering whether you saw yourself as part of, or an alternative to, the current explosion?”

“Oh, booooring,” you moan, having expected something far more fruity. “Why would anyone want to know
that?”

“I think it’s important. For you, and for your fans.”

“Well, I must tell
you
that I really don’t understand why we have to be either, but I would also imagine that none of our fans give the slightest shit as long as we keep making good records. I mean, who cares? Really?”

“Were you ever concerned that the Magpies would be superfluous to the whole thing?”

“Sorry, Tony, I didn’t go to university. I don’t understand words with more than two syllables.”

“Did you worry that you’d be rendered unnecessary?”

“Hmmm …” you think, glancing over at Heidi, “that one’s got
five
syllables. Oh, I dunno. You tell me. Why would we be?”

“Well, you’re part of the old guard.”

“The
old
guard. The dear old guard.”

“Pretty much everyone else has been swept away.”

“Swept away! Yes, sweep us away, under the carpet, before Alan McGee spots us!” you cry, swigging a bit more champers. “Whoever said press conferences weren’t fun? Sorry, Tony, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you have. All your ilk have been eclipsed. The Cure. The Wonder Stuff. The Mission. James. Pop Will Eat Itself. Carter. Jesus Jones.”

“Ha! And you’ve forgotten Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Eat and Kingmaker, and why don’t you throw in Gaye Bikers on Acid and Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts while you’re at it? Are you getting all this off the back of an old Camden Palace flyer, or what? You see … you’re looking for answers that don’t exist, Mr. Gloster. You’re reading me names of bands who burned out long before this Britpop thing reared its trendy little head. But we, the Thieving fucking Magpies—headliners of
this festival
, in case anyone’s forgotten—we have
always
been capable of moving on, and we’re not stopping now just ’cos there’s suddenly a cool new scene for all you cool new people to shake your record bags to. I mean, why the fuck shouldn’t people continue listening to us? Why is it such a fucking surprise? It’s not as if we’re doing something completely contrary to what’s happening now. We use guitars. We’re British. We write real pop songs about real life. And we still rock harder than fucking anyone. A lot of the new bands rock about as hard as Simply Red.”

You grin at your own gag and glance at the rest of the band. They look as if they’re waiting to be called at the dentist’s. For God’s sake,
why don’t they ever help out in these situations? You’ll have a right go at them afterwards.

But Gloster, unbelievably still wants to talk.

“But you represent a bygone era.”

“No, we don’t, my little friend. That’s just what
you’ve
decided, because the goths and grebos used to dig us, and ’cos we’re from Reading as opposed to Stockport or wherever. It’s total and utter bullshit. I bet you don’t ask Shaun Ryder the same question. If you do, he’ll probably sit on you, and
then
you’ll be sorry.”

“Does a backlash scare you?”

“Hey-hey, it’s the backlash!” you whoop, getting up and doing a little jig. “Welcome back to the backlash, ladies and germs. No, I don’t fucking think so. We’ve already had four of the fuckers. One after each album. We’d survived our first one probably before you finished your GCSEs.”

You turn and nudge Martin in the ribs, which prompts a ferocious glare.

“Wha’sa matter with you?” you hiss at him. “Why don’t you cunts fucking cheer up?”

“What about from the public?” persists Gloster.

“Oh, Tony … Tony, Tony, Tony, stop being so bloody tiresome. I want to go and watch dEUS. Please can I go and watch dEUS? Mum?” you shout over to Heidi. “Can we stop now?”

She cocks her head to suggest you should answer the last question.

“Oh, all right. No, we won’t be having a backlash from the public, Mr. Gloster, thank you very much. We’ve got a platinum record, and you can all just fuck off.”

You stand up, and walk straight back to the dressing room without a word. Well, it’s an appropriate end to an appropriately dull conference, isn’t it? These thing are never any fun anymore.

˙  ˙  ˙

Oh, and the band come storming in a few minutes later to have a go at you. Well, that was inevitable. But you give as good as you get, telling them they’re all zombies, and that it’s by behaving precisely as
you
just did that the Magpies retain their edge, their abrasive style, their reputation for biting intelligence and lyrical wit. Surprisingly, the most sensible comeback to this comes from Craig.

“But you didn’t sound intelligent just then, L. You sounded
disturbed.”

You open another beer and consider this charge. How you’d love to tell him that, in fact, you
are
a bit disturbed. Actually, that you’re completely lost; that you feel you’ve lost a limb since Gloria vanished, and that of
course
you blame yourself for everything that happened, for taking such colossal offence all those years ago when she decided, purely on the strength of one of her cosmic experiences, that she wasn’t destined to be with a rock star after all, and that you then turned into such a promiscuous fool, making sure every girl you fucked was as drop-dead gorgeous as possible just to punish her, gradually grinding her down to the point where she started to destroy herself, and then … well. You’d prefer not to think about that. But you can’t tell the band any of this. Any kink in your armour and you’ll be ripped apart. You’d also love to inform Dan and Craig that your day didn’t have exactly the most wonderful start with Martin’s little announcement; but you gave him your word, and Lance’s word is Lance’s word. That’s one part of your reputation that you
never
want sullied.

The argument winds down and you suggest to Craig that, at last, some music might be a good idea, so—taking a couple of cans for the journey—you stride back out into the sunshine.

˙  ˙  ˙

At this point, your day considerably improves. You’re heading in the vague direction of the second stage (the
Loaded
stage, as Craig corrects you) to catch a bit of dEUS, but, as usual with festivals, there are all sorts of diversions on the way. You’re wearing your shades and (a nice effect, you thought) a pith helmet, but the number of fans who still recognise you is astonishing. Or maybe they recognise Craig, then put two and two together. You’re not prone to self-doubt, or even band-doubt, especially with the album flying out the shops as it has been, but today’s press conference succeeded in making you a little nervy, so the colourful collection of long-haired boys and girls who approach as you traipse along is hugely gratifying.

“Hi, Lance, wicked to have you back, geezer.”

“Lance, fucking can’t
wait
for later, man.”

“Oh my God, it’s you! Can you sign this?”

“Theeeeevers! Spirit of eighty-nine, mate.”

“Or eighty-eight?” you laugh.

“Craig!” says another. “Fuck, you’re my fave drummer of all time! Well, after Dave Grohl.”

“It’s always after Dave Grohl, innit,” Craig laments.

“That’s okay,” you counter, cracking open another beer. “With me it’s usually after Mike Patton, and how do you think
that
feels.”

Some dudes are kicking a football about.

“Lance! On the ’ead, mate!”

You join in for a few minutes, delighted to be in the real world. An insane-looking collection of misfits are knocking out something familiar on the main stage
(“Baby we don’t love ya, baby we don’t love ya, baby, yeah!”)
, perfect for a sunny day in the country. Then it’s all high fives and “see you tonight”s and you’re off again, towards the red big top on the far side of the arena.

“Gonna be good tonight, then,” volunteers Craig.

“Of course it is, Mr. Spalding,” you smile. “Course it is.”

The fun continues as you arrive at the
Loaded
stage, where dEUS are midway through administering a shambolically energetic set to the couple of thousand punters who pack the tent. An ecstatic bloke in a Weezer T-shirt gives you and Craig a hug, then runs off to buy you a couple of pints. Some very young girls demand you sign their brand-new Aylesbury ’95 long-sleeved tops (“It’ll ruin a nice top, though,” you merrily protest). You push on forwards, shaking hands with various people every few minutes, enjoying the band, gleefully allowing yourself to be pushed and pulled as everyone bounces up and down to the chorus (
“She knows where she rolls when she goes for the doorknob”)
and supping your pint of snakebite. Funny he got you snakebite. It must be years since you had it. He probably thinks that’s all you drink. It’s strong stuff.