The Alternative Hero (42 page)

“Better take it easy, I s’pose,” Craig comments. “Long time ’til we play.”

“Shit,” you grin. “Forgot we had to actually play later. Maybe you could get Stan to do it for me.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’m sure Jerry’ll do a fine job on the drums too.”

You watch a few more songs then wander out again. Funny old thing, the grand old British music festival: what a bizarre rock on which your career has been built. But it’s been good to you. Your career, from such strange beginnings: when an odd but pretty girl called Rosamund gave you that first compilation tape in 1983—Bauhaus, Gene Loves Jezebel, The Cure and The Sisters of Mercy on the first side; The Smiths, Orange Juice, The Pastels and The Lotus Eaters on side two—and you realised, with her help, that you could do it too. You dreamed together; you got drunk together; you even changed your names together. How you loved her. Gloria, that crazy, wonderful, messed-up girl, who remained so bizarrely adamant that
she wasn’t destined to be yours, but who guided you every step of the way. And how the indie world welcomed you with open arms back then, and how (you believe) you’ve done your bit in return.

And you realise what a prick Martin is for suddenly rejecting it all. Who knows what will happen now. You’ve still got tonight, of course. But as you wander across the dusty field—past the stalls, the coloured hats, the endless piles of army-surplus stuff, the burger vans, the herbal pills that never work, the beer tents, the merch stands (the latest Magpies top looks particularly good, you notice, stretched out at the top of the display board), the noodle-eating, pint-supping, sunbathing masses and the ever-changing sonic palette of jagged chords and thumping beats—you realise that in some strange way it feels like you’re saying goodbye. You pause, undisturbed for a second, blinking at the gradually setting sun, trying to take it all in, just in case you never see it again. If this really was it—tonight—you figure it’d be okay. No one could say you hadn’t had a good run. You’ve plenty of fine memories, and enough pounds left in the bank. Some mistakes too, many regrets and a lot of pain, which you know you’ll have to deal with over time. But on balance, this is a world which has made you happy.

“You all right, L?” asks Craig.

“Yeah, man,” you smile, watching some fool doing a bungee jump in the distance. “Nice festival. Glad we picked it, really.”

Slowly the sound from the looming main stage overtakes everything else as you make your way back, and you catch a glimpse of the band. You’re not sure who they are—neither is Craig—but they seem to be a graduate of the more recent, retro school of thought, competent but not madly impressive, a load of old Rolling Stone chords in search of a decent song. Could it be Shed Seven? No, they’re better than this. As are The Bluetones. But it’s along those lines. With your
slightly superior headliner’s cap on, you muse aloud to Craig that it’ll “all be over in six months”—then quietly take it back. Gloria used to gravely warn you about the karmic consequences of slagging bands while watching them. The woman usually had a point, as the next few minutes prove.

Firstly you notice that everyone in this particular corner of the festival has short hair. Then you realise all the clothes are different—tighter-fitting, smarter than usually seen at festivals; velvet suits, shirts, ties. Either that, or more on the sporty side, Adidas T-shirts, vintage trainers. It might be your imagination, but people also seem to be drinking more. Which isn’t a completely bad thing; after all, you’ve been at it all day. That reminds you, there’s another can of beer in Craig’s bag, so you steady yourself by cracking it open. Another change is that no one’s recognised you for a while. Again, not a disaster in itself, but substantially different to elsewhere.

“This is called ‘Haley’s Blues,’” announces the vocalist. “This is for all you lot to shake about to. It’s our last song. Have a blindin’ evening, enjoy Gene and The Boos, and remember to go somewhere else for the headliner, eh?”

A whoop of laughter slaps you in the face and you feel like you’re watching your own funeral.

“What a cunt,” observes Craig, but you’re too shocked to reply. “Come on, let’s get outta here. I’m gonna smack him if I see him backstage.”

Backstage. You look at your watch, and then it hits you.

“Shit, hang on! It’s six thirty.”

“Yeah?”

“This is that band! That guy … the guy who was talking to the security bloke on our dressing room when we arrived!”

“Which means?”

You squint at the stage. There he is, in his red tracksuit, laying into his Hammond organ.

“It’s him. These are the people who are trying to fuck us, Craig. I bet that …”

You look around the audience, trying to spot someone you recognise. You’re standing handily near the entrance to the VIP enclosure, so you bet there’s … yes, there he is: Tony Gloster, wigging away in his corduroys and his bloody Graham Coxon spectacles … and there’s that idiot Blair Cooper, a little further forward, unmistakable with shades on his head and a Creation record bag.

“Fucking
arseholes,”
you pronounce, grabbing Craig’s arm and hurrying towards the backstage entrance.

“Lance, I really don’t think you should have anything more to drink for a while.”

“Whatever.”

A group of chaps are just leaving the enclosure as you approach. One of them sniggers as he sees you.

“What’s so fucking funny, dickhead,” you snarl as you pass him.

“It’s all over,” the guy replies clearly.

Followed by more laughter.

You remain still and think for half a second; then you’re off again, storming past the guard by the VIP entrance, holding your pass right in his face.

“Don’t even
think
about saying I’ve got the wrong one.”

He doesn’t. What he does say, almost out of earshot as you flounce off, is the same phrase again: “It’s all over.”

“What did you fucking say?” you scream, turning on him.

“Nothing,” he shrugs innocently.

“Wanker!”

You dash away again. Once inside the enclosure, Craig catches up with you.

“Lance, for the second time today, you are behaving like an utter cock.”

“No, Craig!
Listen!
Call me hysterical, man, but it’s a fucking conspiracy.”

“Erm … hysterical,” he obliges.

“No, no,
think
about it! Haven’t you heard what they’ve been saying to me?”

“No, all I’ve been hearing is you mouthing off to people.”

“They’re saying ‘It’s all over,’ didn’t you hear them? The prick in the red tracksuit said it, then the security guy by our hut said it, and that little cock guarding our gear before,
he
said it. Hasn’t anyone said it to you?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Oh, fuck it …”

You glare around at the assembled drinkers and the little queue of girls by the toilet, most of whom are gaping in your direction. It’s not something they’re used to, the lead singer of the headline band arguing with his drummer in the middle of the backstage area. “Listen, Craig, whatever you think, do me a favour, will you? Please go over to the equipment tent and check everything’s okay. One of our guys should be in there with the gear. If he’s not, come straight back to the dressing room and tell me. Will you please just fucking do that for us?”

“Okay! Okay,” Craig says, holding his hands up in surrender and backing off.

You’re getting all hot and hassled now, so you whip off your pith helmet. Aware that appearances need to be kept up, you tidy your hair, take a deep breath and walk at a more casual pace back towards the dressing room. Unfortunately, this is the wrong thing to do. Your reduced speed means you can clearly hear, at least five times as you cross the makeshift beer garden, different people saying the words
“It’s all over.” Not wanting to look like a total, frantic fool, you ignore every single one of them. Then, just as you’ve reached the other side, a small female insect pounces.

“Lance, hi! Mari Wechter, MTV Europe.” Here she is, with her beach-ball-sized microphone and her cameraman lurking behind. “Would now be a good time to have a few words? I’m sure viewers all over the continent would love to hear—”

“Er … not such a good time right now, no.”

“Oh, just for a minute. We’re very excited to see you and your band back on the festival circuit. Couldn’t you just—”

“Sorry, Mari, can we make it slightly later, I need to—”

“It’ll only take thirty seconds of your time. We can’t wait to see the—”

“Not!
Now!”

It takes every molecule of willpower you possess to not grab her by the shoulders and shake all the slick, televisual enthusiasm out of her. She gets the message, coughs with surprise and turns back to the cameraman.

“Maybe it
is
all over,” she mutters.

Your patience exhausted, you sprint the rest of the way back to the dressing room, where thankfully a different security guard awaits. This is a big guy, reassuringly older, perhaps in his mid-forties, with short blond hair and a slight beer belly.

“Hello, Lance,” he says, warmly holding out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m going to be doing your dressing room security for the rest of the day.”

“Ah. And your name is … ?”

“John,” he replies. “Great to be working here. I’ve been a big fan of yours since
Lovely Youth.”

“Oh … right! Well, nice one, John.” West Berkshire accent, you
note, just like your mum and dad. You gesture towards the hut. “Anyone home?”

“Yes, I think your young lady is, as a matter of fact.”

You find yourself a little caught out by his friendliness. However, your initial character appraisal says there’s something sincere about him; perhaps not the most interesting man in the world, maybe a slight jobsworth, but he seems trustworthy, which must go a long way in the security business.

“Listen … John,” you confide, leaning in slightly, “do me a favour, will you? If … if anyone tries to
give
you anything, like a bribe or anything like that … will you let me know?”

“A bribe?” he frowns.

“It’s just that … there’s been some weird stuff happening today. I don’t know if you’ve seen anything … have you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, anyway … be sure to tell me if anything untoward occurs.”

“I’ll do that, Lance.”

“Thanks,” you smile, patting him on the shoulder. “Oh, and whatever they offer you, I’ll double it,” you chuckle.

He looks confused for a second, then laughs awkwardly as you hop up the steps of the hut.

Katie is inside, managing to smoke, nurse a glass of wine, talk on her phone and apply some after-sun lotion to her sunburnt shoulders all at the same time.

“Hang on, he’s here,” she mutters. “I’ll call you back … Baby! Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, about,” you sigh, flopping down on the sofa next to her.

“I heard,” she begins, kissing you on the forehead, “that
someone
lost their rag at the press conference.”

“Oh, yeah? You heard wrong.”

“Well, that’s what Dan told me,” Katie adds. “He said you told all the journos to fuck off and then stormed out.”

“Oh, Christ!” you exclaim, standing up again and opening the fridge. “Where the fuck is everyone’s sense
of humour?
I was
joking
the whole way through that conference, just like I’ve
always
done, but everyone’s so stuffed up their own tight arses at the moment. I don’t understand it!”

“God, just take it easy, babe, will you?”

“I’ve been
trying
to take it easy all fucking day,” you reply, banging your fist on the toilet door, “but there’s some sort of fucking vendetta going on!”

“Right, I’m off,” Katie announces, gathering up her things. “You’re stressing me out.”

“That’s the fucking thing about dressing rooms,” you declare, glugging your drink. “People love to come back and hang out, be in with the fucking so-called in-crowd, admitted to the inner sanctum or whatever … but then, they don’t like it as soon as there’s a little bit of tension. Don’t they ever remember it’s actually a
workspace?
This is where we bloody
prepare
for a performance! Why doesn’t anyone ever fucking remember that?”

“All right, that’s enough,” she instructs. “I’m not just ‘people,’ if you don’t mind—I’m your girlfriend. Tell me what’s wrong. There
is
something, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” you nod.

So you tell her. You tell her everything: how someone appears to be
laughing
at you and the band, vandalising the gear, giving out fake passes, slagging you off onstage, telling everyone to mutter “It’s all over” as you walk by. Katie listens sympathetically, but it’s this last bit she can’t believe.

“How
would
I be imagining that?” you scream at her.

“Will you stop fucking shouting at me!”

You stop.

“And give that a rest for a while,” she instructs, grabbing your beer away.

“Okay,” you begin, more quietly. “Do me a favour. Come with me. Let’s go and have a little walk around. Listen out, and I
guarantee
someone will say it.”

Realising you’re in no mood to back down, Katie agrees.

You leave the dressing room, wink at John the guard, and wander off arm in arm into the main enclosure, past the bar, across the sea of white plastic garden chairs, where the drinkers catch the last of the evening sun, over to the side of the main stage (you spend a couple of minutes watching Gene, who you must admit are pretty good) then back to the enclosure, through the public arena and back into the VIP bit … and of course, no one says a damn thing. Quite the contrary. People are nice to you. They smile. The guards are all polite. The journos nod. Even fucking Tony Gloster has the gall to come up and say, “All’s fair in love and indie pop, eh?”—at which you grudgingly shake his hand. And with every new person you pass, you feel Katie’s mood plummeting further down. When she’s finally had enough of walking, just as you’re passing the ladies’ loos for the third time, she turns to you and gives you one of her serious looks.

“Lance, honey, I hate to say it, but you’ve got some sort of problem.”