The Alternative Hero (5 page)

As I made my way to the loo I became concerned that it might be the custom at this sort of concert for the performances to get shorter the further up the bill you went. Therefore, if International Brian’s set was half an hour and this last lot played for just under a quarter, how long would the Magpies play for? Seven, eight minutes? That was barely time for two songs. Oh well. At least I’d be home on time. Or perhaps all the groups went around again, for another go?

“Beresford!”

Eh?

“Beresford! Clive!”

Odd. Someone had the same name as me.

“Clive! Over here!”

I glanced in the direction of the voice. Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the bar, to my amazement, was a face I recognised.

“Potter! Sorry, Alan!”

“Beresford, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m … well. You know.”

Alan Potter was in the year above me at school, which officially meant we could have nothing to do with each other, but he’d always seemed a friendly enough chap; one of the lower-sixth formers less likely to punch you in the nuts as you carried your dinner tray. He wore black jeans with a blue and white stripy T-shirt, and was accompanied by a small purple-haired girl who stared silently at the carpet for the duration of the conversation.

“I never knew you liked alternative, Beresford.”

That word again.

“Well, I sort of, you know … Thieving Magpies. They’re pretty good.”

“Yeah, but did you see Birdland? Fuck!”

Did I?

“Apparently they did their shortest set ever the other day, and it was
six minutes,”
he enthused, as if this represented the very pinnacle of artistic achievement.

“Wow, amazing,” I replied uneasily.

“D’you want some of this?” Alan asked, handing me a plastic glass of bright red liquid.

“Uh, yeah.” I took a sip. Blackcurrant. With some sort of alcohol.

“Who you here with?”

“Er … no one,” I admitted.

“No one? Fuck, man. You can hang out with us if you like. But don’t tell anyone at school.”

If I was heartened by this gesture, I soon discovered the payoff. After I settled down next to the pair, I attempted to make conversation by asking what Alan had meant by “alternative.” After he stopped laughing at my evident naïveté and ignorance, he provided me with a definition so compendious that I began to assume he’d
memorised a school essay on the subject. Alternative, he began, was the name of the musical movement to which the Thieving Magpies belonged, so called because it formed an alternative to basically everything else. The criteria under which a band qualified to call itself alternative was subtle, somewhat intangible and often contradictory, but Alan advised keeping in mind a mental tick-box chart, on which the group in question must score at least two or three, as a reliable identifier:

Guitars, often distorted or effected, but with a minimalist playing style (i.e., few solos)

Straightforward, raw production on recordings

“Gigs” (as opposed to “concerts”) at which …

… “rucking” took place (as opposed to “moshing,” which only happened at heavy-metal shows)

A loyal group of fans, often with its own collective name (e.g., The Mission’s followers, who were known as “eskimos”), sometimes even with an exclusive costume or dance

A down-to-earth, ironic, self-effacing attitude (which therefore excluded most heavy-metal bands)

Participation at outdoor festivals

Coverage in the music papers
Sounds, NME
and
Melody Maker

Public denouncement of mainstream pop music

A paucity of clichéd/excessive references to love in lyrics
(with the exception of goth bands, who could pretty much get away with anything)

“Experimental” nature of song composition/arrangement