Authors: Alice Severin
Mark patted my arm, and I turned towards him. “Well?” I asked.
“I’m proud of you.” He coughed slightly, and poured us each a fresh glass from one of the new bottles that the wait staff had brought around. “And just so you know, we’re not exclusive, and you did the right thing even if we were. Some things can only be measured by how far you’re willing to go. I was worried you’d choose that moment to suddenly get moral. Not that he’ll carry through with it. Although, if he does, I’d love to hear about what he’s like in bed. Of course, don’t tell me if he’s better.” He made a little choking laugh. “Not that he would be.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. A bit of friendly banter, nothing more. And I don’t kiss and tell.”
Mark snorted over the top of his glass. “How am I supposed to get any publicity then? Why do you think we men like it when the girls all go to the bathroom together? Lil, I will never understand you. Tell everyone. Sex is like publicity. The only bad kind is none.”
The presenters presented, pretended they hadn’t rehearsed, and tried to seem too drunk/blind/natural to read their cue cards. Carefully scripted comments like—“Isn’t this a laugh—an awards ceremony?” I was surprised they didn’t add—“Aren’t we ironically self-referential? And post-modern?” Their studied poses and their wry laughter all went into trying very hard to show they didn’t care. Of course it only made it patently obvious they did. So the losers lost, the winners won, and then came up and thanked a variety of people. The more politically savvy among them remembered all the A and R people, their manager, anyone they’d met who might help them in their slippery scramble to the next rung—and oh yeah, the fans, love you guys, thrown in for good measure at the end. After only an hour, it was getting fairly predictable. I did feel compassion and irritation in equal measure for the people who I guessed we’d never see up there again. Some people just seemed off, their jokes fell flat. The group didn’t accept them. Others—they were playing it so hard. Too hard?
I drank more champagne. How many glasses? I’d lost count by this time. Mark disappeared briefly, claiming it was business, waving the phone at me. Seeing as he had no business to do, I gave a brief nod and scanned the direction he went in, and wondered who he was hooking up with. Then I finished the rest of the champagne, and waited for the next bottle to arrive. I was more annoyed at what drifting off with such a lame excuse said about how he rated my intelligence. Was he kidding? How stupid did he think I was? I was riding this horse to the next town and getting the fuck off.
Meanwhile, the night was progressing towards its inevitable conclusion and climax. Now we were starting to get somewhere with the presenters and the awards. One of the hosts, who obviously decided that things were getting a bit stale, made such a snide, sarcastic comment about the famous presenter he was paired with, there was an actual little gasp from the crowd. That was breaking the rules. This was rock and roll royalty. You weren’t supposed to actually say what everyone thought. Maybe just allude to it, a little. Everyone looked up to watch how the star was going to react. His face was still and grim, and he gave a brief little smile as he walked up the stairs to the stage. He stood and faced the audience for a moment, and waved, then turned towards the presenter. “Let’s hear it for Graham Mills everyone. He really is a fucking asshole, isn’t he?” And while he said this, he was looking right at the man. I had expected him to turn away, deflect, face the audience. But he didn’t flinch. The host, Graham, let a momentary twitch cross his face, then settled back into his edgy half smile. But the rock royalty didn’t move, not until the applause kicked in. That’s how you do it, I thought. You look right at them. You go right up to them. No sideways movements. You stand your ground and wait to fight, up close. I sighed. That’s how these motherfuckers had gotten here, I thought. Even the most seemingly mild mannered had balls of steel and will to match. They were either too stupid to notice how far there was to fall, or too determined to give a fuck what anyone thought.
The next bottle had arrived, and the waiter was having difficulty opening the bottle. I felt like grabbing it out of his hand, and doing it myself. But I stopped myself, hating my good behavior, and sat there, waiting, listening with half an ear to the speech that Rock Royalty was making. He was not only standing up for himself, but making the other guy, the main host, look like a complete wanker. Unless you were on the host’s side, that is; then it sounded a little too defensive. Either way. They were both fighting it out up there. I felt like having my own fight. Now. The waiter finally opened the bottle and I held out my glass first, preempting the man in plaid who had been about to take the whole bottle for himself. I smiled at him sweetly, while glaring, and thanked the waiter, while continuing to stare at Mr. Plaid Shirt. No peace and love on your farm, I thought. He grimaced back, and I smiled. Hate me, love me. I’m not going anywhere.
Mark had returned, looking a little flushed. He waited for Mr. Plaid to pour for himself, then gestured for the bottle. He drank down a glass, and poured another, before replacing the bottle in the bucket.
“Thirsty work?” I said. “Or just washing out the taste of her personal perfume?”
He looked down his nose at me. “Life is short, and none of us are getting any younger. You got what you wanted, so behave.” He smiled. “Besides, you have to be nice to me. I know your boy, and I’ve got the coke.” He winked. “You are so much more fun when you’re loaded.”
“Yeah, whatever. I have a glass too you know.” I waved my glass at him until he fetched the bottle and refilled it. “Ok, I’ll behave. Now everyone’s happy.” I replied, looking away from him, and back at the stage. “In more interesting news, what’s up next, Mr. Fingers in All Pies?”
“Let your fingers do the walking.” He laughed.
“Must be why yours have calloused edges.”
“So witty. Didn’t you say you liked it rough?” He smirked at me, when I turned to glare at him, and I looked away. Nothing to say.
I drank for a moment, and glanced around, wondered if anyone had heard us. “So, what’s the next band?”
He laughed. “It won’t matter to you, you’re a bit too young to remember or care.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course, whatever. Who is it?”
“See, you don’t even know. Who was it, more like.” He was starting to slur his words a bit. I had the feeling his meeting had involved a bit more than the exchange of phone numbers. “He’s dead, poor fucker. That’s why I’m telling you to make haste. Carpe diem, bitch.” He clenched his jaw, and his forehead tightened. “Joe Strummer. They’re going to do a tribute to him.”
“The Clash. The only band that matters,” I threw back at him. “One of the greatest. More relevant now than ever. A seed band for things now. “‘White Riot, I want a riot, White Riot, a riot of my own,’” I sang out. Mark looked at me in shock.
“This is why I keep you around, Lily. Full of surprises.”
I ignored him. “So who’s going to sing a song, and which one are they going to do?”
“Pay attention, and you’ll find out.”
“So there is something you don’t know,” I retorted. “Aren’t they going to have a hard time finding a song that isn’t too insultingly political for this lot?”
“No one listens to the words anymore anyway. Whine about it in your blog. And I do know, by the way. Just didn’t want to spoil the surprise for you. It’s Devised.”
I squealed, drunkenly. “Really? I love them. What a great choice. They’ve got some of that attitude. Apparently Joe liked them, too.”
Mark imitated my squeal. “Really? Great. Now stop talking. My head hurts with it all. Talk talk.”
I shrugged. He was high, I was high, I was numb enough not to care. Typical. I turned towards the stage, feeling relieved that I’d already met Jake. Maybe I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit for much longer. Maybe. Maybe we were just drunk and aggressive. Couldn’t we just all get along? Couldn’t we just settle this over a pint? I laughed. Plaid shirt dude looked over at me. I turned away. Seriously. This was supposed to be fun. It was all starting to go a bit wrong. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Ok, that was a mistake. Maybe a little too much champagne. After this, I’d borrow the little vial again. That would smooth it out.
But the presentation was starting. Mick Jones was up there, talking about the band, modestly immodest. He was a player—one of those people who was in the thick of it, whether you saw him in the magazines or not. Another one, I thought, who had stuck with it, love or hate. Some clips of the band were being shown. Joe. Looked so young. Was so young. A smart street fighter with a heart of gold, according to the rumors. I felt suddenly horribly sad. We were all sitting around, liggers, drinking to his memory, most of us didn’t care. Shit.
Then he announced Devised, and someone ran out to strap a guitar on him. Mick hugged them all as they came out, and there was this electric feeling again, partially brought on from the meeting of past and present, making all the differences insignificant. Something so right about it. And from the first chords of “London Calling”, the sting hit, and you felt wired, illuminated. It all still mattered a lot. “War is declared…come out of your cupboards, you boys and girls…” And it went on, insistent, persistent. The frontman, Tristan Hunter, screamed out “and I live by the river” and Mick grinned at him, and they went at it with a fury, like they were trying to bring Strummer back from the dead. By this time, I was standing, but I wasn’t the only one. Tristan called out the crowing battle cry of defiance and I felt the words. “Yes I was there too.” And I was there. There I was. All I had to do was ignore the assholes, who were everywhere, and cut through it and stay standing. Then the choppy guitars moved into “Tommy Gun” and I think I actually screamed. I didn’t give a fuck how uncool it was. The man had died trying to move us. Fuck ‘em, I thought, and I got up to head down to the front, ignoring the brief tug of Mark’s hand on my arm. I couldn’t believe they were playing this song. The rapid fire drum beat, Mick and Tristan screaming into the mic together, Tristan’s face, beautiful and intense, Mick’s face, intense and knowing, the guitar blistering through the air like a flash bang. I was over by the side, but right at the front, me and the photographers, and the cameras. I didn’t care. The wood of the stage was like an altar and I was ready to sacrifice myself to get up close to this, to feel it. Now they were all singing, standing in a tight line, shouting out the words, “kings and queens and generals…learn your name…” Then it ended, sharply, and we were all on our feet cheering. They were all smiles, arms around each other’s waists, sweat dripping down Tristan’s forehead, as he leaned into the mic and said, “thank you to Mick! And to Joe—we wouldn’t be here without him.” He saluted the audience, and they all bowed, and filed off stage. Tristan threw one last wave to the crowd, as he disappeared into the wings.
And I knew. This was what the piece would be about. I would get backstage, and see them somehow, and I would have to go right now, or I’d lose my nerve. There, that was where Jake had disappeared through the curtain when he went off to do his interview. Now, right now, while the crowd was still milling around and talking about it. I pushed through, said “all access” to the bouncer, while pretending to reach under my dress for a pass, my voice stronger than I felt. I would fucking do this. I would not be the one on the sidelines. No.
I walked further into the backstage area, not having any idea where I was going, but figuring if I followed the noise I would get to the center of it all. And then I came around some sets stacked up, and I saw them all, being photographed, still smiling. “One more shot,” one of the two photographers called out, and Mick and Tristan sat down again, while the rest drifted away. “We’re done,” called out the guitarist, “they’re who you want anyway.” I filed that quote away, while I watched the two of them pull a few faces for the camera. I’d interview the two—the leads. The links between times. Yes. I watched them get up, hardly looking at the photographers who just a minute beforehand had had their full attention, and move towards the side. It looked like they were all leaving—a breeze was coming in. I could see the metal stage doors open to the outside, the street beyond.
• • •
Now. I ran over to them, and they both looked over at me, startled, wondering who this was speeding towards them that they didn’t know, and on guard, guessing what it was all about. But just as I was about to speak, my heel caught on one of the sound wires, and I went down, right in front of them. The grey painted concrete floor was even harder than it looked. I could hear Mick laughing and for a moment, I just lay there, wanting to die. That was my great professional entrance, oozing sex appeal and charm, lying like a spilled drink on the ground. Then I felt a hand come under my arm, and lift me up as though I were weightless. The first large hand was joined by another one, and I was placed gently back down, and brushed off. And then I found myself face to face with Tristan. All the air left my lungs in a big rush. I looked up at him, into his eyes, and they were a strange green and brown color, light and dark all at once. Funny, I’d always thought he had very dark eyes.
His voice broke the dream feeling. “Are you all right, sweetheart? That was quite a tumble you took.” He smiled, and I had the odd sensation I’d done this before. I still hadn’t said anything, stunned both from what had just happened and having Tristan in front of me, asking if I was ok.
What do you say, face to face with your musical heroes? I tried to rouse myself. Be polite, I thought. Before you ask for the soundbite. “Thank you. Thank you for helping me up. I’m sorry to intrude—but you,” I looked over to include Mick, “both were incredible up there. Two of my favorite songs. It was amazing.” I was starting to babble. “I’m supposed to... Jake wants me to write something about tonight. I wanted it to be different. And it was going all wrong. Then you reminded me why I was even here.”
Mick cut in. “So why are you here, love? Be quick.”
The pressure. A test. How many times had he been asked to justify himself? Trial by fire. Now it was my turn.
But I had no idea what to say. I’d have to say anything. Something. The first thing that came to mind.
I had gone blank. I looked at Mick. He seemed to have a clock face where his eyes had been, ticking away my precious seconds. I turned to Tristan. His eyes were warm, and then they lit up with an unworldly shine, and I thought I could see down a long tunnel, through space, past time. And I felt it. I knew I was where I was supposed to be, and doing what I was meant to do. And then the words came.
“It’s the only thing that matters. The feeling you get when it’s right. When it means something. Making it happen.” I stopped for a moment, a Clash song had come into my head. “I’m not ‘turning rebellion into money’, I promise.”
Mick smiled, a brief light breaking across his face. “Amazing how it keeps going. Follow that feeling, love.” He turned to Tristan. “Come on mate, time to go. You can’t have them all.”
I glanced over at Tristan. He had an odd look on his face. I wondered if he had seen that strange sort of vision in my eyes too. I wished I could ask him. But all that came out was, “Thank you again.”
He nodded. “Knowing it means something. Now there’s a quest.” He put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at me, his face serious, the circles under his eyes suddenly very apparent. He was about to speak, when someone called out from the direction of the stage door, and he seemed to come back to himself. “Nice meeting you.” And he turned with Mick, and headed out towards the street. I watched his long figure move away, following Mick, until his dark head was lost amongst a group of people, watched as the small crowd thronged out the door.