Part 3 (2/2)

I can't help giggling.

”Yeah. And a blueberry m.u.f.fin.”

Alan laughlessly pads over to the corner of the room where he unlocks a large, battered and sticker-covered record box (some things thankfully never change) from which, with the greatest of care, he extracts the bulging, spiral-bound A5 notebook and solemnly places it on his desk in front of me. He looks at his watch and almost, I am convinced, says something like ”You've got fifteen minutes,” but clearly thinks better of it and departs for the kitchen. Strange b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

But never mind all that. For the item now in my hot little hands makes everything worth it. Alan's greatest labour of love (apart from his daughter, perhaps). A chronological record of every gig he attended between 1988 and 1995. A total of 284 separate events: where they were, who he was with, a list (where possible) of what songs were played, the ticket stubs, press cuttings, sometimes his own photos, even details of how he got home-all brought to the thin sheets in glorious a.n.a.l-Alancolor. It's been almost half a decade since I held this masterpiece of indie-pop accountancy, so this afternoon's rifling session is particularly satisfying. Aside from the first few pages (when I was probably sitting at home memorising French irregular verbs), I can open the book anywhere to be instantly a.s.sailed by the most vivid of memories: PJ Harvey at the White Horse in Hampstead, The House of Love at Cambridge Corn Exchange, EMF supporting Carter USM at ULU (”They were great, some c.o.c.ks tried to attack the singer, though ... Neil Tennant showed up”), Paris Angels at Manchester Hacienda (”I have seen the Paris Angels and I believe”), Power of Dreams at Camden Palace (”They're amazing, why aren't they ma.s.sive?”), Loop at Our Price in Reading (”Without question the best thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life”), Madonna at Wembley Stadium (”Me and Clive were the only people wearing Ned's Atomic Dustbin T-s.h.i.+rts in the whole place, which kind of made it worthwhile”), Bjork at Wembley Stadium, supporting U2 (”She was so good we decided to leave straight afterwards”), Nine Inch Nails at Wembley Stadium supporting Guns N' Roses (”They were so good we decided to stay for Guns N Roses”), Jane's Addiction supporting The Wonder Stuff at Brixton Academy (”I thought they were s.h.i.+t, Clive thought they were amazing-big row”). And of course, looming large throughout the volume, no less than eighty-six entries concerning the Thieving Magpies.

Although not the very first band Alan saw (that honour went to-oh, the shame of it!-The Blow Monkeys), the Magpies were certainly the first group whose live appearance Alan deemed worth commemorating. The opening entry was probably made a while after the occasion itself (he actually chanced upon a supporting set of theirs while seeing, as further disgrace and hilarity would have it, Status Quo) and in fact is executed in such an uncharacteristically girly way one would almost suspect Alan's younger sister were behind it. Spread over two pages, an early, catalogue-esque photo of each band member is glued in and framed with multicoloured felt-tip flourishes, their names written lovingly underneath, the ticket proudly displayed above, with the Quo's name blacked out and the Magpies' logo glued over the words ”plus special guests.” And, weaving its way around the pictures and a.s.sorted bunting, Alan's hysterical write-up-again, one suspects, written with the benefit of hindsight: Tonight we saw the group that's going to change my life, weren't expecting much when they walked on but oh my G.o.d they were brilliant. The energy was mind-blowing, they started with ”Scared of Being Nice” and then roared through the rest. Lance took the p.i.s.s out of the crowd, telling them Francis Rossi had an accident and was going to play in a wheelchair. All the songs were well good, ”You're Still Ugly” and ”Have You Stopped Talking Yet” and ”Siamese Burn” and ”Marlow Meltdown” (B-side of Soapbox) Soapbox) were all WICKED. Brill bit in ”Chopped Heart” when he started singing ”Pictures of Matchstick Men.” I don't think the audience thought it was funny. But f.u.c.k, I'm going to see them again ... loads ... this is the beginning of the future!!! were all WICKED. Brill bit in ”Chopped Heart” when he started singing ”Pictures of Matchstick Men.” I don't think the audience thought it was funny. But f.u.c.k, I'm going to see them again ... loads ... this is the beginning of the future!!!

Indeed, how prophetic. Although, as if to prove he hadn't quite left mainstream late-eighties h.e.l.l, the second entry was a very small pa.s.sage concerning a Steve Winwood concert.

I skip to the end. It's some token of the huge part the Thieving Magpies played in this music fan's life that his tome is bookended by accounts of their performances: the first bursting with naive colour, fresh, exciting discovery and a fifteen-year-old's unjaded optimism; the last, black as f.u.c.k and weighed down to drowning point with bitter disappointment, as the last spluttering breaths of a golden era and its crowned champion went gurgling down the alternative-rock drainpipe. Alan must have used the entire contents of a permanent marker to blacken the two-page spread, the centrepiece of which bears the succinct description ”t.w.a.t” scrawled in red across a cheery snap of the man himself. Above, meanwhile, an advert boasting the Aylesbury lineup is roughly pasted, a neat rip straight through the heart of the very same band logo so proudly boasted seven years previously, and languis.h.i.+ng below, the entry's sole-and the sc.r.a.pbook's final-sentence: CONGRATULATIONS, ZEITGEIST MAN, YOU'VE DONE EXACTLY WHAT THOSE b.a.s.t.a.r.dS WANTED YOU TO DO.

Alan had angrily ripped out the book's remaining few blank pages.

But like all intense love affairs, Alan's with Webster and his group didn't end as instantly as his final instalment suggested. For many months afterwards he continued to scour the pages of the music press and expectantly phone the Thieving Magpies fan club for any sign that normal service would be resuming, and their final alb.u.m remained in perpetual proximity to his CD player. But, as sales of (What's the Story) Morning Glory? (What's the Story) Morning Glory? went stratospheric, while Tony Blair contacted removal men for his imminent arrival at Downing Street-and bands like Rialto suddenly discovered they had a career-something definitely withered and died in Alan. I suppose it would have died eventually anyway, few people are able to sustain the same level of fanaticism for something as frivolous as a pop group once real life kicks in, but for Alan, when Lance Webster stormed off that stage in a blaze of violence the proverbial dream really was over. The very next week he went and got his hair cut. went stratospheric, while Tony Blair contacted removal men for his imminent arrival at Downing Street-and bands like Rialto suddenly discovered they had a career-something definitely withered and died in Alan. I suppose it would have died eventually anyway, few people are able to sustain the same level of fanaticism for something as frivolous as a pop group once real life kicks in, but for Alan, when Lance Webster stormed off that stage in a blaze of violence the proverbial dream really was over. The very next week he went and got his hair cut.

”Eurghh,” Alan cringes, returning with the coffee. ”For Christ's sake, don't show him that page.”

”That's the best bit.”

”The sentimentality of youth,” he frowns, handing me a m.u.f.fin. When you ask for something to eat at Alan's, you get it. Even if you were joking.

”So I'm just trying to find,” I begin, leafing through the book, ”the gig that we spoke to him at.”

”Beef, I think. New Cross Venue.”

”The Heart Throbs at the Square,” I correct him.

”He was at at that gig. But it wasn't where we spoke to him the first time. Sorry, Clive, could you be a bit more gentle with the pages?” that gig. But it wasn't where we spoke to him the first time. Sorry, Clive, could you be a bit more gentle with the pages?”

”Sorry.”

”It was the Beef gig. I approached him halfway through that cover they used to do.”

”'You s.e.xy Thing'?”

”No, the other one. 'These Boots ...' and so on.”

I shake my head. ”I'm sure it was at The Heart Throbs.”

”Depends which conversation you're talking about. I've had more than one chat with him, you know-”

”Here it is,” I interrupt, triumphantly. ”The Square, Harlow, the seventh of April nineteen ninety the seventh of April nineteen ninety. 'We spoke to Lance Webster!'-in very excited prep.u.b.escent handwriting, I must say.”

”p.i.s.s off.”

” 'We asked him what the real lyrics were to the bridge of ”Me in a Room.”'”

”Oh, that that conversation,” Alan huffs, tidying some papers. conversation,” Alan huffs, tidying some papers.

”'Dominic drove us, but finally was a w.a.n.ker.' Ha! I remember what that's that's about.” about.”

”He was never quite as useful as we planned, was he?”

We had befriended Dominic Browne for the sole reason that he'd just been given a car by his wealthy and spoiling parents. Driving the family jeep while holidaying in Spain meant that he was ready to pa.s.s his driving test practically by the time he'd finished breakfast on his seventeenth birthday. I was still sixteen at this point; Alan, much to his annoyance and embarra.s.sment, had already failed the test twice. Credit where it's due, Dominic had a fairly respectable alternative track record: he'd attended both Glas...o...b..ry and Reading the previous year, he'd used his new set of wheels to follow Claytown Troupe around the country during half-term and had already, we were envious to learn, been to a Faith No More show. The items that weakened his case to be a genuine genuine gigging companion were that he excelled at sport gigging companion were that he excelled at sport and and academic work, drank little, insisted on wearing a rugby s.h.i.+rt and proper shoes to indie clubs, was generally a bit full of himself and, we suspected, wouldn't deliberate too long about s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g you over if it made his own life easier: a hunch that was conclusively proved correct that particular evening in Harlow. academic work, drank little, insisted on wearing a rugby s.h.i.+rt and proper shoes to indie clubs, was generally a bit full of himself and, we suspected, wouldn't deliberate too long about s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g you over if it made his own life easier: a hunch that was conclusively proved correct that particular evening in Harlow.

The three of us had piled into Dominic's convertible Volkswagen Golf (a car that further downgraded his indie credentials, we considered), ploughed up the M11 and, tradition dictated, necked a few cans of Strongbow before our arrival at the Square, an externally unpromising club that had nonetheless already played host to some pivotal musical evenings for me. We were standing around watching the support band, trying to think of witty chat-up lines for some of the tie-dyed lovelies scattered around the room-when Lance Webster ambled past, followed, as was often the case, by the pile of blonde dreadlocks known to most as Gloria Feathers.

”Did you see that?” I whispered to Dominic (Alan had gone to the toilet).

”Yeah,” he shrugged. ”So?”

That was the other thing about Dominic. A fan of pretty much all the other bands we liked, he thought the Magpies were ”a bit too commercial.” Whether he really believed this or just said it to endow himself with a highbrow opinion, I never quite worked out.

”f.u.c.k,” I muttered to no one in particular. ”I've got to try and speak to him.” Cautiously I looked over to where he and Gloria stood. A third party had joined them now, perhaps The Heart Throbs' guitarist. As usual Gloria was doing all the talking.

Alan returned from the loo and instantly noticed the new arrival.

”The f.u.c.k's he doing here?”

”Dunno.”

”Maybe he goes to the out-of-town ones so he doesn't get ha.s.sled,” Alan mused.

”Funny that, I was thinking of ha.s.sling him myself,” I commented.

”Forget it, man. You'll never get past Gloria.”

The support band finished and the DJ, perhaps thinking it would serve as a welcome to the venue, stuck on the Magpies' ”Me in a Room.” I glanced in Webster's direction; he had rolled his eyes and buried himself deeper into the conversation. Dominic feigned disgust and went to get another Diet c.o.ke; Alan and I, normally happy to dance anywhere, self-consciously swayed a bit and tried not to mouth the words. I couldn't relax, knowing who was a few bodies away from me. I needed to somehow reach out to him, give him some small indication of the happy turmoil he was helping my life plunge into; but without appearing to be some kind of gibbering Super Fan. Whatever I said to him needed to have a point a point. A minute later the angrily sung, incomprehensible middle eight of the song kicked in and the man himself gave me my answer.

”I'm going to ask him what he's singing here,” I declared to Alan suddenly.

”Okay,” Alan nodded, without debate.

”Can you come with me?”

”You sure?”

”Yeah. In case Gloria hits me or something.”

We paused for a moment. I felt like I was standing outside my headmaster's office, preparing to knock.

”I'm not sure, man,” admitted Alan. ”He might tell us to f.u.c.k off.”

”Part of me doesn't care.”

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