Part 20 (1/2)

”You're kidding, aren't you?” he gasps. ”Come on, mate, I was a pop star. None of my family wanted to be anywhere near me for the best part of ten years, I was such a stuck-up, inconsiderate w.a.n.ker.”

”Really?”

”Of course! I was a total k.n.o.b.”

I keep quiet, hoping he'll elaborate. Unfortunately, he doesn't.

”No,” he sighs, ”the only thing we can do is just hope they forgive, or forget. Preferably both. And for you-to be honest I wouldn't worry about it. If you don't mind my saying so, your old man sounds exactly like mine was: well-meaning, responsible and respectable, but totally set in his ways. Not changing for no one. He probably put that toy straight back in its cupboard and hasn't given the incident a second's thought since.”

I study my cake and think this over. Then I think about Webster's dad. He died of cancer in the late nineties: another blow in what must have been a chain of nightmares for Lance. Or Geoff. Or whoever.

We're silent for a good half a minute. A group of French people at the next table suddenly erupt with laughter at something. Makes me feel even worse, being this picture of misery in such a fun-oriented place.

”G.o.d, this is ridiculous,” I sigh, breaking off a piece of cake. ”What a way for you to spend your Sat.u.r.day afternoon.”

”Hey,” he counters, ”I'm the one who suggested it. And don't forget, my idea was to put you back in touch with your childhood-so, in fact, I've completely completely succeeded.” succeeded.”

”That's right. You've overperformed!”

We laugh for a moment, then Webster ruins it by getting serious again.

”But it's good to feel these things, y'know, get 'em out there in the open. Don't you feel a little bit better?”

”Not really.”

He frowns and looks straight at my forehead in his customary way. I'm kind of used to it now. But suddenly his eyebrows shoot up again.

”Hang on a sec! I've got an idea.”

He leaps up and skips over to the French table, whom he addresses in perfect-sounding French, prompting much surprised laughter and delighted smiles. One of the girls hands him their copy of Time Out Time Out. He glances at his watch and flicks through the magazine for a second, then hands it back, accompanied by yet more francophone witticisms and eyelash fluttering. The man really is a charm machine.

Eventually he returns to boring old me.

”One of my favourite artists has a new exhibition nearby,” he announces. ”D'you fancy popping in? The works are to do with music, apparently-which I know you're not that keen on-but it's bound to cheer you up 'cos it won't remind you of anything!”

Oh joy. More lying. My favourite.

By the end of the next hour, I've told so many lies that it's actually starting to affect my digestive system. I lurch into the loo of the little gallery, pale-faced and breaking into an unhealthy sweat, bolt the door and settle myself on the c.r.a.pper, where I bury my head between my legs and try to breathe evenly. This is all getting far too much for me: first an emotional breakdown in a public museum, combined now with this ridiculous performance of perpetual musical ignorance, which I'm certain Webster is seeing through like cling film. I've had enough of being someone I'm not, pretending to know nothing about the thing I love most. I feel an unadulterated charlatan with this watery, featureless persona I've adopted, and I'm minutes away from jacking the whole thing in, coming out of the men's room with my hands up: ”Hey, Lance-it was fun while it lasted, tell your roadies I said hi ... Oh, and by the way, that saxophone part at the end of 'Bad Little Secret' sucks.” sucks.”

When Webster told me the exhibition was ”to do with music,” it could have meant anything: anything: it could have been a sound installation featuring recordings of an a.s.sortment of buskers from Vancouver, or a collection of cla.s.sical composers' portraits done in the style of Banksy, or an exploration of the design similarities between Scottish bagpipes and Mongolian nose-flutes. But no. It was none of those things, nor the several billion other things it might have been. It was, in fact-ta-daaa!-seven multicoloured, densely decorated ”shrines,” each one complete with garlands, effigies, trinkets, various memorabilia, and the idol itself: an oil painting of a deceased, usually alternative, pop star. it could have been a sound installation featuring recordings of an a.s.sortment of buskers from Vancouver, or a collection of cla.s.sical composers' portraits done in the style of Banksy, or an exploration of the design similarities between Scottish bagpipes and Mongolian nose-flutes. But no. It was none of those things, nor the several billion other things it might have been. It was, in fact-ta-daaa!-seven multicoloured, densely decorated ”shrines,” each one complete with garlands, effigies, trinkets, various memorabilia, and the idol itself: an oil painting of a deceased, usually alternative, pop star.

Each of these wretched items presented a new and woefully dicey challenge for me. It ended up like playing some crazy reverse pub quiz where you try to get as many questions wrong as possible, but are then required to justify why you don't know the correct answer. To make matters sizeably worse, Webster insisted on helpfully guiding me round the place, making sure I appreciated the finer points of each work, and, of course, who the featured musical icon was. In truth, I probably ma.s.sively overdid it, as the majority have wormed their way into mainstream popular culture anyway-but I had my reasons, which I present for your inspection as follows: 1. Ian Curtis (teacups, return train tickets to Macclesfield, a couple of old radios, a seven-inch of ”Transmission” broken in two, etc.). I suppose this was the ”flags.h.i.+p” work of the exhibition, positioned right by the desk at the entrance. In retrospect it would have been totally safe for me to know who this was, but Webster caught me off guard by asking, ”You heard of this guy?”-and I actually thought he was referring to the artist, so I said no, heralding the first of Webster's unbearably playpen descriptions (”Well, at the end of the seventies, there was a band called Joy Division”-oh, the humiliation!).

2. Kurt Cobain (cut-up plaid s.h.i.+rts, broken guitar strings, dollar bills on hooks, etc.). A no-brainer, you might say. But the b.a.s.t.a.r.d has based his painting on that photo session from summer '92, when a short-haired Cobain had taken to wearing black-rimmed gla.s.ses, thus rendering himself near-unrecognisable to anyone but a music-press reader, so I mumbled some twaddle about him ”ringing a bell.” ”It's Kurt Cobain!” exclaimed Webster, with a hint of exasperation. ”Met him once, nice bloke,” he added breezily, as if discussing Dennis Waterman.

3. Syd Barrett. Remembering his appearance in the dream I had at the beginning of this sorry saga, I greeted this ”shrine” with a gasp-which Webster interpreted as appreciation of the predictable psychedelic bunting which accompanied the image of the man. ”Amazing, isn't it?” he sighed, and thankfully moved on to the next piece without further enquiry.

4. Richey Manic (ripped-up pages from philosophy readers, various Holy Bible-era Holy Bible-era, military-chic clothing items, ”4 REAL” carved in red across the top of his portrait, etc.). ”Ah, the odd one out,” smiled Webster as he approached. ”Why's that?” replied bonehead over here without really thinking properly, prompting yet another punchable explanation: ”Well, there's a rock band from Wales called the Manic Street Preachers, and before they became really popular they had a fourth member called Richey, who disappeared one day.” Argghh! The frustration! Perhaps he should should write children's books. write children's books.

5. Nick Drake (five large, pressed autumn leaves, various cannabis-related paraphernalia, a sepia-tinted photograph of a-presumably fruit-tree, etc.). Too obscure, I calculated, for a non-music enthusiast to know about; then I remembered that Webster is a ma.s.sive fan. Too late. The ensuing rundown of facts I was already aware of took almost ten minutes, during which the only words I spoke were ”Oh, right” and ”Ah.” Just two more to go, thank G.o.d.

6. Layne Staley shouldn't really have been a problem. It would be perfectly possible for even the most respectable music fan to be stumped by this shade-wearing, pink-haired B-list grunge-rocker, although by now I was so bored of saying no that I was tempted to say yes, giving some improvised explanation that an ex-girlfriend ran the UK branch of the Alice in Chains fan club or something-but my brain was numb, I needed water and the rather gory syringe-related decoration had already kick-started my descent into the land of nausea.

7. Michael Hutchence. Another no-brainer; but again, greeted by this lurid concoction of blond wigs, empty cans of Victoria beer and photos of the Charles Bridge in Prague (all surrounded, pretty tastelessly I thought, by a thick leather belt), I was tempted to go against the grain and shake my head again. Sense prevailed, however. ”Oh, that's the bloke from INXS,” I chirped, to a frown from Webster. ”Can't believe he's the only one you knew,” he despaired. ”Just going to the toilet,” I replied.

So here I am. I must confess, I really have no idea how this ridiculous afternoon is going to finish. I'm sorely tempted to either tell all and b.u.g.g.e.r the consequences, or try to climb out this back window and leg it. There'd be little lost from doing that, and not much chance of comeback from Webster-he doesn't even have my phone number. But after coughing up a small amount of bile, I summon my final reserves of patience and strength, and stride back into the main room, where I see, through the large front windows, an interesting little scene taking place on the street outside. Webster is being asked for an autograph.

The two girls who've accosted him don't look English-perhaps Spanish?-and they weren't in the gallery beforehand, so perhaps they've followed us here from the museum; this being a little side street in the East End's former industrial area, random pa.s.sersby are few. They certainly look suitably fl.u.s.tered and adoring. Unable to resist, I venture outside to catch a bit of the conversation.

”Oh, yeah?” Webster is saying. ”Which one was that?”

”Feile, in Cork,” one of the girls answers (Irish-I was close). ”Must have been ninety-four, or ninety-five?”

”Ah,” comes the response. ”Our third from last gig.”

Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we are now two gigs away from Aylesbury. This could be interesting.

”No kidding?”

”Yep,” he smiles sheepishly. ”Just one in Amsterdam, then it was all over bar the drinking.”

They all roar with laughter. I'm madly studying Webster's face for any signs of ... anything. But there are only smiles as he autographs a little notebook, then a dog-eared copy of the Lonely Planet guide to London belonging to the shyer, prettier one of the pair.

”It was a deadly gig,” she offers, blus.h.i.+ng as he hands the book back.

”Yeah? Well, thanks. We'd been going ten years at that point, so we were probably quite good by then.”

More laughter at the mock-modesty of the man. Then-as simple as a sunny day in August: ”Why d'y'all jack it in?”

Oh, you Irish beauty. You direct, perfectly charming asker of blissfully baggage-less questions. I'll meet you in a parallel universe and buy you a crate of Guinness.

I settle back in my metaphorical armchair and prepare myself for Webster's answer.

”Oh, we ran out of steam,” he breezes. ”Ah, Alan! Girls, this is my friend Alan. We're collaborating on a writing project.”

I rise again from my metaphorical armchair, put on my best smile and step forward to shake their hands.

Despite Webster's wagon claims, I convince him we should close our afternoon with a quick visit to a particularly nice nearby boozer with an awesome selection of Belgian beers. He's never been to the place and is duly impressed, ordering himself something dark and strong. We settle in. Feeling much more comfortable on this familiar turf and having witnessed a pop-star incident firsthand, I decide to risk a pop-star question.

”Does it happen often, then, being recognised?”

He bites his lip and flashes a quick look around the pub. ”Y'know, it's odd. For years it didn't happen at all in this country. Recently, it's happening more again-dunno why. It's the cycle of things, I guess. But it's always happened abroad. Never stopped.”

”Yeah?”

He nods.