Part 27 (1/2)
”Are you telling me you forgot to make make our pa.s.ses?” shrieks Dan, who's become a right little prima donna ever since he shaved his hair off. our pa.s.ses?” shrieks Dan, who's become a right little prima donna ever since he shaved his hair off.
”Uh, no, there's been a mix-up,” shrugs Jonas.
”Too right,” frowns Katie.
But you decide not to let this bother you. Besides, there's half that bottle of champagne left, and you're sure you spied another in the coolbox. Good old Petra. Bob always hires good girls.
Then comes the long walk from the van to your dressing room. You stick on your shades, grit your teeth and get on with it.
”Lance, hi! Delighted to have you here. I'm Rod Blunt from Aylesbury Festival; this is Siobhan, who'll be looking after you today ...”
”Lance, good to see you again. Vijay Shah from BBC Radio One. We're looking forward to the interview later ...”
”Lance, how ya doin'? Mari Wechter, MTV Europe. Hoping to have a few words with you later ...”
”L, ah dohn't noo if Malcolm's told ya yet, but the Gretsch's dead.”
”The Gretsch is dead?” you reply, feeling this is the only thing so far worth responding to. ”How did that happen?”
”Er ... ah dohn't noo, musta happened in the truck somehoe.
We're gonna have ta get one in for later ... unless ya just wanna stick with the Gibson ...”
”Stan, why the f.u.c.k would I want to stick with the Gibson?”
”Ah, ooh-kay, ah'll sort it out.”
”Hi, Lance, babe. Here's the list for the press conference. We're having it in the bar. Petra knows the setup.”
”Oh, s.h.i.+t, yeah,” you nod. ”The press conference.”
This is Bob's idea. Owing to the general feeling of malaise regarding interviews, and that BFM have firmly gone to sleep on the band despite platinum discs presently winging their way to Mortimer Street, a press conference backstage would kill a few birds with one stone. Plus, it's a firm proprietary gesture at this time of musical guard changing: in case there's any lingering doubt, we we are the Thieving f.u.c.king Magpies, this is are the Thieving f.u.c.king Magpies, this is our our festival, and if you're very lucky we'll answer some of your questions. festival, and if you're very lucky we'll answer some of your questions.
”Make sure there's some booze there, yeah?” you tell her. ”Petra's got some bubbly s.h.i.+t.”
”No problem,” replies Heidi. Heidi from the press agency. Or is she Heidi from BFM? She used to work for one, now she's with the other. You can't remember which way round it is. Not that it matters.
You continue walking. Every so often Siobhan from the festival whirls around, flashes a smile and says, ”Almost there.” Black hair, decent figure, nice tattoo. But no. Gradually the flocks of people are thinning. Some bloke you vaguely recognise with a mod haircut and red tracksuit top is chatting to a security guard next to one of the portable huts. He spies you approaching, then flounces over towards you, proffering a cold can of beer.
”Lance! Good to see ya, man. Have a drink on me. Coming to see us later?”
”Coming to see you? Oh-yeah, of course! Which stage?”
”Main,” he smiles. ”Six o'clock.”
”Got it.”
Then as he turns to go, he says something else you don't quite catch.
”Sorry, what was that?”
”Nothing,” the guy says, as he winks and ambles off.
You walk past the security guard (”Good afternoon, Mr. Webster,” he says, in what seems an overly formal manner) and realise you're finally in a zone only you can get to.
Oh, and the rest of the band.
And now you're inside the customary portable hut, which is hotter than Hades. HEADLINER HEADLINER is written on the door. is written on the door.
”Headliner,” you comment, in the general direction of Siobhan. ”Couldn't they remember our name?”
”Um ... well,” she beams, ”we use the same room for all three headliners!”
”Yes, I imagine you do.”
She laughs nervously. ”Oh, well! Here's the dressing room. Let's open one of these windows, shall we? You've got all your refreshments here, shower in there, loo ...”
Craig and Dan have caught up now. Craig ties his hair into a knot and unpacks his bag, making his usual little shrine of deodorant, spare sweatbands, cigarettes, a book (currently something by Terry Pratchett) and drumsticks. He takes an apple from the fruit bowl and chomps into it. Dan immediately begins to undress for a shower, another routine action from when he had usually filthy long hair which needed constant freshening up; he now seems to be experiencing a case of amputee's hairdo. Martin is chatting to someone outside; Petra is bustling around, drawing Siobhan's attention to some items missing from the rider; and you ... well, you sit down and crack open the beer you've just been given.
Martin appears and sighs.
”Malcolm wants us us to go check the rigs.” to go check the rigs.”
You look up, perplexed.
”He wants us to check the rigs? Isn't that what we've got Stan and Doug for?”
”He says something odd's going on. They don't want to change anything unless we see it first. Remember what happened in Madrid.”
”Now?”
”Good a time as any,” Martin shrugs.
So you leave to accompany your outgoing right-hand man on this most menial of tasks. Malcolm, your reliable but overcautious crew manager, leads the way: back past the security guard (who mutters something inaudible as you pa.s.s), then a crazy shortcut under guy ropes, behind catering vans, through a car park where the sun beats down mercilessly on the multicoloured metal rooftops. You can hear the m.u.f.fled roar of some band hammering out a song you recognise (”I guess I'm doing fine, guess I'm doing fine ... Do y' think I miss you? Do y' think I care?”) (”I guess I'm doing fine, guess I'm doing fine ... Do y' think I miss you? Do y' think I care?”) as you finally loop round to the ma.s.sive grey globule that is the main stage, halting by a sealed-off area where all the Magpies' equipment is held. A pale, spotty security chap of about fourteen with heavily gelled hair guards the entrance. Malcolm disappears inside, you try to follow. as you finally loop round to the ma.s.sive grey globule that is the main stage, halting by a sealed-off area where all the Magpies' equipment is held. A pale, spotty security chap of about fourteen with heavily gelled hair guards the entrance. Malcolm disappears inside, you try to follow.
”Uh ... can I see a pa.s.s, please?” the guard mutters.
”A pa.s.s?” you repeat, incredulous. ”It's my f.u.c.king equipment in here. That's That's my pa.s.s, pal.” my pa.s.s, pal.”
”I still need to see a pa.s.s.”
Martin whips his own from his pocket and holds it out for inspection.
”Sorry, these aren't authorised for this area,” responds the guard.
”Bulls.h.i.+t,” you state flatly, and push past. Martin stays to argue.
Inside the tent a few roadies are standing around, smoking, looking worried.
”Hi, Doug, what's all this s.h.i.+t?”