Part 27 (2/2)
Doug is a dreadlocked, tattooed six-foot-sixer of the sort they don't make anymore; been with you since Shoot the Fish Shoot the Fish.
”Something f.u.c.kin' odd's happening, L. I changed all Mart's valves before the show yesterday, every single one. Now they're all broken.”
”Weird,” you agree. ”And mine?”
”All the speakers have been unscrewed and ripped on the Twin and the Marshall.”
”Ripped?”
”Yup. In the last two hours.”
”In the last two hours?” two hours?”
”Yeah. I tested it all when we got here, and now they're all f.u.c.ked.”
You wander up and down, inspecting a few of the guitars, swigging from your beer can occasionally.
”Is Jerry about?”
”Nah, he's having lunch. But don't worry, the drums are all fine.”
You lower your voice.
”What's the security bloke like?”
”Just a kid. Seems okay, though.”
Martin comes storming in.
”We've been given the wrong pa.s.ses. This guy's never seen seen one of these before.” one of these before.”
The rat you've been smelling starts to turn putrid.
”f.u.c.k it,” you decide. ”Have any of you guys got a mobile phone?”
”Malcolm has,” Doug replies.
”Malc!” you shout. He emerges from behind the keyboard rack, sipping a c.o.ke. ”Call Petra. Call Bob. I want a meeting in the dressing room in five minutes with that c.o.c.k from the festival and someone in charge of security. From now on”-you point at the gear, then at the a.s.sembled crew-”I want one of you guys in here at all times all times. Got that?”
They nod, and you depart. As you pa.s.s the security guard you're sure you hear him say something-sounds like ”saul oh”-but as you've no idea what that means, you park it to one side and rush back to the dressing room.
Bob Grant wipes the sweat off his bald head with a hankie, straightens his frankly appalling Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt and knocks on the hut's door frame as if planning some impromptu DIY. The rest of the band are stretched out in a little patch of sun on the gra.s.s, but you're standing, s.h.i.+fting your weight from one leg to the other, limbering up for the fight to come. In your hand is the offending laminate, which you've bent out of all proportion like an expired credit card. Shortly, Petra appears with Rod Blunt (green polo s.h.i.+rt, empire-builder shorts, looks more like a scoutmaster than a festival organiser) and a thickset thirty-something who introduces himself as Steve, head of security. Bob begins to diplomatically explain the problems you've so far encountered, but after a minute or two you get bored, knock back the rest of your lager and leap in.
”Nah, Bob, sorry to interrupt, but this is far more f.u.c.king straightforward. We are the headline f.u.c.king band, the reason this f.u.c.king festival exists exists, and someone, I don't know who, I don't really care care who, is f.u.c.king with us. I want it nipped in the f.u.c.king bud right now, or you get no show from us. You guys-you talk amongst your-f.u.c.king-selves and work out what's going on, whether it's your security guys having a laugh, or someone slipping them a tenner to f.u.c.k with our gear, or someone slipping them a line of f.u.c.king charlie to turn a blind eye. Whatever it is, it stops who, is f.u.c.king with us. I want it nipped in the f.u.c.king bud right now, or you get no show from us. You guys-you talk amongst your-f.u.c.king-selves and work out what's going on, whether it's your security guys having a laugh, or someone slipping them a tenner to f.u.c.k with our gear, or someone slipping them a line of f.u.c.king charlie to turn a blind eye. Whatever it is, it stops now now or we don't f.u.c.king play. I want that kid on our equipment tent moved right to the other side of the site. I want or we don't f.u.c.king play. I want that kid on our equipment tent moved right to the other side of the site. I want him”-you him”-you point at the chap guarding your dressing room-”moved as well. And I want a laminate that's so f.u.c.king triple, quadruple A that it gives me the right to walk in on Louise Wener while she's having a s.h.i.+t. You got that?” point at the chap guarding your dressing room-”moved as well. And I want a laminate that's so f.u.c.king triple, quadruple A that it gives me the right to walk in on Louise Wener while she's having a s.h.i.+t. You got that?”
It seems they have. They apologise nervously and depart.
”So, what exactly did you need me for?” grumbles Bob, hurrying off.
The backstage bar-a tent normally crawling with industry k.n.o.bs and liggers in various states of inebriation-is stuffed to the gills with music journalists, such that you can smell them from twenty yards away. They loll on the white plastic garden furniture and nag at their bottled beer while The Social Trap The Social Trap cannons out of the speakers, doing battle with what sounds like Judas Priest on the main stage (but you're sure that can't be right). Petra skips over as you approach, finally bearing your new laminates. Someone, either by mistake or for a crack, has obeyed your command precisely and printed four As on it, which unexpectedly makes you chuckle. cannons out of the speakers, doing battle with what sounds like Judas Priest on the main stage (but you're sure that can't be right). Petra skips over as you approach, finally bearing your new laminates. Someone, either by mistake or for a crack, has obeyed your command precisely and printed four As on it, which unexpectedly makes you chuckle.
”As long as it works, eh, Spalding?” you smile at your drummer, who for some mysterious reason has brought along his Pratchett novel. ”Worried you'll get bored?”
”Yeah, or in case I need the loo halfway through,” he replies. Good old Craig. The only band member who never p.i.s.ses you off.
There's a muted round of applause as you enter and take your seat: in the middle, as usual, flanked by Craig and Martin to your left, Dan and Heidi to your right. So she is is with the press agency. Glad you've cleared that one up. with the press agency. Glad you've cleared that one up.
”Okay, one at a time. Let's have it.”
It's pretty much autopilot from here on in. You like press conferences. There's not the inconvenience and pressure of having to talk to just one person, and you can play off all the daft stuff hacks say in public. It's like playing a gig with none of the music and just the between-song banter, which has always been your favourite part. Petra pa.s.ses by occasionally, refilling your champagne gla.s.s; none of the other guys say an awful lot, but then they never do. Overall, you prefer it that way. Stops them from saying anything stupid, like that time in Zurich when Dan described Switzerland as ”basically part of Germany.”
In the main, the session is a public hearing of the battle currently raging between the older writers (Kenny Mann, Vincent Bates) and the newer ones (Blair Cooper, Toby Johnson, plus that k.n.o.b from Craze) Craze) over who can out-hip and out-reference the other. You're a little disturbed to find you usually agree with the older ones, even Mann, whom you and Gloria always detested. You've never laughed so hard as when she socked him in the face that time. ”h.e.l.l hath no fury ...,” etc. over who can out-hip and out-reference the other. You're a little disturbed to find you usually agree with the older ones, even Mann, whom you and Gloria always detested. You've never laughed so hard as when she socked him in the face that time. ”h.e.l.l hath no fury ...,” etc.
But you can't help feeling irritated when some little s.h.i.+t from Select Select smugly notes ”the unexpected success of smugly notes ”the unexpected success of The Social Trap.” The Social Trap.” Time for a spot of your sleeping-alligator routine. Time for a spot of your sleeping-alligator routine.
”I'm sorry ... 'unexpected'?”
”Yeah.”
”I don't understand. Why was it unexpected?”
”Well ...”
”Did you read that somewhere? Was it in Music Week?” Music Week?”
”Well, you've been away for a while, and-”
”A year.”
”But, I mean, since your last studio release-”
”Which sold four million copies, yes.”
”And the musical map has-”
”Ooh, here we go, it's a geography lesson! The musical map. Is that a map that whistles a Black Sabbath song when you stick a pin in Birmingham?”
”No, but-”
”It's never as cut and dried as that, my friend.”
”Sure, but what's your view on the whole Britpop movement?”
”Britpop?”
”Yes.”
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