How I Left the National Grid (3 page)

‘You’re such a nerd.’

‘This is the perfect time for this opportunity to have come. I have the space to write too now, I could use the spare room.’

‘I was hoping we could keep the spare room free from books.’

‘For what?’

‘For a baby, Sam. I’m thirty five and we need to start building a nest.’

Sam hesitated. ‘You really think I could be a father?’

She smiled. ‘You were the one just trying to convince me you’re the next Alan Sugar. Surely fatherhood will be a doddle after you’ve built your empire?’

The waiter appeared, pouring a flame of red wine into her glass. Sam saw how the sun lit the edges of Elsa’s hair.

‘So how about it? My last shot at fame and glory? Solving a great mystery before becoming the committed family man. What do you say?’

She smiled.

‘Yes?’ He leant closer. ‘Elsa?’

She threw up her hands. ‘You’re going to do it anyway. What
different does it make what I say?’

‘I am going to make you proud. I’ll head down first thing tomorrow to get started. Now are we ordering, or what?’

Elsa looked down at the menu. Sam caught a glimpse of the whiteness of her knuckles, as slowly she began to clench her hand.

‘Come on, have whatever you want, Elsa.’

Sam didn’t recognise Elsa’s expression.

‘You’re not really worried, are you?’ he asked.

She looked up. ‘Of course I am. It’s not worth the risk. Sooner or later you’re going to see that going after him is walking into your own damn grave.’

People say that after
Top Of The Pops
it’s never the same, don’t they? Well, they’re right. Bonny called it ‘our first assault on mass consciousness.’ You can push for years, playing for a promoter who doesn’t even turn up, in bars where they think you’re a bunch of hairdressers just because you’ve got a keyboard. But once you’ve grabbed the world by the collar it keeps looking up at you, with morbid interest.

After our performance we had so much energy. Theo was running up and down the BBC corridors. I asked him, ‘What are you doing?’

He said ‘I’m looking for Legs And Co.’

‘What will they want with you?’

‘I’m dangerous now.’

‘What, for using curling tongs in the bath? Sit down.’

Me and Simon went for a swig at the fire exit. Trying to come down in the freezing wind. Still in our onstage gear, security guards in eyeliner. Knocking back a flask of cheap vodka.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Simon said, trying to light a damp fag.

‘What?’

‘Julio Iglesias is only hanging around drinking bottled water in the corridor.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘That lounge-lizard who knocked me guitar out of tune before we went on. No word of an apology.’

‘That bloke singing in Spanish?’ I zipped up my jacket.

His eyes got wider. ‘No, Rob. Don’t.’

I flexed my fingers.

‘What you going to do?’

‘I’ll think of something. The Volvo’s out the back. Maybe we can kidnap him for ransom? Get the Latin market to pay us some attention.’

I was down the hall before he could stop me.

Iglesias was there. Wavy hair, white-capped teeth, and water that had probably been cooled on the thighs of a virgin moments earlier.

‘Julio, do you recognize us?’

It’s quite a talent to be scared by someone and completely ignore them at the same time.

Simon wasn’t far behind me. ‘Yeah, Rob. He’ll be a massive fan of our single about the Manchester commute,’ he said.

At the end of the hall I could hear Bonny shout ‘Rob. You’ve got to be shitting me. Leave him alone.’

‘Do you recognise us Julio?’ I asked.

He flashed a smile, just for a second. Took in the nail varnish and eyeliner and then with one pristine loafer took a small step back.

‘Julio Iglesias, I’m arresting you for crimes against Latin culture. You do not have to say anything…’

Iglesias dropped his water. It landed on the floor with a muffled thump and started pouring out of the nozzle.

‘Are you security guys?’ he said. Eyes wide.

Bonny appeared out of nowhere. An ambassador’s wife crossed with a stick-woman.

She pointed at her head, twirled a finger. ‘They’re from Manchester,’ she said. ‘They can’t arrest anyone.’

Our next gig was a sell-out. When we pulled up in the decommissioned coach Bonny had got for us, this chorus-line of girls were waiting. Clutching thermos flasks and green pens.

Watching.

Theo thought that made us The Beatles. ‘We’re as big as The Beatles,’ he’d say. ‘Being this famous is scary.’

‘We’re nowhere near as big as them,’ I said.

‘You sure you want to be?’ Jack asked. Look what happened to Lennon.’

Theo looked at the girls out of the window and said ‘How are we not famous? All revolutions start with the hearts of teenagers.’

‘Jesus. Shut up, Theo,’ Simon said.

‘I could sleep with any one of them,’ Theo said. ‘It’s blowjob city out there.’

I took in the cardigans, pigeon-toed feet and spiral-bound notebooks. ‘Where?’ I asked.

I looked out at the crowd. It was like someone had gone around every disco, every remote railway station, every motorway café, and scooped up all the lost souls. Then put them all outside Newcastle City Hall. For us.

Every aspect of my life had become chaos since we’d been on TV. For months we’d had plans to have shots of city life blasted onto us while we played onstage, but could never afford it before. Whenever we tried the screen fell on Jack the minute he started drumming. Suddenly we could do whatever we wanted. Every waking hour all I could see was roadies, technicians, promoters. Coming to me for answers. Knowing the blueprint only existed in my head.

Every one of the band had begun honing their role. Theo was spending every second of his life with his bass. He’d snort speed just before we went on stage, said it helped him focus his playing. He didn’t play bass like anyone else, but had this totally unique take. He’d caress the strings to make them vibrate. Backstage Jack would drum furiously onto his knees, wanting to build his strength so that his opening salvo shook the audience. Simon would stand with his head back, looking up at the ceiling.

Top Of The Pops
was just a puppet show. It was the next gig that made me think we could truly change people. Some left their jobs without taking leave to travel to see us. Zipping each other up, then walking out into a stinging circle of orange light. The throbbing background track grinding in my ear, the crowd giving out this hungry roar.

I’d watched how crowds danced at gigs. The same, mechanical movements they fell into. Allowing themselves a tiny bit of self-expression for a few moments. But I was going to shake them out of their suburban stupor.

Onstage, the three others looked over at me for the signal to start. I’d
get a taste in my mouth and nod to Jack, who’d start pounding out this tribal drum tattoo. Theo twisting himself into shapes, trying to work a bass line around it. Simon, bent over his pedals, ready to unleash weird science.

As a singer there’s always this second when you go to the mike and you have no idea what’s going to come out. I was shaking then, wondering if I’d be found out. The crowd looking up at me, needing something. On a good night you get caught in the flow, all the worries vanish. This dark poison wells up in you and you just have to ease it out through your mouth.

That was what happened that night, for the first time.

It hit hard.

The band kicked in and I was seized by this neurotic energy. It was so powerful. As my voice filled the room it vibrated my body, the deep tone coming out of my mouth scaring even me. All the bodies started moving, pogo-ing. Trying to adjust, find a way through the chaos. They were all hemmed in for the next hour, forced into this small coup. They had to make sense of it, one by one.

Gradually I knew they’d start to think. And realize, this is something real.

There’s this elation when hundreds of slender women sing your words back at you. Their bodies trying to adjust to something you’ve made.

That night I felt such devotion to my band. I couldn’t believe we’d got to this point so quickly, where we could floor audiences. Just flatten them.

I would have done anything for my band then. Simon unleashing these rolling fields of sound. Theo creating this constant pulse under it all. Jack driving us forward. A team.

We built and built and built. We took the audience to new planes, into weird annexes they didn’t know their minds possessed. Brutally confronted them with themselves.

As the last song crashed to its knees the lights gradually dimmed, until all that was left was a final note in the darkness. A huge full stop.
The audience standing stunned. Trying to process what’d just happened.

When the lights came back on the stage was empty, the four of us stood in the wings. The crowd gave out this roar that shook the ceiling, and we looked at each other, our eyes wide with fear and pleasure and expectation. Our hearts thundering.

During the gig I’d seen Bonny in the wings, holding a fan of backstage passes. As the last notes of the concert rang out I saw her go out into the crowd, hand them out to some of the younger women. Mostly ones dressed like fans, with fur-trimmed leather and hairspray, this mix of perfume and perspiration that filled me with excitement. She directed them backstage, where journalists were mingling. Like scum round a pan.

The back stage party was like a pressure cooker. The odour of roadies, just off Grateful Dead tours, mixing with the perfume of young girls in glittering heels. All of them congregating in the far corner, taking it in. I’d expected us to be too noisy, too strange to attract that crowd. I wondered if they would stay with us for long before moving onto the next new boys, with their songs about discos and bedsits.

I found a beer and somewhere to sit on the side as more and more girls seeped in. Until the room was this big, seductive tide of bracelets and lip-gloss. Sparkling and swaying.

I took a swig, tried to pick out Simon. The girls looked hesitant, cautious. Every now and again they snapped into action. Consulted with a mate, dressed identically but with a different necklace, before running over to the table of drinks. Seconds later they’d be back at their mate’s side, giving a snap verdict. Standing there, arms folded. Watching again.

In come the journalists. College boys with tape recorders slung over one tweed shoulder. Lank hair, darkened by sunless years. Trying to make contact with these girls.

As I drank, I felt people staring at me. I listened in to one of the girls talking to Theo. ‘You were so amazing,’ she said. ‘We hitched a ride all the way down from Liverpool just to see you.’

‘We have nowhere to stay,’ another said.

Theo nodded. ‘We’re all homeless, when the lights go up,’ he said. But her friends weren’t listening. They were looking at the cut of his leather jacket, wondering where he’d bought it from.

‘Is it true you’re dating that girl from The Passions?’

‘Is it true your jacket is from Sex?’

But he never gave a specific answer. He just responded with gin. Whatever the question was, he’d say ‘Here, have a drink.’

Pop stars don’t cater, they make a canvas.

It’s pretty much their only job.

No one tried to speak to me. They looked at me, but didn’t come close. I was told I used to give off this negative force-field then.

Not like Theo.

Simon came over and rolled a joint at my side. Bonny said ‘You can’t smoke that in here, what if the press see?’ Simon laughed.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Presentation, presentation, presentation.’

‘You serious, Bon?’

She lowered her voice.

‘Yes, I’m deadly serious, Simon. Every music paper has sent someone here tonight. Don’t give them a reason to turn their back on you. The Grassmen are ready to steal your thunder as it is.’

The Grassmen were our support act. Four MIT students who used recorded factory sounds instead of drums.

Simon looked incredulous. ‘That lot from Akron?’

‘Yeah. Look at that. All the journalists are cornering them. Leaving you well alone.’

‘They think Robert will chin them. No one will go near him.’

I drank. ‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Well how come they’re over there then?’ Bonny asked me.

‘Because they’re courting the journalists right back, aren’t they?’ I said. ‘We’re not like that. You know how it works, Bon. Tell them what we’re all about and they won’t try to work it out for themselves.’

She smiled, waved her cocktail glass. ‘Rubbish, Robert. You play hard to get at this stage and they’ll just ignore you. You’re not big
enough for those games. Someone’s got to make it happen.’

‘You’re on a hiding to nothing,’ I said.

‘I think he’s right,’ a voice said.

It was one of the ushers from the event, a girl with shining blonde hair. Bonny had introduced me to her on the way in. Told me to ask her for anything we needed. I’d been distracted during sound check by her, the way she nodded enthusiastically whenever I asked for something. Who am I to give orders to someone like her, I thought. I’m nothing.

‘Right about what?’ I asked.

‘About not going after the journalists.’ She dropped her voice. I noticed just how small she was. Gazelle-thin. Tiny shoulders. ‘That band will be here today, gone tomorrow. I’d keep your distance. Get them to chase after you.’