No. 10
As far back as you can remember you always wanted to be a rock star.
It wasn’t because you liked the idea of the fame and fortune, it wasn’t because you wanted to have a long poodle perm and wear stone-washed denim, it wasn’t because you wanted the glamour and girls, it wasn’t because you’d written in your little yellow All About Me exercise book aged nine-years-old that ‘one day I want to become a rock ‘n’ rolling star’, and it wasn’t because you wanted to play to thousands of adoring fans: it was simply because you loved rock music. Really loved it.
It was great bands like Led Zep, AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses that lit a red-hot fire inside until… well, you’ll get to that later… you just loved the hook of the huge monster riffs, the lull of the verse, the rise of the chorus that made everyone want to sing-along, and you really loved the solos that made you want to pick up a guitar and play it perfectly until each and every one of your fingers bled.
You struggled to play the guitar initially so you’d paid for some after school guitar lessons with your paper round money. For the first few months you could barely string a series of notes together and you got picked on at school for carrying your guitar bag on your back. But you stuck at it. Your tenacity and focus were strong even then. You remember your fingers ached as you held them in those funny positions as old Mr Parry drilled the basic chords into your head as you strummed and strummed your beloved guitar. Another year of school and extra lessons passed and finally you were slowly, painfully slowly, getting somewhere.
And then it clicked. You remember vividly because you’d been listening to Sweet Child O’ Mine on your double cassette deck and you were somehow able to mimic Slash’s riffs on your Les Paul. After only a few more listens you’d even nailed most of the chorus. The solo took another week, and copying Axel’s primal screams took a little longer, but eventually, gloriously, you got it.
When you left school and formed your band, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, you loved jamming with Jim and Steveo, trying to play your songs you’d spent days and nights dreaming up and writing down. You eventually got to play your first gig in a dirty local pub. You can still vaguely recall the smell of smoke in the air and stale booze on the floor, but you’ll never forget your songs rocking out of the pub’s knackered old speakers, and the sound of the clapping and cheering at the end of that night.
You were finally starting to feel like a rock star.
* *
I don’t really want to be here.
It’s March and it’s been a bitter, typical winter’s day in Wales. Yet here, stood by the side of the stage in Cardiff’s International Arena, I’m almost unbearably hot. It’s a sell out Wednesday afternoon gig for the youth audience, but I’m sure the manager has let a bunch more in on the door to up his takings. I look back at the expectant faces as they all jostle for position in futile attempts to get a glimpse of the stage. Every now and then the cheers and screams get louder as they eagerly encourage the grand entrance of their so-called idols. I look at my watch. It’s 3:40pm, still twenty minutes to go. We’ve already endured the solo ‘celebrity’ support act, Jimmy Fink, a sub-standard singer who’s only claim to fame was coming third in Pop Factory. But the main act keep the crowd waiting. Probably because West Side need to preen their pretty boy faces and designer hairdos a few more times.
I’m glad I’m this side of the crowd as the hysteria steadily grows. There’s nothing more damaging for your eardrums than piercing prepubescent screams. Actually, there is something worse, and that’s the pop pap about to be sincerely – always sincerely – sung by the talent-free wonders due on stage.
As I said, I’m not exactly thrilled to be here.
I’m stood in the safety of the press area at the front of the stage along with a few other journalists and photographers milling about. I’m here reluctantly as my editor, Gary, felt it would be a good idea if I reported on West Side’s Welsh gig for the next issue of our esteemed publication, TOP 10 HITS. He’s getting his own back after I wrote that a prominent pop star called Princess is, in fact, a prince. My reliable source was Dan from Guitar World who works on the same floor as us at Good Publishing Network. He told me she’d had a sex change ten years ago. I later found out he was just winding me up and we had to print a full page retraction and apology. We were told she especially didn’t like the ‘Princess and the Penis’ headline. I thought it was inspired.
So now Gary gives all the boy band and girl band live reviews to me. I normally try and get more of the indie and rock gigs to write up, as long as the song or album has made it up somewhere near the top ten. A task that can be difficult for any proper and passionate musical-instrument-playing bands. The top ten seems to get filled up with painfully wet soulless soul, lame rock-lite groups, R&B (ironic that it’s called that these days, when there’s no rhythm or blues in the modern R&B, only disjointed drum beats and good looking guys and girls rapping and posing), regurgitated and mindless dance tunes, and the recent flop idol or pop ‘talent’ show winners/losers.
The crowd continues to cheer and jeer not-so-patiently for the four bum boys to make an entrance. At least it gives me the chance to scan the press pit for Sophie, a pretty pop photographer I met a couple of weeks ago. I have a good look around but instead I can only see Fat Pat grinning as he comes towards me.
“Alright Hardy, how’s it hanging my son?” says Fat Pat as he smacks me on the shoulder. Fat Pat is a freelance writer for various tabloids, he’s also a good friend and we go way back. Sweat’s trying to escape from every one of his pores.
“Pat you twat.” I say, genuinely surprised to see his fat, friendly face over in Wales. “What are you doing this side of the Severn Bridge!?”
“About to ask you same facking question Hardy,” he says, London accent still intact. He’s wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt that hugs his generous belly tightly.
“Yeah, I got the short straw again as Gary’s still pissed off with me,” I say.
“Because of that Princess and her penis story fiasco?” laughs
Fat Pat.
“Yep.”
“Oh well. So how is TOP 10 going these days?” asks Fat Pat.
TOP 10 HITS is a fun little, fortnightly ‘music’ magazine aimed squarely at the teen girl and boy demographic, reacting as quickly as possible to the latest musical fad or scene that’s being listened to in playgrounds – even though our editor thinks forty per cent of our readers are older university students. Bless the poor, deluded fool. But Good Publishing Network is based in Bath, not London like all the big mags and daily papers, and that has its good and bad sides.
What can I say? It’s a job. It keeps me mostly out of mischief.
“It’s top,” I say flatly. “Mag sales could be a lot better.”
“When’re you going to become a journalist on a real music mag in the capital then Hardy?” says Fat Pat. This is one of the bad sides, the London lot think we’re a farmyard outfit working out of barns in the countryside. But our readers don’t care where we’re based, as long as we keep banging out the same brightly coloured covers with photos of cute pop stars or starlets, they keep on buying our silly little magazine.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it. Q and Mojo have my CV. Just waiting for the right reviews or features ed job to crop up,” I say.
“Haven’t heard anything back recently then?” asks Fat Pat.
“No, bugger all.” Probably as I haven’t actually sent them my CV.
“You should move up to London anyway. It’s where it’s at,” says Fat Pat.
“I like the West Country. I like Bath, and Bristol’s only next door.”
“Too scared to join the rat race are you?”
“If you win the race, Pat, you’re still a rat,” I say.
We both turn to survey the crowd. A podgy teen girl with pink streaks in her hair and even pinker cheeks faints at the front. A burly security guard stretches over the barrier and picks her up not-all-that-delicately out of the crowd and carries her off to the first aid area. A gaggle of smiling mums and a few bored dads are in the background while infants through to teens bop about. I’m sure some of the kids are too tiny to be at a gig like this. It’s like a school disco times fifty.
“That reminds me, I’ve got a question for you,” says Fat Pat.
We look away from the kindergarten.
“How many five year olds do you reckon you could take on in a fight?” asks Fat Pat.
“Eh?”
“How many five year olds do you think you could beat up in an organised fight?”
“Good one. I like it,” I say rubbing my chin.
“There are rules. They’ll all be up for proper fighting even though they’re only five years old, and they’ll only come at you one at a time. But once you’ve entered combat with one, the following one can join in, and so on. You fight until either they’re unconscious or you are,” explains Pat.
“Cool, I see. There won’t be hundreds of them piling on top of me then,” I confirm.
“No. It’s more like that old chop-socky arcade game where they only come at you after you’ve started scrapping,” Fat Pat says. “The kids are motivated enough not to get scared regardless of the bloodshed and every little bugger will give it his/her best shot to take you down. The kids will be split 50/50 boy/girl. No weapons for them or you.”
“Okay.”
“So, how many could you beat in a scrap?”
“Erm, I feel pretty confident against those little blighters,” I answer, glancing at a couple of what-I-think-are five year olds in the crowd. They look so small. “I could just continually, casually kick them in their faces. So I reckon around seventy or eighty.”
“Not bad at all. That’s a good bunch of unconscious five year olds,” laughs Pat.
“What about picking one of the unconscious ones up by the legs and whacking the others with them?” I ask.
“Hadn’t thought of that. Kiddie baseball. Nice,” he says.
“That could get me up to one-fifty or so I reckon.”
“You’re probably right.”
“So what’s everyone else said?”
“Jez,” Fat Pat points out a tall, goofy looking student journalist across the other side of the stage, “said about ten or fifteen. He’s a soft twat though.”
“Lame,” I say.
“But Mikaela…”
“…the freelance photographer for the weekend magazines?”
“Yeah, that’s her. She’s over there.” He points to a bright-faced girl who seems to be demonstrating some bizarre new dance routine that looks like a cross between karate and skipping. “She’s got two little boys herself, and she said ‘about 500 of the little bastards on a good day.’” Pat laughs his fat head off at this.
“Christ, I’d pay to see that fight,” I say, scanning all the other snappers.
“Yeah. Don’t mess with a nutty yummy mummy, eh?”
“And what about you, how many five year olds could you beat up in one go?”
“One more than you,” says Fat Pat as he smiles smugly.
“You arsehole,” I say.
I give up on Fat Pat and look around the press pit. I finally spot Sophie. She’s got a red cap on, but I spy the unmistakable pony tail of brunette hair peaking out through the back of her hat. Her mane shines as it flickers in the spotlights.
I feel myself stirring downstairs. No, I don’t mean I physically feel myself down my trousers. Or that I’m downstairs stirring some soup on the boil. More that I sense myself rousing from a slumber. I smile, and my throat goes dry. Sophie did that to me last time.
She’s stood away from the other photographers, off to the left of the stage, intent on getting a different shot to the others probably.
I make my excuses with Fat Pat and move around the press pit so I can still see the stage, while being able to sneak a side profile view of Sophie. Her strong feminine cheekbones glow under the stage lights. She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ears as she plays with her camera lens. She’s got a tight little black Foo Fighters T-shirt on that shows off her breasts while a pair of fitted jeans hug her arse for all they’re worth. Lucky Diesels.
I almost forget we’re waiting for those pretty little posers to come on stage until the sweaty, young crowd go into another screaming-as-loud-as-they-can phase. God, how late is fashionably late these days anyway? Is it even fashionable to be late anymore?
And, more importantly, what excuse shall I use to talk to Sophie?
* *
As you jog along the side of the River Taff you smile to yourself. It’s nice to be jogging for a purpose rather than jogging for ten miles from point-to-point with a 30kg Burgan on your back and a compass in your hand. You cross the river and pick up your pace a little from Castle Street down to the High Street. Welsh patriotism hangs in shop windows in the shape of flags and red dragon emblems. You watch the aimless, gormless shoppers wandering from window to window like a human railway line, shuffling from shop to shop, regardless of what’s for sale. You continue jogging into St Mary Street, then turn left on to Caroline Street. You’re breathing deeply and as you exhale a stream of vapour appears in the cold afternoon air. But you’re not out of breath. You want to act the part and look like a real jogger, a slightly unfit one as you’d decided. You take a sip of water from the tube poking out from your CamelBak on your back then cross the junction to Bridge Street, and on to Mary Ann Street and destination X.
You trot down Mary Ann Street to find a few stragglers hanging around the side of the Cardiff International Arena. A lone tout is attempting to flog his last handful of black-market tickets. You wipe the sweat from your brow and, at the same time, surreptitiously check your black haired wig is still in place. It hasn’t moved since you carefully glued it in place two hours ago. It felt weird when you first tried it on and looked in the mirror. The straight hair tickled your ears unlike your closely cropped crew cut, but anybody who meets you today wouldn’t know you any different, and when you’d done a quick trial run down the local shops you didn’t get any funny looks. That gave you extra confidence.
As you round the corner to find the Arena’s main entrance, you clock a handful of small, medium and overweight security guards. Just as you’d predicted. You continue past them and jog around the back to the fire exit. You’d disabled the alarm on the door the night before with a simple bit of rewiring, plus you already know there’s no CCTV covering this door. Even so, you lean against a wall and do a few mock jogger stretches. After checking nobody from security’s followed you around the back, you use the metal ruler from your CamelBak to slide between the lock to ease the door open, and slip quietly inside. You check your watch. It’s 3:40pm. Bang on schedule. The support act will be clear of the stage by now and you have twenty minutes to get in, setup before the boy band hits the stage, and get out.
You can hear the screams of the anticipation from the crowd as you saunter down a long, empty corridor. You quickly find the cleaning cupboard you’re after and nip inside. The smell of cleaning products inside the cupboard is almost overwhelming. You slide the CamelBak off your back, get out the black security guard shirt and ID badge you’ve had knocking around the flat and adapted the night before, and swap it with your white jogging top. You keep your black jogging bottoms and black trainers on. With the security shirt on you’re reminded of those long, teeth-grindingly boring hours spent staring at ranks of CCTV screens through the night in a tiny office in a basement. Those tedious rounds of the empty office floors without seeing a soul the whole night. It won’t be that boring today. Using a cloth you’ve brought, you carefully put a small, homemade black box in your pocket without getting your fingerprints over it. You stash the CamelBak behind some floor cleaner and get yourself into security mode as you head into the corridor and towards backstage.
The temperature rises the closer you get to the stage. Riggers and roadies are hanging around corridors looking busy but nobody gives you a second glance as you stride past to stand by the side of the stage. You’d already checked the roadies working today would be a mixture of local labourers as well as the touring party – otherwise a close-knit crew might spot you as an impostor. Security men wander around with the same black shirt and ID badge as yours. You’re proud of your attention to detail. You move along by the side of the stage. You’re almost in position now.
For the last four months you’ve been meticulously planning this moment. You’ve started taking less security shifts and bodyguard work to dedicate time to your little pop project. You’re dipping into the money you’d saved when you did your long and enjoyable tour of duty in The Gulf. You were going to use it to buy a house one day, but you’ve decided this is a much more worthy cause. You think back to Christmas when all around you people were at parties, getting boozed up and fat on turkey, and swapping presents, while you were indoors, planning and setting up your Top 10.
Your Top 10 Hit List.
You smirk when you remember how those two blokes back in the pub in Liverpool last November inspired your killer idea.
Killer idea, indeed.
* *
You were sat in your local on the outskirts of Liverpool, with one ear on the pub’s stereo and the other eavesdropping on a couple of young men chatting on the table opposite.
“The real problem is there’s no proper rock stars anymore,” said the spiky haired one.
It had been over twenty years since you first played the old classic Sweet Child O’ Mine all the way through, and over ten years since you’d picked up your guitar. It was a dull November evening and rain trickled down the outside of the pub’s windows as inside the bass-heavy stereo pumped out The Bends. You sipped on your Jack Daniels and coke and listened in on the two men while you continued to read your book.
“It’s all about banal, over produced pop crap and manufactured music these days,” said the one with the trimmed goatie.
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean mate,” said his spiky haired friend.
“What’s pop about it? It’s not popular with me that’s for sure,” said goatie beard.
“The charts and music scene are just shite these days,” said Spiky flatly.
They were both in their mid-to-late twenties, dressed in bright T-shirts, baggy, low-slung jeans and trendy trainers. You were sat at a table in the corner of the pub while punters chatted over drinks and cigarettes at the bar. Wafts of tobacco smoke slowly wandered in your direction as you quietly read your book and enjoyed your Jack Daniels. You were dressed down in an old, dark blue T-shirt and your favourite pair of faded Levi’s. Only your sturdy footwear hinted at your past. You turned the page of your book but found yourself being drawn back to their conversation. You felt exactly the same about today’s sodding music scene.
“The Brit indie scene has been getting progressively better but the pop music crap still outnumbers the good,” said Beardy.
“I can never listen to the radio for long. You might get one good song, then it’s the same tosh over and over again,” said Spiky.
“It’s so frustrating. I used to really love the charts. Used to buy Smash Hits magazine and watch Top Of The Pops religiously every week when I was a kid. I even used to tape the Top 40 on Radio 1 on a Sunday night with Simon Mayo!” said Beardy excitedly.
You smiled. When you used to tape the Top 40 you even used to pause the recording when Mayo was rabbiting on or if he cut to the news. But you liked to record all of the Top 10 count down before Mayo announced that week’s No.1. You remembered sitting in your bedroom anticipating the new No.1, with the hairs standing up on the back of your neck. But you hadn’t felt like that for a long time.
“But now Smash Hits has closed and Top Of The Pops has been axed. Ironic, really, considering there’s tons more cheesy pop fodder for them these days,” said Spiky.
You couldn’t remember the last time you heard a song in the charts you felt compelled to buy. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw the chart countdown on TV. Was it even still on terrestrial or on one of the cable channels? Your mouth went dry at the thought. You took a long glug on your drink, playing with an ice cube in your mouth until it melted.
“I don’t think it’s just cos we’ve gotten older either. The radio
and telly was never full of this many chancers who couldn’t play instruments or write their own songs,” said Spiky. “What’s happened to the real music by honest musicians who could hold a tune?”
“Exactly, mate. What the hell is that latest horseshit from West Side for starters?” Beardy said slurring slightly. “They’re just churning out another naff old cover version while sat on some stools.”
“It sucks that these pretty boys have made it while real musicians get left in the wilderness. It doesn’t matter if they sound amazing, it’s not enough anymore,” said Spiky.
You didn’t look up from your book but you stopped reading. This was what drove you insane when you were in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. You were a talented bunch, Steveo on bass, Jim on drums, you on lead guitar and vocals. You had some bloody good songs too. You had to practice all the time, and there were many late nights perfecting the lyrics and guitar licks, but you played pretty tight most of the time. You went down well on the local circuit and you half filled nearly all the venues on your mini tour of the UK. Your EP did okay and sold a few thousand through independent record shops, and your first and only single, Hot Dog, even got played on John Peel’s Radio 2 show when he was still around. An Enemy magazine live review described your band as: ‘Outdated grungy guitarists who need to drag themselves away from the ‘80s cock rock band influences and lame Led Zeppelin pretences – a better looking frontman wouldn’t hurt either’. You weren’t happy about the last bit or the idea that you tried to mimic Plant and Page’s lot, yet as first reviews go you were pretty chuffed.
But after years of hard graft trying to progress beyond the pub scene, you were told bluntly by your record label that you simply didn’t look the part. They dropped you and your band like a stone, and your rock star dreams ended right there.
It still hurts whenever you think about it.
“What really gets me is all the TV talent shows encouraging the fame-hungry halfwits and talent-less wannabes to saturate the TV and radio…” said Beardy.
“Yeah! That wonky toothed winner…” said Beardy.
“Loser!” said Spiky.
“Yeah, that loser’s rendition of Elvis’s Suspicious Minds was so bad it was insulting. Must’ve had The King turning in his grave.”
“There’s nothing worse than bloody Pop Factory.”
“Yeah there is… American Pop Factory!”
You casually glanced up at the men laughing before returning to your book. The scream of a custom exhaust outside was followed closely by a siren and flashing blue and white. You loved living back home after working away and being based in Hereford for so long. Now you’d take any excuse to get out again.
“I saw an interview last week with Hoodwink on MTV. God damn boy bands. They were so cocky and confident,” said Spiky. “Playing up to the camera and posing around. They had nothing interesting to say and it was insulting how bad their song was.”
They should’ve tried working for them. You’d been a bodyguard and security for boy bands like them. You’d got to witness their egos and arrogance growing firsthand. You’d thought about kicking their heads in more than once.
“They’re all just a bunch of karaoke singers aren’t they? And they’re murdering the songs too,” spat Spiky. He was getting angry.
“Murdering, yeah…” repeated Beardy, laughing a little. “What we need is a murderer! Someone to purge the pop charts.”
Your ears perked up. They were talking your language. You peered across at Beardy and Spiky. Sod it. You decided you’d join them. You folded down the corner of the page and closed your old copy of Hugh Laurie’s The Gun Seller – it was funny as you’d hoped, and funnier still when the main character was tortured. You finished your drink and walked over to their table as Thom Yorke started singing about some fake plastic trees on the stereo.
“Sorry lads, don’t mean to eavesdrop,” you said casually in your Scouse dialect, “but I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Spiky eyed you up and down cautiously. Beardy just grinned at you. You thought he liked the idea he’d had an audience.
“I couldn’t agree more,” you said in your friendliest manner. “The bloody music scene has been frustrating me for years.”
“Good man!” said Beardy.
Spiky eased up and let out a smile of sorts.
“What are you drinking?” you said pointing at their nearly empty glasses. “I’m off up to the bar anyway.”
“Stella!” They said in unison.
“He seems a nice bloke,” you thought you heard Beardy say as you were stood at the bar. From the corner of your eye you saw Spiky glance up at you.
“Big bugger ain’t he, though. Did you see his forearms?”
“Yeah. Cool old school tattoos ‘n’ all. He’s an old rocker I reckon,” said Beardy.
You placed each pint down in front of Spiky and Beardy and pulled up a chair.
“What’s your name, mate?” asked Spiky.
“Rob,” you lied instinctively. No need to use your real name.
You chatted away, breaking the ice by talking about great albums. “Especially classics like this one of Radiohead’s,” you said, pointing up to the pub’s speakers. “Has to be good albums though, stuff from The Stone Roses, Led Zep, Nirvana, G ‘n’ R or something.”
Beardy and Spiky nodded in agreement as they eagerly swigged at their fresh pints. Soon enough you were all laughing and joking as you compared theories on the artificial pop singers that were churning up the charts.
As the slender, understated tones of Street Spirit started to seep of out the stereo, you felt it was time to change the conversation back to what had really interested you.
“So, how do you think we should knock off all these celebrity-seeking singers and bloody boy bands then?” you said, drinking deeply on your JD.
The pair of them cracked up. They loved this. But you couldn’t understand why.
You were being serious.
* *
As you stand by the stage, you wonder if Spiky and Beardy would recognise you if they saw you now. Doubt it, if they weren’t pissed when you’d met them, they were when you’d finished with them. Besides, today’s trusty disguise solves that problem. You stroke your wig and pad down a strand of hair by your ear as if it was your own.
From the left-hand side of the stage you take in its sheer size as the lights flash around and out and over the crowd. The kids’ cheering goes loud to quiet as you peer around the corner to check them out. So that’s what a proper-sized crowd looks like from a proper-sized stage. You didn’t get that sort of crowd when The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly played down the local juicer. You nearly let yourself dwell in the moment but you’re quick to stay focused.
You look across the stage. Roadies stroll back and forth, a couple of them carry out final sound checks. As they’re finishing up you check your watch. 3:53pm. You realise it’s now or never.
* *
Like the kindergarten crowd, even I’m getting restless now. These little pop tarts better get on stage soon or I will just piss off to the pub and write my review from there. It’ll be the same songs and the same show with the same ‘fabulous’ light display as every other gig West Side’s played throughout the UK so far. The crowd show their boredom too as the rise and fall of their cheers get further apart.
To be honest, the only reason I’ve stuck around is because of Sophie. She is still diligently taking aim, ready to fire off a few rounds as soon as the band take to the stage. I think of what I’m going to say to her. But, after mulling over some lame chat-up lines, I decide I’m not going to walk over and reel off any pre-planned spiel. No, Sophie deserves better than that. I’m just going to go over and have a quick chat. Just say hello. Just be myself.
“Hello,” I say when I reach Sophie’s side. After feeling like a nervy school boy, I feel strangely relaxed.
“Hi,” says Sophie. She looks up briefly, before returning to carefully cleaning the lens of her camera.
“We met at the West Side gig in Birmingham, I’m Hardy,” I say, “from TOP 10 HITS magazine.”
“I know, I remember you,” says Sophie. “You were very drunk.” She doesn’t take her eyes off her camera.
“There was a big free bar, and I was very bored,” I say a little sheepishly.
“Know how you feel. I’ve been bloody commissioned to photograph every bloody West Side gig for their official UK bloody tour book. I’ve been bored for weeks.”
“Christ!” I say, “and I thought I had it bad being sent to review three of their UK gigs.”
“Think yourself lucky, Hardy.” She looks up at me for the first time, peering underneath the peak of her cap, smiling as she says my name. I notice her dark brown eyes as the stage lights flicker overhead. I also notice how tall she is. She must be around 5ft 8in as she still has to look up at me. I like her height. It’s a nice height. A very nice height. Not too short, not too tall.
“I guess I am lucky if you look at it like that,” I say, “That’s twenty-odd gigs isn’t it?”
“Twenty bloody four,” she says.
I melt when she says ‘bloody’ in her clipped, oh-so English accent.
Suddenly the lights change colour as rays of white, orange and green shoot down and around the stage. West Side’s intro music booms from the stage speakers. The crowd are quick to react and release a tidal wave of cheers and screams. It’s deafening. This means Sophie and I have to do that lovely, intimate act people do at concerts of getting closer to talk in each other’s ears.
“Well, you look like you’re enjoying yourself, I’ve seen how thorough you are at setting up your shots,” I say into her pretty little ear. I can smell a sweet concoction of perfume and shampoo.
“I like to be professional whoever I’m shooting,” she shouts in my ear, the heat from her breath warming the inside. It feels lovely. I’m glad I slapped on some Boss aftershave this morning now.
“But doesn’t the music do your nut in after a while?” I shout in her ear.
“It did my brain in before the first gig. I bloody hate the shite West Side are churning out,” she laughs loudly, putting her hand on my shoulder to get closer. I think I almost feel her nose brush up on my neck and behind my ear. Is she smelling me?
“So what music do you like then?” I shout in her shell-like.
She thrusts her bust out to proudly show off her Foo Fighters T-shirt, pointing at her chest just in case I didn’t gather that she’s a fan of Dave Grohl’s rock lot.
Then Sophie does something to make me fall in love with her.
To emphasize her music of choice Sophie lets her camera hang around her neck and does a full-on air guitar solo. Screwing her face up and contorting her body. Oh shit. I’m in trouble now. Even her air guitar turns me on.
“I like rock music, of course!” she shouts, unleashing a gleaming smile.
* *
You look across the stage now dowsed in coloured light and a surge of adrenalin rushes through your veins. You take a deep breath and stroll nonchalantly up on stage. You head to the mixer junction station at the rear of the stage where it’s dark, and swiftly unplug the middle mic’s cable and plug it into the little black box you had in your pocket, plugging the other end of your box into the junction station. You’re careful not to leave fingerprints on the box, holding it with the cloth from your pocket.
You learned a lot about electrics from setting up your own PA systems for countless gigs back in the day. Your little box of tricks switches the wiring so the earth of the microphone is actually connected to the live socket on the mixer. It also disconnects the real live wire and neutral to avoid blowing the circuit. The roadies are too wrapped up in their own role or ogling the crowd to care what you’re doing. You quickly get off stage, but as you look towards the press pit, a female photographer in a red cap takes a picture of the stage. You think about quickly knocking her out and nicking her camera… but then you realise she’s just testing the light and composing shots before the boy band come on stage. You keep your cool and slip into the darkness backstage, into a corner away from everyone else.
A voice on the PA says, “Ladies and gentlemen, mums and dads, boys and girls, please give it up… for West Side!” The crowd goes hysterical.
Mums? Boys? Girls? This is why these fuckwits are able to sell records. It’s the under-developed, under-educated ears of the youngsters and housewives who know no better than to buy it.
From where you’re standing you get a rear view of five boys in bright blue suits bouncing on stage. The two on the outside grab their microphones and start shouting, “Come on Cardiff, come on Cardiff!” as some mindless dance beat booms from the giant speakers. All five jump straight into an energetic dance routine. Just when you think the crowd can’t scream any louder, they go nuclear. You can’t believe the entire first ‘song’ has no lyrics, just a load of dancers prancing about. Jesus Christ. They’re not even natural dancers, they look like a bunch of fat kids at a youth club party.
You’ve already justified why you’ve created a Top 10 Hit List. The music scene and pop charts need purging. And there’s no better example of manufactured music than West Side and their formulaic ballads and constant crappy cover versions – that are never an improvement on the originals. Not one of the five arse bandits in the ‘band’ can write a song, read music or play an instrument. It’s glorified, glossy karaoke.
For them, it’s not about making music, it’s about making money.
You’ve singled out Dazza because he’s the celebrity-obsessed, gobby, egotistical, deluded wanker who thinks he’s some kind of modern-day, British Sinatra. He’s not got an ounce of talent compared to Ole Blue Eyes. So when they come on stage and just shuffle and jump about, you justify to yourself what’s going to happen a little bit more.
West Side stop dancing.
The music stops.
The lights go down.
The crowd go mental.
In the darkness five roadies quickly line up five stools and five mics in a row and sprint off stage. A spotlight is switched on to the central mic and stool. Dazza, the slightly overweight one with the ridiculous spiky hair, walks in to the light. As his face moves into the spotlight, he sweeps his hair back from his glistening face and releases a cocky smile for the crowd. Still breathing hard from dance routine, he leans into the mic and wraps both of his sweaty hands around it, theatrically preparing to begin one of their big ballads. Thankfully he doesn’t get that far. He doesn’t even get to sing a note: 240 volts raging through his blue-suited body put a stop to that.
You’ve seen someone get electrocuted by direct current when you were in the Gulf so you know the whole body goes into spasm, and all their muscles contract making it impossible to let go of whatever they’ve inadvertently grabbed hold of. Yet it’s actually the amps that are bad for the body, not all those volts. So you were careful to make sure your little black box pushes 250 milliamps through the cable, enough to shock an elephant. The live current is making Dazza vibrate on the spot.
It certainly gives a new meaning to appearing ‘Live On Stage’.
The crowd love it. They think Dazza’s jerking around on purpose. They think he’s still dancing. As demented body popping goes it’s pretty impressive. His band mates aren’t quite so happy to see their mate violently convulsing and a couple of them shout at roadies to shut the power down.
A skinny roadie rushes past you to the main mixing desk and shuts down the power to the mics. Dazza finally lets go of the mic and drops to the floor in an awkward, podgy heap. One of his arms flops out with his hand facing the ceiling. You can just make out the electrical burn marks on his palm. As he lies motionless, the crowd’s screams of joy slowly but surely transform into screams of terror as one by one they realise what’s happened. Chaos spreads through the crowd. They don’t know whether to run, or stand and stare. Some mums drag their kids away, others shield their own eyes. Roadies dash from one side of the stage to the other, while the four remaining band members are dragged off stage, presumably for their own safety. Amazingly the spotlight stays on Dazza.
Security starts ushering the shocked crowd out and eventually a paramedic runs on stage and gets to his knees to check for a pulse. He rolls Dazza over on his side, clears his air way, then rolls him on his back and starts carrying out CPR. After five futile minutes he stops. A small collection of roadies circle around Dazza and the paramedic. You move closer to the stage to see the paramedic’s reaction. He looks up to a man, West Side’s manager probably, wearing a white shirt and black tie. The paramedic looks apologetic as he shakes his head. Cardiac arrest. A shudder runs down your spine and you ease backwards.
As you slip off towards the corridor, you see the red-capped photographer in the press pit again. She looks uneasy and unsure whether to take a picture of dead Dazza. Business-sense takes over and she quickly fires off a succession of shots before being escorted out of the press pit. That’s it girl. You wouldn’t want your first hit, your No.10, not to make it into the media.
While the chaos continues, and the crowds frenetically disperse among panicking roadies and security, you take the opportunity to slip unnoticed back to the corridor and cleaning cupboard. You quickly change back into the jogger’s outfit, stash the security stuff into your CamelBak, and you’re back out the fire exit and into the late afternoon sun in less than two minutes.
After the intense heat by the stage, the cold air feels freezing as you inhale a lungful, but as you casually break into a jog and leave the shocked crowds coming out and looking lost in the street, you can’t stop grinning. “You’ve done it,” you say quietly under your breath. “You’ve fucking done it.”
Your Top 10 countdown has begun. One hit down, nine to go.
* *
I was standing next to Sophie when the pop tarts took to the stage, and I was still next to her when Dazza lined up to launch into song. I remember because I’d taken my eyes off her in the press pit to see what Dazza was going to sing first up on stage. I remember staring up at him almost interested to see if he was going to sing their latest ‘hit’ or something new. I say almost because really I was dreading his weasel-like voice ringing throughout the stadium for the next hour or so.
But, when he didn’t even manage to squeeze out a note before being electrocuted, it was almost comical, and almost a relief. I know this sounds bad, disrespectful even, but I nearly started giggling when he was spazzing out still grappling the microphone. It was just so… well, entertaining. Ironic, really, as when they’re singing and performing I find West Side anything but.
Suddenly everybody, journalists and photographers included, are being ushered outside by security staff. The lights go on and the crowds pour out the main doors and fire exits while a Welsh voice over the PA asks everyone to remain calm as they leave the building. A paramedic appears on stage as roadies gather around the body. All the other journalists and photographers have been dragged away, but Sophie and I have been overlooked as we’re on the side of the press pit. I stick around to see what’s happened to Dazza, while Sophie takes a bunch of photos.
It finally takes some roadies to manhandle Sophie and me towards the exit before we leave. But we don’t reach the exit. Two smarter looking security guards in shirts and ties grab us and ask us to follow them through a side door. Sophie looks scared and holds her camera close to her chest, but smiles when she realises I’m by her side. I want to hug her, reassure her everything will be alright.
In a small, windowless office we’re greeted by a smartly dressed, greasy faced man who introduces himself as the “Cardiff International Arena Manager.” He has a short, uniformed policeman with a moustache by his side. The moustache isn’t by his side, it’s on the policeman’s top lip. The policeman’s helmet is tucked under his right arm, a notepad in his left hand. The police act fast around here it seems. Must’ve been on site already. Perhaps the police like West Side’s music.
“We won’t keep you a minute,” says the cop politely. He takes down our names, job details and work addresses, then says, “We just want to ask if you saw anything suspicious when you were in the press area before West Side came on stage.”
Sophie and I look at each other, then shake our heads.
“Not that I can remember,” I say.
“No, I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary,” says Sophie, her voice slightly shaky.
“What sort of thing are you looking for then?” I ask.
The manager glares at me. He doesn’t like me asking questions. Hey, I’m a journalist, it’s my job.
“We’re not at liberty to say just yet, sir,” says the cop.
“So you don’t think it was just an accident?” I ask.
The manager glares at me again, the cop smiles without giving me an answer.
“Did you see anyone hanging around on stage that looked out of place?” asks the cop.
“Not really. Roadies were going back and forth doing roadie things – aren’t they always? – but nobody really stood out,” I say.
“Same here,” says Sophie. Her sweet face looks so worried.
“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone looking suspicious? Or anything suspicious?” asks the cop with slightly more authority in his Welsh accent.
Ever since a local cop gave me a rough time for throwing crab apples at Mr ‘Grumpy’ Gregory’s windows when I was fourteen, I’ve not been a big fan of the police (not counting Sting’s lot). And when I was twenty five I was walking down Park Street in Bristol as a bunch of blokes fell out of a pub and started scrapping. I stopped to watch, it was good value viewing, but when the cops arrived they only aggravated matters. At one point it was hard to spot who were the scrappers and who were the coppers, and then they started arresting anyone in the vicinity, me included. So I spent a night in cells with a group of bruised brawlers drunk on Blackthorn. Not had much respect for cops since really.
And now, as much as I’d like this cop to catch whoever did whatever it is they think they did, I’m enjoying the fact I can’t help them.
“Sorry, but as I’m sure you’re aware, Sophie and I are a little shocked – no pun intended – after what’s happened.” I’m lying. I don’t feel shocked at all, I’m feeling quite excited to be honest, but they’re both beginning to get on my tits, and Sophie is clearly uncomfortable so I think it’s time we got out. “If that’s all we would like to get some fresh air now please.”
The manager turns crimson but before he can explode the cop, realising he has no right to detain us any longer, simply opens the door allowing us to leave.
“Thank you for your time,” he says.
It’s still light outside as the March sun pokes its head above the office blocks and high rise car park across the road. I squint into the sunshine. I always find it hard to adjust to daylight when I’ve been indoors in the dark. Like when I’ve been to an afternoon matinee at the cinema, it always confuses me heading outside to be greeted by daylight.
Parents console children in the streets, while others from the youth audience wander around aimlessly. Sophie and I slip our jackets on, she throws a scarf around her neck, and we walk away from the Arena.
“Thanks for that,” she says, still clutching her camera tight to herself.
“Eh?” I say.
“Thanks. Y’know, for getting us out of there so quickly,” she says quietly. I think she’s being a bit shy.
“That’s alright. You looked like you needed to get out. You okay?” I say softly. She’s obviously upset after seeing Dazza’s body popping act on stage.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says sweetly.
“Are you a bit upset after seeing what happened to Dazza?” I ask.
“Nah, not at all!” she says suddenly brightening up. “I was just shitting myself they were going to want me to hand over my camera and memory cards that’s all.”
I laugh out loud, partly relieved that she’s okay and partly surprised that she wasn’t upset after all. There’s more to this pretty girl than meets the eye.
“I’ve got shots of Dazza before, during and after, you see. I don’t think the other photographers got anything from where they were standing, plus they were too stunned and got dragged away by security from what I saw. These photos could be worth a whack if I’m clever,” she says holding up a Compact Flash card she’d hidden in the front pocket of her jeans.
“You little beauty,” I say, letting a little affection slip out. “I can’t believe the cop didn’t ask if you might’ve captured something on camera.”
“Yeah, what a pair of idiots. That manager was such a greasy little git.” She’s laughing now. “I don’t know about you, but I could really do with a pint.”
She drinks pints. I love slim, sexy girls who drink pints. Oh no. Be cool, Hardy, be cool. “A pint sounds great,” I say as casually as I can.
We cross the road and walk straight into one of Cardiff’s fine public houses.
“But I think we should listen to The Colour And The Shape. I love Monkey Wrench, and Everlong near the end is awesome,” she says.
“But there’s not much substance in between. Nope, his first album was his best, so much more upbeat and punk than his more recent slant towards stadium rock. I’m putting that on,” I say. I slip the CD into the player.
But after the chorus of This Is A Call she ejects Dave Grohl’s fine debut album. “Let’s put on something we both fancy listening to,” she suggests.
“Okay,” I say giving in.
We’re in my red, slightly grubby, slightly worse for wear Golf GTI heading down the M4 back towards the Severn Bridge, and England. The day has given way to night. I’ve convinced Sophie that it would be a good idea for me to drop her home in Bristol on my way back to Bath. We only had three pints of Guinness each in Cardiff – l loved the way she gulped down pints of the black stuff – so our logic said I’m good to drive now it’s dark. Plus I’ve only been sipping (surreptitiously, of course, I’m driving!) on one of the four-pack of beers we bought in the off licence for the drive home. Sophie’s cracking into her second can.
“So…” she says smiling and flicking through my CD wallet I keep in the car, “…we’ve got Maximo Park, Elastica, Brendan Benson, Moby, Rage Against The Machine, Nina Simone, Public Enemy…”
I know my CD wallet off by heart. For instance, I could tell her I’ve got Queens Of The Stone Age, Portishead, Coldplay, Dean Martin, Radiohead, AC/DC, The Killers, Arctic Monkeys, Stone Temple Pilots, The Beatles, Franz Ferdinand, the Grosse Pointe Blank soundtrack, and more, and even more again with my colossal collection on my iPod that I rig up to the stereo, but I let Sophie enjoy flicking through the CDs for now.
“…The Pixies, Stone Roses, Norah Jones, Jimi Hendrix, The Beach Boys, Athlete. Quite a cool, eclectic mix you’ve got here Hardy…”
“Never know what mood I’m going to be when driving. I like to be prepared for every eventuality,” I say. I like the fact she likes my music. That used to be one of my main criteria when searching for girls, trying to find one with the same music tastes. Perhaps that’s why I’ve got such a varied music collection. Different music for different girls. I hope I look for more important things in the fairer sex now.
“…oooh, oooh, you’ve got Jimmy Eat World’s Bleed American. Ace! Can we listen to this? Pleeease?” Her clipped accent is getting huskier after drinking, but she still sounds so sweet. How can I refuse? Besides, it’s one of my favourite CDs.
“Sure thing,” I say.
The title track Bleed American kicks off nicely. As we pass Newport, and Jimmy Eat World tear into Praise Chorus, I decide to blurt out what’s been on my mind since we left Cardiff.
“So, Dazza then. Sorry if this sounds harsh. But he’s not exactly a great loss to the music industry is he?” I say. I put my foot down and the Golf accelerates hard as I pull into the outside lane.
Sophie stares out of the window for a while, staring at the cars pouring back down the other side of the motorway. She sips her beer. It’s a while before she replies.
“I was going to take the moral high ground and say ‘How can you say that? Somebody’s just died’ and all that crap. But, oddly enough, that’s not how I feel at all,” she says. “You’re right, the charts won’t be missing anything now he’s gone, and I’m not gutted I won’t have to tour the rest of UK trying to take interesting shots of the same show every day either.”
“That’s the spirit. Let’s hope the others disappear into oblivion now, and don’t try and continue touring on the back of everyone’s misguided grief,” I say.
“God, yeah, that would be rubbish,” says Sophie, pausing briefly. “This might sound weird, but were you excited when Dazza was freaking out on stage?”
“Yeah, totally. It was like we were witnessing musical history or something,” I say.
“I felt such a rush when it was happening, I couldn’t resist clicking away with my camera,” says Sophie.
“I haven’t experienced that mixture of feeling both excited and disturbed since I saw Bjork take a dump on stage mid-song when she was still with the Sugarcubes.”
“Nice.” Sophie laughs, a real guttural, heart felt bellow. “I remember reading about the little Inuit princess doing that!”
Jimmy Eat World’s Authority Song bounds out of the car stereo as we cruise over the ‘new’ bridge and across the murky Severn estuary churning about way below.
“Do you think somebody could be behind Dazza’s involuntary electric boogaloo then?” asks Sophie quietly, her tone slightly more serious.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Accidents can happen. But it’s possible someone could’ve rigged up the mic to electrocute Dazza, I guess.” I pause to look at Sophie, she’s taken off her red cap and is stroking her long, deep brown ringlets, twirling a few of them around her finger. The shine on her locks is stunning. I can’t help myself. “Your hair looks really nice when you wear it down,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. I could be wrong, but when some passing headlights highlight her face, I think her cheeks have turned slightly rouge.
That’s what always amazes me about women. They’re the most complicated and confusing thing known to man, and yet offer them a simple compliment, and they can be deeply touched. I must remember to give compliments more often. It’s nice to be nice. Sophie turns her head slightly and skilfully hides her face with a curtain of hair.
“Yeah, it’s possible somebody could’ve tampered with the mic,” she says softly.
“Yet one thing’s for sure. If somebody did do it, I wish I could meet them,” I say.
“You want to be careful what you wish for Hardy Matthews,” she says.
We continue the rest of drive back on the M4 in a comfortable silence, only discussing whether to listen to GWR or Radio 1 or something else. News of Dazza’s death hasn’t reached the radio stations yet. All the stations seem to be playing the same pop plop so I put another CD on. As we’re heading up to the M32 junction for Bristol, Sophie turns down the stereo a little.
“It’s been a weird day and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to go home and be on my own in my flat just yet,” she says. “Shall I come back to Bath with you for a couple more drinks? Would that be okay?”
“Of course,” I say, slightly higher pitched than I would’ve liked. I cough, regaining my usual slightly deeper tone, and say casually, “That would be cool. I could do with another drink and some company this evening.”
I accelerate steadily as we pass the Bristol junction and continue up the M4 to the Bath turn off. Today just keeps getting better and better. I try not to smile too brightly. But inside I’m fucking beaming.