The Condition of Muzak (28 page)

“They say in the paper that we are on the brink of a new Ice Age,” said Colonel Pyat hopefully, casting a gloomy, Slavic eye over his ranks and ranks of old fur coats, evening capes, stoles, cloaks, hats and gloves. Spring had just arrived and with it the normal slackening off of business which always depressed him. He had long since ceased to believe in the future.

“Stop broodin’ yer silly ol’ bugger an’ ’urry up,” said Mrs Cornelius cheerfully. Her old eyes glittered behind a barricade of cream and powder. “Ker-ker-ker. We still got ter call fer Frank.” Out of loyalty she wore his latest gift, though the weather was unusually mild. They were on their way to the People’s Spring Festival, organised by local community leaders on the Westway Green below the motorway flyover to the west of Portobello Road. Mrs Cornelius was excited. It was to be Jerry’s first public appearance with his rock-and-roll band, the Deep Fix.

“Mind you,” she said as an afterthought, “these fings orlways start late, if at all. Still, it’s up ter us ter be on time, innit!”

“I hate it,” grumbled Pyat. “Jungle music. Teddy Boy noise.”

“Cor! You are art o’ touch, incha!” She snapped her fingers and rocked from side to side, wafting lavender water and scented powder. “Y’ve gotta be wiv it these days—trendy, far art, too much, rock an’ roll!”

She swayed through the door into Elgin Crescent. It was a busy Saturday in the market. Colonel Pyat glanced viciously at the Indians, with their cheap cheesecloth shirts and dresses, who were doing such a roaring trade. There was the usual confusion of locals trying to shop in a hurry while visitors moved slowly and uncertainly along the narrow street between the stalls, wondering why so many people scowled at them. Most of the money they brought to Portobello Road stayed in the district for the few hours that the antique-dealers and stall-holders remained there. Colonel Pyat followed Mrs Cornelius from the shop, locking the door carefully behind him. He, too, wore an enormous fur coat. The day was miserably bright and sunny.

Together they pushed their way up the Portobello Road, through the trinket-sellers, the street-musicians, the purveyors of craft-goods, the racks of denim and cheesecloth, the mass-produced patches and buttons and belt-buckles, the greengrocery stalls, the sellers of Indian metalware, of beads, flutes, drums, posters, army uniforms, handbags and purses, weapons, Victoriana, until they reached Frank’s shop, which was currently dealing in stripped pine. Frank waited reluctantly outside, holding a brass candlestick in each hand, part of his old antique stock. “If I sell ’em for that,” he told a small man in a pork-pie hat, a camera and a black blazer with four metal buttons on the cuff (evidently a German), “I shan’t make any profit, shall I?”

“Fifteen?” said the German.

“Sixteen,” said Frank, “and that’s final.”

“Done,” said the German awkwardly.

“You’re so right,” said Frank accepting the money. “You won’t regret it. That stuff appreciates, some of it.”

“Come on, Frankie,” said his mother, pulling at him. “Yer can’t stop dealin’, can yer, yer little cunt?”

He was offended. “At least someone in this family’s making their own living.”

They trekked on until they reached the railway arch and, immediately after it, the motorway arch, where dozens of small stalls were set out selling the accumulated junk of the twentieth century. They skirted the stalls even as their eyes automatically shifted across the wares, rounding the corner to the big patch of grass where a crowd of young bohemians and their children had already gathered outside the graffiti-smeared walls of one of the motorway bays. This bay had a chicken-wire fence strung between its columns and a sign, already much attacked by weather and local children: WESTWAY THEATRE. Within the bay old railway sleepers had been arranged in banks to form seats. On the wall behind the seats were three murals, one by Cawthorn, one by Riches and one by Waterhouse. Somehow the murals had escaped the ravages of the rest of the theatre which had long ago collapsed as a result of calculated lack of local government support. The council had been reluctant to allow the project in the first place and had made sure it would not flourish by bringing in an administrator from outside the district and making sure that he had no power, no money and no encouragement. After a while enthusiasm had broken down into a classic series of disputes between a variety of splinter groups and an attempt to produce a free theatre for the district had failed. But, for the first time in over a year, it was to be opened—or had been opened—by the people who had originally started the scheme with their free Saturday concerts featuring Quiver, Brinsley Schwartz, the Pink Fairies, Henry Cow, Mighty Baby, Come to the Edge and Hawkwind, until the police, in support of seven Rate Payers, had managed to put a stop to them—and Jerry and his band were to have their chance at last.

Mrs Cornelius, with the dignity of one who was related to an artiste, Colonel Pyat in tow, Frank in the rear, went through the gates, calling out to her son who sat dreamily on the little stage trying to put a new plug on his amplifier. “’Ere we are, then! Give us a number, lads!”

Mo Collier grinned at her in some shyness. He had plugged in his bass and was plunking at it. No sound came from his own amp. He turned a couple of knobs and a screeching rose and fell. He made another hasty adjustment. “’Ullo, Mrs C. You’re a bit early, aincha? We don’t start till ’alf past two.”

“It is now exactly a quarter to three,” said Colonel Pyat. He tapped his wristwatch as if it were a barometer.

“Sod,” said Jerry. He looked through the chicken wire at the gathering crowd. Behind it a number of policemen were beginning to line up. He finished with the plug and fitted it into the board. A red light flickered on his amplifier. He was surprised. He took his Rickenbacker electric twelve-string over to the amplifier and pushed the jack-plug lead into the socket. He played a chord. Mo winced. “We’d better tune up.”

Terry the drummer suddenly came to life behind the kit and played an erratic roll before subsiding again. He looked like the dormouse in Alice in Wonderland. They had all had several tabs of mandrax and had become very stoned to help quell their nerves for their performance. Jerry began to pluck at his many strings, staring vaguely at Mo, who plucked back. Gradually they got their instruments into some kind of uniform tuning. Mo nodded towards the centre of the stage where hardboard had been placed across a gap (there had been two attempts to burn down the theatre during disputes between different radical groups). “Watch out for the ’ole, man.”

Jerry nodded absent-mindedly. He was visualising the enthusiasm of his public. He had a glazed, harried look.

“All right, Mick Jagger,” shouted Frank in his poshest voice, “let’s hear you!”

“Ker-ker-ker,” said his mother.

Jerry approached the microphone and began to chant into it. Nothing came through the PA. He staggered back towards the amplifiers. Elsewhere various people were fiddling with other pieces of faulty electrical equipment. Jerry had a word with his friend Trux, who was holding a wire in one hand and scratching his head with a screwdriver.

“Ker-ker-ker.”

People were beginning to file into the theatre now, although the stage was so arranged that the band would play facing the people who sat outside on the grass. Some of the organisers of the event had not yet turned up. There had been a problem involving fresh disputes with a group of Rate Payers; the organisers could be seen on the far side of the green, gesticulating, deep in conversation with a number of middle-aged men and women with arms folded in front of them and expressions of extreme distaste on their faces as they looked first at the crowd and then at the stage. Once or twice a policeman wandered over and talked to a long-haired man in a fairisle pullover or had a word with a thin-lipped Rate Payer.

Jerry went behind the stage into the connecting bay, which served as a dressing room. He was beginning to feel much better. He accepted a joint from a girl whom he remembered vaguely. Her name was Shirley Withers and she had offered him a warm look such as he had not received for a very long time. He felt taller, slimmer, more handsome. He grinned at her. A promising grin. He began to move with some of his old grace, the guitar resting casually on his hip. He went back on stage and plugged in again. He played a fast twelve-bar progression. He knew he was playing well. He nodded to Mo and Terry and began to jump up and down as he played. Some people were already clapping and cheering.

Mo put a final turn on his A string and inclined his head in a brief bow. Mrs Cornelius, Colonel Pyat and Frank Cornelius sat down in the front row. Jerry did not look at them. He was looking at his Fame.

Unexpectedly, they all started more or less together, going into a fast, standard boogie rhythm. Jerry danced towards the mike. He had never felt so happy. At last he was able to emulate all his earlier heroes. Perhaps he could become a hero himself, only he wouldn’t let people down the way the others had. The crowd was his. He stepped up to the mike and opened his mouth.

The crowd roared.

It was the last thing he heard before the floor gave way beneath his feet and he fell into the shallow pit below.

He was far too drugged to feel any real pain, or even much concern, as he lay on his back looking up at the dim patch of daylight above, at the broken Rickenbacker on his chest, listening to the waves of laughter and applause from the audience, to Mo’s bewildered bass, to Terry’s inappropriately determined drum solo. Then he passed out for a moment or two.

He felt sick and miserable when he woke up. Shirley Withers was in the hole with him. She was trying to lift him upright. He saw his mum peering over the edge.

“You okay, Jer?”

“I’m fine. I can carry on now.” He knew his chance had disappeared. “Your guitar’s
ruined
,” said Shirley. “Have you got another?”

He shook his head. He got to his feet, the pieces of smashed wood still hanging around him by the strap. He climbed out of the hole and blinked. The police had closed in on the crowd. A fight had started. Two panda-car constables were already on stage. Frank was talking to them.

“Pigs!” shouted Jerry weakly. He turned to Terry. “Keep playing. Keep playing.”

“They turned the power off,” said Mo. He sat down cross-legged and buried his face in his hands.

“Don’t let them stop your music!” Jerry addressed the confused crowd. “You’ve got rights. We’ve all got rights.”

“No need to make any more trouble, sir,” said one of the constables. “How’s the head?”

“Piss off!” said Jerry. “It’s a plot. Why’d you bloody have to interfere?”

“We’ve had complaints. I’ve nothing against this sort of music myself. I like it. Not that you could play any now, could you, old son?” He indicated the broken Rickenbacker. “So there’s not a lot of point in making a fuss.”

“I haven’t had a go yet,” said Jerry mournfully.

His mother moved to his defence. “Lay off the poor littel sod—it was ’is turn to do ’is act. ’E’s bin waitin’ years fer the chance, an’ you ’ave ter go an’ spoil it!”

The constable backed away from her. “We didn’t damage the stage, madam.”