The Condition of Muzak (3 page)

“I didn’t come to see you.” Frank slid his white cuff over his malfunctioning watch. “I came to see Cathy—and Mum, of course. Is she here?”

“That’s Mum, by the sink.”

“How childish,” said Frank.

“What you doing then?” Jerry asked with genuine curiosity, ignoring his brother’s last remark. “Following in Rachman’s footsteps?”

“Tenements?” Frank was shocked. “This is
property development
. Offices and that.”

“Round here?”

“It’s going up all the time. A rising residential area, this is. All the people from Chelsea and South Ken are moving in.”

“Buying themselves nice little ragshops in Golborne Road, are they?”

“Multiple tenancies are giving way to one-family houses. It’s council policy.” Frank savoured the sound of the words.

Jerry looked out of the window over the sink. He had missed the nuns. “You know what I’d do, if I had the chance? I’d buy that bloody nunnery.”

“I’ve got news for you,” began Frank. “The GLC…”

“Just to own it,” said Jerry dreamily. “Not to do anything with it.”

“Well, you’d better start saving up, hadn’t you?”

Jerry shrugged. “Wait till our group gets to number one.”

Frank laughed. “You’ll be lucky if you’re all awake at the same time.”

Absently, Jerry popped a mandy into his mouth. “It’s idealists like me the world needs. Not grafters like you.”

This seemed to improve Frank’s spirits. He put a condescending hand on Jerry’s forearm. “But it’s a grafter’s world, my son.”

“Yeah?”

“Most definitely, young Jerry.”

Jerry sniffed. “I’ll let you get on with it, then.”

He turned to his window.

Frank wandered to his mother’s side. “Hello, Mum. Any chance of a cup of tea?”

“I’m afraid it’s not quite the thing for our little theatre.” Major Nye tried to sit on one of the bar-stools and then decided to remain at attention. Gingerly he sipped his pint of shandy, revealing shiny cuffs. The suit was twenty years old at least. “I really am sorry, old chap. What is it? A pint?” His pale eyes were sympathetic.

“Thanks, major,” said Jerry. “I’m sorry I can’t get you one.” He was scarcely any more fashionably dressed than Major Nye. He wore his black suit with the high, narrow Edwardian lapels and the slight flare to the trousers, which he had got Burton’s to make up for him, albeit reluctantly, when he had been flush. The only black shoes he had were the elastic-sided cuban-heeled winkle-pickers pre-dating the suit and he felt awkward in his rounded, button-down-collar white shirt, with the black knitted tie. “But you’ve only heard the cassette on a cheap player. If you heard it over proper speakers you’d get our full sound, you know.”

“Surely you can get bookings in these pop-clubs they have everywhere these days?” He caught the attention of the purple-cheeked barman. “Pint of best, please.” He leaned cautiously against the mahogany counter, looking beyond Jerry at Hennekey’s other customers crowding around the pub’s stained wooden benches and big tables. It was evident that while he did not judge the shaggy young bohemians he was mildly curious about them. He fingered the ends of his cuff. “I thought they were mushrooming.”

“They’re not interested in us,” Jerry told him. “You see, we’re a bit more than an ordinary rock group—we’re trying for something that combines a story, a light-show, spoken words and so on. That’s why I guessed you might be interested, since you’re local. The only local theatre. And it’s more of a theatrical show, you see.”

“I’m just the secretary, old chap. I’m probably the least powerful person in the whole outfit. And acting, unpaid, at that. It was my daughter got me involved, really. I’m retired, you see. I was adjutant of the—well, we got kicked out—the regiment was incorporated—no room for old fogies like me. Anyway, she’s an actress. Well, of course, you must know that already, since it was through your sister…”

“Yes,” said Jerry. “I do know. But you’re the only person connected with the Hermes Theatre who’d even bother to listen to me.”

“They’re a bit old-fashioned there, by and large, though I think they’re going to do Pinter next year. Or is it Kafka?
A Night at the Music Hall
’s about as far as they’re prepared to go, eh? The boy I love is up in the gallery…”

“I see,” said Jerry. “I suppose you don’t know anybody else I could approach?”

Major Nye was disappointed at not being allowed to finish the line. “Not really.”

“Everybody’s hopes are pinned on this, you see.”

Major Nye said seriously, as a group of newcomers jostled him against Jerry’s chest: “You shouldn’t stop trying, old chap. If you’ve got something worthwhile it will be recognised eventually.”

Jerry sighed and sipped his bitter.

“Bloody hell,” said Jerry miserably as he backed into the corner of the white room, his elbow almost dislodging a particularly ugly china dog on a shelf, “there must be every trendy in the King’s Road here, Cath.” The party bubbled about his ears. There was a great deal of blue and orange, of op and pop and pastel plastic, of the Tilsonesqueries loading the walls, of coloured stroboscopes and Warholian screenprints, light screens displaying shapes of an oddly Scandinavian neatness, hunt-ball whoops and giggles, stiff upper-class bodies in a terrifying parody of vitality. His sister shook her head. “You’re such a snob, Jerry. They’re nice people. A lot of them are friends of mine.”

Jerry tasted his punch. He had got his new brown-and-white William Morris shirtsleeve wet ladling the stuff into his cup. He had only come because Catherine had told him he would be able to make the right sort of contacts. The trouble was that every time someone spoke to him in one of those high-pitched voices his throat tightened and he could only grunt at them. The strobes turned the whole scene into a silent movie—something about decadent modern times called
Despair
—as the hearty girls in their shorts and mini-skirts danced with pale young men in neat neckerchiefs and very clean jeans who puffed at machine-rolled joints and staggered against the chrome and leather furniture in an unaesthetic danse macabre.

The Rolling Stones record finished and was replaced on the deck by a fumbling drunkard who lurched against the amplifier and knocked it half off its shelf. The amplifier was saved by a tall girl with short hair and sardonic grey eyes. The girl wore a long calf-length skirt and a rust-coloured jumper to match; she had an assured elegance possessed by no-one else in the room. She squeezed past the drunkard as he let the pick-up fall with a crunch on the record he had selected:
Elvis’ Golden Records
, already much scored. “Oh, fab!” cried more than one melancholy soul.

Jerry watched the girl until she looked back at him and smiled. He turned his head to find himself face to face with the dark young man whom Catherine had introduced as Dimitri, doubtless one of her many Greeks. At least Dimitri wore a suit, albeit a ‘Regency’ cut. Dimitri’s eyes widened in panic at the prospect of a further exchange of grunts. The elegant girl entered Jerry’s field of vision again. She was carrying a glass. “You seem as much out of place here as I am.”

Jerry’s being flooded with gratitude but he hoped it didn’t show. “Chelsea wankers,” he said, playing it cool. He tossed back his drink. “What’s a nice girl like you doing here?”

“I came with a friend.”

Jerry was disappointed. “One of these blokes?”

“One of these—chicks.”

He wondered if she were foreign.

“Liz Nye,” explained the girl.

“She’s a friend of my sister’s.”

“Catherine’s a great pal of mine.”

“Who are you, then?”

“My name’s Una.”

Jerry smirked, in spite of himself. He knew all about Una Persson. “You’re a legend in your own lifetime,” he said. “You’re not like I imagined.”

Her smile was for herself but she replied quickly to save him embarrassment. “Catherine sees just one side of me.”

“Have you got a lot?” Jerry asked. “Of sides?”

“It depends what you mean.”

Jerry’s smile broadened and became a grin which she shared. She winked at him and stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, so that they both faced the party. “They should be putting the Vivaldi on soon,” she said. “And begin to ‘smooch’.”

Somehow she had given him courage. “Do you want to split?” he asked.

She frowned. “You mean ‘leave’?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“There are so many levels, aren’t there? I’ll have to find out what Liz wants to do. She’s in the next room.” Una Persson touched his arm. “But I’ll be back.”

Jerry began to come to life. Gracefully he reached towards his guffawing hostess and accepted another punch.

Fingering the hand-stitching on his blue velvet Beau Brummel jacket Sebastian Auchinek bent an ear towards the Dynatron cabinet stereo to which was attached, five-pin DIN to five-pin DIN, Jerry’s little cassette tape recorder. “Well, it’s certainly different, isn’t it?” He added: “Man.”

“It’s underground music,” Jerry explained.

“Yeah, ther bleedin’ eight-forty-five ter Aldgate, by ther sarnd o’ it!” Mrs Cornelius laughed as she put two cups of cocoa on the surface of Jerry’s battered amplifier. They were in Jerry’s room at Blenheim Crescent. The untidy bed was littered with magazines, of a different kind from his mother’s, and most of the rest of the space was given over to valves, wires and speakers, the majority of which didn’t work. “Sorry, I’m shore!” said Mrs Cornelius. She departed, closing his door in a pantomime of courtesy.

Luckily Sebastian Auchinek’s sense of humour functioned only in direct relation to his own sense of despair. He puzzled over the music. He removed his little hat. He sucked at his huge lower lip. He rubbed his monstrous nose. “But will it catch on with the general public? That’s what we have to think about—Jerry? You don’t mind?”

“No, no. ’Course not.” Jerry looked anxiously into the liquid eyes of the handsome promoter. “You’ve heard of the Pink Floyd, haven’t you? They’re getting quite popular.”

“Oh, yes. I don’t doubt it. But you know what public taste’s like. Twinkle one week, Mojos the next. Whether this sort of music’s got any future—I honestly don’t know. I can see you’re serious. But are you commercial? I’m sorry.” Sebastian Auchinek held up a shapely hand as if to ward off a light blow. He put his cap down. “It’s what we have to think about,
if
we’re going to back you. It still boils down to investments. You’re a talented boy, I don’t doubt it. I mean, what we have to say to ourselves is—How do we promote this kind of music? All right, we can get a minor record company to do one LP—but it’s the singles market that’s important. I can’t see any of this as single material, quite frankly. Miss Persson led me to understand that you were more of an R&B group. Like Graham Bond and Brian Auger. We’re considering them at the moment.”

“We don’t do that sort of thing any more,” said Jerry with a certain disdain. “Una said you were into progressive stuff.”

“We are. We are. But we have to
see
it. In context. We have to be able to feel we can do something positive for a group. It wouldn’t be fair to you, would it, if we just took you on and then did nothing?”

“Yes, I can see that…”

“Maybe if I came along and heard you at your next gig?”

“That’s why I’m talking to you. We can’t get any gigs.”

“Not even locally?”

“There aren’t any local venues, are there?”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

Jerry turned the recorder off. The hissing had begun to irritate him. “Some people think we’re ahead of our time.”

“Could be. When’s your next rehearsal?” Auchinek was eager to prove to Jerry that his mind was still open.

“I’m not sure. We have trouble finding places.”

“Well, look, get in touch with me when you know what your plans are. Maybe I can fix up a rehearsal room for you.”

“It’d be something, anyway. Thanks.”

Sebastian Auchinek removed a leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket. He clicked a ballpoint with his thumb. “What’s the name of the group?”

“The Deep Fix.”

“You might have to change that a bit. It’s not really—you know… The BBC’s still a power in the land, eh? They don’t like drugs. Have you thought of any other names?”

“Yes,” said Jerry. “The Cocksuckers.”

Sebastian Auchinek managed a small smile. “Well, we’ll talk about that when the time comes.” He tore a page from the book. “Here’s my office number. Keep in touch. Leave a message with my secretary if I’m not there. Don’t think I’m being negative. And remember—I’m not the only promoter on the beach.”

He looked around for his corduroy Dylan cap. He had put it on top of his cocoa.

“Of course,” said Colonel Pyat as he poured Mrs Cornelius another gin, “we lost everything in the war, including our titles. My uncle had a very big estate not far from Lublin. And his father, you know, had an even bigger one in the Ukraine. He was shot by Makhno who in turn was shot by Trotsky who was killed by Stalin.” He shrugged and his smile was crooked. “So it goes.” He fell back into Mrs C.’s best armchair, the white plastic one, his eyes fixing on the silent television screen. The warped monochrome picture displayed a nurse, a nun and a black man in a hospital bed.

“We’re surpposed ter be related ter
’im
,” said Mrs Cornelius, brushing crisp crumbs from her pink cotton lap. “Shouldn’t eat crisps. They make yer sweat.”

“My uncle?”

“Nar! The ovver one. Trotsky, innit? Though I ’eard ’e corled ’isself somefink else. Brahn or somefink.”

“Bronstein. His real name was Bronstein. Jewish, you see.”

“Nar! It woz nuffink forin’.” She raised her glass. “Darn the ’atch then.”

Bemused, the drunken colonel imitated her action.

“It’s more comfy ’ere, innit, than ther pub?” said Mrs Cornelius. She could see that Colonel P. was a gent (even though currently in need of a spot of luck) by the cut of his greasy tweed jacket, his shiny flannels; but his breeding was revealed by his bearing rather than his clothes, she supposed. And he hadn’t hesitated to fork out for a half-bottle of gin when she’d taken a fancy to him and suggested coming back here. Tonight wasn’t the first time she had seen him in The Blenheim, of course, but it was the first time she’d had a chance to have a decent chat.