Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 11
The DJ interrupts their embrace.
Yeah, that was supercool. Golden luck be with you two young hep cats. Now KMCR-FM are always ten-high when a hot new young band from England hit town. The Hyptones will be wailin’ at the Rodeo Razzle Club out in Chandler tomorrow evenin’. They’re jam hot an’ they dropped in for a cool Dave Diamond chitter-chatter. First though, let’s listen to their latest…
There is something immediate about the song that then plays on the radio. I can’t put my finger on it. It isn’t the type of music I know or have heard much of before. The sound has a grace and radiance to it. The song is wistful and fragile. At odds with the bluster of most American chart music. But it’s the mellifluous guitar and the lyrics that grab me:
Love hearts on the glass, dripping condensation
Your wild imagination, my lower expectation
A habit hard to break, becomes an obligation
Think of better times, but just leave me on my own
I’ve never heard this song before, but these words seem so familiar.
Here’s a new future, the birth of a dream
No division, dysfunction … I’m starting again.
New words on the window, positive themes
YES, YES, YES, we’re done. Leave me on my own
All I want is, an independent state of mind.
All I need is, an independent state of mind.
You can give me, an independent state of mind.
One listen and it’s lodged in my mind forever.
Hey, who is this? I ask Brandy and Matt.
Dunno … but they sound trés cool, says Matt.
The DJ provides the answer:
The Hyptones there with ‘Independent State of Mind’. An’ they’ll be doin’ two shows at Rodeo Razzle Club, Altamont Street, Downtown Chandler…
I really, really like this song, I say.
Hey, we should go, stop off in Phoenix. Celebrate. Baby? says Brandy.
Can we … please? I’ve never been to a concert before, I say, excitedly.
Anythin’ for my girls, says Matt.
The Ballad of the Band (6)
‘Fellas, what happened?’ says Dave Diamond, laughing. ‘You guys look like you ran into the Incredible Hulk right outside.’
‘Somethin’ like that, aye,’ mumbles Reef, still dabbing the blood from his nose.
‘Ha, ha, yeah.’ Dave Diamond honks a fake laugh. ‘Whatta great record though. Tell me, Reef, what’s it about?’
‘Ye better ask him. He wrote it.’ Reef thumbs at Jamie, whose tongue probes at the space where a front tooth used to be. Jamie’s head dips. Dave Diamond glances down at his notes.
‘Well, Jimmy, what can you tell the KMCR-FM listeners about the song?’
‘It’s about bein’ sick tae the back teeth of folk that stifle the life outta ye, day in day out.’
‘Gie’s peace, eh?’ mutters Reef.
‘Ah, yeah, that’s really beautiful, man … Now spill the beans, you good-lookin’ fellas must have chicks throwin’ themselves at you over here. Are you bein’ hit on? How determined are the groupies? Is it hard to find romance in a band?’
‘It is for him,’ says Jamie.
Dave Diamond laughs nervously. A producer is making throat-cutting gestures through the glass.
‘Now, you boys are all tight, yeah? Best buddies since forever, I’ve been told. So, let’s see … Who’s the messiest in the band?’ asks Dave Diamond.
‘Me,’ says Chic.
‘An’ who eats the most?’
‘That’d be me anaw, Diamond Dave,’ says Chic. ‘An’ ah’ll save ye a bit ae time, pal … before ye ask, ah’ve got the biggest knob tae.’
‘Uh, um, uh-huh … Let’s talk about influences, Reef. If folks come down to the Razzle Rodeo for the gig, what type of sounds can they expect?’
‘It’s pretty much the three B’s,’ says Reef, trying to rescue something from the ashes. ‘The Byrds, The Beatles and the Buffalo Springfield. What else is there?’
‘Well, that sounds right up my boulevard, dude,’ says the radio DJ. ‘I’ll be there,’ he lies, ‘an’ y’all should be too. That’s The Hyptones … the start of the second UK Beat Invasion. Comin’ right atcha from Chandler, Phoenix. Tomorrow evening at 6.00pm an’ then again at 10.00. I’m Dave Diamond and this is KMCR-FM, Maricopa County Radio. Don’t go away, we’ll be right back after the messages.’
The Razzle Rodeo Club Incident
29th July 1983:
Jesus Castro drives the van on the dusty road towards the very end of everyone’s tether. The absence of food from last night’s motel stay is the latest trigger. The only sound – faintly heard, against the noise of the engine – is from the radio.
They pass an old, battered sign that reads:
WELCOME TO PHOENIX: POPULATION 620,000.
PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY.
‘Hey … hey, you’se, listen. It’s us. IT’S US!’ Kenny McFadden turns the radio dial clockwise.
‘…The Hyptones from England hit town. They’ll be jammin’ at the Rodeo Razzle Club, Altamont Street, out on Chandler in a couple of hours. Matinee show, an’ adults-only later. Pay on the door, so don’t miss em’. They’re gonna be massive. This is their latest…’
‘Independent State of Mind’ plays through the van speaker. It sounds tinny and under-produced in the context, but Kenny McFadden turns to see a smile cross everyone’s lips. Even AFB’s.
‘Fucken diddy thinks Glesga’s a place in England!’ says Chic.
‘Ach, who cares. You thought Mexico was in Texas, ya balloon,’ says Reef.
Jesus Castro turns to Kenny and sniggers. ‘Maldito idiota,’ he says.
‘Aye,’ Kenny replies.
‘Hey, is Razzle no’ a scud magazine here tae?’ asks Chic.
‘Mibbe Hugh Hefner’ll be there,’ says Reef.
‘Don’t talk pish,’ says Jamie with a lisp due to the air whistling through the gap in his mouth. ‘It’ll be a fucken cattle-ridin’ redneck joint. Jist oor target audience, eh?’
‘Haw son, ya miserable bastart, ye. Take a break fae yersel, eh? Yer song’s oan American radio. Ye should be fucken ecstatic,’ says Kenny.
And Jamie has no smart comeback because Kenny McFadden is right. But the thought of going onstage in front of any size of crowd fills the guitarist with dread. He feels the bile and the painkillers rising from his stomach.
‘It’s maybe a scud club for coos or sheep,’ says Bingo.
‘Haw, eh? Stoatin’,’ says Chic.
‘It’ll be full ae Aberdeen supporters then. We’ll be fine,’ says Reef.
Matt pulls the car in across the road from the Razzle Rodeo Club. I’m in the passenger seat. Brandy is in the back. I flick the mirror down for a final look at Brandy’s work. Her make-up application makes me look much older than I am. I barely recognize myself. We get out. It’s 8.00pm. Humid. I’m sat on the car fender. There are people in the street. And a long line of motorcycles parked outside the club, sentry-style. Like they are guarding it. Or blocking entry to it.
Altamont Street is full of activity, not all of it I’d anticipated. Over to my left, down a dark, narrow side street, a small neon sign sparks to life. The blue illuminates two figures. I catch sight of a woman on her knees in front of a fat guy in a capped-sleeve T-shirt. His jeans are pulled down to his thighs. She has his cock in her hand. She turns slowly and catches my gaze. The guy’s hand turns her head back and she begins sucking him off.
Matt is talking to four people at the entrance to the club. Brandy is smoking a cigarette. She has wandered over to a trashcan about fifty yards away from the car. And I’m left. Momentarily alone. A voyeur to this sex act that I can’t drag my eyes from. It’s private and transactional, and seems non-threatening, yet it’s happening in the open air and without the protagonists caring much about being observed. I lift my camera and point and…
Don’t.
A voice from behind me. An unusual accent.
Ah dinnae think ye should be takin’ pictures ae that.
It’s a young man’s voice. He speaks like someone in a hurry. Too quickly for me to differentiate the words from the spaces between them. But his intervention embarrasses me. Because of how immature it makes me feel.
Ah just mean that ye should be careful, hen. That guy might no’ be happy about it, he says, but slower this time.
Jamie!
A shout from across the street.
Another soundcheck, son. Let’s go.
The young man in front of me shrugs. He looks desperately sad. His eyes are glazed, and his pupils are large. His lip is bleeding. He wanders across the street, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, barely stopping for cars whose drivers sound their annoyance at him. I glance down the narrow side street. The neon remains on, flickering. But there’s no-one under it.
‘This set’ll be better,’ says Kenny.
The matinee show consisted of six people standing in front of the stage, Jamie Hewitt playing guitar sitting down and with his back to them. There were problems with the sound, and four songs into the set, a mechanical bull in the far corner got activated, making more noise than the band. AFB took photographs but has decided to sit the evening show out, returning to the motel. Kenny appears to be basing his latest optimistic observation solely on the increased numbers now occupying the venue. But the tension is palpable. Inside, the bar is a riot of activity: vibrant, gaudy neon and denim clothing. Beige leather booths line the perimeter. Reef detects an air of danger and violence. Maybe the band should embrace it. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?
Jamie’s anxiety is neutralising the alcohol he has deployed to fight it. He sees the young girl with the camera from outside, sitting with two others at a booth closest to his amp. He decides to focus on her. To try to block out everything else and just get through it. There is nothing left in his stomach. He is empty. He notices an argument breaking out between men playing pool in a far corner.
Matt goes to the bar. I watch him being jostled by obese men with long beards, wearing cowboy hats indoors. The band from the radio seem ill-suited to this audience. The one closest to me, with the guitar, is the one from the sidewalk who stopped me taking the picture. I see him looking at me. Staring intently. Like I’m the only one here. It’s a bit unnerving.
I’m goin’ to the restroom, I say to Brandy.
Okay, honey, she replies. She smiles sweetly; still surfing the natural high.
I get up, and walking across the front of the stage, I get knocked against a speaker by men in search of a fight. Violence is in the air.
Ye aw’right, there, hen? asks the guitarist. His delivery slower and clearer, but too quiet against the hubbub.
I can’t quite hear you, everythin’s a bit too loud, I say. He leans closer and into my ear, says: What’s your name?
Ah … it’s Jude. Jude Montgomery, I reply.
He bends down to plug in a guitar pedal.
Can I take your picture? I ask him.
Fuck it … aye. Fire ahead, he says. He smiles and adds a condition: If I can take yours.
I press the button. The flash pops and, slowly, a wet picture emerges from its base. I shake the card vigorously to dry it as he takes the camera from me. He takes a picture without looking through the lens. He keeps the photo and hands me my camera.
Ah need tae go. Thanks, he says.
I continue to the bathroom, ducking between the bodies, blowing on the picture. Waiting until the image of him develops.
‘Right. We set?’ says Reef. Kenny gives a thumbs-up from behind the sound desk. A fight breaks out near the entrance doors. A group of young, punky kids have wrestled their way in, and they are at the centre of it. The temperature is rising, and the bar’s pitiful management staff seem unable to douse it. Punches are thrown but the commotion quells quickly. The young punks push their way closer to the stage. The males are wearing as much colourful make-up as the female contingent they outnumber by three to one. Jamie watches the young girl with the camera return from the bathroom. When she passes in front of him, he nods to Reef, who begins:
‘Aw’right Phoenix … we’re The fucken Hyptones an’ you’se cunts should spend more time listenin’ tae us an’ Lou Reed, an’ less time shaggin’ tae Foreigner an’ Meat Loaf. One, two, three, four!’
Chic hits the skins, Bingo’s bass kicks in and Jamie’s guitar begins to shimmer. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the young girl with the camera. Trying, as best he can, to block out everyone and everything else and just get through this next hour intact.
I saw you, says Brandy into my ear. She nudges me and laughs.
What? I shout.
Watching him. That guitarist. Hey Mom, this is my new boyfriend … he’s SOOOOO dreamy, she sings, sarcastically. Just loud enough for me to hear.
I laugh at her. Embarrassed.
Oh stop.
I stand on the booth’s leather seats. I try to get a better view for another picture. He’s still looking straight at me. And there’s those words again:
Love hearts on the glass, dripping condensation
Your wild imagination, my lowered expectation
A habit hard to break, becomes an obligation
Think of better times, but just leave me on my own
A sad situation, a desperate generation
(An independent state of mind)
And we’re different now. Opposite directions
(An independent state of mind)
Anger turns to hate, violence from frustration
Denied the chance to speak, protesting my opinion
There is another way. Remove your cruel objections
Give in to temptation, and leave me on my own
This night feels special. These words are reaching right into my soul. I’m different now.
A sad situation, a desperate generation
(An independent state of mind)
And we’re different now. Opposite directions
(An independent state of mind)
‘Here’s a new future, the birth of a dream
No division, dysfunction … I’m starting again.
New words on the window, positive themes…’
Reef is a great singer; Jamie has always known that. And here he is, thousands of miles from home, proving it to a heaving bar erupting with agitated rednecks.
‘YES, YES, YES, we’re fucking done. Leave me on my own.’
Sensitive and compelling. Jamie feels like he is hearing the words differently. For the first time, they seem to be speaking directly to him too.
‘A sad situation, a desperate generation
(An independent state of mind)
And we’re different now. Opposite directions
(An independent state of mind)’
Jamie plays like a tonne weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
‘All I want is, an independent state of mind.
All I need is, an independent state of mind.
You can give me, an independent state of mind.’
Where earlier there was confusion, now there is clarity. The end is in sight.
I stand on the table. The top of my head touching the ceiling. My hair sticks to it, it’s so hot inside. Perspiration drips from the lacquered wooden panels. I snap more pictures. Matt is taking too long. He should’ve been back by now. I look for him near the bar. I see Matt and I see him being pushed by two men who are next to him. I watch the bartender lean over aggressively. I see Matt tense and bring out the gun. He points it and I see what looks like a jet of water hitting the barman’s face. Above the noise, a woman screams. A thrown bottle crashes against the mirror behind the counter. Matt turns and looks for us. And he sees us. And even though the bar is packed and there’s chaos everywhere, I can see that goofy, toothy smile. Brandy can see it too. We’re both up on the table. The band is playing loud, and there is Matt. The Joker. Always messing around. He smiles at us, and my God, how beautiful he is. Frozen in time. Until the bartender’s baseball bat hits his head and puts him down.
The band play on but Reef has stopped singing. He sees fights breaking out in all corners of the bar. More than just the initial skirmishes. They develop into a full-on bar brawl, with chairs and bottles being launched in all directions. Something thin and metallic whirls past Reef, narrowly missing him. He turns to see it embedded in the drum riser; the black, twisted end of an iron crowbar.
Reef signals to the band and sound desk, a thumbs-down followed by a chopping hand slice. It’s over.
Chic dives for cover. Bingo drops her bass. Reef pulls her with him offstage. Jamie sees the young girl he’s been watching get pulled down from the booth table by her hair. Her friend is screaming and trying to get from the booth across the floor in front of stage, but the melee prevents her from doing so. Jamie jumps from the stage to the booth, arms outstretched and…
…I see the blade. I see it glinting. Despite the mayhem. Despite the pain coming from my scalp. I see it. Unusual for a fight to involve a knife. A gun, yes. I’d expect that. Everyone in the bar probably has one. There are even old Western-style rifles mounted above the gantry. But a knife seems oddly out of place.
The band’s guitarist reaches out to me, and the blade sweeps upwards simultaneously. I cry out, shocked. I hear him crying out too. He slumps down under the booth’s table. I look for Brandy. I can’t see her. But the cops are here. Outflanked, currently, but an indication that the riot will end soon. I’m conscious of the camera. Of the pictures. Grasped tightly. Cooler air rushes in from somewhere to the left of me. Before I’m aware of how it’s happened, I’m outside. The flickering of blue neon is overhead. It’s the narrow side street of the earlier liaison.
So soon after it began, it suddenly feels like the end.
