Dashboard Elvis is Dead, page 28
The people, places, music, literature, arts, and culture that are resolutely international as opposed to solely British, they aren’t going anywhere. They’ll still be there to thrill and inspire an independent Scotland for the coming generations. I’ve interviewed and discussed the issue with many people in the past few days, and they’ve all expressed a level of uncertainty about both the immediate future, and about the prospects for the notion of a union. Whether now, or in future years, an independent Scotland is inevitable, they feel. Both sides of this most divisive of debates will face difficult economic issues and I’d advise anyone to be skeptical of those who would profess – with the certainty of knowing the sun will rise on this Friday morning – to know exactly what awaits Scotland in either scenario.
But I’m a pragmatic thinker and an optimistic dreamer in equal measure. As unlikely as it might seem now, an opportunity to help create the type of caring, socially responsible and equal society that I would want to live the remainder of my life in will always exist. For the people of Scotland, it might just be within a smaller context. Their future must become about people. And all people, not just the more privileged few. That’s an aspiration worth striving for.
I hope that becomes the unifying ethos of Scotland’s brave new world.
Social media is a battlefield in the aftermath. Egos and opinions and reputations lie bloodied on both sides. An impartial observer – were it even possible to find one – might deduce from the multitude of conspiratorial threads that no side won. And no side lost. Both might be closer to the truth than anyone wants to admit. It’s evident that the underlying tensions that brought this vote into being aren’t going to suddenly vanish. The inevitability of Scotland being back in this situation within the coming decade has already been suggested by Anna Mason. I’m even more desperate to speak to her now, but even without her suspicions of me, I’d be so far to the back of that queue that I start to conceive a biographical piece composed without her input.
I’m desperate to know what Jamie Hewitt’s attitude to his former girlfriend’s political rise is. And what the rest of the band think about their song being far more famous than them. I trawl the various social platforms. All I uncover is an unusual story about Charles Chalmers, the band’s former drummer. Seven years ago, he was found guilty of serious assault following a break-in at the house of East End businessman, Ronnie Mason. Anna Mason’s father. Chalmers was jailed for three years. The only photograph I can find attached to the story makes Chalmers look like the victim of an assault rather than the perpetrator. I have the sense that the band members are all around me – but as elusive as ghosts, hidden away in the folds and crevices of the city. Talking to them would uncover so much.
After an hour of Hyptones-related search words, I find a promising lead on Facebook. It’s a locally based account called Bingo’s Biscuits, and in the comments connected to a four-year-old post…
Dont talk abut them anymor. No aloud tae. AFB legals. Fuck knows were Jamie is, mate.
Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.
22nd September 2014:
The bar is busy. A group of men are watching a soccer match on a large overhead TV screen. The mood is somber, mournful. It will take a while for the pro-independence pain to subside. I wait, conspicuous for being on my own, but also for not having a drink in front of me. I glance at my watch several times, resolving to give it another ten minutes. I’ve been here for an hour. Eventually, a woman comes through the saloon-type double doors. The sunlight floods in and creates a glow around her. My interviewee sees me, and after all the text-message negotiations, it finally looks like it’s happening. After saying hello to several other people, the woman takes off a wet coat and sits down. We shake hands.
Four seasons in wan day, eh? says the woman.
Hi, I’m Jude Montgomery.
Well, yer persistent, hen, for a Jude Montgomery, ah’ll gie ye that. Jist like this bloody weather.
The squeaking doors swing again, and two men rush in.
Fuck sake, man. Pishin’ doon again, says one.
I look at the Glaswegian woman sat opposite me. She looks nothing like the bass player from thirty years earlier, what little I can recall of her. Based on the limited archive material available of The Hyptones’ all-too brief career, the passage of time hasn’t been kind. She carries an additional forty pounds. She is breathing heavily, as if she suffers from asthma. I notice the holes in her tights just above the heel rim of her shoes. The holes aren’t new.
I’m sorry about that – all the texts. It’s just that I’m runnin’ out of time now. I need to go back to New York soon, I say.
Get ye a drink? she asks.
Please, let me, I reply. The least I could do.
Aye, aw’right, since yer twistin’ ma arm. Peroni. A pint.
I go to the bar. A heavily bearded man wearing glasses looks me up and down as I pass him. He continues towards our table.
New burd, Bingo? Ye swipe left an’ hit the jackpot or somethin’? he says.
Beat it, Bobby. Ah’m workin’ here. She’s a journalist. It’s an interview, aboot the band … now, fuck off or it’s a swift phone call tae the benefits office the morra.
The bearded man tuts loudly enough for me to hear him.
Jeezo, man, he says. Nae need tae threaten folk. Just tryin’ tae be friendly, an’ that.
The man draws me a sharp look as I return with a beer for Bingo McAllister, and a gin and tonic for myself.
Nosy bastart, says Bingo. Hard tae escape aw yer ghosts around here, y’know?
Bingo gulps back a large mouthful.
Cheers, hen, she says and we clink glasses.
Cheers, I respond.
Ye must be missin’ the sunshine, then, eh?
Well, I’m gettin’ used to copin’ without it. I laugh, but mainly at the consistency with which this subject opens a conversation here.
They say the graveyards are fu’ ae folk who’d love this bloody weather, says Bingo. Yet tae come across wan, though.
Maybe there’s no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing?
Bingo winks and raises her glass again.
Aye, so ye know yer Connolly, then. Ye’ll dae fine here, says Bingo, then suddenly serious she says: So, is this bein’ recorded then? Whit’s the payment rate?
Still to be negotiated. I smile. OK if I put this on?
I have the phone in my hand, finger poised over record. Bingo shrugs. I put the device on the table and the button goes from white to red.
Can I start by askin’ if you still see any of the group?
Naw. We aw drifted apart after … well, y’know, when Inky had his accident an’ that. Although, truth be told, it wis done for me when we got back fae the States. We just couldnae look at each other after that, says Bingo.
She takes another huge drink. A refill will be needed soon, and I have barely sipped mine.
Tough times, Bingo adds.
I detect a touch of melancholy.
Did you visit Jamie in London?
Bingo laughs, surprised at the question. I don’t clarify how I know he was there. Better to let her assume I’m in possession of more information from Anna Mason than I am.
Nope.
Why not? I ask.
Didnae even fucken know he wis doon there, says Bingo. Listen, him an’ me wurnae that close … ah dunno if ye heard different.
She’s probing.
Well, I’m findin’ it difficult to get hold of anyone prepared to talk to me, I tell her.
Aye, well, that’s the deal we aw signed wi’ the AFB, says Bingo. Anna’s crowd, she adds.
For the royalties? I ask, hoping I’ve stumbled into an area of contention by accident.
Well, no’ exactly.
Bingo pauses and looks around the pub before lowering her voice.
It wis a one-off payment. A big yin, don’t get me wrong. But nae questions allowed tae be asked. Nae future payments either. Nae press or media contact permitted, and absolutely nae contact wi’ Jamie Hewitt.
But you seem happy doin’ this, with me? I counter.
No’ exactly happy, ah’d say, but beggars cannae be choosers, hen. The money’s long since ran oot. Ah’ll just need tae take my chances.
Wow, I say. It hadn’t occurred to me that our meeting could put her in some kind of danger.
Aye, fucken wow, says the former bass player.
So, you don’t know where any of the band are now? I ask.
Last ah heard, Reef wis dain’ a stint oan the cruise ships. A fucken Val Doonican tribute act or some shite like that. Bingo laughs. That’s just the cunt’s level, tae be honest.
She drains her glass.
But ask aboot. Oot the west end or up Byres Road. Shut yer eyes, throw a stick an’ ah guarantee that ye’ll hit someb’dy that wis in a band in the eighties. Someb’dy’ll have seen him, sure.
And the others? I ask.
Well, Jamie’s the fucken invisible man, int’ he? An’ Chic … that poor bastart’s been in an’ oot ae Barlinnie mair times than… Bingo tails off, as if the punchline won’t come, but she’s merely signaling the bartender.
Haw, Sandy.
She draws a circle over the table with a chubby, nail-bitten finger.
Hope ye don’t mind, eh? she says.
Uh, yes, sure, I say.
Same again?
Yeah, I say. About Chalmers…
Look, says Bingo, hand crossing her chest as if about to swat away a large moth. Chic’s a prick – an’ as well as it rhymin’ it’s also true. Cunt cannae help himself. He’s got a fucken hard-on for the AFB. Convinced she did him ower an’ then got him the jail.
For breakin’ into her daddy’s house?
He broke intae her hoose. Lucky he’s still got the pins tae wander around wi’, tae be honest.
It was Anna’s house? But the papers—
Aye, it’s hers. Her da’s put everythin’ in Anna’s name. Probably tae keep him oot the jail, says Bingo.
Her brief downward look suggests she thinks she has said too much. She gulps down another mouthful.
Look, she says, my advice? Steer clear ae aw ae them. They’re aw bampots. If Jamie’s disappeared, that’s probably why. Safer away oot the road ae the Masons.
I pause and contemplate this, that the AFB may be a small-scale JFK, with Ronnie, her elderly father, in the Joe Kennedy role, pulling all the strings, politics lending a legitimacy to the family name.
And what about the manager? I ask. I was hopin’ to speak to him soon.
McFadden? Doubt he’ll sing, says Bingo. That yin’s definitely still oan the Mason payroll. Fucken landed oan his feet, that cunt, she says. Ah wanted tae kill that bastart after the States … when he fucked off an’ left us aw in that stinkin’ van in San Francisco. We might’ve only been in it for wan night, but still. He made sure he wis aw’right before sortin’ oot the flights hame for the rest ae us.
Where could I contact McFadden? I ask.
Ah thought ye’d already know that Kenny McFadden runs the corporate hospitality at Celtic Park, the lucky bastart. If he fell in the Clyde, he’d come oot wi’ salmon in his pockets. Swear tae God, says Bingo.
A loud roar reverberates around the bar as a soccer team on the TV scores.
Ya fucken dancer, Bingo – ah’ve got a century ridin’ oan this game, says the bearded man from earlier.
Aye, Bobby. Tell it tae someb’dy that gie’s a shite!
Our drinks arrive amid the commotion.
What about Anna Mason? I ask.
Bingo sniggers sarcastically.
Whit, the Big fucken Bamboozle … the Anna Fucken Belle. She’s a dictator. The real power behind the Ronnie Mason empire. She’s probably got Jamie chained tae a radiator in her basement – an’ a place next tae him set aside for wee Alex Salmond, tae, for him blowin’ this vote.
I laugh, but Bingo doesn’t. She purses her lips instead.
Look, hen, dinnae be puttin’ anythin’ like that intae yer story, or ah’ll be back in fucken court again … an’ ah dinnae have a decent dress for that, y’know what ah mean? she says.
I’m not sure I do, I say.
But that’s all I’ll get. The interview’s over.
24th September 2014:
A day spent calling numbers connected with Anna Mason’s constituency office. No-one answers. Taped apologies and redirections that lead nowhere make me feel the pursuit is as pointless as modern electronic banking. A thought occurs that I should simply manufacture a fake interview with the first minister elect. After all, it’s not about her government position or the independence vote. I’m now far more interested in her time as CEO of AFB Management. And her relationship with Jamie Hewitt. The truth of that. And what is truth anyway, other than one person’s word over another? I dismiss the thought. The world doesn’t need any more badly conceived fiction masquerading as fact.
26th September 2014:
I’m late and the concert I’ve been invited to will soon be over. A phone call to a former editor in Manhattan has taken far longer than anticipated. Access to Anna Mason is being withheld. It’s perhaps unsurprising in the aftermath of the defeat. I figured a formal press pass issued by an ex-employer might help, although securing one is looking unlikely. I can’t even be sure that Anna Mason will still be in the country. It would be understandable if she’d escaped it for a few weeks simply to avoid the inevitable questions about how different her future leadership will be from that of the newly resigned Alex Salmond.
I climb the stairs and note the names of bands written on each riser. Few register, but David Bowie is a surprising addition to the Barrowland Ballroom’s ‘ladder’ of fame. The hall is only half full, but those crowded in front of the stage, illuminated by the flashing, syncopated spotlights, are creating a noisy atmosphere that belies their numbers. I cross the rear of the ballroom, feeling the bounce of the floor beneath me. I imagine a full house here, and sense why so many I’ve met since arriving venerate this place – believing it captures the essence of Glasgow. I head towards the bar and order a Coke, just in time to hear the band’s final song. A muscular, elongated version, it may be, but those vocals remain familiar. Lyrics that still entrance and inspire.
Stay free. Stay independent. Fuck the union! shouts the singer as the song finishes in a thumping barrage of drums.
God bless ye, Barrowlands … ah love ye! G’night.
And with that, he’s gone, head down, arm raised in salute, fist clenched in a gloved hand like a Black Power icon. I applaud like a long-standing fan although I only caught two songs.
The houselights come up, and the hall loses some of its mystique. I look up and see the chequerboard quilt of acoustic tiles glued to the vaulted ceiling. I lift my phone, change the camera setting and snap the dispersing crowd as a sea of plastic parts at their feet.
Let’s go, hen. Drink up, please.
A burly, black-clad man with perspiration coating a shiny bald head ushers me towards the exit.
Um, I’m with the band, I say, lifting a wrist sporting a piece of brightly coloured paper. The security guy smiles.
Aye, that’s whit they aw say, love. He points to a corner. Ower there, hen, he says.
Thank you.
I wander across to a series of tables that block access to a door at the side of the stage.
Doon there, just follow the corridor round, I’m instructed.
I reach an oddly shaped back room. I knock politely on the open door. There are far too many people in there for the space. A few are drunk. No-one hears or notices me. I see the singer, catching his eye. He excuses himself from someone shaking his hand.
Jude, yeah? he asks.
Yeah. I hold out a hand, but he moves it aside and hugs me.
Let’s go oot an’ find somewhere quieter, he says.
The singer ushers me back out to the stage, where we find an unoccupied corner. We sit, watching technicians dismantling the equipment and cleaners brushing up the empty cups.
Thanks for the ticket, I tell him.
Nae sweat. Thanks for comin’. It’s good tae see ye again.
Reef Malcolm has never formally met me before. Our phone call a week prior was the first time we had spoken, yet he treats me like an old friend. It’s a little disconcerting. I notice the way his fingers move constantly, touching his chin, running through his long, dark, wet hair. Occasionally touching my knee. I decide he’s one of those people who is magnetically warm rather than threateningly tactile.
Wow, it looks totally different with the lights and the atmosphere and the crowd gone, I say.
Aye, that’s rock ‘n’ roll in a nutshell, sweetheart, Reef says. It looks glamourous fae the outside, but it’s just a façade. A wee bit ae escapism fae the boredom an’ the humdrum.
Do you miss the fame?
Nope, he says. Didnae experience that much of it, tae be fair, but fame was like bein’ trapped in a luxury asylum. Folk bring ye meals an’ drinks, an’ only let ye out for an hour a night tae fucken perform like a monkey for folk who are madder than you. Mental bastarts.
I laugh but suspect it’s a rehearsed answer he’s used plenty of times before.
That’s a bit condescendin’ to your audience, Reef, I say, still laughing.
Fuck them … that’s me ah’m talkin’ aboot.
You talked a lot about Jamie an’ you on the telephone. Have you never been tempted to find out what he’s doin’ now? I ask him. To see how he is?
Reef sighs.
When the record wis sellin’ millions aff ae the Apple advert, ah automatically thought we’d aw get back together. Celebrate the wee bit ae success an’ that. Ah think we’d deserved that bit ae luck, like, y’know? Kenny McFadden, our old manager, contacts me an’ says that someb’dy fae New York wants tae use ‘Independent State of Mind’ tae relaunch a new computer. A big worldwide campaign, like. Ah thought McFadden wis jokin’, until ah remembered that he always wis a humourless bastart.
