tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18433748707074272082024-02-06T20:02:19.420-08:00Walking In The ShadowlandsThe almost, nearly, probably true story of 1970s rock gods Shadowlands.Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-22722365142721895942016-04-24T15:21:00.000-07:002016-04-24T15:21:51.680-07:00Let's Work? Rosalie in 1987Just a short, mostly silly outtake from <i>Walking in the Shadowlands</i>.<br />
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It's 1987 and Rosalie is about to tape an appearance on <i>Top of the Pops</i>... but all is not quite well, thanks to Mick Jagger.<br />
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<i>London, 1987. </i><br />
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Rosalie was all dressed up and ready to mime when Mick Jagger took to the stage. He had a solo single out which had more to do with Thatcher’s pissing on the poor than rock and roll. She watched from the sidelines as he minced, posed and gurned wildly while periodically leaping through the bemused teenage audience like a cartoon Mexican Jumping Bean on speed.<br />
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He was trying so <i>hard </i>to be hip and fashionable that her abdominal muscles clenched in secondary embarrassment.<br />
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It was almost as bad as Cliff Richard in leather trousers and rollerskates for the "Wired for Sound" video. Six years, and she still occasionally still had that nightmare...<br />
<br />
The singer of a truly fashionable group who’d already filmed their segment was also watching and shared a “who does he think he is?” glance with Rosalie. She felt every single one of her thirty-five years and was grateful that she was not the target of such a moment. Yet, at least. Who knew what was about to happen, truthfully? <br />
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Her dress was uncomfortably tight - she had not quite returned to a pre-pregnancy figure and doubted she ever would, no matter how little she ate or how many workout hours she logged.<br />
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Still, if she felt old looking at the audience, she was positively embryonic compared to Mick.<br />
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His song was a slice of conservative yuppie ideals set to an irritating synthetic beat, and she was glad her own current sound had little in the way of electronic intervention.<br />
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‘Ready, Rosa?’ Bobby was in his showbiz element, as always.<br />
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‘If this is what I’ve got to follow,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be fine.’<br />
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‘Don’t underestimate Rubber Lips.’<br />
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‘I don’t, but this-’<br />
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Bobby moved to disagree but at sight of the Dartford Wonder mid-gurn, he changed his mind. ‘Yeah.’<br />
<br />
Rosalie watched as Jagger bounced up and down, surrounded by mildly bewildered children. His act worked on the huge stadium stages the Stones called home, but on a small sound stage he looked entirely daft. She felt sick on his behalf again.<br />
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As he moved off-stage, Jagger smirked at her as he always did, like he knew some great secret of hers, oblivious to the reality of his performance. She smirked right back, then allowed the runner to take her to her place on-stage amongst the kids.<br />
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Thirty-five was nothing in the grand scheme, but <i>god</i>, she felt old. <br />
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<br />Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-85776600568937831482016-01-16T05:35:00.001-08:002016-01-16T09:02:50.009-08:00Rosalie and David Bowie, 1973I don't know if you heard, but David Bowie died. I have many, many feels about this, some of which I tried to put into words over on the <a href="http://clareworley.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Blog of Me</a>.<br />
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<br />
Right now, I also feel a bit conflicted about posting this, but I'm going to do so less for self-promotion and more for 'Hey, this is a thing' that I already did because I didn't need him to die to appreciate his brilliance...<br />
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<i>Walking in the Shadowlands </i>is a novel about a 1970s rock band, so <i>of course</i> Bowie gets namedropped and makes an indirect appearance or two. This is a snippet of the moment where Rosalie first sees that strange character Ziggy Stardust on a hotel TV.<br />
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Despite having worked for <i>years</i> before, Bowie seemed like an overnight sensation in the early 70s. The profound effect his appearance on <i>Top of the Pops</i> in 1972 when he and the band played "Starman" can hardly be exaggerated. It was almost like that moment in the <i>Wizard of Oz</i>, where Dorothy arrives in Oz and the world transforms from sepia to glorious technicolour... or like someone decided to colour in the greyscale painting that was the UK at that time.<br />
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<i>January 1973. Manchester, UK.</i><br />
The last time Rosalie had seen David Bowie, she had been working at the Marquee while he played a number of shows. She remembered him as a mousy-haired man with a typical combination of earnest creativity and sharp desire for fame. One of many.<br />
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<br />
Stuck in a hotel in Manchester, too tired to do anything but watch <i>Top of the Pops</i>, she was reassured that it was business as usual on Pops: disposable dreck made for weeny- and teeny-boppers too inexperienced to know better.<br />
<br />
She watched bored and appalled, until Bowie and his group took to the stage to perform ”The Jean Genie”. She could hardly believe her eyes: he was a strange, thin, eyebrow-less creature with a plume of artificially red hair and a single chandelier earring. Her mouth dropped open as she sat transfixed by his prettily angular face and wondered if he’d visited the planet Hendrix had gone home to.<br />
<br />
<br />
The guitarist was Mick Ronson, another face she remembered from the Marquee. He was wearing a <br />
gold suit which exposed his chest almost down to the navel, but she cared more about the infectious guitar riff and jumpy chords from his familiar fingers.<br />
<br />
<br />
One of the cameramen was using a fish-eye lens to distort the image, but he hardly needed help to make it look weird. Rosalie found it hard to believe that such thing was on national television. Whatever were normal people making of it?<br />
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Unable to look away, halfway through she called Twain in his room. No answer, so she tried Liam, who answered on the first ring.<br />
<br />
‘Are you watching-’<br />
<br />
‘It’s fantastic. Twain looks fit to spit.’<br />
<br />
‘He’s there?’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah. Come on over.’<br />
<br />
<br />
‘Once Bowie’s finished.’ She put the receiver back in the cradle and focused back on the song. Was it in fact possible to dress up like a Christmas Tree from Outer Space and make fantastic music? Bowie looked like it was possible.<br />
<br />
<br />
Twain and Byrne were still staring at the TV when she went to them afterwards.<br />
<br />
<br />
‘What do you think?’ she asked.<br />
<br />
<br />
‘I think Bowie just changed the rules,’ Liam said soberly. ‘I mean, he’s the Newley-alike who did the Laughing Gnome! When did he turn into this? It’s…’<br />
<br />
<br />
Rosalie sighed, enchanted beyond rational thought. ‘It’s <i>wonderful</i>.’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah.’ Twain shook his hair. ‘Well… I’ve always liked dressing up.’<br />
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‘You surprise me,’ she replied dryly.<br />
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*<br />
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<br />
<i>This is an excerpt from </i>Walking in the Shadowlands<i> by Clare Worley. It goes without saying that the intellectual property is hers and hers alone.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
For more info, there's a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/walkingintheshadowlands/" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>!<br />
<br />
Most of all: Thanks to Bowie for helping light up the world, for helping the rest of us weirdos and freaks embrace our own oddity. Special mention in this instance also to the always tremendous Mick Ronson, and to Mick Woodmansey and Trevor Bolder. There is no Ziggy without the Spiders.<br />
<br />
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<i> </i><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yEmGQYCuc6M" width="459"></iframe>Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-80412357187198947632015-09-06T03:13:00.000-07:002015-09-06T03:13:00.345-07:00Oh Dino, DinoThis was in the very first draft of Shads, although in slightly different form. A great example of a scene which is awesome and fun <i>to me</i> but which has no impact or meaning for the story as a whole; something written mostly because I was listening to Dean Martin at the time.<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>1972. Las Vegas, NV.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i> </i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Nobody
with any sense would arrange for a rock band to have time off in Las Vegas.
There were too many varieties of trouble in the neon city, but Shadowlands found
themselves with a full day and night in Vegas to do exactly as they pleased.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sam
and the road crew disappeared into the hive of casinos and dens of
iniquity without so much as unpacking. Pete, who’d never met a poker game he
didn’t like, was escorted into an invite-only game at the Flamingo. Bobby went along with him, claiming to be his financial chaperone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This left the final three stood waiting for the elevator up to their rooms in an almost-luxurious hotel just off the Strip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘What
are you going to do?’ JD asked Rosalie. 'Can't imagine this is your sort of town, being so well behaved.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Dunno.’
This was a lie. ‘You?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘No
idea.’ Also a lie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
want to see Dean Martin’s show at the Sands,’ Liam admitted. Their jaws dropped in time with the opening of the elevator doors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">He was unashamed. ‘I don’t
care what you think-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
stepped into the elevator.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘No, I mean-
that’s what I wanted to do!’ Rosalie told him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">JD
nodded in agreement. ‘Are we all secret Dino fans?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A beat of silence passed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Apparently,' Rosalie said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
giggled like children.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘We
should dress the part,’ JD declared. ‘Tuxedos and all. Show those old folks we ain't all unwashed hippies!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Do
you get tuxes in my size?’ Rosalie asked tartly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Well,
something for you,’ he retorted. The elevator reached their floor and they
walked down a long corridor lined with doors. ‘Something with beads and sequins
and stuff.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She just rolled her eyes at the thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘You’d
better make sure we can get into the show first. You can do it.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">JD
nodded. ‘I will too.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Three
hours later, the suited and booted trio walked through the Sands hotel like they were movie stars arriving at the Academy Awards. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Rosalie
had borrowed a fuchsia cocktail dress from the hotel’s beauty shop manager. It
didn’t fit properly but she didn’t feel like she fit in, so it was appropriate. More than that, it was the worst of Middle America's sparkling, showy lack of taste that she found frankly vile. It was everything about her parents' generation that she despised wrapped in one dress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
a perfectly fitting dinner suit and immaculate hair, Twain looked born to it, which
was both unsurprising and irritating. Liam had already pulled his bow tie loose
by the time they were led to a table near the stage. A very good table, in
fact.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The mostly middle aged audience made no attempt to conceal their contemptuous curiosity at the young, long haired trio taking one of the best tables in the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A woman with hair so high it surely had some internal engineering sneered at Rosalie, her pretty white teeth bared and gleaming in the dim light. She took a drag on a cigarette and slowly blew the smoke in Rosalie's direction. For her part, Rosalie winked back, bolshie in her own discomfort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">JD took a different approach, and held out his lighter to another lady of similar middle age and coiffure. 'Good evening ma'am, may I get that for you?' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The lady fairly swooned at having Adonis light her cigarette, even if he was a long-hair. Her husband, a squirrely man in an obviously-rented tux, was less impressed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Champagne,’
JD demanded as they took to their seats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I
forgot,’ Rosalie smirked. ‘You’re one of this crowd.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘You’ve
either got it or you don’t.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
lights went down and the orchestra began. No Dean Martin. They played the intro
two more times before the star stumbled on stage, crystal tumbler in
hand. He looked confused.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘What’re
all these people doin’ in my room?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
audience’s laughter formed a single united reply. The orchestra played the
intro to “Memories Are Made Of This” a fourth time and this time, Dean made his
cue perfectly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘It’s
all a put on, right?’ Liam asked, staring up at Dean, who had only sung a verse and a half before moving onto a joke about Sinatra.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Does
it matter?’ JD replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘No.
Maybe not.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dino smiled down at their table, and having noticed them as being outside his usual audience, made a joke at their expense. Bowled over and star-struck, they spoke no more during the show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Several hours, and a carouse through the gambling floor of the Sands later, they sat at the counter of a strip-lit diner eating greasy burgers. It was late but the diner was busy, mostly with people who worked in Vegas rather than tourists who gambled their money away in Vegas. The cheap radio set wheezed out a local easy listening station: Bing crooning "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘I’d
give a kidney to have stage presence like his,’ said Liam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘<i>You</i>
do,’ Rosalie replied instantly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Not
like him I don’t.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">JD grabbed a handful of Rosalie's fries. ‘It’s
a put-on, you said so yourself. If you don't feel it, jtust make it up.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Liam
slammed his glass down on the counter, and the waitress glared down the counter at them. ‘I won’t lie in my songs. I won’t do it.
Not ever.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘All
art is lies,’ Twain replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘All
art <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i> be truth.’ Liam sighed.
‘It’s all that matters.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘You
can tell the truth through fiction,’ Rosalie added, and coughed as she nearly choked on a bite of burger. ‘Isn’t that what all the
great novels and-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Not
music! Not mine, anyway. I have to be honest. What else is there?’ He looked so
desolate that neither JD or Rosalie had the heart to challenge him. It seemed a
fair point, if just a smidge overblown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Do
it how you gotta,’ JD said through another mouthful of fries. ‘As long as it’s great, I
don’t care.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Rosalie
sipped at her Coke. ‘I have just one thing to say.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Yeah?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">‘We
must never speak of this night. The others will not let us live it down.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">'What happens in Vegas,' JD began.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt;">'Stays in Vegas.' </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">They
clinked their glasses together in agreement and the night was stricken from the
record.</span>Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-73514722687276089012015-07-12T15:31:00.003-07:002015-07-12T15:31:55.759-07:00Father's DayAnother Rosalie moment...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><i>Canonbury, London. 1990.</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
Father's Day was difficult for Rosalie. Her nomadic life meant that most years she didn't even notice it, but sometimes...<br /><br />
She loved her father with all the unquestioning fervour of a little girl who never saw him fail, fall or collapse. Until the very end, of course, and she could hardly blame him for that.<br /><br />
How could she hate him for dying of a broken heart? He had loved her mother more than he loved her. That was OK. It was understandable.<br /><br />
She had ignored the deepest loss at the time thanks to s combination of Cecelia’s family, their hectic schedule on the London party scene, and a heady combination of sex, drugs and rock n roll. A sixteen year old in that scenario was far too immortal to let grief get in the way.<br /><br />
The death of Cecelia herself made three in the space of a year. Not many seventeen year olds made themselves anew, but with the only three people she really loved gone, there was nothing for Rosalie except to cut her life loose. <br /><br />
The Canonbury house - already ignored - was shut up completely. Rosalie the Face on the Scene disappeared. She cut herself off from drink, drugs, sex and any kind of human relationships beyond the most shallow interactions.<br /><br />
She directed her love to music instead: she wasn't the best barmaid the Marquee ever had but she was the most devoted. No band ever wanted for a thing when she was working; no one on the audience ever had a bad time.<br /><br />
Nobody worked longer hours, nobody complained less. Jack never forgave Rosalie for leaving the club. Not even when she played there herself just before the club shut for good, transformed from barmaid to pop royalty.<br /><br />
She was avoiding both her scheduled songwriting session and the real topic at hand: it was twenty years since her dad died and she was at home alone.<br /><br />
A shrill yelp interrupted her melancholia and proved that last thought erroneous: she was not alone, given that her son was a room away. He was not celebrating Father’s Day either-<br /><br />
She poked her head around the door to where he was playing. ‘What’s wrong Richard, my love?’<br /><br />
‘Fell over!’<br /><br />
He was playing on a thick rug and couldn't have fallen too hard but he looked shocked to tears.<br />
Rosalie put her guitar aside and sank down onto the rug. She scooped him into a warm, messy hug of tangled limbs. His damp face pressed against hers.<br /><br />
He sniffled and wept for a moment or two until he was calm enough to speak. ’Mummy, can we go to the park, can we, can we?’<br /><br />
It was a fine June day. The park would be full of families: sons, fathers, grandfathers...<br /><br />
Yet, the word "no" never went down well with Richard, her beloved only child, who had spent his life so far as the indulged son of “Rosalie!” and almost always the only child in the room. <br /><br />
She took a deep breath. ’Maybe.’<br /><br />
She smothered his face with fluttery kisses until he laughed.<br /><br />
Son suitably comforted, Rosalie went back to her work but found her focus was totally gone. She remembered a million moments with Danny Cochran. Big events, small moments. Missed chances, lost opportunities. The doorbell rang.<br /><br />
Stood on the step with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a football under the other arm was Bobby Andrews, managerial supremo.<br /><br />
’Hello!’ Rosalie ushered him into the house with a kiss on the cheek. He was the best kind of surprise.<br /><br />
Something was off, wrong, out of sorts. It took a moment... ‘Bobby, are you wearing shorts?’<br /><br />
He blushed a little. ’Yes... thought Sprocket might like a kick around in the park...’<br /><br />
‘Oh!. Her grin broadened. ‘I think we’d both like that.’<br /><br />
Richard was pleased as punch at such an idea and within ten minutes the Cochrans and Bobby were suitably kitted out and ready to play.<br /><br />
It was a bit of a trek to the park but the June weather was warm and bright.<br /><br />
The park was busy but they found a spot to call their own and the kick around began... And continued. And went on. The trio had such breathless, grass-stained fun that they did not stop until the littlest member fell to the soft ground huffing and puffing, his short legs burning from their exertions.<br /><br />
Rosalie dropped down beside him.<br /><br />
‘I think you won,’ she said.<br /><br />
‘Nobody won, Mummy! It was just for fun!’<br /><br />
‘Absolutely, kid.’ Her heart swelled a little at seeing him so happy, open and kind.<br /><br />
After a short period spent persuading Richard to actually leave the park, they stopped at a corner shop for ice cream on the way home.<br /><br />
‘Thank you, Bobby!’ Richard grinned, his mouth covered in chocolate seconds after being handed a Cornetto.<br /><br />
They meandered along the street as they scoffed their ice creams. Richard was more interested in hopscotching along the paving stones than in the grown-ups.<br /><br />
‘Don’t get me wrong Bobby, it’s lovely that you’re here but… what are you after?’<br /><br />
‘I’d be hurt at the inference if it wasn’t probably right. I’m here because I wanted to spend Father’s Day with my family. I hope you don’t mind.’<br /><br />
‘Oh.’ Rosalie felt her smile spread across her face until it hurt. <br /><br />
‘While I’m here-’<br /><br />
‘I’m on holiday, Bob.’<br /><br />
‘I know… but when you’re ready, Stanley Crudup sent some new songs. Just when you’re ready.’<br /><br />
‘Happy Father’s Day, Bobby.’<br /><br />
It wasn’t the first time she’d said his name and it had sounded more like “dad” but perhaps it was the first time she noticed.Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-14627448431630844852015-07-04T16:54:00.004-07:002015-07-04T16:54:54.977-07:00JD Twain's 50th BirthdayI started this some time ago... how would a rock star renowned for his looks deal with growing old?<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">20 August 1999.
London.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alone and insecure on his fiftieth birthday, the ‘World’s
Most Gorgeous Guitarist’ spent thirty minutes scrutinising his face in the
hotel bathroom mirror before swearing that his worries were unfounded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">JD Twain</i>,
beautiful and charismatic, talented and charming. He was one of the brightest
stars in a blinding galaxy. He was timeless, ageless, immortal. Fifty to JD
Twain was as 150 years to normal people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wasn’t</i> it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stared into the doubting eyes of his reflection until his
phone interrupted his pity party for one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He answered before looking at the caller ID with all the
day’s frustrations clear in his tone: ‘What?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I was going to sing you Happy Birthday but I won’t fucking
bother.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Rosalie-’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You should’ve come up to Scotland like I said.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t like the countryside.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You sound <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">down</i>. What’s
the matter, dear boy?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m fine.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You’re also fifty.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And? Bluesmen get better with age. Like wine or whiskey or
something.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I love you, man.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I know.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What are your plans today?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Got a gig later.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Until then?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Hadn’t thought about it.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Where’s Byrne these days?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No idea. How’s Sprocket doing?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well. He’s writing his own music now.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Atta boy.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Jay… are you OK?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Gonna party like it’s 1999.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Jay-‘</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m good. All good. Don’t worry about me, Cochran.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s my job to worry about you.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No it isn’t.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Come on,’ He heard her disagreeing chuckle hundreds of
miles away. ‘I’ve been professionally worrying about you since 1970. Firing me
didn’t change that, at least.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time to change the subject. ‘I’ll be at the 100 Club
tonight. Exclusive birthday gig. Apparently tickets were changing hands for
hundreds. I still got it, baby.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She chuckled – actually chuckled: ‘You were born
irresistible and you’ll die that way too.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yeah. Anyway, I gotta go.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Wait, Jay!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sang “Happy Birthday” down the line to him, all breathy
Marilyn Monroe at first before it morphed into Janis Joplin’s screech and ended
as a raucous Marie Lloyd cockney music hall cackle. She took a breath and when
she spoke it was as herself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Love you,
Twain.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Back atcha, Rosa. See you soon.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yeah right.’ She hung up, leaving JD alone once again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a day full of hours before he had to be at the
venue, and nothing to do. On the street below he knew – theoretically at least
– he’d find normal people living the lives he’d only ever seen on TV.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life for Twain had never been normal, not since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the woman</i> left and he became the first
kid in his class with divorced parents and a mom who’d gone away without him. He’d
never had to consider getting a real job. His peripatetic lifestyle and his own
attitude meant his only real long-term relationship with anyone beyond a song-writing
partnership with Liam was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whateveritwas</i>
with Rosalie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had been fifty for three and a half hours, give or take a
few minutes and the time zones, but already he felt like the line of girls
waiting for him after the gig would be shorter. If he was honest, the line had
been dwindling for a long time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unable to remain inside a moment longer, JD tossed his
jacket over his shoulder and went out into the bright sunlight. His discman sent
the Spencer Davis Group directly into his head and he bounded along the street
to the beat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was eight when he first came to London. He hid behind his
dad, who never met a social situation he couldn’t handle, and wondered why
everything was so grey. He had become familiar with the city through the years as
it changed from grey post-war gloom to shiny-shiny noughties lustre with stops
at swinging psychedelics, garbage strikes and yuppie heaven-hell on the way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I was so much older
then, I’m younger than that now.”</i> The lines of the old Dylan song came to
mind above the funk-soul of the Tim Buckley song that had just started playing.
How could he feel young and magnificent when his reflection told him otherwise?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weather turned from blue skies to wet and grey without
warning. He ducked into a pub for respite and the drink he hadn’t known he
needed until stood at the bar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What can I getcha?’ The barman was Australian, of course.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Best whiskey you got. And a pint of something cold.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sure.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
JD leaned against the bar as he waited and took in the scene
around him. It was a studenty place, full of people, and each pretty by virtue
of youth. The TV on the wall pumped out music videos as the callow children
chattered non-stop, ate greasy pub food without a hesitation and drank like it
was going out of fashion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once upon a time and not so very long ago, this scene
would’ve filled him with delight at the opportunities it presented. Now, he
just felt tired, old, and after a minute, invisible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the students called out to the barman: ‘Oh hey, turn it up!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The latest music video on the TV was – to his surprised
shock and awe – one of Shadowlands’ earliest. The little rat bastard on the screen
taunted him with his breath-taking, youthful beauty for one thing and his
lightning-quick, flawless fingering for another. Hypnotised, he watched the
young buck effortlessly command absolute devotion from the audience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His maimed hand ached and he hated JD Twain like he’d never
hated him before. Never before had he loathed and despised that cocky little
asshole, not even in his darkest moments hunched over hotel toilets or during
the revolving door that was his bed in the early 1980s before everyone got
scared. It was a new and unpleasant feeling and he concentrated on the scar.
Staring at it for twenty five years had made it familiar, but never beloved. It
was a ready-to-use noose and the cause of a thousand nightmares. Even the niggling,
never-quite-absent ache in his back since the Vancouver stabbing was easy to
live with in comparison.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He despised JD Twain for being young and perfect on screen
because JD Twain on screen captured the attention of nearly everyone in the
damned pub and not one damned person had noticed that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">JD Twain</i> himself was stood right there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked up from his pint to stare at his reflection in the
antique mirror above the bar until the video was over and he could breathe
again. A minute or two passed and his eyes narrowed at his own imperfect, aged
face. The video mercifully ended.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so cool</i>!’
one of the girls said in a rush of breath and vague attraction. Whatever she
said next was drowned out by a burst of guitar chord from the TV: it was
showing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">another</i> damned Shadowlands
video!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
JD squinted at the TV and saw a tickertape graphic running
along the bottom: “JD TWAIN TURNS 50 TODAY – CELEBRATE WITH US!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If there was a God, or gods, or any kind of benevolent deity
concerned with the matters of humans, He/She/It/Them had a malicious sense of
humour. If there was a God, He/She/It/Them had no idea how cruel it was to send
a man like JD Twain into senior citizenry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was referring to himself in the third person and that was
never good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Hey man, can I get another one of these?’ JD waved his
empty glass at the barman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How strange it was to
witness his fans being fans and not one of them aware that the subject of their
idolatry stood only a few feet away. Watching them watching him…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second measure of whiskey went down even easier than the
first, and the third was second nature. He gulped his spirits but sipped his
beer as Twain the Younger continued to mock him from the TV screen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear God, </i>how
beautiful he had been! How lustrous his long black hair, how snakelike his
hips, how sharp his cheekbones…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To add to his freezing humiliation, the next video was for
“The Girl in the Green Dress”: His young self, costumed as Elizabeth Taylor in
Cleopatra, flounced around the courthouse set at Universal... His young self was
a prettier girl than most girls, even if it was uncomfortable to watch now. The
students were laughing, but at least they were mostly laughing at Sam as
Marilyn Monroe and Pete’s massive shoulders in his Gilda dress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He missed being that beautiful. He missed being young. He
regretted every single fucking moment of insecurity or unhappiness. He
regretted every missed meal and every spoon, fork, knife or finger he’d shoved
down his throat because he didn’t feel good enough, beautiful enough, perfect enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the holy fuck had he been thinking? What had he seen in
the mirror then to think he was anything less than fucking Adonis?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosalie used to call him Antinous as a joke. The
perfect-faced favourite of a Roman emperor was 18 when he died. JD had even far
outlived the likes of the 27 Club. There was no denying that he was now simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He ignored the pint and slumped his way out of the pub. He
had a gig to get to, after all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soundcheck at the 100 Club was excruciating. He was too
drunk to focus on the finer points and too angry and hurt to care about the
bigger picture.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stretched across a sofa in the dressing room, closed his
eyes and wished for the day to be over without delay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Get the fuck up, you sad bastard.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He opened his eyes. Rosalie Cochran herself was leaning
against the doorway, as lovely as she had always been, if less skinny and more
imperial.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Leave me alone.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I flew down here from Scotland to see the most gorgeous
guitarist in the world.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘When you meet him, let me know.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You got a year older. Get over it.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m not… you don’t get it. I’m…’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Old. Past it. Uglified. Invisible. Might as well be dead.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosalie let out a single, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘Now you
know how I’ve been made to feel for fifteen years!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s different for you! You were never beau-‘ He stopped
himself before he could make matters worse as her eyes flashed and her right
hand closed into a fist. ‘You were never… never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dependent</i> on your looks.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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‘And you were?’ Her fist stayed clenched.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘People expected it of me.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, they didn’t.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I had a reputation to uphold.’ He sat up, brain swirling,
and grabbed for the nearest bottle of beer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She snatched it away and lobbed it neatly into the bin
across . ‘You and your bloody reputation. Wasn’t it enough to nearly die for
it?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I should’ve died,’ he moaned. ‘Live fast, die young, leave
a good looking corpse.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He watched Rosalie’s entire posture fall, head and shoulders
drooped, knees bent as though they had too much weight to bear. ‘If that’s how
you feel…’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, it isn’t.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
'Then get off the flabby side of your arse and get to work.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘My ass is not flabby!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Prove it.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stood and smoothed his hair out of his face. With great
majesty he turned and waved his leather-clad backside at her. Rosalie responded
with a deep, throaty laugh that seemed to get his heart beating again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m glad you’re here.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Wouldn’t have missed it in a million years.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sprocket?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Richard </i>is at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">school</i>.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh. Yeah.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You need coffee.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yeah.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gig was a sold out success, of course. JD Twain didn’t
have to be young to own a stage; didn’t need to feel like a million bucks to
outplay any and all comers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He made it back to the dressing room with adrenaline
pounding through his blood and sweat pouring down his face and back. Rosalie
was not far behind and once the door was closed it was just them again,
exhilarated fans shut out for now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She fussed over him as she had in the really early days, before
anyone knew she could sing, until he was ready to face his public once more.
‘You’re still beautiful, Twain.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Maybe.’ He stared at himself in the mirror. ‘Bit… grizzled,
maybe?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Maybe. Distinguished.'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He rubbed his hand over the salt and pepper of his midnight
shadow. ‘I can live with that.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the door was open, JD Twain the star was in place.
There were fans lingering, waiting for autographs which he gave with his easy
charm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A particularly pretty young woman handed him a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never the Twain</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Someone bought this?’ he asked, glaring at the unassailably
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">80s</i> artwork and the poodle hair he’d
dabbled with at that time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I did!’ she replied. ‘I’m a huge fan.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The girl blushed under the power of his most charming boyish
grin. Within five minutes casual chat, they were off together in a taxi back to
his hotel. He leaned back in the seat as she nestled into his loose embrace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had reached fifty years old but he was after all,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> still JD Twain</i> and there was still a line of girls waiting for him.</div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-26833549160727988232015-06-24T18:02:00.003-07:002015-07-01T15:11:43.190-07:00Raging Blood<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A quick bit with Rosalie... </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her blood was raging. Her pulse thumped in her wrists in
unison with the bass, it thrummed at her temples and surged through every nerve
in her body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was connected to the rest of the band through the
vibrations in the floor: to Sam through the tom-tom that connected to her heel
through a slightly wonky floorboard; to Pete through the bass that shook every
particle in the room; to JD’s slide guitar that slithered up and down her
spine; and to Liam’s voice pitched exactly a third above hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If sound waves were visible to the human eye, Rosalie knew
that the room would be beautiful right now. She imagined them each with their
own colours: Sam was always a bright blue; Pete a deep claret-ish red. JD was
purple, the colour of emperors, while Liam was a deep and rich green. She did
not know what colour she created, could not see her own sound as she could see
theirs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
JD caught her eye to give her a cue to start the next verse
and his broad, almost dopey smile made her own grow broader. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The song moved into Twain’s solo and her blood surged while she
let her focus drop from her own efforts. The throbbing intensified to all
points south: the pressure points in her booted feet and her pelvis, to places
where blood did not ordinarily flow in such quantities.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The piano took over from the guitar, thunderous and rolling-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rosalie woke abruptly. Disorientated and confused, a
thousand thoughts rushed her brain while she was caught between worlds and
uncertain what was real and what was imagined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A dull ache settled in her abdomen – even inside her own
head, her mother’s training (scolding) was such that she couldn’t name the
thing itself – frustrating even though it ebbed away as she moved further away
from her dreamscape into the real world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hotel room was quiet as only a hotel room at 3.54am
could be: the only sounds were distant and served to prove her isolation. She
willed herself back to sleep as she dreaded returning to the dream: it was
exactly a life she did not have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Rosalie Organisation was a joke title but well-named. A
slickly organised business and the perpetual motion machine of a large touring
band of which Rosalie herself was only one small cog. This was not a family
like Shadowlands had been a family. She found a groove each night on stage because
they were all great musicians, but she did not find the colours, the vibrations,
or the euphoria.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time she had felt so powerful in real life had been
the last Shadowlands Mark 2 show, when she took centre stage for the first time
ever and knew what it was to feel an entire audience send adulation, lust and
love up to her on the stage; and to return it, in her way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plant or someone had been quoted as saying “Some nights I
look out and want to screw the entire front row”, which had always seemed like
exaggeration to Rosalie until that gig. That night she had felt something
similar – not understood, but felt – and finally felt like she deserved to be
where she was standing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What remained of that was a memory of what was and what
would not be again; out of grasp but not out of mind. She was not supposed to
feel this way, and she was not meant to miss it. It was enough to make a girl
mad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of all though, she missed the colours and the feeling
of being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in the band</i>. She had been
one of them, a constituent part of something rendered far grander. It was that
thing the audiences had wanted and she could not provide it all on her own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After passing the day distracted and melancholy, Rosalie
stood waiting in the wings waiting to be announced and resigned herself to
knowing she would never hit the high she had so briefly touched with
Shadowlands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet – and yet! – her own audiences were enthusiastic enough
to carry her onto the stage and through what was a truly wonderful show.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It just wasn’t enough to make her blood rage.</div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-7178025840631950552015-06-13T17:04:00.001-07:002015-06-14T03:48:57.436-07:00Heathrow to HomeThis is an outtake from <i>Walking in the Shadowlands</i>. It'll become pretty obvious why I wrote it and was very fond of it, as well as why it didn't make the final draft.<br />
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Posted for obvious reasons which are obvious.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><i>16th June 1995 - Heathrow Airport.</i><br />
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Rosalie had spent the last 25 years flying around the world, but had never become accustomed to the free-for-all at Heathrow’s Arrivals lounge during busy times. She gripped Ricky’s hand so tightly that he complained but she preferred it over losing him to the crowd.<br />
<br />
‘It won’t be long,’ she promised once they’d retrieved their bags and she let him believe he was the one pushing the trolley.<br />
<br />
A month and a half in India had given them both deep brown tans and Rosalie felt rested for the first time for years. They’d rented an oceanside house in Goa to exist for awhile in a place unlike their usual universe.<br />
<br />
It had been an eye-opener for Rosalie to discover her son had been developing a personality of his own while she wasn’t looking. He spent their days playing football with local children and in the evenings he loved to read to her while she made dinner. <br />
<br />
It had been a slice of heaven, but all good things had to come to an end: he back to boarding school; she to whatever she was going to try next.<br />
<br />
‘I’m tired.’ Ricky had long ago learnt that “being tired” wasn’t going to cut any ice with anyone in his life; she knew he was several steps ahead of “tired” if he was complaining.<br />
<br />
‘Not long now, I promise.’<br />
<br />
She struggled to lift him up onto the trolley even with his weary help. The sticker on the handlebar explicitly said not to let children ride but she couldn’t bring herself to give a monkeys after the journey they’d had.<br />
<br />
She manoeuvred the thing through Customs, past a young couple from their flight who were being searched, into the bright sunlight of the Arrivals hall. A line of people stood along the path with signs that ran the gamut from amateurishly illegible to laminated and branded professional signs.<br />
<br />
As usual, she looked for the name “Scout Finch” and found it held aloft by a uniformed chauffeur waiting near SockShop.<br />
<br />
She flashed a tired smile that turned into a yawn. ‘Hello again, Kevin.’ <br />
<br />
He was one of her semi-regular drivers: a young man with curly red hair which reminded her of the white guys she’d known in the 60s with their big nearly-afros. He moved to take the trolley from her, but she shook her head.<br />
<br />
‘Would you mind taking Ricky? Poor thing’s exhausted.’<br />
<br />
Kevin gathered barely-conscious Richard into his arms and effortlessly carried him out of the terminal to the waiting Bentley. The boy was fast asleep by the time his mother secured his seatbelt.<br />
<br />
'There’s the newspapers if you want them,’ Kevin said. <br />
<br />
'Thank you.’ Rosalie reached for the first one on the pile.<br />
<br />
She settled down as the car moved away from the terminal. It was a Friday and the traffic was heavy with people heading off to exotic places for their weekends.<br />
<br />
She flicked idly through the <i>Independent</i>. The Western world seemed much the same as she had left it: the Conservative government was still floundering ineffectually, there was still war in Bosnia and OJ Simpson was still on trial. Plus ca change…<br />
<br />
With a yawn she turned a page, only to find a familiar but unexpected face staring back at her. Rosalie’s heart failed for a couple of beats as she numbly read the phrase <i>“Rory Gallagher was…”</i><br />
<br />
‘What?’<br />
<br />
With a firm blink, she read the line again and took in the heading on the page: Obituaries. It took her four more attempts to fully comprehend what she was reading: her old hero was dead.<br />
<br />
For the hour and twenty-five minutes of the journey from Heathrow to Canonbury, she read and re-read the article. Phrases like “people’s guitarist” and “exceptional songwriter” sang out in her mind.<br />
<br />
How many times had she told JD that Taste had saved her, after a fashion? It was hardly an effort to recall the dark days after her family’s destruction and how Rory’s guitar had brought her back to the living world. It had been the scimitar to cut through her thick grief and had left changed her forever.<br />
<br />
Hadn’t she handed JD the <i>Irish Tour </i>LP in a slightly-desperate attempt to break through his depression, and hadn’t it <i>worked</i>?<br />
<br />
Without Taste gigs at the Marquee she probably wouldn’t have begged for a job there, and without that… She stifled a sob: everything in her life was thanks to Rory, from a certain point of view.<br />
All that said and if she was truly honest, she hadn’t thought of him in awhile. He had faded out of her notice in the last few years. Did that make this better or worse now he was dead? It had to be worse, because how could anything be better?<br />
<br />
Nancy had readied the house for them and had a pot of tea waiting when they arrived. Kevin carried still-sleeping Ricky inside and put him into his bed before leaving for his next assignment. <br />
<br />
While Nancy dealt efficiently with their luggage and laundry, Rosalie dialled Bobby’s number.<br />
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‘Rosalie, you’re home!’ He sounded pleased and relieved as though he'd half-expected her to stay away indefinitely. ‘Did you have a nice time?’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah. Listen, I just read-’<br />
<br />
He sighed. ‘You’ve heard then? Funeral’s tomorrow, in Ireland.’ Bobby sounded resigned and businesslike, which was comforting, though she wasn’t sure why.<br />
<br />
‘Will you arrange for some flowers for me?’<br />
<br />
‘Already done. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.’<br />
<br />
‘Thank you. I need to phone Twain. Where are they at the moment?’<br />
<br />
‘He’s at home. I spoke to him a couple of days ago. Sounds well.’<br />
<br />
‘All right. What did you write on the card?’<br />
<br />
‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d want. Just “Peace at last, with deepest sympathies, Rosalie Cochran.” Or words to that effect.’<br />
<br />
‘Thank you. I’ll… I’ll write to his family soon.’<br />
<br />
It was an uncomfortable reminder that Bobby had been required to do the same when Lynott died because she was too busy nearly dying to give life to Richard. <br />
<br />
They spoke a little while longer about short-term plans then, with a promise to meet at the office in the week, she said goodbye and dialled the number for Shadowlands Villa. She didn’t even check the time difference.<br />
<br />
A barked ‘Yeah?’ was all the greeting received. He sounded like he had a cold but more likely had just overdone his whiskey consumption.<br />
<br />
‘That’s not the way to answer the phone, Twain.’<br />
<br />
‘Rosalie! Where are you? Tell me you’re at LAX-’<br />
<br />
‘I’m in London. I just got back and heard-’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah. I didn’t know how to get a-hold of you.’<br />
<br />
‘It’s fine.’ It wasn’t fine, but there was no other option. ‘How are you?’<br />
<br />
JD went into an extended ramble about the new music he and Liam were writing for a film and Rosalie listened, eagerly soaking up the details and allowing herself to remember that though one of her guitar heroes was dead, the one she loved beyond the rest was still alive, kicking and very well indeed.<br />
<br />
‘Jay?’ she asked when he finally paused for breath. ‘I love you.’<br />
<br />
‘I love you too, Rosie.’ She heard his voice crack (just a very little) thousands of miles away. ‘I’ll see you soon, right?’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah.’ She had no idea when it would be, but had a renewed sense that it should be soon. ‘You’ve got to play on my next record. Bobby said Crudup sent some more songs.’<br />
<br />
‘You can have me anytime.’ He laughed. ‘I mean, any time after the end of the month. We’ll be done by then.’<br />
<br />
‘Cool.’ She heard a loud crash somewhere upstairs followed by a yell. ‘Ricky needs me.’<br />
<br />
‘Tell Sprocket I love him too.’<br />
<br />
‘I will tell <i>Richard</i>, yes.’<br />
<br />
‘Bye bye, love.’<br />
<br />
‘Bye bye, happiness.’<br />
<br />
‘You’re madder than I am.’<br />
<br />
‘You made me this way.’<br />
<br />
‘I’ll happily take credit.’<br />
<br />
‘I really have to go.’<br />
<br />
‘Bye then.’<br />
<br />
‘See you soon.’ She put the receiver down before he could make another crack.<br />
<br />
‘Mummy?’ Richard stood in the doorway: dishevelled, disorientated and upset. ‘Are we really home?’<br />
<br />
‘Yes, sweetheart.’ Rosalie leaned back against the back of the sofa and let him climb up and throw his arms around her neck.<br />
<br />
'That’s good.’<br />
<br />
‘Yeah.’<br />
<br />
‘Why are you crying?’<br />
<br />
‘Am I?’ She hadn’t even noticed. ‘I just got some sad news. It’s nothing to worry about.’<br />
<br />
‘I’ll make you better,’ he promised solemnly as he pressed soft, silly kisses all over her face until she started to laugh.<br />
<br />
‘You’re very sweet. What do you want for dinner?’ The question was a formality: she knew the answer.<br />
<br />
‘Chip shop!’<br />
<br />
They had more money than God and he still just wanted fried fish and chips. At least his grandfather would have been proud.<br />
<br />
As they walked up the road to the chip shop, Richard now wide awake and chattering rapidly, Rosalie silently wept again. <br />
<br />
Rory’s death was another scar for her heart and soul to bear. This particular scar would run deep, but she would survive.<br />
<br />
She always survived… but the scars were starting to outnumber joys.Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-66322605676966620852015-02-26T13:35:00.003-08:002015-07-01T15:39:41.368-07:00Rehab-RelapseWith my six month WitS break at an end (at last...) I've embarked on a bit of an edit of the manuscript to get my head back in the game.<br />
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Then this happened. Sam Mascha, who was a Good Boy and a Great Drummer but not a Good Man... this is your life...<br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The first time Sam Mascha relapsed, he’d tried to kill himself but nobody realised.</span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Comatose on a hotel bed, covered in his own vomit and blood, his band mates rushed to get help and missed his death wish. They just figured he was weak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The second time he relapsed, Sam dropped out of sight entirely. Once was understandable but twice was pathetic and he didn’t want anyone to see him in his misery, shame and weakness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">For six days he stayed shut away in a motel on the outskirts of Houston, until the stash ran out. Not knowing anyone in Houston to sort him out, he called one of the Shadowlands crew who could get more gear, but Luke and Pete hauled him back to existence instead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Good Boy Sam Mascha never intended to get a drug problem. He’d been pretty clean-cut at school, much too scared that the coach would find out about any law-breaking and kick him off the football team.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">When a rival Defensive Tackle for a rival school crushed Sam’s knee during a game, he also destroyed any hope Sam had of a future in sports. That he then returned to the percussion he’d loved as a kid meant it was hardly a catastrophe, but he’d had </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">plans</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> for his life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The new plan took him away from home, on a journey he hadn’t quite asked for and never really wanted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The knee always hurt in damp weather. Those were the excuses he used the first time: pain and homesickness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He made a spectacular addict, hooked quickly and completely. He liked marijuana but he loved cocaine. Cocaine let him play like a demon no matter how tired or unhappy he might be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Speed kept him working, heroin blocked the feelings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Most of his family and friends didn’t understand why he remained with Annie after Regan, how he could still love a girl who’d carried on behind his back, who had someone else’s son.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He didn’t blame Annie for a second; he blamed himself. It was all his own fault. He had brought it all upon himself the moment he went to LA to tempt fate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He hadn’t expected to succeed. He had expected to return to Akron with a few stories to tell his grandchildren one day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He loved and adored Regan. How could he not? The child was innocent of wrongdoing and in truth, Sam didn’t blame Annie either. He was brokenhearted but blamed only Sam Mascha.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He should have been there. The opportunity - the </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">need</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> - for other company should not have arisen. The responsibility was his and so the failing was his.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">How could he have expected her to stay faithful and alone for almost a year? She was beautiful, vivacious, sociable. Annie had held out for almost a year, she had done far better than he.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">If he truly loved her, how could he have stood to be away from her so long? The excuses he rationalised at the time hid the truth that the life of a rock star had been much too enticing to disrupt with faces from home. Even <i>hers</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He felt the same ab<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">out</span> every single encounter even though they all merged into one long half-remembered dream of random, brief sexual encounters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">They were the stories he could not tell grandchildre<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">n<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">, those he</span></span> would not even admit to himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Sam Mascha was a Good Boy, and he could not reconcile his belief in that with the stark, sordid reality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The third relapse wasn’t suicide but it did nearly kill him. He had tried to go home to Annie and Regan but discovered that some broken things cannot be mended. He fell off the wagon into the gutter and chose to stay there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The rehab-relapse cycle became habit after that, Good Boy Sam still wishing to be better and the rest of him preferring the temporary euphoria of whatever he could get his hands on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The addict in him loved the 80s. Cocaine - always, always his favourite - was plentiful, girls were available and he no longer had anyone in his life who tried to stop him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">That he was the punchline to a dozen music industry jokes mattered not a bit, that he had lost his skill and reputation behind the kit hurt but not enough to stop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">That he stabbed one of his few remaining friends, that he lost most of his septum, that he lost almost every cent he’d ever made, did not signify.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rehab-relapse. Again, again, on and on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">There were marriages he had no memory of, arrests, and two bankruptcies. A son Samuel Herodotus Mascha, with a London socialite who thought throwing money at the problem would solve it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Not even Hero saved Sam. Rehab-relapse. Not even the resurgence of Shadowlands. Not a Tibetan monastical rehab centre. Not Betty Ford. Not the Priory. Not video of himself spewing racial hatred at a group of black teen<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">agers </span>during a particularly dark phase in the late 90s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Meeting kind-but-firm Cindy, the death of his father, and retreating to Montana helped, but Sam does not know for sure what finally stopped him. He is not convinced he has <span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">really </span>stopped, but five years clean is far and away his personal best.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He found a way to coexist with the shame, but he feels it every day just the same. Sam Mascha was a Good Boy and no matter how bad he got, he never truly blamed anyone but himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Five years have been spent meditating and mending those fences not beyond repair. Hero loves him but none of his ex-wives are interested in apologies. He has not seen Regan since the boy was small. He and Annie both returned to the surname Weston after the divorce, but Sam still misses them both, or the dream with them he discarded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He lives quietly. When the Shadowlands calls come, he answers because he needs the money and because in truth, the band has been the only constant in his life since the day he left Akron, and the only part of his life which forgave him everything, in the end.</span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-72404083916680397762014-08-13T15:24:00.001-07:002015-07-01T16:12:10.850-07:00Desert PeanutsA quick one based on a Random Prompt from my dear friend Nancy...<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Furnace Creek. Spring 1972.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">During the day the Death Valley sun had stripped the hides off them but now in the dark of night the temperature had dropped below sane.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What are we doing out here?’ Rosalie asked. Her jaws were locked as tight as she could manage to stop her teeth from chattering.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">It had been Twain’s idea to come and see the sun rise over the desert, then Byrne’s idea to make a night of it. Laden with hotel blankets and enough whiskey to knock out the Galway hurling team, they had driven out into the emptiness to sit between earth and dark sky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">But it was freezing cold. Twain and Byrne could drink to keep warm but all Rosalie had were blankets. Her friends were stretched out on the hood of the car musing on the meaning of life while she huddled in the backseat of the rented convertible Thunderbird.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘But what’s it all mean, really?’ Byrne asked, not for the first time. ‘We live, we die, we don’t know why-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We live so we can die,’ Twain replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Pseudo-philosophy has no place in this car, man.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I know but…’ Twain slugged the whiskey. ‘We’ve been here awhile and got no closer to an answer.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘There is no answer.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Now who’s pseudo-philosophising?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Is there more than this? Does there need to be?’ Liam asked. ‘I’m… is this enough, man? Are we just a series of moments experienced in sequence? What’s it for? What’s it all about?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie’s answer was a swiftly muttered ‘Alfie.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What was that?’ JD asked. ‘What are you doing back there anyway?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Trying not to die from exposure.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We’re all wearing pants, it’s fine.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Idiot.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Come up here with us. I’ll keep you warm.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I bet.’ In spite of her sarcasm, Rosalie, swaddled in blankets, climbed up and over the windshield to join them. The car lurched forward with the extra weight but settled after a moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Wedged between Byrne and Twain, Rosalie lay on the i<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">cy </span>metal hood and stared up at the sky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s…’ She took a deep breath. ‘Actually very beautiful.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah.’ Liam sighed. ‘I never saw a sky like that in London. Never dark enough.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Is that a planet?’ Twain waved a drunkenly vague hand up at the sky. ‘I guess it must be because it’s not twinkling.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What do you mean?’ Rosalie asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Stars twinkle, planets don’t.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Stars twinkle? They actually do?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah.’ Twain chuckled. ‘Didn’t you know that?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I thought… it was just the song.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You London folks just don’t get nature, do you?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I get it, I just don’t trust it,’ she replied.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">They lay together in contemplative silence for awhile, staring up at the blackness of space and the twinkling stars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A red-eye flight streaked across the sky on its way to LAX.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The whiskey bottle passed across Rosalie between Liam and JD a few more times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I think I’m hungry,’ Liam said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’re not sure?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘No.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Do we have any food?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Only the peanuts you were scoffing earlier.’ Rosalie slid off the car and retrieved the bag of dry-roast peanuts from where Twain had stuffed it in the glove compartment earlier.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t want peanuts.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What do you want? Because there’s no grocery store out here.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t know…’ JD portioned out a few nuts and threw them into his mouth anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I bet…’ Liam began, challenge in his tone. ‘I bet you a hundred dollars you can’t toss a peanut from here into a cup on the back of the car.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">This was a challenge laid down by Sam to Pete some weeks earlier during a beach party. Pete had managed it<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"> while</span> Sam had not, but he had been far more alcoholically impaired.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah I can,’ JD scoffed. ‘But we don’t have a cup.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We do though,’ Rosalie replied<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Several plastic beakers were stored in the hamper and so one was placed with great ceremony on the edge of the car’s trunk, measured carefully by eye to sit exactly halfway along the rim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD and Liam both drank from the whiskey bottle, then lined up at the front of the car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Take your peanuts,’ Rosalie said as she doled out three peanuts each. ‘Best of three. Winner takes…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Twain smirked. ‘The blankets.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam shivered. ‘Done.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I’ll go first,’ said JD.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You go first,’ added Liam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD arranged himself in what he believed was the best stance: feet slightly wider than hip<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';"> </span>width and swaying from inebriation more than he thought, but less than the amount of whiskey deserved. He took one small peanut between the index finger and thumb of his right hand and closed one eye to take aim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Watch and learn, Byrne.’ He let loose the peanut, which immediately disappeared into the dark night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">For the sake of argument, Rosalie inspected the cup. ‘Empty. Your turn, Liam.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam mimicked JD’s posture and technique and also missed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Two more,’ JD mumbled, mostly to himself. He arranged himself side on this time and tried a delicate wrist-flick of a toss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie bit back a smile. ‘Nope.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam tried and missed again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Last chance, Twain. Can you do it?’ Liam mocked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’ve missed both times too, idiot!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Idiot-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Just throw the bloody peanut!’ Rosalie interrupted, lo<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">athe </span>to let Shadowlands to break up on the basis of a peanut tossing contest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD took aim again. The peanut hit the rim of the cup, rolled around and then knocked the cup off the car with the momentum. He clutched his hair despairingly. ‘So close!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The cup was reset and Liam took his shot. The nut hit the hood itself and rolled meekly off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Twain sighed. ‘We both lose.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie took a nut from the bag and tossed it casually towards the cup. The arc through the air was neat and exact. Her nut landed in the cup with a surprised, light “clonk”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘How’d you do that?’ Twain’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Witchcraft,’ Liam added.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie just scoffed at them and picked up the blankets. ‘It’s much simpler than that.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Oh?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I haven’t necked half a distillery.’ She settled down in the backseat to sleep awhile. ‘Idiots. Wake me up for sunrise.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Rosa-’ Twain whined. ‘It’s cold.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You don’t want us to </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">die</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> do you?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That would be really bad for record sales.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘It would be really </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">good</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> for record sales,’ she retorted, even as she chucked two blankets at them as they reinstated themselves on the hood. ‘Don’t drink yourselves into a coma, there’s no doctors for miles.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Sweet dreams, Rosalie.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I never knew the desert would be this cold.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Or strewn with peanuts.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
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Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-83040786298082733332014-07-20T07:11:00.000-07:002015-07-01T16:04:18.333-07:00See Me...<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Another outtake for you: It's 1972 and the band are swarmed by a group of autograph-hunting schoolboys... </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">1972. Glasgow, Scotland</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">After delays on the traffic-clogged <span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">Scottish roads</span>, Shadowlands arrived at Green’s Playhouse in Glasgow in the chill mid-afternoon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A gaggle of boys in school uniforms - Rosalie felt they were a gaggle more than a posse, given that the majority had yet to fully smash puberty - were gathered by the stage door with pens, autograph books and LPs ready.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">They bundled at Shadowlands, who were more than happy to sign things, chat to the boys and pose for photographs. Much noise and merriment followed as the boys did their best at showing-off and one-upmanship.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie busied herself with assisting Charlie in his efforts to unload the gear while Shadowlands basked in some very pleasing fan adoration.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">As she passed back and forth between the bus and the venue, Rosalie noticed one boy hanging back on his own. Although he looked to be the same age, he was smaller than the others and bit his lip nervously as he shifted back and forth on his feet. His uniform was a bad fit - the trousers were too short and the blazer was a little too tight around his thick midsection - and his dark hair stuck up in awkward tufts so all-in-all he looked just </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">wrong</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie’s heart went out to the child, so visibly ill-at-ease with himself and his surroundings and clearly not truly part of the gang. An outsider, a loser, a misfit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">She’d always had particular affection for misfits, having always felt of that persuasion herself. Shadowlands were the same: they belonged together because they didn’t belong with the Normals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">She pondered the scene: if he wasn’t careful, the boy would miss his chance to get autographs in the little book he clutched in a visibly tight grip. Should she go over and prompt him to? That might just make him more shy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Before she could think of it any further, Liam pulled away from the larger group. She thought he was coming to her, but his object was the boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Hi,’ he said softly. ‘Did you want that signed?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The boy nodded, gaze firmly on his shoes. Liam gently slid the book from his grasp and opened it at a blank page.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Who am I signing it to?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘C… Cr…’ The boy took a deep breath and finally looked up into Liam’s friendly face. ‘Craig.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘OK Craig…’ Liam wrote carefully in the book. ‘What song do you like best?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Mojave Desert.’ Craig pronounced it “Mo-jay-vuh” in his thick Glaswegian accent and Rosalie bit back a laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Oh, why’s that?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I like the riff.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That’s all Twain.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah. I wanna be a guitarist like him when I grow up.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You got a guitar?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Not yet but my mother says I might get something for Christmas.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Well when that day comes, there’s only one thing you need to be good: dedication. Practice until you can’t keep going, then do a bit more.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Craig took this on as if receiving wisdom from Solomon and took his autograph book back from Liam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘And one last thing,’ Liam said. ‘It’s “Mo-Hah-vee”.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Craig flushed a deep, embarrassed red. ‘Sorry-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Don’t be. Sam still calls it “Edin-berg.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Craig giggled and an impish smile broke out across his face as he relaxed at last. Rosalie’s heart melted a little. Liam took it as a chance to ask the kid some questions about himself. By the time Craig left them, he seemed to have grown three inches in stature and three miles high in self-esteem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie’s first opportunity to speak to Liam came just before the show. He paced the corridor between the stage and dressing room trying to release some of the nervous energy thrumming through his body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That was really kind of you,’ she said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What was?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That boy.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Craig.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah. That you even saw him.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s always easy to spot your own kind,’ he said softly, coming to a stop beside her. He leaned against the wall and set his gaze upon her face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I’ve seen pictures of you at his age. Don’t look a thing like him.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I was as uncertain and afraid and alone as he is. The courage it took him to dare come along with the other boys…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Not his friends?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Not really, no. I used to be that kid.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">His mood was spiralling downward at the very worst moment and she needed to do something about that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You aren’t anymore.’ She punched him very softly on the arm. ‘So there’s all the reason in the world to think he’ll be just as fine as you are.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam said nothing but raised his right eyebrow high.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Fair point. He’ll be fine. He has the memory of today to cling to during the bad times.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You think?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You underestimate the power you have over fans, Byrne. They love you and even if you forget them, they’ll never forget the moment they met you.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t forget them.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘ROSALIE!’ Sam’s voice tore from the dressing room. ‘I CAN’T FIND MY PANTS!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie rolled her eyes and resumed her pre-gig chores.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">1979. Glasgow</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Shadowlands arrived in Glasgow on a wet November afternoon. They were already six hours later than intended due to a combination of factors which included a discreet pumping of one a roadie’s stomach; Sam’s now-everyday need for pharmaceutical assistance in rousing and moving under his own powers of locomotion; a shrieking groupie who wasn’t happy about JD ditching her after one evening; a scuffle with a promoter who was trying to skim off the takings for their Manchester shows…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie was already exhausted when they arrived at the Apollo. She’d been up all night talking to another band in the last hotel with The Runaways. They were an odd bunch of young girls and she could see they were already unravelling amid drugs, egos and simply being very young and unprepared for the world they’d been thrust into.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">All that said, it had been beyond wonderful to spend time with other women who were also into music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Just to spend time with other women was a luxurious novelty, but their shared work gave them much to speak on, and they did. Her voice was raw just from </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">talking non-stop </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">and her head ached with lack of sleep but she regretted nothing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD had taken a shine to Cherie Currie at first but had fallen into talking about guitars with Lita Ford. He looked ready to attempt a score when Liam reminded him how young they were<span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">, </span>and that they had a chaperone. He’d then acquired the groupie who’d caused such a fuss the next morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie slipped on the bottom step of the bus and would’ve landed on her arse were it not for the intervention of a young man who’d been standing nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Thanks. That was nearly hilarious for everyone else.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’re welcome.’ The young man was tall, still adolescently gangly and though he looked familiar she couldn’t place him. She saw so many faces in so many places that it was a common sensation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘May I… get your autograph, Miss Cochran?’ He offered his book to her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah, if you like. What name?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Craig.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘OK Craig… you coming to tonight’s show?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah, can’t wait.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Good. We love the audiences here- I remember you!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Craig went very red.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Liam!’ Rosalie called out. He came over and recognised Craig at once.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Craig, isn’t it?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You remember me?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Of course. I mean, you’re much taller.’ Liam grinned as Craig shuffled on his feet. ‘Did you become a guitarist like you said?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah. I’m in a band!’ Craig perked up, confidence returned to him. ‘We’re called The Bleeding Scabs!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘A punk band?’ Liam asked, eyebrow raised sceptically.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Craig nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. We’re… not very good.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You don’t need to be to play punk.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie <span style="font-family: 'Courier New';">elbowed him. </span>‘Liam, play nice.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘But I still love Shadowlands. You’re brilliant! I can’t believe you remember me, man! It’s… just, wow.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I remember the special ones,’ Liam replied honestly. ‘Good to see you well.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I am. I…’ Craig went nervous again for a moment, then recovered. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me that day.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘What I did?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You saw me. Nobody ever noticed me before. It… I wouldn’t have done any of it without that.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam blinked once, twice. ‘You… I…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Just say “you’re welcome”,’ Rosalie muttered </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">sotto voce</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’re welcome.’ Liam clasped Craig briefly by the shoulder. ‘Enjoy the gig.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I will!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam hurried away, leaving Rosalie with Craig.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Keep at it,’ Rosalie said. ‘And don’t let the-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Bastards grind you down.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Right.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie followed Liam indoors and was struck - not for the first time - by the awesome power held by people such as themselves. Why was it so? There was only one real answer: the music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The gig that night was one of the best they’d played during the whole tour.</span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-21507203751317352422014-07-15T15:30:00.000-07:002014-08-07T15:47:51.577-07:00A Death in the Family<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">It's been a little while, I know. I'd love to say it's because I've been doing lots of writing and all that sort of thing but it would be... a bit of a falsehood. Between work and Glastonbury and a dozen other things... progress has been slow in some respects.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">On the other hand, this little nugget came to me on the way to Glastonbury and as it doesn't quite fit into the main plot of <i>Walking in the Shadowlands</i>, have at it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The year is 1976. Shadowlands are riding high while they're out on their latest US summer tour...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><i><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Pontiac, Michigan. 1976.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">It was a day six years in the making: untold thousands of miles, three transmissions, enough brake pads to stop the earth spinning on its axis and more minor repairs and replacements than anyone could remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Copious amounts of beer, whiskey blood, sweat, vomit and other fluids had been spilt over the years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Cigarette burns peppered the top of the table and the seats. Knife gouges and punch marks told tales of furies, rages and breakdowns.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Like any sibling Shirley was both beloved and frustrating, her familiarity and history with them enough to overlook her shortcomings and weaknesses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Gear-shifts could be ear-splitting. The engine had been replaced in 1973 and was prone to a high-pitched whine above 50mph. The back windows rattled at lower speeds. The toilet flush had been unreliable for months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Shadowlands had been successful enough for long enough that a new bus full of luxuries and mod-cons could’ve been arranged long ago, but they were a superstitious and sentimental bunch. As long as she ran, Shirley was the girl who’d got them out of Grand Coulee, whose radio had played them their first Billboard Chart successes and had played silent, non-judgemental host to any number of bad behaviours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The overworked bus had slowed to a stop only three miles from the assembly plant she’d been born in, never to restart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The combined skills and experience of four different mechanics provided only one outcome: Shirley was dead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Not only was Shirley dead, she was spectacularly dead. The first mechanic discovered the transmission was worn out; the second found a problem with the camshaft; the third found problems in the electrics and noted that it was a miracle the bus stopped at all with almost-invisible brake pads. The fourth then found that hot oil had been leaking onto the back axle at such heat that the metal was almost completely buckled and one or two potholes away from snapping entirely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A temporary vehicle was procured by ever-efficient Bobby to get them the last leg of the journey to Detroit. Once every scrap of Shadowlands’ world was transferred from Shirley’s cabin and luggage bins, the group paused for a moment to gaze upon the shattered corpse of their old friend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We wouldn’t be us without Shirley,’ Sam said dolefully. He was in a low mood anyway having assumed he’d be in Detroit by now, whooping it up - or at the very least, having scored something. He strode onto the new bus without further hesitation, his sentiment sated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam was distracted by a new tune and shuffled onto the new bus with it rolling in his head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Ken the Driver and JD stood together for some time even as the tow-truck from the plant took Shirley away to be “decommissioned”.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘They’ll strip my girl for parts,’ Ken sniffled. ‘My ship.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Barbarians,’ JD agreed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Bobby was entirely unsentimental and irritated at the time they’d lost. ‘Get on the flaming’ bus. We’ve got work to do.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Smug Snake were economising so the band were booked into Detroit’s second best hotel. JD barged into Rosalie’s room without bothering to knock and folded himself into her arms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">His muscles shook from the effort of not crying and and there was fresh whiskey on his hot breath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Tell me,’ she whispered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Shirley-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘The bus?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘She was our home! She was our home. I thought you'd understand.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I do, love but-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘He bought her. For me. He did it.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie wanted to kick herself for not getting it sooner. She understood now. Senior had bought that bus for Junior. She stroked JD’s hair and absently noted that it was tangled and in need of a trim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Every time I think it doesn’t matter anymore… something gets taken away that pulls him further away from me.’ JD tore himself away from her and curled up on her bed. The heavy Cuban heel of his boot clunked against the bed frame. ‘One day, it’ll be like he was never here.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That’s not true! As long as you and I draw breath, he’ll have been here. And as long as your music - your great gift, nurtured by him - moves anyone at all, he’ll have been here and mattered.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You don’t get it,’ he snapped. ‘He-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t get it?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The number of times Twain had irritated Rosalie was countless. The number of times she’d felt like slapping him, untold. This was the first time she felt rage towards him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘No, you don’t!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Twain…’ She struggled to remain polite. ‘Leave this room right now before one of us does something regrettable.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘But-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Go.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Why? I just-’ He yelped as she yanked him off her bed with all the strength she could find. ‘Fine. Some friend you are.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘JD, I love you dearly and I am the best friend you will ever have… but before trying to play the Guilt Olympics with me, I’d really appreciate if you’d be friend enough to </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">me</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> to recall that my parents both died when I was seventeen years old.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie paced the floor and he stared at her open-mouthed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘And then Cecelia died. I saw the three people closest to me in the world die </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">before my very eyes</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> within months. So yeah, I do know what the hell you’re talking about. I do know how it feels. I crossed the earth to escape my pain, asshole, and I’ve spent all the time since helping you deal with yours. So yeah… cry over a fucking bus if you want to. I get it. I actually do… and I know that you should cut out the middle and cry for your bloody father!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">She burst into the tears he was refusing to shed. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. It took him a moment to respond, but JD enveloped her in a hug every bit as warm and affectionate as the one he’d demanded from her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">They wept together, for Danny and Eloise Cochran, for Cecelia, for Senior and for Shirley.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A visitor was waiting for Twain as they left for their gig. An older man in a handmade suit and silk tie, impeccably groomed and exactly the sort of person who usually crossed the street to avoid long-haired miscreants like Shadowlands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Junior!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Mr Lightowler?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Good to see you, boy!’ Proving himself Texan as he spoke, Mr Lightowler slapped JD on the back and shook his hand vigorously. ‘You look… in fine fettle.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Twain shook his long mane a little self-consciously. ‘Thank you, sir. What… I, uh-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We heard about your bus, son. I’m sorry about that. I arranged it all, you know.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You did?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yessir I did. Your pops called me up and said “Now Stan, I need a bus good enough for my son and his friends and I need it tomorrow.”’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD nodded, having apparently remembered that his father’s friend was very high up at General Motors and could get them pretty much any vehicle in the country.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘So I came right down here to see my ol’ pal’s boy again. Now, your manager here told me what you need and I think we at GM can go better. I’ve got a designer on call who’s going to kit you out with the best tour bus money can buy. It’ll be the stuff of legend, I’ll bet.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD’s eyes widened at the possibilities. Shirley II would be a worthy successor: built for the rock gods that Shadowlands so definitely were.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Tell me more.’</span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-19857662058571076122014-05-05T01:33:00.003-07:002015-07-01T15:46:46.270-07:00In Bed With JD Twain<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm in <span class="il">bed</span> with JD Twain. If ever
there was proof that the truth can be taken out of context, this is it.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
It started and ended innocently enough: he’d made his record collection
available to me and I intended to take advantage of a couple of albums and then
take myself to <span class="il">bed</span>.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead and one might even say “inevitably”, he found me at
4am, woozy and freezing cold in his den with records scattered all around. I
could no more listen to “a couple of albums” than an alcoholic could take one
drink, and In LA, nights are colder than you might think. He invited me to his
room to continue listening there, and that's how I ended up in <span class="il">bed</span>
with one of the most notorious rock stars in history. The lights are dimmed and
we both climb under the comforter to keep warm. Ella Fitzgerald is on the
turntable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He has an unexpectedly gentle quality about him, as long as
you’re not in his pool of eligible sexual partners. According to Twain himself,
there are 2 or 3 women at most in his existence who have been outside this group:
his mother, Rosalie Cochran and for reasons I don’t quite know: me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
’I’ve actually been sincerely, truly faithful to one woman
for 30 years,’ says JD, voice a low, late night rumble. I don't believe him for
a second and even in the near-dark, he can tell. ’No really, I dedicated myself
to Rosalie many years ago and believe it or not, I haven't betrayed that
faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is my best friend. I have
never loved anyone with the depth feeling I have for that girl. I followed her
around the world.’<br />
<br />
'Surely she followed <i>you</i>?’ I ask.<br />
<br />
’Touché.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OK, let me rephrase: she's the
only person I've ever invited to come with me, the only person I've ever wanted
to share my life with. If I was the marrying type, she is the only option. I'm
not the marrying type. Rosalie and I succeed because we never made sex part of
our shared existence. I won't lie: I'm a terrible guy when it comes to sex. I
have no loyalties, no connection other than in that moment. Some people have
suggested, Rosalie included, that this is an outdated outlook, but shouldn't I
be authentic to myself? Wouldn't it be more of a lie for me to pretend not to
be JD Twain?’<br />
<br />
We are extremely close. I can feel his warm breath on my neck where I'm curled
up around one of the pillows. He is stretched out diagonally across his king
size <span class="il">bed</span>, his skin contrasted by the dark purple of the
Egyptian cotton sheets and his long dark hair pooled against the pillow upon
which his head rests.<br />
<br />
He looks like an emperor at rest, waiting for the next concubine to arrive. Really,
there should be a minion serving him grapes while another keeps some cool with
a giant fan. Certainly there are plenty of candidates for both roles: there are
still plenty of people, male and female, who would happily debase themselves
for a night with JD Twain even as he grows older. <br />
<br />
All I had to do was ask to borrow his record player. I still can't quite
believe the position I find myself in.<br />
<br />
’You remind me of her… just a little…’ his tone is wistful, his eyes a little
sad, ’I mean, as she was when she was young and before we ruined her.’<br />
<br />
’Is that what you did?’ I ask.<br />
<br />
’Most certainly we did, me especially. We wore her down and if you knew-’<br />
<br />
’Knew what?’ My spidey senses tingle. ’What<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
did </i>you do? Is this about her leaving the band?<br />
<br />
He closes his eyes and at such close quarters I can see the true state of him:
sometimes the toll of his hard, reckless life really does show through the
sheen of beauty and cool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No,’ he says. ‘We ruined her long before she left. I did…’<br />
<br />
’It's all just illusion. And myth and legend and... I'm no more the JD Twain in
the stories than you are. I am, however, the greatest actor since Peter O’Toole
and Richard Burton put together.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ella record is finished and we are surrounded by
silence. After a moment, noise from outside disrupts us only a little. It is so
late that we are likely the only people awake in the entirety of Laurel Canyon.
Even musos and wasters sleep at that time beyond the witching hour.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sleep, kid,’ he mumbles, eyes drooping. ‘We’ll go with
Sarah Vaughan in the morning.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I close my eyes and sleep as he recommends, knowing that
when I awake, the strange spell over us will be broken and we will be our usual
selves again.</div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-17890062124903753032014-04-05T14:12:00.001-07:002014-04-05T14:12:21.499-07:00Walking in the Shadowlands coming onThis is where the magic happens -supposedly! scrivener is fantastic but it can't actually make me work!<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOIk5P2xkFxDssJ7K8ss7Dx95jP92sectnoU48kxyCk-imtiE8pCrE-ur5iM6N8sVm1D-FGZIiVc_g5LnGU9IsaFwd3b_ofMDlIcDJFUwiO_C2-bfBo3NpurCgM67ox1V9dKOG2r7fDrY/s640/blogger-image--144090575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimOIk5P2xkFxDssJ7K8ss7Dx95jP92sectnoU48kxyCk-imtiE8pCrE-ur5iM6N8sVm1D-FGZIiVc_g5LnGU9IsaFwd3b_ofMDlIcDJFUwiO_C2-bfBo3NpurCgM67ox1V9dKOG2r7fDrY/s640/blogger-image--144090575.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This is a scene from early in the band's success as great press starts to roll in. </div>Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-40915222361353294212013-08-25T03:18:00.000-07:002014-01-01T08:39:00.011-08:00About The Author: Clare Worley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_RGaFFbxDX4tkV7tHm7ucfsrEdNCRGmGbtoi14EVnfNX5wPfNRKubUmtz__yandedkONphfZ3fSBKWia6V0orFSsMeJRs97sLdnuoe-noQpt-QpHfzaUnIbzRrnTAWpSqvd4Aa6F9RVW/s1600/Clare5copyavatar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz_RGaFFbxDX4tkV7tHm7ucfsrEdNCRGmGbtoi14EVnfNX5wPfNRKubUmtz__yandedkONphfZ3fSBKWia6V0orFSsMeJRs97sLdnuoe-noQpt-QpHfzaUnIbzRrnTAWpSqvd4Aa6F9RVW/s200/Clare5copyavatar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Clare was born in 1982 but really came to life the first time she heard Buddy Holly. Since then she’s dedicated herself to two things: writing and music.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Taught to type at a very young age - on an Amstrad no less - Clare has been writing stories since she was very young, but most of those early works have been mercifully lost to the snowdrifts of time. She's never met a blank piece of paper she didn't like and her My Documents folder is full of bits of stories biding their time, waiting for her to get to them.</span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Clare is also a singer-songwriter and has been playing guitar semi-well since she was ten years old. She currently fronts pre-decimal blues band Clarabella & The Crypt Kicker IV, who pop up around London from time to time, and makes the occasional appearance with other informal groups. She has particular love for rock music of the 50s-70s, trad Irish folk and Dean Martin.</span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A graduate in both American Studies and Journalism, Clare is also a devotee of classic Hollywood cinema and great television. She has a particular love for Errol Flynn, Screen Star and total contempt for Errol Flynn, Real Man.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A fan of many things, Clare has been active in a number of fandoms over the years, and bits of her fanfic (well-received by fellow fans) clutter up various corners of the internet and proved to be good practice for her original work. She's written some articles about music published online and has worked with the <a href="http://www.lacband.co.uk/">London Afrobeat Collective</a> on their bio and promotional material.</span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Walking in the Shadowlands</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> is Clare’s first completed novel but there’s more to come, one of these days.</span>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">More Clare Stuff of Awesome</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Walking in the Shadowlands outtakes, extras and titbits: <a href="http://shadowlandsmusic.blogspot.co.uk/">http://shadowlandsmusic.blogspot.co.uk/</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Maria Goes To Dublin In Search of Dion Randall: </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Guitar god Dion Randall disappeared over twenty years ago. His young fan Maria wants to find him, if only to say 'thanks, for the music.' A short(ish) story about what it means to be a fan.</span></div>
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<a href="http://authonomy.com/books/31314/maria-goes-to-dublin-in-search-of-dion-randall/"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Authonomy: Maria Goes To Dublin...</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Whistling Clarabella, a blog about pop culture including the ‘100 Awesome Musical Things on You Tube’ series and various short stories: <a href="http://apolla.livejournal.com/">Whistling Clarabella</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">You can find Clare’s ‘Dead Men’s Shoes’ three-track EP online: <a href="http://onesheet.com/clareworley/splash/">Dead Men's Shoes: Clare Worley</a></span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-78610604394424662982013-08-10T11:42:00.001-07:002013-08-10T11:42:50.938-07:00Articles from The Archive - Menage-a-Shadowlands<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>London Rocks, 1975</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Rock and roll </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">is</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> sex, in name and theme and content. Shadowlands’ blend of smoldering sexual energy and sparkling chemistry is in another galaxy.</span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD Twain’s priapic guitar slices through the onstage atmosphere, teasing and pleasing while Byronic Liam Byrne’s rich low tenor vibrates the panties right off any and all women in earshot. Rosalie’s feline slink and slyly shaking hips hypnotise anyone not already at their mercy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">There have been hot and sexy bands before, but this menage-a-trois could turn on the Pope.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Much of the power comes from the music: rousing anthem “Riches to Rags”, heart breaker ballads like “Sometimes”. Duets between Byrne and Rosalie crackle with enough sexual chemistry to raze the building and that’s before the rhythm section get their dues.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">There are some groups where all the elements have just fallen right into place. Shadowlands are one such group and no matter what they’ve already achieved, they’re still reaching for more. If they’re not bigger than Zeppelin, it ain’t because they aren’t good enough, it’s only that Robert Plant is prettier than Rosalie.</span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-25448345294159193342013-06-01T02:41:00.001-07:002013-06-01T02:41:21.237-07:00Q&A With JD TwainA Q&A from <i>PopSmash!</i> magazine in 1982 with Shadowlands guitarist JD Twain....<br />
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<strong>Do you empty
your own hoover bag?</strong><br />I've never used a hoover. I have
people who do that for me.<br /><br /><strong>How do you like to
travel?</strong><br />In the warm familiarity of Shirley's womb.<br /><br /><strong>What
colour is happiness?</strong><br />The colour of my dreams, which seems
to be a bright cobalt.<br /><br /><strong>What colour is
January?</strong><br />Silver.<br /><br /><strong>Are you any good at
potato sculptures?</strong><br />I've never tried, but I bet I'd be
great.<br /><br /><strong>What's the secret of the universe?</strong><br />Music.<br /><br /><strong>Do
you like sardines?</strong><br />Hell no.<br /><br /><strong>What's your
favourite item of clothing?</strong><br />I've yet to find anything
better than gold leather pants.<br /><br /><strong>Have you ever
considered posing in the nude?</strong><br />Sure. <br /><br /><strong>Have
you ever been beaten up for no reason?</strong><br />No, I always give
them a reason. It's only polite.<br /><br /><strong>What was the
stupidest thing you did as a kid?</strong><br />Accordion
lessons.<br /><br /><strong>What's the worst song you’ve ever
written?</strong><br />I've never been fond of “Vesper”.<br /><br /><strong>Did
you have a nickname at school?</strong><br />Everyone just called me
Twain. Or Gorgeous.<br /><br /><strong>Do you believe human beings can
spontaneously combust?</strong><br />Yeah, and the chances are much
higher for drummers.<br /><br /><strong>Have you ever heard voices in
your head?</strong><br />Constantly.<br /><br /><strong>Did you have any
strange habits as a child?</strong><br />I used to think the space
under my bed was the Batcave.<br /><br /><strong>What's the most horrid
thing you have ever done?</strong><br />Horrid is in the eye of the
beholder. <br /><br /><strong>If you were a car what would you
be?</strong><br />Something sleek and gorgeous.<br /><br /><strong>Have you
ever milked a cow?</strong><br />Not intentionally.<br /><br /><strong>What
do you wear in bed?</strong><br />I didn't catch her name.</div>
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<br /><strong>Have you
ever accidentally swallowed a fly?</strong><br />No, but I knew an old
lady...<br /><br /><strong>What was your biggest thrill as a
child?</strong><br />Hiking in the mountains with my dad.<br /><br /><strong>What's
your least favourite expression?</strong><br />'Hi, I'm from Horatio
Records...' or 'I'm an Osmonds fan'.<br /><br /><strong>What did you have
for breakfast this morning?</strong><br />Haven't eaten yet. We only
got in a half hour ago.<br /><br /><strong>What keeps you awake at
night?</strong><br />The music of the party I'm at.<br /><br /><strong>If
you had 15 minutes to live what you would do?</strong><br />I'd listen
to “The End” by the Doors – Live in New York, probably - while
drinking really good whiskey as I bid farewell to my friends.<br /><br /><strong>What
are your ambitions?</strong><br />To write the perfect song.</div>
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<br /><strong>How would
you describe yourself?</strong><br />'Twain'.<br /><br /><strong>Who would
you most like to be stuck in a lift with?</strong><br />I didn't catch
her name.<br /><br /><strong>How often do you cut your toenails and where
do you put the clippings?</strong><br />I have people do that for
me.<br /><br /><strong>Do you pick the white stringy bits off oranges
before you eat them?</strong><br />I have people who do that for
me.<br /><br /><strong>Do you ever cut yourself shaving?</strong><br />I
have people who do that for me.<br /><br /><strong>Do you mow your own
lawn?</strong><br />I have people who do that for me.</div>
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<strong>Do you snore?</strong><br />I
have people who do that for me.<br /><br /><strong>What's your favourite
hat?</strong><br />I'm not really a hat wearer. My dad could rock the
hell out of a fedora, though.<br /><br /><strong>Have you ever written a
fan letter?</strong><br />I wrote Bo Diddley when I was 13.<br /><br /><strong>Did
you know the worlds biggest parsnip was 12 feet long?</strong><br />Well,
I can't think of any cock jokes to respond with.<br /><br /><strong>If
you could contact one dead person in a seance and have a chat, who
would you choose?</strong><br />I wouldn't. Whatever time we'd have
would never be enough.<br /><br /><strong>What's your most disgusting
habit?</strong><br />Perfection.<br /><br /><strong>Have you ever worn a
kilt?</strong><br />In Scotland. I'd been drinking for three days by
then, and I wore only the kilt. Or so I'm told. I woke up in a castle
with six young women. The kilt was on the floor. That's all I
recall.<br /><br /><strong>Do you think you're good looking?</strong><br />I'm
JD Twain, baby.<br /><br /><strong>Who do you not like?</strong><br />The
insincere.<br /><br /><strong>Know any good jokes?</strong>
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Chip Larkin.</div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-55081182487436585462013-02-17T04:11:00.002-08:002015-07-01T17:43:59.296-07:00Peter and the Wolf - Part Two<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">The Peter Lazini Interview - Part Two </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">After a delightful light Greek lunch with Pete and his daughter, we resume work. I ask about his spiritual side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I was going to be a priest from seven years old. I had a real moment and I </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">knew</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">. But like I said, music intervened. Suddenly I, a baby wannabe priest, was having feelings about The Devil’s Music. I was so confused about everything. I wasn’t very good at being a teenager.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Oh?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Everyone around me was going to parties and getting drunk, kissing girls. I was just growing and growing and praying and trying to referee the fight in my head between God and Music.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">There is genuine pain in Pete’s face, more feeling than he has ever expressed. I am honoured but terribly sad for him. The idea that Big Pete Lazini was an awkward unhappy teen sits badly with me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘We made a real odd trio. Sasquatch Lazini, tiny but flamboyant Eli and quarterback Luke. People didn’t know what to make of us at school but nobody dared take us on. I was </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Chicago</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> to those soft LA kids…’ He chuckles. ‘Man, the number of fights I’ve won without having to fight them at all… just because I look like I do.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You do have a reputation for being tough.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I’ve never started a fight in my life. I’m a </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">priest</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> at heart, I told you… but I’ll defend myself and my family.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘And you’re from Chicago…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Actually we lived in Jersey much longer than that but the press likes making a big deal out of Chicago. I don’t know why. Both were tough as hell. Los Angeles was a new start for us. I remember being surprised at getting through my first week at school without having a knife pulled on me. And that’s where I had my epiphany.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">He refers to it with ease but will not give more detail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘How did you reconcile secular music with your faith? If, indeed, you did?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Father Aloysius, our parish priest, suggested I use my guitar lessons to play the music of heaven. So did. But the Devil’s Music kept getting better and better. Even my mom couldn’t hate the Beatles. I began to see that it being secular didn’t mean it was devilry. LA is quite a tough place to be zealous anyway… too beautifully diverse even then. I was still going to be a priest, but a rockin’ one.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Then girls.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Pete’s head shake is precise. ‘No. Jo-Jo. I had been turned on by girls - or the idea of them - but never wanted to date any of them. The day I met Jo-Jo on Venice Beach, I went home and wept, then spent the whole next day praying in church. Father Al came through again. He told me I owed it to myself to give it a chance because hey, it might be God’s Plan after all. And I </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">knew</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">, totally knew within a week that my life was to be one of music and Johanna. I put away my idea of dog collars and celibacy and refocused my devotion.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I feel God in every note I play. Every show, every take in the studio. God is in the detail. When I send all that power through my amplifiers, through the floors and walls and pillars of a building, I’m connecting with the audience and the Almighty.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’re the conduit between the audience and God?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘In a way. There’s a religious ecstasy in great music and I feel it every time. Sam and I are locked in, drums and bass, rhythms of the ages… we’re what pulls you to your feet, what gets you right in the guts. Visceral, ageless. Right back since the beginning of human existence there has been rhythm. It </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">is</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> human existence. Twain and Byrne are the heart and soul of Shadowlands but Mascha and I are the guts and the glory.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You keep them grounded.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Any good rhythm section does that. That’s why the relationship between drums and bass is so important. Sam an<span style="font-family: 'Courier';">d </span>I had to have our special level of communication, our own language.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Was it tough when he was on drugs?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Sometimes I had to work to keep him going, but no matter what, he always came through.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Not always.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Pete almost snarls at me: ‘There were remarkably few occasions he missed a show or worse, played badly, considering he was a serious drug user for years. And before you as, yes I did everything I could to help him short of locking him in a cell. He was and remains his own person with the God-given freedom to screw up however he chooses. I was there to help him but only if he asked.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I pause before asking my next question. ‘Where do you call home?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Topanga Canyon. Has been since 1965. I’m not a nomad like Twain or a citizen of Nowhere like Byrne. I don’t like touring but I did it because that’s how music works. It is what it is. My love for the music was stronger than anything loathing for that.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Was?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘You couldn’t get me to do a tour again. Nothing in this world to persuade me. I’m nearly sixty years old and I have a bad shoulder, two bad knees, a dodgy hip and I’ve circled the globe too many times.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘How do the others feel about that?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t care how they feel about it… but they do understand. Sam has his ranch, you’ve been there?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Yes. Homely. Safe.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Right. He needs his ranch, I need to sit still. Even Liam owns a house now. It looks like a hotel or Architectural Digest spread, but he has one.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘If you had one word to describe Liam Byrne, what would it be?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Focused. And how. I never knew a guy so single-minded.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘And if you had two words?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Focused. Repressed.’ He cracks a grin. ‘Byrne and I are both Catholic. I get it, but I went a different way.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘How do you look upon your legacy now?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I have one? I’m told I’ve been a huge influence on a lot of younger bass players but I don’t know man, I just stand and do my job.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Master of the Understatement there. You’ve been a massive influence on musicians since.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘How? I’m not being falsely modest, I don’t see it.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Your attitude on-stage, your mix of the simple and very complex, your fingering style.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘That’s just ‘cause I don’t like picks. Entwistle didn’t use a pick always either, but he had a faster style. I </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">can</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> play fast and I </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">can</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> play complicated but the real magic is in the space between the notes.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Sam said something similar about your playing. That he felt sometimes like his job was filling in the gaps you left.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Maybe so.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Songwriting wasn’t something you enjoyed particularly-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Says who? I like to compose. Unfortunately, so does Byrne. Getting my work on a Shadowlands record was a battle every damned time.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Did you ever want to make a solo record to get your work out there?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I thought about it for about two seconds. Any solo record I’d make would need Sam on it, and JD and Liam and next thing you know, it’s a Shadowlands project. I don’t want all the limelight, man. But I do want to be a meaningful part of the process.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Do you think Shadowlands will record together again?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I can’t see into the future. Right now we’re not working, but we always find our way back to the Villa eventually. But no touring. No way, man.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>To be continued...</i> </span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-8230766299181907212013-02-02T05:02:00.000-08:002013-02-02T05:02:13.212-08:00Peter & The Wolf<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Peter and the Wolf: The Peter Lazini Interview With Clare Worley. Part One</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I cannot describe to you how massive Peter Lazini is. I mean, I can give you the basics but I cannot express how he fills the space. That can only be experienced.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I know a guy who is six-six. He’s a rugby player, a hulking giant with hands like dustbin lids. He is not <i>massive </i>like 6'4 Peter Lazini. I don’t even dare call him Pete: I don’t feel I’ve earned it. He is </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Mr Lazini</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> or </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Sir.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t mean to say he’s intimidating or unfriendly - he is neither. He exudes power from the tips of the toes of his massive feet and his long, strong legs, through his broad chest and wide shoulders to the ends of his long, suspiciously dark hair. Surely no man of sixty years naturally has hair that dark: not in Greece, Italy, Samoa, Hawaii, Asia Minor or any of the places rumoured to be in his bloodline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Lazini legends and fiction are more common than Lazini fact, probably because he doesn’t talk about himself. Or about much. I have only found six interviews with him in the entirety of his career. That’s not a typo: </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">six</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">. He speaks exclusively on music in five and the sixth is a 1983 pop magazine quiz asking his favourite ice cream flavours. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that sixth one was written by a ghost at the record label’s PR department.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Incidentally, his fave ice cream was chocolate, he admitted to not knowing the price of milk and his favourite Duran Duran song was "their cover of Cage's 4'33".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I have come all the way to Santorini in Greece to meet him. The sky is a shade of blue that actually deserves the word “azure”. I was distracted by the wonders of the island on the walk to his house so I am a little late when he answers the door to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Time has been kind to him. “They” used to describe fellows like Pete as “swarthy” back in the day: his dark, olive colouring defies simple categorisation. He is, I think very handsome, but not in an obvious way. There’s not a word for the golden-brown life found in his dark eyes, and words escape the warmth, humour and confidence there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Serenity is the one word I would use for him. He is entirely at one with himself, and I would call it “priestly” or “spiritual” and assume him to be a guru if I didn’t know better. As a kind of ice-breaker, I tell him this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I was going to be a priest. Or a monk.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Rock and roll got in the way?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘And girls. Had I not seen Jo-Jo on Venice Beach that day…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Peter has been married since 1965 - forty years! - and have been together since, though touring kept them geographically separate for much of the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘It worked for us.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Were you faithful during that time?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Faithful means different things to different people.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Sounds like a “no” to me, but I am not disappointed in him. He has never pretended to be anything for anyone, not a moral force or role model, and though he does not appear to be angry at me asking, he clearly does not feel it’s anything like my business.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;"> Some of our heroes ask to be taken to our hearts. Some march right in. Some demand love. Pete Lazini requires respect and he certainly commands mine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Most people in rock music are at least a bit mad. It comes from years of being pandered to, of travelling and rarely settling, of being worshipped, of boredom. Pete's madness is subtle, quiet, like the man himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'I think probably the weirdest thing is my habit of buying team jerseys.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Oh?'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Every town we play, I buy a jersey for the local team - baseball, football, soccer, whatever. I have a pretty large collection now.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I observe he is in fact wearing an Everton shirt right now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Why did you start that?'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">He shrugs. 'Seemed like a good idea at the time.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Time to move onto music: 'How many basses do you own?'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Four.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Only four?' I think of JD Twain and his roomful of instruments.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'I can only play one at a time, right? The Fender Jazz is still my favourite. I know a lot of people like the Precision better but the brighter Jazz sound is more my thing. I've still got the Gibson Thunderbird I bought in 1964 and it's never let me down. Then I've got a six-string made for me by a guy at Ibanez and a real old upright double bass. I don't need anything more.' His smirk curls across his mouth. 'JD can only play one guitar at a time, too.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Doesn't stop him owning hundreds.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'They're his sports jerseys. All rock musicians have got some kind of madness in them. If they didn't, they'd work in an office.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Looking around Pete's pretty little Santorini house, with its crisp white walls and flowers in the windows, I can't help thinking that madness or no, they have the better deal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'There's a cost to this life.' He seems to have guessed what I was thinking. 'I've missed out on as much as I've gained. My family would have different answers to many of your questions. To a real extent, I've been in suspended animation since 1972 or something. Success... it's like being preserved in aspic. The world decides you're one thing and you either stay like it or incur its wrath. Fame doesn't like personal development. Look at me now compared to 1972, man. My hair is still the same, my clothes are pretty much the same. Is that right? Most guys grow up, they change, they grow.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'The music, though-'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'We had to fight everyone - the record label, the fans, the press, everyone - for the right to work on our sound. Every new idea was resisted. Believe it or not, the fans hated Rosalie at first. Then they hated her leaving. Change is the third rail of popular music.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'You step on it, you die.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Yeah. Unless you hold on real tight. Which we did.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">We break for coffee and he offers me some baklava made by the woman next door. As we munch on honey and nuts, I ask about the band dynamic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'We fought a lot in the 80s. A lot. We wanted different things, had different problems. I guess the worst was Sam and JD. Women will always be the cause of problems between men. And by that I don't blame the women themselves, but the men involved. They choose to get stupid, possessive and violent.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'So can you confirm the story about Sam and the Bowie knife-'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'No idea what you're talking about.' Pete scowls. 'Except that time it <i>was</i> a woman being heinous.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">Another baklava down, I ask about music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'The first time I remember caring about a song, I was thirteen. I was more into sports then, being on all the teams for everything. My friends Eli and Luke and I went camping in Big Sur that spring. On the second night, sat around the campfire listening to the radio, we made ourselves blood brothers and "Rave On" by Buddy Holly was playing. Something about it got into my heart or soul or something. When I returned home I got into music. Tried the guitar first but bass was a better fit.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Blood brothers is something I don't quite understand.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'For us it was about swearing a solemn oath to remain best friends for all time. And we did. Even when Luke was in Vietnam and Eli in New York. Luke came to work with us after. It lasted decades-' He stops abruptly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I don't want to assume I know the reason for his sudden silence, but the facts speak loudly: Pete is the sole survivor of that trio. Luke died in 1985, Eli almost exactly ten years later. Both were HIV Positive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Luke died on my wedding anniversary, you know.' Pete speaks again. 'Jo-Jo and I had driven to San Diego for the night... it was a tough time anyway... and the owner of the restaurant came over with a phone message. I've never passed out in public before or since.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I do not know what to say. He smiles grimly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Do you know how much damage someone my size causes when falling to the floor?'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'A fair amount, I imagine.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">'Yup. I broke a table, two chairs and put a foot through a glass door. And you're not going to put this in the book, are you?'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">I want to say "of course I am" but I don't dare. It's Pete Lazini, after all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier'; font-size: 12pt;">* </span></div>
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Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-3033751797242929342013-01-26T04:37:00.000-08:002013-01-26T04:38:11.457-08:00Shadowlands Remasters Collection: All The World<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The latest release in the Shadowlands Remasters Collection is sophomore album <i>All The World. </i>Originally released in June 1971, it marked their entrance into the big time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Recorded
at the now-legendary Shadowlands Villa studio and produced by Simon
Philips, the album was the first to feature the trademark Shadowlands heavy guitar/dark piano/rich vocals combination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Gather No Moss</i> magazine called the record 'a great melding of Californian sunshine and London smog, darkly bright, complex and simple. These guys are going to go far.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Producer Simon Philips has helmed the remastering process. 'It's a great album but technology at the time was limited and a lot of detail got lost in the mix. For example, Twain's mandolin work on "A Touch of Venus" was hardly audible on the original album but we've been able to overhaul the masters and restore it to the sound the group wanted. It's a richer aural experience, just as the Shads intended in 1971.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>All The World</i> is available online and in all good music stores from Monday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Tracklisting</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Pacific Coast Highway</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Instrumental, Byrne/Twain</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Me and the Devil Blues</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Cover, Robert Johnson</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I’m Only Sleeping</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Lennon/McCartney</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Twelve Labours</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 11pt;">Byrne</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">On The Town</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Cover, musical theme</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">All The World</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 11pt;">Byrne</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">A Touch of Venus</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Byrne/Twain</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Arrivederci </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 11pt;">Twain</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">In The Dark</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #e6e64c; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 11pt;">Byrne/Twain</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Bloodlines</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffff99; font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 11pt;">Byrne/Twain</span></div>
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Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-8773017865803062932013-01-01T02:48:00.005-08:002013-01-01T02:48:54.764-08:00Shadowlands Remasters Collection: Kite LifeSmug Snake Records are pleased to announce the upcoming re-release of Shadowlands' classic 1970s releases.<br />
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The first release is <i>Kite Life</i>, the group's 1971 debut album. Every track has been digitally remastered for perfect quality sound for modern devices.<br />
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The two-year project has been overseen by the group's long-time producer Simon Philips with close input from the band themselves.<br />
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Liam Byrne has been instrumental in the project: 'We've wanted to clean up the master tapes for a long time but never got round to it. The catalogue was rereleased on CD years ago but not to a standard we consider high enough for our fans. Technology has allowed us much more flexibility than we had back then. We're still working out of the same pool-house but there are new avenues open to us. For instance, we've been able to bring the mandolin to the forefront of the mix in "In A Grain of Sand" and it was just buried under everything else on the original record. This is how the record was <i>meant</i> to sound.'<br />
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<i>Kite Life</i>, originally released on January 28th 1971, is released by Smug Snake this Monday.<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Kite Life (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">All My World (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Sunday Sunshine Groove (Twain/Byrne/Lazini/Mascha)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Cosmic Lightning Blues (Twain/Lazini)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Mojave Desert (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Time Enough (Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Sweet Little One (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Square Root (Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">In A Grain of Sand (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Walking With An Old Friend on Venice Boardwalk In The Rain (Twain/Byrne)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">One Too Many Mornings (Dylan)</span></div>
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Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-64209076117806817642012-12-29T16:47:00.001-08:002012-12-30T04:19:53.218-08:00Out-take: A Rosalie Christmas<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">
A very brief out-take from the life of Rosalie Cochran. The year is 1993 and she finds herself on tour in Australia when Christmas comes along...</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">22nd December 1993. Perth, Western Australia.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie Cochran’s dislike of Christmas hadn't changed once her son was old enough to embrace the madness. The tour wasn’t over yet and she just wanted to get home to London so Ricky’s eighth birthday might be spent at home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">December was summertime in Australia and it was incredibly hot. The air conditioning in her suite at the Hyatt was working overtime but could only make the atmosphere “Barely Tolerable”. She had a sackful of mail to go through before heading to the Perth Concert Hall for rehearsal and sound check but she struggled to concentrate in the heat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Richard was usually an all-weather child. Having grown up on the road, variety was normal and it took a lot to bother him. Now he was grumpily staring out of the window.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I want to go outside,’ he moaned, swooned dramatically over the back of his chair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘No.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Why?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s too hot.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘But-’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s dangerous. Sit on the chair properly, please.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In reply, Ricky pulled his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth, and he began to hum a tune she didn’t recognise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She looked up from the latest bit of fan mail. ‘What’s the song?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Nothing.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s not nothing. Is it new?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Made it up.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘It’s very nice.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Yeah.’ He stopped rocking and slid off the chair onto the floor. ‘I’m bored.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Read a book.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Don’t want to.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Watch TV.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Don’t want to.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Swimming pool downstairs.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Don’t want to.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Then don’t do anything!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I want to go home.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Soon.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Now.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie’s patience snapped. ‘Get on a plane and go home then!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I’m only seven!’ he retorted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘More than old enough to cross the globe on your own.’ A smile tugged on her lips. ‘Or be sent down the mines. Don’t think I wouldn’t.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Richard cracked a slight smile. ‘I’m </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">bored</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I know, love.’ She’d grown used to boredom over twenty years on the road, but he had no such experience. ‘Why don’t we go and see a movie? Cool Runnings is showing nearby.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Saw it in Singapore.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘What about The Three Musketeers.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Ricky shook his head. ‘Melbourne.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie could cry for him and guilt stabbed at her for dragging him along on such a life. Perhaps Bobby could find something for him to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">A phone call later, Rosalie and Ricky were on their way to the Concert Hall early. Bobby reported that they were holding a Christmas party for the employees’ children and when they arrived it was gearing up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Welcome, welcome!’ A woman with very tall blonde hair and an incredibly ugly Christmas sweater ushered them into a room where dozens of children sat at a long table. ‘Richard, is it? Come on in, love.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie watched as her son joined the noisy, happy party. He made friends far more easily than she ever could and within minutes he was chattering happily with ginger twins close to his own age. A blue paper hat sat crookedly on his messy hair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The good people of the Concert Hall had seen many a famous face, and Rosalie was nothing particularly special. She settled down with the supervising adults and watched as a magician enthralled the children into near-silence with sleight-of-hand tricks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She’d only ever seen one party like it before, when she was a similar age to Richard. Her uncle Tony worked at the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Daily Mirror </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and had invited Rosalie to join his children at their works party. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The late 1950s had not been a time of great abundance. The decorations had been simple, handmade affairs made from cheap card, the paper hats were made of newspaper and the presents had been simple. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Her cousin Charlie told her that he was most looking forward to the satsuma in his stocking, but his sister Ann preferred the walnut. They had a deal to swap so he would have two satsumas and she two walnuts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She had not realised that those other children were wearing their very best clothes, nor that a piece of fruit and some nuts were luxurious presents to them. She didn’t know that her father and his brother lived in very different worlds now, though they lived only a mile apart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In 1958, Rosalie had not understood that her mother was a snob who made her husband cut almost all contact with his family. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In 1958 she hadn’t understood why her parents had an almighty row when she returned from the party with her newspaper hat, a trinket from Father Christmas and a new vocabulary of rhyming slang.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In 1993, she realised that it had been one of the few Christmas moments in her young life that she held fondly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In 1993, her heart ached to see that Ricky was missing out as much as she had, that she was maintaining the attitudes she’d hated in her family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Later, as she sat being made up for the show, she asked Bobby a favour.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I need you to find some people, if you can.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I can but try, Rosa.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">She twisted in her seat and the make up artist tutted. ‘Tony, Charlie and Ann Cochran.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Family?’ His eyebrow quirked with surprise. Everyone knew Rosalie didn’t have any family left.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Yes. I don’t know if Uncle Tony is even alive, but… Charlie was a year older than me and Ann two younger. They lived on Wimborne Street, I think. I haven’t seen them since 1958 but… if you find them… write a cheque. A big one.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Are you sure?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Yes. They haven’t run to the papers, have they? Don’t make a song and dance of it. But…’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Consider it done, sweetheart.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Where’s Ricky?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Superman’s giving him a bass lesson.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Only in my world does that sentence make sense. Did he do his maths?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Katharine says he’s picking up long division well.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Good. When does the photographer want me?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Ready when you are.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Rosalie Organisation played two nights at Perth Concert Hall, both well received. She did some promotion for the </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Danaides</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> album on the morning of Christmas Eve but was otherwise finished for the year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The hotel put on quite a show for Christmas, but for a woman who grew up in the northern hemisphere, to be sunbathing on Christmas Eve was just wrong. The staff made a fuss of Richard, the only child staying there at the time, but she knew he wanted to be at home. Home, though hardly lived in much of the year, was still home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">To console him, Rosalie agreed he could stay up to their presents at midnight. Rosalie, Richard, Bobby, and Larry gathered in her suite and exchanged their gifts. Bobby was delighted with the crystal-encrusted fountain pen, Larry adored his James Baldwin first edition, and Katharine loved the Yves St Laurent scarf.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The majority of gifts were for Richard, who had no intention of sleeping once he’d unwrapped a Lego airport and spaceship. Rosalie allowed it: they would have time to sleep on the plane home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The phone rang at twenty past midnight and a warm voice purred down the line: ‘Merry Christmas, you gorgeous creature.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Merry Christmas Twain,’ she replied, and winced to see Katharine flinch on hearing his name. ‘Where are you?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Bali.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘OK.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Is Sprocket awake? Can I talk to him?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Richard is, yes, but you’ll have a job getting him away from his Lego.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">In fact, Ricky leapt at the phone when she said JD wanted to talk to him. ‘I got a Lego spaceship!’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘That’s cool, man. Got it built yet?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Nearly! And I got an airport and…’ Ricky listed all his presents in great detail to the patient ear in Bali.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">As Ricky chattered, Bobby gave Rosalie a gift in the form of news: ‘I found the Cochrans.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Already?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Easy. Uncle Tony alive and well, retired from the print trade. Charlie’s an accountant with a second wife and three children, lives in Broxbourne. Ann died in 1987, car accident.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I’m sorry.’ She meant it, missed the bright-eyed child excited over walnuts.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘They don’t want your money.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Oh?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I spoke to Charlie on the phone last night. He wishes you all the best but doesn’t want it.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Please-’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘He’s a proud man. Won’t take it.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘How old are his children?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Sixteen, fifteen and ten.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Give him a college fund. He can’t turn that down.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘I’ll try. I don’t see why this matters all of a sudden.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Call it Christmas goodwill.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Fine.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Richard was done with the phone and thrust it at Rosalie without a word before turning back to Lego.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Still there, Twain?’ she asked into the phone.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘That kid can </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">talk</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. Don’t know where he gets it from.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Why Bali?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Why not? Liam liked it enough to stay a year-’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘A </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">year?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The things you learn.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Join me.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘We’re going back to London.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Screw that. Come to Bali. We’ll have a bonfire on the beach for Sprocket’s birthday.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘But-’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Dull, grey London or bright and sunny Bali? And the not-insignificant presence of JD Twain.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">There was no denying that Richard would love it, except that it was not home.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Bobby, can you change our tickets to Bali?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He shrugged. ‘I can do anything, but it’ll cost you.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Ricky, do you want to have your birthday in Bali?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘With JD?’ His eyes flashed and his smile split his face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Decision made. ‘We’ll see you then.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Richard finally drooped twenty minutes later and was put to bed by Bobby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">He then pressed a soft kiss to Rosalie’s forehead. ‘Merry Christmas, Rosa love.’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Do you wish you were at home with Jeannie?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bobby flashed a grin. ‘Always.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Why do we do it?’</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘The Life? Because the alternatives would drive us mad. Night-night.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Rosalie stayed awake awhile longer considering those alternatives. Would she have married young, had children young and remained in London? Would she have stayed at the Marquee marking time? Would she have ended up in some suburban cultural backwater where a trip to the nearest “big town” was the highlight of a month? Would Christmas be a big deal because there wasn’t much else to look forward to?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Certainly she wouldn’t have sung for thousands or be going to Bali just because her best friend asked. The Life was exhausting, isolating and often boring… but it was still the only option she could seriously consider.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Leave your comments or questions below, if you want to! </span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-55978980775099205792012-12-23T03:11:00.000-08:002012-12-31T02:07:57.493-08:00Meeting Your Heroes: Liam Byrne Interview 1991<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Just a short article about Liam from '91. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Meeting Your Heroes by Catriona Slade, The Sunday Mailograph. 1991. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I fell in love for the first time in 1976. I was fifteen and my birthday present had been two tickets to rock concert - my first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">My best friend Melinda and I spent the week leading up to the gig in a state of constant anticipatory frenzy and got a lunchtime detention for it from Mrs Cooper the French teacher. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">On that never-to-be-forgotten Tuesday night, we dressed up in our coolest clothes: Me in denim flares and a Rolling Stones t-shirt stolen from my brother Geoff and Melinda in a new white broderie anglais dress. We put our make up on in the ladies toilets at the station before getting the train to Edinburgh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The band playing that night was Shadowlands, a group Geoff had raved about since 1972.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">At two minutes past seven, we were sat quietly in our assigned seats - Row G Seats 6 & 7. At four minutes past, the band came on and all hell broke loose. The mostly male audience rushed the stage and if we wanted to see anything, Lindy and I had no choice but to fight our way to the front. At seventeen minutes past seven, I fell in love. I checked my watch so that I would remember. I’d used my petite frame and shy smile to push past a group of boys and found myself crushed against the front of the stage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Guitarist JD Twain was stood off to the left, bassist Pete Lazini nearby. Sam Mascha was all but hidden behind his drum kit and Rosalie Cochran was tucked almost off stage while she played the xylophone part of a new song called ‘Fast Flowing River.’ It had only been released a short time before but we all knew all the words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Front and centre, Liam Byrne stood at the microphone, blasting us all apart with his voice. At the end of the song he looked down and I caught his eye. He smiled, I fell in love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I spent the next few years following the band in the music press, buying their records and attending their shows whenever they came to Scotland. I once even managed to persuade my parents that I would be fine going to a gig at the infamous Glasgow Apollo!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">No boy at school or university compared to gorgeous, intense Liam Byrne and his voice. When Rosalie left the band and a schism opened between fans, I stuck by Liam’s side. I grew up and fell in love for real, but a little piece of my heart remained wholly Liam's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Fifteen years later, I am at a small but exclusive London hotel to interview him. He has become an odd figure in recent years, mostly reclusive when not on stage. He rarely grants interviews but his solo record does have to be promoted somehow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He is not as beautiful as he once was, though he looks trim and still has plenty of his long, luscious dark hair. His demeanour is one of reluctant dislocation, and in the first few minutes he hardly meets my gaze.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I am deeply disappointed. He is no longer the towering figure of my youth. His past alcohol problems are a forbidden topic, but I can’t help seeing the damage done on his face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">We sit on the hotel terrace in the sunshine drinking tea and it is not at all what one expects: rock stars are like vampires and very rarely seen in the daylight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Liam’s hair is a little grey and he is unshaven: his nascent beard is salt and peppery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I ask him first about his life off stage, trying to find a way of asking while staying within the parameters set down by his management. I end up asking about hobbies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘I don’t have hobbies.’ His voice is soft, like summer rain. ‘I haven’t got the time.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Surely you have a lot of free time when you’re not on tour?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘Not really. At home I’m writing or rehearsing.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Five more minutes of semi-casual conversation leaves me in little doubt that Liam has no life outside of music. He reads, he goes to the movies and he’s travelled the world over, but it all comes back to the music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">I wonder, but dare not ask, about his private life: he has never been pictured with women (or men), and almost all the legends for his band belong to lothario JD Twain. Has Liam lived an ascetic life or is he very discreet? No journalist has ever been inside his house in Highgate, although he’s on the road so often he’s hardly there in any case. As he describes how he feels onstage - ‘Alive at last’ - I am struck by what a pathetic figure he is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">‘If you only feel alive for two and a half hours a day, what about the other twenty one and a half?’ I asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He shrugs tired shoulders and closes his hollow eyes. ‘They’re better odds than a lot of people get.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">This is not the Liam Byrne I feel in love with. My heart is broken a little. When I get home, I hug my husband extra-tight and let go my old crush.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Yet later, as I write this article, I feel guilty. I have demanded he remain young, perfect and heroic. He is only human, after all. Perhaps he should have lived fast and died young to preserve his legend. Which is a terrible thought. The things we do to our heroes.</span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-23486233224744047822012-11-26T07:30:00.000-08:002013-10-13T15:17:17.256-07:00Scars: An Excerpt from "An Interview With JD Twain", 2005<div style="-qt-block-indent: 0; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">An Excerpt from "An Interview With JD Twain", 2004. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">At first glance, JD Twain's skin is perfect. Certainly far better than he deserves. If he had an attic, I'd put money on there being a portrait up there, deteriorating. For a man who has lived the rock and roll cliches to their extremes, his skin doesn’t show it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">We sit in a shady spot in the famous Shadowlands Villa garden and he explains: 'I never injected, rarely snorted, gave up drinking in the 80s and… hell, I'm just too vain to let myself go.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">If he's had work done to that famous and beautiful face, it is subtle, expertly done. He has that strangely youthful, slightly leathery look of most ageing Southern Californians, though mercifully Botox-free. Whatever the reasons or method, he looks younger than fifty-six.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">His hands give him away. Years of guitar-playing have left those gorgeous, long fingers mashed. The joints in his left index finger are swollen and grotesquely gnarled from decades of barre chords. Folds of tough, wrinkled skin are stretched over the tendons and ligaments which have become exaggerated through the forty years of his spectacular career. A manicure can't hide the hard callouses on his fingertips but his nails are neat and painted glittering silver.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">JD flexes his famous hands and if they don't respond as quickly or smartly as once, it doesn't matter. I now notice his hands are covered in many small scars one wouldn't notice unless looking closely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'I used to maintain my guitars myself. Tended to hurt myself. Stabbed myself with screwdrivers and broken steel strings... sliced myself up until Ted came along to save me from myself. Some say my hands are ugly now, but to me they're proof that I really did work for a living. I didn't get fame and fortune doing “nothing” no matter what some folks say.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He plays a quick run up an imaginary fretboard and those aged hands are transformed: still supple, capable and magical. Watching JD Twain playing air guitar is at once thrilling and bizarre.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">When I mention scars, he immediately removes his shirt. I am still for a second. It is </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">JD Twain</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">, after all. He is as trim and athletic as any man pushing sixty should be, tanned and almost flawless. A scar pokes out from the waistband of his trousers. It look a lot like an appendix scar to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'A bear clawed me on a school field trip,' he boasts, a twinkle in his eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'Right.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He turns and there, on his otherwise perfect muscled back, is a long, jagged scar six inches long that runs from his left shoulder towards his right hip. Then, he shrugs and the muscles in his back ripple downward and the scar dances. 'A guy took exception to his girlfriend coming onto me. Man, I didn't dig the early Eighties.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">He doesn't say – but I know – that he talking about his own drummer and the girlfriend was in fact, Sam's wife. Still, such a wound looks unjust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">Though I have mentioned his hands, I have omitted the worst scar of all. Once Twain is fully dressed again, I ask to see it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">The scar is still prominent after almost thirty years. It runs the length of his left palm from the wrist and into the index finger, blended into the hand with age. This is the scar that nearly killed him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'Sam's Bowie knife to my back was </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">nothing</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> compared. I'm a guitarist. For the first few weeks after Nik Biro got me, I stared death square in the face. For real, no joke, no exaggeration. He nearly killed me, because I would’ve died without use of my hand. Wasting away, or suicide, doesn't matter. I wouldn't have last six months.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">His level, matter-of-fact tone tells me this is very different to the bear scar: he is absolutely serious. What would the musical landscape look like without JD Twain after 1977? Certainly less interesting. No Ludwig & Liszt. No Shadowlands, or only a shadow of itself: a Shadow of Shadowlands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'I like that. I'm taking that as an album title. Maybe Byrne could do something with lyrics, too... I know how I would've done it, you know.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'Oh?' Trying to sound casual when Twain is talking suicide options is a tough choice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'I was going to take myself down to Orange County, to Corona Beach, the little one. I'd light a fire there on the beach as the sun went down and settle down with a bottle of real good whiskey. The whiskey would be laced with curare. Someone would find me the next morning slumbering with a dear friend, Death. And the corpse would be good-looking.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'That's important to you.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">'Hell yeah. However </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">old</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"> I get, my cadaver will be gorgeous. I'm </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">JD Twain</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;">, baby.' The twinkle is back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Excerpted from "An Interview with JD Twain" by Clare Worley, 2005.</i> </span></div>
Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1843374870707427208.post-52674274779759965682012-11-26T03:44:00.000-08:002012-12-30T04:50:58.928-08:00Walking In The Shadowlands<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<i>Walking in the Shadowlands</i> is a nearly-finished book by Clare Worley. It concerns the history of legendary rock group Shadowlands and attempts to answer many of the questions which surround the band.</div>
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Clare interviewed each member of the group in the process of putting the book together: guitarist JD Twain (Voted 'The World's Most Gorgeous Guitarist' six times by readers of <i>Pop Smash!</i> magazine); pianist-vocalist and songwriter Liam Byrne; eternally cool bass player Peter Lazini; golden-haired drummer Sam Mascha; the group's roadie-turned-manager Charlie Brown and most sensationally, ex-member turned solo star Rosalie Cochran.</div>
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Here at Shadowlands Music we'll be posting articles about the band from throughout their long career, from early pop magazine fluff to in-depth interviews and album reviews - yup, even <i>The Gate</i> - and maybe answering some of the questions bothering fans and critics across their amazing forty-year career.</div>
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<li>Why did the group cancel so many dates in 1988?</li>
<li>Did the Magnum Incident in Miami <i>really</i> happen?</li>
<li>Is Pete Lazini as tough as he looks? </li>
<li>Why did Rosalie Cochran leave so abruptly in 1979?</li>
<li>Did the group really parade naked through Stevenage Town Centre after their triumphant Knebworth gig?</li>
<li><i>The Gate</i>: what the hell were they thinking?</li>
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Clare Worleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00134344349616583593noreply@blogger.com0