Mum was on the phone when Katy and I burst in, and I paused in the hallway, uncertain as to whether I was intruding; Katy, however, had no such qualms, “You’ve got the Beauty Queens L.P, Rachel, haven’t you?” she called breezily as she ran upstairs, not even waiting for a reply. Mum raised her eyebrows in the direction Katy had run, and I saw her shake her head slowly in mild irritation as she turned around, and noticed me standing there. “I’ll have to call you back,” she murmured into the mouthpiece, “I’ve just been invaded…” From upstairs, we could hear the sound of the ladder being put up, and the creak of feet, climbing… “Doesn’t hang about, does she?” remarked mum, in distinctly narked tones.
I shook my head; I felt that I should apologise for the behaviour of a friend, so I explained, “She’s not used to asking first.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I got in first, “Who were you speaking to?”
“Thomas.”
My sense of awkwardness returned, as I asked, “How’s it going with him?”
“Well, I think,” she said, not meeting my eyes.
An invisible weight seemed to settle on me as I nodded, almost to myself; I hadn’t met him, but I’d heard her mention him a lot lately and, whilst she’s had boyfriends before, this one sounded different; for one thing, he had lasted longer than they usually do.
There was a long, painfully tense silence before she said, rather quietly, “I would always put you first,” she gazed up at me “you know that, don’t you?”
But it is no longer right for her to do that, not now. “You don’t have to do that,” I told her, “not anymore.”
The conversation ended then because Katy emerged at the top of the stairs, carrying a huge cardboard box full of vinyl. “Give me a hand!” she yelled down to me, and I ran up the stairs to assist, my mood lightening with each step as I recalled the task at hand.
As we hauled the last box down to the living room, mum hovered in the doorway, her hands on her hips, an expression of annoyed confusion on her face, as she demanded, rhetorically, “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”
“The Beauty Queens have reformed!” called back me and Katy in stereo.
“They’re going on tour!” Called Katy
“…playing Manchester in a fortnight” I added, equally excitedly.
“Oh,” said Mum, facetiously as she joined us, “is that all…”
The Beauty Queens haven’t toured since July 1980, they split up five months later when Iona Black, Chantel Jones, Serena Llewellyn and Keeley Myerscough left and formed The Playgirls. Mum saw them live five times in 1979, supporting various more high profile names, and she’s also the only person I know who happens to own their L.P.
“Come on, Rachel,” protested Katy as she lifted the L.P out of the second box, “you must be at least a little bit excited; you’re talking one off experience here, it’d be like The Slits reforming…”
Mum shook her head; she seemed a little dazed as she asked, “Original line-up?”
“Yes,” confirmed Katy, “all seven of them.”
She shook her head again, “I’m amazed they’ve agreed to do it; I didn’t think there was any love lost between The Playgirls and the other three when they split… I saw them supporting Rip, Rig and Panic in 1980, just before they split, and you could tell it was all about to go pear shaped…”
“So, you’re not coming to the gig then?” demanded Katy.
She shook her head, “As much as I loved them at the time, there are some areas of my past I think its best I not revisit.” Her expression grew thoughtful as she added, “But if they make a new record I might be cautiously interested…”
Katy handed me the L.P, and I gazed for a few moments at the cheap black and pink sleeve, before flipping it over and gazing at the picture of the band on the back. As is often the case with reluctant geniuses, Iona Black was hidden away towards the back of the picture, on the right side. The more obvious charms of Lalita James, Chantel Jones, and Keeley Myserscough were posed in the centre of the picture; pretty punkettes in fishnets and stilettos, with P.V.C mini skirts and ripped t-shirts, naively slutty in their vamping. Iona was blonde then, but her hair was short, and although she was wearing similarly slutty garb, there was something in her posture, in her expression, that suggested she was different. She was already a minor legend by then, thanks to a brief, ill advised, marriage to Seth Kent, bassist in The Wars, when she was seventeen; it ended six months later when she woke up next to his corpse, the needle sticking out of his arm still. Maybe that was what made her appear wary, or maybe the demons were already at work by then…
Katy snatched the L.P from my hands, and marched over to the Hi-Fi with it. As she placed the L.P down on the deck, I noticed mum slip out through the door, and it wasn’t long before I heard her feet on the stairs, retreating, escaping… maybe she would phone Thomas again.
Later, the three of us watched the video for our next single, ‘My Heart Is In Your Hands’. It was shot mainly in a light, luxuriously elegant suite at one of the big Manchester hotels. Fliss is very much the star of the piece, and is featured sitting on a white windowsill, her feet bare and resting on the sill, her knees pulled up towards her chest. She is wearing a light sundress, and gazes out of the window wistfully as she lip synchs to the track. She looks very sad, but very pretty, which I think is the mood that the director was going for. It was shot in black and white, with lots of grey, lots of dissolves. Rumour has it that it was shot at the hotel that Girl Trouble stayed in last summer, in the room that Adrienne surreptitiously seduced Fliss in. Sandra Dee have been keen to encourage the story, but Fliss says it isn’t true.
“It reminds me of the video to Siouxsie and the Banshees ‘The Last Beat Of My Heart’,” remarked mum. Her expression was thoughtful and calculating as she added, “Still, she looks very pretty I must say…I only hope that Sandra Dee know what they’re doing. Is it about Adrienne?”
“It might be” I conceded, cautiously, as Katy scowled. I haven’t really discussed the lyrics to ‘My Heart Is In Your Hands’ with Fliss; she’s been too busy working, or else being interviewed, or hanging out with Angel and the Razorblades in Chorlton.
“Poor Fliss,” she shook her head.
Katy had her guitar with her, so we travelled back to Heaton Chapel together and I played her some new drum patterns I’d written. The neighbours, who live below us, are away on holiday at the moment, and no one seemed inclined to complain about the noise as we played together, trying out ideas, but not jamming: We are not a band who jam.
It seemed to work well, and the energy flowed through me as we worked, the windows in the room open against the intense summer heat. Hours passed without us noticing, and it was nearly dark when Fliss joined us, she was humming a melody quietly to herself, but broke off to ask, “Can I join in?” We nodded enthusiastically, and she went off to find her own guitar. We didn’t stop this informal exchange of ideas until midnight or so, and by then we had two almost complete new songs, plus the beginnings of a third. Fliss was beaming as she lifted off her guitar; her face was flushed with the heat, and her yellow sundress crumpled and damp. “That was good,” she said happily, “that was fun,” Something about the way she said it made me smile in turn, for I fear that Fliss hasn’t been having an awful lot of fun lately.
I went to see ‘Igby Goes Down’ at the Cornerhouse last week, and when I left my mind was racing with thoughts and possibilities in the claustrophobic summer heat. I was thinking about Iraq, wondering how a war can really be over when the guerrilla warfare seems to be only beginning; I feel guilty about Iraq still, and I have a sensitivity to all that’s going on; I hunger to know everything that is going on in the world, I want to know all the pain and fear, all the truth and violence; I feel as though I’m a sponge, soaking up everything I find out, yet both wanting and needing to know more, about everything: In the intense heat I feel as though my brain is on fast forward, the ideas pouring out of me like sweat… it’s exciting, but it worries me; I’m afraid that I’ll lose the ideas before I can make proper use of them.
I was anxious about The Beauty Queens gig, but for a different set of reasons. I spent so long getting ready that night that Katy had arrived to pick me up long before I was ready. As I stood in front of the mirror, fretting a little as I toyed with my studded wristbands, a kind of fluttery nervous excitement welled up inside me. From the doorway, I heard Fergus say, “Will you tell her, or shall I? You look fine.”
“He’s right,” said Katy, truculently, “you look sickeningly fantastic, as always…”
I pulled at the skin tight plain black t-shirt, which insisted on riding up over my P.V.C mini skirt, “I’m still not sure about this top…”
“It’s fine…” Katy pulled at my arm, “we’ll be late if we leave it any longer, let’s go” She averted her eyes as Fergus kissed me, and then pulled at my arm again, “come on…”
The gig… Oh, the gig, the gig, the gig… How can you describe your fantasy gig? How can you describe your most eagerly anticipated event, the highlight of your life? It was so, so good… it was everything I had hoped for, and yet, it was completely different, both wonderfully familiar and strangely brilliant; a cacophony of noise and jagged guitars, played better, and tighter than on that old L.P… Part of me had half expected to see the audience and the band wearing bondage kecks and P.V.C, like some time transported seventies period piece… I had half expected it, half dreaded it, because it would have been predictable and depressing, yet I needn’t have worried; there were some mohicaned punters in the audience, but less than I expected, and the band were dressed down in black, hair possibly dyed yet only shades of blonde, brown, and black, make-up minimal and muted. And at the centre of it all, for me anyway, was Iona Black, hiding behind her drum kit and a loose waterfall of jet-black hair. She seemed largely unaware of her surroundings, or of the audience, and she wore a long brown and black top, with loose flowing sleeves, which hung well below her waist; underneath it she wore black jeans.
Afterwards, we met up with Nat and, still feverishly excited, made our way towards the backstage area, chatting excitedly. A tall, stockily built man planted himself in our path, “Passes?” he asked.
I watched as Katy attempted to spin some blag about us working for ‘NME’, and I could tell by his utterly unmoved expression that he’d heard it all before. I began to wish that I’d asked Jenny to blag me something I could use. After a few minutes of stalemate, Nat sighed and produced a piece of paper from her pocket, “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to use this,” she murmured, handing him the paper. “My name’s Natalie James,” Katy and I frowned; Nat never used her married name, “Lalita’s my sister in law,” he looked up from the piece of paper, nodded, and then handed it back to her.
Soon we were flying up the stairs towards the dressing room, chattering and giggling excitedly, without a clue as to what would happen next… “What the hell was on that piece of paper?” asked Katy, amazed admiration in her voice.
“Me with no clothes on,” said Nat, cheerfully.
“Seriously…”
“Something Dylan got me,” she turned to face us as we reached the top of the stairs, “She really is his sister, you know, well, his half sister anyway… she was at our wedding, you,” she gestured to me, “sat next to her, but I didn’t talk to her until later.”
Our nerves returned in force once we reached the dressing room. None of us felt entirely sure as to what we should do, I mean, what do you do? Knock on the door? We couldn’t do it, none of us could, not even Katy, for all her attitude and swagger, not even Nat, for all her family connections. Katy got down on her knees and peered through the keyhole, “What’s happening?” I half hissed, half whispered.
“I don’t know,” muttered Katy, “I can’t actually see very much… Oh, hang on, Chantel’s having a fag, and Keeley’s putting nail varnish on a run in her tights…”
“What’s Iona doing?” I asked.
“Looking out of the window, she’s got her back to me… Oh, damn, I can’t see…” she trailed off, and then clambered guiltily to her feet as the door swung open, revealing Lalita.
Lalita James, née Cain, peered down her nose at us, imperiously; there was a touch of amusement in her eyes though, and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She had been pretty, despite herself, in the picture from 1978, with messy white blonde hair, and angry, piercing blue eyes. Now the eyes, whilst equally piercing, lacked that disdainful ferocity, and her hair was light brown. What few lines there were on her face were fairly well disguised, and her hair appeared to be natural, not dyed. Nat smiled, broadly, “Hello.”
She and Lalita hugged, and as she emerged from the embrace, Lalita spoke at last, “You didn’t tell me you were coming…” her voice was as it had been at the wedding, largely accentless, but with a faint hint of estuary, eager and interested. She turned her attention to Katy and me, “Aha, two of the bridesmaids,” she ushered us into the dressing room, “come in, come in…”
Things moved quite quickly once we were inside, cans of beer were produced and handed around, but when Lalita offered one to me, I shook my head. “She doesn’t drink,” said Nat, succinctly. Lalita walked over to the corner where Iona Black stood, still staring out of the window, and gestured to a much smaller stack of smaller cans. Iona nodded, distractedly, as she handed one to her, and Lalita retraced her steps, “Here you go,” she handed me a can of lemonade. I reached for it, but my fingers were trembling with nervousness, and I fumbled it, Nat caught it as it fell from my fingers, and passed it back to me. She has touched this, I thought, reverently, as I pulled back the ring pull. I slurped the froth from the top of the can, and looked over at her. She had turned away from the window now, and I was able to see her in profile. Her dark hair still hung across her face, and as she reached up to brush it out of her eyes, I was able to see that her hands were pale, and that she had long, thin fingers. My heart began to beat too fast as I was filled with sheer excited joy. I was so close to her, so close…
We talked mainly to Lalita, although once she had introduced us, the others began to take a polite interest and became drawn into the conversation. Only Iona Black stayed in the background, her dark brown eyes seemed wary, her body language defensive. I found myself staring, openly and blatantly, at her, hoping she would look up, hoping she would meet my eyes with hers, even if only to glare at me, to respond in some way… But she didn’t. At one point Lalita glanced, quickly, from me to Iona, and I could tell that she had noticed what I was doing, even if she didn’t understand why; it was incredibly rude, I know now, to stare at her like that, but it was like I couldn’t help it. I don’t know what was with me that night; it was like I was pushing myself, pushing the situation, to see what would happen next.
The elation didn’t leave me as we left, I still felt very high and emotional, but it was tinged with a kind of vague disappointment, a disappointment that was as tied up with my admiration for Iona Black as my other emotions were. When I tried to explain how I felt to Katy, she didn’t understand, but when I mentioned it to Nat, her answer was curiously straightforward, “I think she was just shy,” she said, with surprising sensitivity, “she strikes me as someone not entirely comfortable with herself.”
Katy snorted, “What does she have to be unhappy about?” she made reference to the Renaissance Girls, Iona’s most recent band, “That album was huge! The woman can’t want for money…”
In the awkward silence that followed, Nat said, rather quietly and pensively, “Has it occurred to you that we put these people on pedestals, and that maybe we shouldn’t?” There was no answer, and in the silence she grew more fierce, “Maybe we shouldn’t make these people our gods, because, one day, inevitably, they come unstuck, and fall off, or reveal themselves to be so breathtakingly ordinary, disappointingly ordinary, that we can’t help but feel utterly disillusioned, disappointed, rejected…”
Katy giggled, nervously, “God, Nat… lighten up, can’t you?”
None of us were ready to go home yet, so we headed along Oxford Road until we got to Charles Street, our destination being Retro Bar, and the last few hours of Mass Teens On The Run. The neon lighting was particularly bright as we made our way out onto the dancefloor, and we threw ourselves into the dancing mêlée as the DJ began to play the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s ‘Date With The Night’. Katy and Nat were soon tired of the heat, but I kept on going, driven by an inner pool of energy that helped me forget my confusion as I threw myself into the dancing. After about an hour, I returned to the table Katy and Nat had retired to. Nat pushed a half pint glass of lemonade towards me, and remarked, wistfully, “You know, it’s a pity you had to give up dancing…”
My energy and sheer need to dance didn’t abate. When the club finished at two a.m, I danced my way out, up the stairs, and along the streets to the bus stop. It felt good, it felt more than good: it felt amazing.
It was around three a.m when I got back to Fergus’, and the euphoria hadn’t left me by the time I climbed into bed. He was lying with his back to me, and I was feeling particularly amorous as I kissed his neck, “I’m back,” I whispered, enticingly, and he rolled over, groaning a little as he blinked, sleepily, up at me, “Hello,” he murmured, drowsily.
I kissed his lips, “Were you asleep?”
He paused to consider this, before replying, “I think so… I’m awake now though.”
“I’m not sleepy,” I whispered, huskily, as I touched and stroked him.
He yawned, “Work in the morning,” he reminded me.
“I know,” I replied neutrally.
His eyes flickered closed again, and it wasn’t long before he was asleep. With a little disappointed sigh, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.