Gimme More Read online

  At nine I went down. Heads turned. Did you think they wouldn’t? Why? It is too easy to assume when you’ve passed the celebrity-girlfriend stage that you’re invisible. But invisibility is only a different sort of mask. If it isn’t a convenience, bag it and bin it. Be Someone. Don’t just enter – sweep in.

  I swept. Heads turned.

  Here is Barry, a plump chump in a Savile Row suit. He thinks designer spectacles will make him look hipper.

  He says, ‘Birdie! My God …’ He has been expecting me to apologise for making him wait. I can see that on his face. His face changes as his expectations change. He is off-balance already.

  ‘Hi Barry,’ I say, as if I last saw him yesterday. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I thought we’d eat here.’ He has obviously been keeping the maître d’ sweet for the last hour.

  ‘Don’t you know the good places any more?’

  He rises to the challenge and we go to the Café D’Arte.

  So far so good. I can still make him want to impress me.

  You have to be a bitch to force a man to impress you. Being nice does not get you a room at the Savoy or the wherewithal to look utterly cool at the Café D’Arte. It never did and it never will.

  Whatever Barry was expecting, it was not a nice woman. A nice woman does not take the piss out of you to your face or even behind your back. A nice woman does not kick you in the balls when, after a couple of lines for courage, you pluck up enough spunk to dribble into her bustier. She does not say to her starry boyfriend, ‘Hey Jack, queer Stears just tried to hit on me.’

  ‘Kick him in the balls,’ said Jack.

  ‘Again?’ I said.

  ‘Whatever turns you on,’ said Jack. He laughed but the next day he chartered a plane and we went to Antigua. ‘Fuckin’ rich groupies,’ said Jack. ‘They think they own you.’

  He didn’t like it. He thought I had a thing about rich men, and I let him. It kept him on his toes, kept him hungry.

  As I swept into Café D’Arte, David Bowie was sweeping out. He came to a dead halt and his satellites piled up behind him.

  ‘Birdie Walker! Jesus – I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Dead to the world,’ I said, ‘exclusive, reclusive, elusive. There’s a difference, you know.’

  ‘I do know,’ he said. ‘Call me.’

  I sweep on by. What a piece of luck! Barry is weeing himself – he’s with a woman who knows David Bowie. That’s Barry in a nutshell.

  We sit. We order. Barry would like to ask for a glass of milk for his ulcer. I watch the struggle between common sense and narcissism. Narcissism wins – as it always did – and he orders wine. It is an important indicator.

  I am very casual. I scope the room. Barry tries to gain my attention by pointing out the hot new writers, a sculptor, a singer, assorted socialites, a couple of MPs and bankers.

  ‘You’ve been out of touch for so long,’ he says.

  ‘Being here reminds me why,’ I say.

  ‘It’s changed.’

  ‘Three times, at least.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but it’s all coming back. You wouldn’t believe the interest the present generation’s showing in the old music. Our music’

  I look at him. He has enough grace to blush, but he goes on quickly, ‘I told you in my letter, I’ve done a book, and a couple of series for the BBC and Channel 4.’

  He waits for me to approve. I raise one eyebrow. Old groupies don’t die. They turn into music nerds.

  ‘They went down very well,’ he says hurriedly, ‘rave reviews et cetera. People can’t get enough.’

  Food comes: soup for him, a decorative arrangement based on an artichoke for me. He begins to gobble his soup. Good. I can spin out an artichoke for ever. I can make him ravenous.

  He says, ‘Of course Jack and several others of the people you – er – knew were central to my programmes. You were in there too – that old footage of the Dock Concert, Live at the Hall, other stuff. And the pictures Bailey took. Birdie, you were the quintessential rockchick.’

  ‘Was I really?’ I say. Does he honestly think that being called a rockchick will appeal to my vanity? Yes, he does. He has made a career out of his own sideline association with musos so he must think we are made of the same stuff.

  He has finished his soup. I suck delicately on the end of an artichoke leaf. He goes on. ‘I’m a bit of a celebrity myself, now; a pundit, whatever.’ He watches me eat.

  ‘Why didn’t you get in touch, Birdie?’ he says. ‘You knew I was looking for you two years ago. I talked to your sister and all I got was the big block.’

  Always the wrong question. You shouldn’t be asking why I haven’t been in touch for two years, Barry, you should be asking why I’m in touch now.

  ‘Where have you been, Birdie?’

  ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Fishing?’ says Barry, astonished.

  I nod and select another artichoke leaf.

  ‘I thought you’d be married to a millionaire by now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ He’s astonished again. He has never questioned his judgment of me. He says simply, ‘Because you loved spending money.’

  Now this is true but if that were all there was to it, Barry, why was I fucking Jack and not you? At the beginning, certainly, you could have bought and sold Jack and the whole band twenty times over.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I still love spending money. I’m very good at it.’

  ‘And have you got enough now?’ This, to Barry, is the central element of his pitch. Because, if you haven’t figured it out already, Barry is pitching to me. It is why a man I once kicked in the balls is paying for me to stay at the Savoy instead of dropping me down the deepest hole he can find.

  ‘If I remember correctly,’ he says, ‘enough for you is a lot.’

  ‘Absolutely correct, Barry,’ I say, and I take my time choosing an artichoke leaf. It’s painful for him to watch. His stomach hurts and he wants his second course. It’s driving him crazy, watching me picking fastidiously at an intricate vegetable. Good. He will come to the point more quickly because he will believe that if he does, he will be controlling the situation. Hunger and impatience are my friends but his enemies.

  ‘So, how are you doing these days, Birdie?’

  ‘What you see is what you get,’ I say, secure behind my obscenely expensive frock and fuck-off shoes: the frock and shoes he hadn’t expected to see on someone who has been off the scene for so long.

  ‘Shine like silver, ring like gold,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  But I shrug and don’t explain. It’s a song: ‘Take This Hammer’. Taj Mahal used to sing it and one night I told Jack, ‘Your hammer “sure ‘nuff shine like silver, ring like solid gold”.’ He liked that. He picked out the chords till he could play it for me. I lived for those moments. God, he was good, and when he wasn’t off his face, he surely did shine like silver, ring like gold. Alone, for once, and quiet, listening to old recordings by legendary bluesmen, picking out chords, riffs and fills, putting a new spin on them, making them his own. That’s how the great songs pass from old to young hands, from old to young ears. Old love to new love, nothing starts from scratch. But you, Barry, you can sit and watch me eat artichoke till the angels weep and I won’t tell you anything important. Because you won’t understand the important things. A great song isn’t safe in your hands.

  Barry says, ‘You’re an expensive woman, Birdie. You cost Jack a fortune.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And worth every penny.’

  ‘Well, Jack seemed to think so.’

  Oh yes, indeed he did, Barry, and you’ll never understand why.

  ‘What I’m getting at, Birdie, is that maybe, these days, you don’t have quite what you were used to.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say, scraping the flesh off another petal. ‘However much there is, it’s never enough.’

  ‘I’m in a position to help you,’ Barry says, smugly. ‘I can p
ut you back on the map, Birdie.’

  ‘Where I’ve always longed to be,’ I say. ‘Another fifteen minutes of fame.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t love it,’ Barry says. ‘You lapped up all the attention. There was a time when you couldn’t open a paper or magazine without seeing your own face. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want that again.’

  ‘Even the bad bits?’ I say. ‘Besides, that was a different face. Who’d want to see it now?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he says. ‘I’m telling you, everyone’s fascinated by the old rock aristocracy. Roots, genealogy – they can’t get enough.’

  He pauses. He’s pitching but he doesn’t know how to hook me. I wait, eating tiny particles of food, making his stomach rumble.

  ‘The episode about Jack’s era was a huge success. I got Teddy and Goff – they had some terrific stories. But I wish you’d responded when I tried to find you because there was something missing. In those years – those truly great years – you and Jack were joined at the hip. You were there in all the footage and all the stills. But not in person, not in the where-are-they-now section. The guys were great but …’

  ‘Music’s a very blokish business,’ I say. ‘All you need is a couple of guys.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to redress the balance?’

  ‘There isn’t a balance.’

  He looks at me, he looks at the artichoke. It isn’t even half eaten.

  ‘There’s money in it, Birdie,’ he says. ‘Money for old rope. I’m making a compilation programme for the anniversary. It’s devoted exclusively to Jack. Maximum budget. I can get you top whack.’

  ‘Not interested,’ I say.

  ‘A memorial,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you interested in keeping Jack’s memory alive?’

  ‘His memory’s very much alive without me making an exhibition of myself for your benefit.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be making an exhibition of yourself,’ Barry says. ‘And it’d be for Jack’s benefit.’

  ‘The dead don’t need benefits.’

  He glares at the artichoke. It’s his personal enemy, and so am I. A waiter comes and asks if we’re ready for the next course.

  ‘Yes,’ says Barry.

  ‘No,’ I say, because every time I say no, my price goes up, and Barry is becoming twitchy. Two Mr Twitches in one day – how lucky can a girl get?

  ‘OK, Birdie,’ he says, ‘final offer: if appearance money won’t do, I can negotiate production fees.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I say. ‘What would I have to do for that?’

  ‘Nothing. Really. You get a credit, more money. No work, no hassle. Just show up. Supply some of the material – for which you’ll be paid handsomely – we do the interview …’

  ‘Material,’ I say.

  He drags his eyes away from my plate and forces himself to meet my gaze. My eyes should be bland and blue. His aren’t. I smile my sweetest smile. His cheek flickers.

  ‘I told you I talked to Teddy and Goff,’ he says. ‘They say the Antigua Movie exists.’

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘Everyone said the Antigua Movie was the biggest myth in rock history. But Teddy and Goff say it’s no myth. They say Jack had a crew with 16 mil cameras and they filmed and taped all the sessions. Teddy told me you might have it.’

  This, of course, is why I’ll sleep at the Savoy tonight. This is why the man who hates me is courting me. It’s why he dribbled on me years ago. It isn’t me he wants, it’s Jack. Creep closer to Jack. Seduce his sidemen. Maybe they’ll deliver him into your frigid grasp. Buy him. Own him. Warm your chilly bones. And when you can’t do that, Barry, court his chick, his bitch, his widow.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘Who knows? Jack left me so much.’

  ‘Bitter?’ For just a second his cold dislike shows but he looks quickly at my neglected plate. I push it away. I don’t need it any more. Barry’s cards are on the table. All I needed to make him show his hand so soon was an artichoke.

  Now he’s relieved. He signals the waiter who removes the artichoke and brings us the second course. With a full plate in front of him Barry is in control again. Rich as cream, smooth as butter.

  He says, ‘OK, Birdie, tell me about it. You two suddenly, for no apparent reason, upped and split to Antigua. After a couple of months, Goff, Teddy and some of the others join you. You’ve hired some tin-pot Caribbean studio and you put down all the songs and ideas that turned into Hard Candy and Hard Time. Right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You know all about it. So why bother me? Hard Candy exists. Hard Time exists. No one’s taking them away from you.’

  ‘They were the end product. Amazing, classic, seminal stuff. Jack’s definitive statement. His finest work. But it seems to come out of nowhere.’

  ‘The magic of rock’n’roll.’

  ‘The albums aren’t the whole story.’

  No, Barry, not to you they aren’t, not when you’re a groupie, the monarch of music nerds – when what you want are the out-takes, the between-takes dialogue, the fights, the gossip – when you ached so badly to know what it was really like to be Jack you tried to fuck his chick and, for one brief spasm, be where he had been.

  He says, ‘Jack took the studio tapes to the record company, mainly acoustic stuff, I’m told – like a notebook full of bits and pieces. When the album was finished there was no further use for them. I’ve been to the record company, I’ve spent days in their vaults. The guys there say they were lost, cleared out, I don’t know. That’s what happened in those days. No one had the least idea of the value of what they were throwing away.’

  ‘They had no value,’ I say. ‘As you say – a notebook – not Jack’s “definitive statement”.’

  ‘How can you say that, Birdie?’

  ‘Because I’m not like you, Barry. What the artist wants to give is good enough for me. I don’t want what he had to do to make the gift possible. The rough cuts were not what Jack wanted anyone to hear.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You were there all the time. You know. You heard. What I’m hoping is that the film of those sessions in Antigua will help fill in the gaps. It would in any case be a valuable social document.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask innocently. ‘The music’s important, but a film of ad hoc sessions, work in progress, has no value at all.’

  He steadies himself with forkfuls of steak and potatoes and says, ‘Excuse me, Birdie, but are you the best judge of what is valuable? I’ve studied the work and researched it, and written articles on it for years. If I may say so, I’m the one who’s, almost single-handedly, kept it alive while tastes changed again and again.’

  ‘You’ve done a good job.’

  He checks my eyes for sarcasm, but all he sees is bland and blue. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I have.’ He rewards himself with food. ‘OK, Birdie, straight question. Were the sessions filmed? Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes, you know that already. Goff or Teddy told you.’

  ‘Then what happened? Where is the film? Was it made?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, Barry, it was just a bunch of Berkeley film students we met on a beach. It was just a couple of guys with Eclairs and another guy with a Nagra. We were all bumming around, having a good time.’

  ‘But they were there, damn it, with film in their cameras, at the Antigua sessions. What happened to the film?’

  ‘They took it back to the States to be developed and edited.’

  ‘Who were they, Birdie?’

  ‘I can’t remember the names. It was years ago. We spent a load of time stoned, with people drifting in and out. What did Goff and Teddy say?’

  ‘They didn’t even remember Berkeley. I suppose that’s something at least.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To help me track it down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jesus, Birdie, haven’t you been listening? The film, the film, the film.’

  I pause for a momen
t before my precision bombing raid. I say, ‘But Barry there was no film. All that happened was that these guys stung Jack for a heavy slice of bread for materials and time and what they produced was crap. He’d lost interest by that time, anyway. People were always trying to rip him off.’

  I sit back and watch the explosion in Barry’s head.

  ‘Produced?’ he says. Sweat pops out of his face like bubbles from a baby’s mouth. ‘You say they actually produced something. You’ve seen it? Jack saw it?’

  ‘Of course. Jack paid for it, didn’t he?’

  ‘What did you see, what did Jack get for his money?’

  ‘Three hours of this and that in three big film cans.’

  ‘Three hours?’ Barry is dribbling again. It makes me quite nostalgic.

  ‘And all the raw stuff they didn’t use. Half a roomful of cans and boxes. I’d no idea it’d take up so much space. We tiptoed around it for days before Jack took it all out to the garden and burnt it.’

  Barry’s face collapses. ‘Jack burnt it?’ he whispers.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t just that he’d paid for it. He wanted it so that he could destroy it. By that time, people were already taking things, souvenirs, whatever, just to say they had something of Jack’s.’

  Barry’s collapsed face stains red and I wonder what he took. I say, ‘It was freaking him out. He had dreams about little pieces of himself being cut off and bleeding away. He wanted to see a shrink but he couldn’t trust anyone. So he sort of destroyed the evidence. It was, like, if he had nothing, no one could steal it.’

  ‘So he destroyed the film?’

  Didn’t I tell you? It’s no use explaining anything to Barry – he has no understanding whatsoever. I sigh and get on with my job.

  ‘He burnt all the stuff that wasn’t used.’

  Hope flares like a distress beacon. ‘And the three hours?’ he croaks.

  ‘Oh, he kept that under the bed,’ I say airily. ‘He wasn’t completely paranoid till a few months later.’

  I love messing with Barry’s head. It renders him so powerless that he can’t ask the next question. He has even forgotten to chew.

  I say, ‘Look, Barry, I don’t know what you want me to say. When Jack died the vultures descended. Nearly everything that wasn’t burnt was stolen, even his music rights. I rescued what I could, but it wasn’t much.’