To Be Someone (15 page)

Margie looked sheepish. “I prayed so hard about this at the time and since, but I know I didn’t behave in a very Christian way toward you when we were at school.”

“But you were the one who first introduced me to the church.”

“No, not that. It’s just … when you joined Blue Idea and started to go out and play all your rock concerts, I was, well, jealous.”

I was flabbergasted. “Really? Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was because you could sing and play guitar so well. I always wanted to be in the choir, but I’m, like, totally tone-deaf, and there you were, up doing solos in weeks. And then you got in with the band, stopped coming to church, and got real successful and all. I pretended to myself that I disapproved because you had turned your back on Jesus. I guess that was part of it—but who was I to judge you? Besides, I can’t deny that I just felt so envious of you, getting all rich and famous like that. So I’m sorry. I hope you forgive me.”

I grinned. What a turn-up. “Of course I forgive you, Margie. You weren’t all that horrible to me, anyhow. No worse than a lot of others in Freehold.”

Margie smiled back. She seemed genuinely relieved, and I felt a sudden wash of affection for her. It made me remember the kindness and humility of the Freehold Christians that had so touched me as a teenager. They were really nice people, underneath all the dogma and proselytizing.

In the end, Margie’s company at dinner turned out to be tolerably pleasant—we sat around my vast kitchen table reminiscing about the few subjects we could claim to have in common. Mum, however, was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. I put it down to her not really knowing the people Margie and I were talking about, but when Margie eventually lumbered off to the spare room to bed, I realized that there was more to it.

“I’ll clear up, dear,” Mum said, tight-lipped, as I attempted to carry some bowls over to the dishwasher.

“Thanks, Mum. And thanks for cooking, too. It was lovely. Well, for someone who claims to be allergic to dairy, Margie sure managed to put away the ice cream, don’t you think?”

Mum didn’t answer me. She seemed to have taken it upon herself to rearrange the contents of my freezer.

“Mum? Are you all right?” With horror, I noticed that her shoulders were quaking. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

Mum shut the freezer door with a controlled
thunk
, and ripping off a piece of kitchen towel from a roll impaled on a wooden holder, she blew her nose and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Then she picked up the entire kitchen roll holder and brandished it at me. For a minute I thought she was going to throw it, but instead she pointed at its heavy rounded base.

“Are you aware that this isn’t an ordinary kitchen roll holder?” she said, in a high-pitched, verging-on-the-hysterical voice I hadn’t heard since Thinifer days of yore.

I waited for her to say, In fact, this kitchen roll holder has special powers! It is Wonder Woman’s own kitchen roll holder, and it doubles as a laser gun!
My mother, I thought, has finally flipped
.

“No,” she continued. “It’s also a device for squeezing the water out of cooked cabbage: It is a
cabbage press
!”

“No kidding. Who knew?” I said weakly. “Mum, sit down. What’s wrong? Talk to me, please.”

Mum replaced the kitchen roll/cabbage press and sat down opposite me. “Helena,” she began. “I want you to know that your father and I … Well, we’ve always tried to do our best for you.”

“I know,” I said. “What’s brought this on?”

Her eyes filled up again. My mother hardly ever cried. “Do you still … Do you still … wish that Cynthia was your mother instead of me?” She looked at me, vulnerability naked in her eyes.

I remembered instantly the occasion to which she was referring. “Mum! Of course not! That was one comment, made in a temper, when I was
nine years old
! Every kid says that kind of stuff to their mother at some stage! Surely you haven’t been dwelling on it ever since?”

“Oh, Helena,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad to know that. It was just hearing you on the phone to her tonight. You sounded so close … and she cares about you very much. But please know that I do, too. I feel so guilty for the way I neglected you—emotionally, I mean—when you were little. I always felt so unwell, you see, and Daddy spent all his time taking care of me. It worked out for us, that you and Sam were such close friends, and that you were happy at the Grants’ so much. But I look back and think, What have I done? Especially now, seeing you like this, after what’s happened … the drugs, and so on. I always worried that something like this would happen, but once the band split up, I thought, No, she’ll be okay now. But you aren’t.”

I put my hand on top of hers on the table. I didn’t really know what to say at first. “It’s not your fault, Mum. And, apart from that night, I don’t do drugs. I never have done. That was a one-off because I was upset about Sam.”

It seemed incredible that, in all these years, we’d never had a heart-to-heart like this before. “Why
were
you so sick when I was a kid? You had all those fluctuations and mood swings and stuff. I never knew where I was with you.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m really, really sorry. But surely you knew that I had a thyroid problem?”

I gaped at her. “A
thyroid
problem?”

Mum dried her eyes again. “I can’t believe you didn’t know that, Helena. I thought I told you years ago. I contracted it after you were born: postnatal thyroiditis. In most women it goes away on its own, only mine never did. I kept swinging from hypo to hyper—underactive and overactive. The doctors couldn’t keep up with it. They’d give me drugs to boost it when I was underactive, only usually by that time I was heading the other way, which made it twice as bad. It was only when we moved to the States that I finally got the right medication and it settled down. It was dreadful. I just felt permanently dreadful. That’s why you’re an only child. Neither Daddy nor I could face the risk of it getting worse with another pregnancy.”

“Oh,” I said. “Wow. I had no idea.”

“Well, really, Helena. You must have noticed that something was wrong.” Mum felt sufficiently unburdened to continue clearing the table.

“Of course I did. But I didn’t know what to think. When I was a bit older I wondered about all kinds of things—you know, an eating disorder. Clinical depression, maybe. Even a drinking problem—except that I know you get a headache after two G and Ts. Anyway, that was why I never asked. I thought it was something … sensitive that you wouldn’t want to discuss.”

I was too ashamed to admit that actually, once I joined the band, it wasn’t an issue to which I ever gave much thought, especially after Mum seemed to have recovered. I saw so little of my parents after I left school.

I grinned. “I used to think of your two extremes as Fattypuff and Thinifer.”

Mum huffed air through her nose in an approximation of a laugh. “Very appropriate. You used to love that book.”

“And now you’re just Middleton,” I said, thinking of Toby with yearning in my throat.

“Yes, thank goodness,” said Mum, putting on the kettle for coffee. “I’m sorry, dear, for that little outburst. It’s just that it’s so painful, wondering if one … did the right thing or not. I think back to you and those boys, off driving around America in a van, unchaperoned, hardly more than children. We let you go, with barely a murmur! It seems such a terribly irresponsible thing for us to have permitted. Anything could have happened to you.”

“Yeah, it did—we got rich and famous,” I said, gesturing toward the bank of gold, silver, and platinum discs that covered the wall of the utility room (I’d thought it vulgar to have them anywhere more prominent).

“Well, as long as it’s brought you happiness, Helena,” Mum said.

Happiness? That was a tough one, I thought. I pondered it for a minute.

“I guess it did, at first. I really felt as if I’d found somewhere that I belonged, even more so than with the church.”

I didn’t want to upset Mum, but since we were being honest … ”The boys were like a family to me, like brothers. And Mickey was kind of like a dad—not that I wanted him as a replacement for Dad or anything. But you know, just in terms of looking after us on the road, making sure we were fed and paid and all that.

“You guys weren’t bad parents. But I was a teenager and I’d been taken away from my home and my friends—especially Sam. I needed something else to fill the gap. And then when we got successful, it was so exciting, and everyone wanted to know me. I felt like finally I could
be
someone.… Yes, that made me happy, even if it meant that I had to go without a normal life.”

“So do you forgive me?” Mum asked uncomfortably.

Everyone’s after redemption tonight, I thought. I got up from the table and hugged her, smelling the chemicals in her hairspray and feeling her stiff hair tickle my forehead, crispy like strands of spun sugar.

“Of course I forgive you,” I said, adding silently,
As long as you will one day forgive me, too
.

Margie and her suitcases departed the next morning, leaving little gifts thoughtfully strewn throughout the house for me to discover over the coming days—an
I Am the Way and the Light
bookmark in the spare room; a poster of Jesus and some small children in the downstairs loo; and a little board book of
Prayers for Toddlers
in the magazine rack.

Mum had been true to her word and explained that this was a difficult time for me, and that as she (Mum) was returning home to Freehold soon, we really wanted to do some quality mother-and-daughter bonding before then.

Neither of us acknowledged, to Margie or to each other, the bonding that had taken place the night before.

Japan
GHOSTS

9TH JULY 1983

Hi, Music Lovers!

Welcome to the first edition of the Official BLUE IDEA Fanzine!

BLUE IDEA is the hottest, grooviest new band on the planet, and if you haven’t heard us on the radio yet, or checked us out in your local flea-pit, then don’t worry—you soon will! In fact, catch us while we’re still up-and-coming, so you can tell your friends that you saw us on our first ever tour!

I’m Helena, and since I’m the only girl (!), I’ll be writing you all a letter every month to tell you a bit about ourselves, and what life on the road is like. I’m sure it’s NOT going to be as glamorous as we think it is … but we’ll soon find out!

First, here are some proper introductions, in our own words:

BLUE IDEA: THE LINEUP
ON LEAD GUITAR AND VOCALS WE HAVE:

JUSTIN TIMOTHY BECKER–“Hi, fans, I’m Justin, but you can call me the Sex God! I’m 18, 5’8 1/2”, 143 lbs. I have straight blond hair and brown eyes.

HOBBIES: Watching the Knicks play, track running, listening to records, talking to cute girls.

FAVE BANDS: I like mostly British music: Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Ian Dury and the Blockheads (in fact I wanted to call this band Justin Becker and the Blue Ideas, only the others wouldn’t let me!); but I also like Dylan, Tom Petty, and Talking Heads.

FAVE FOODS: Chili dogs, Coke, fries. You know. The usual.

ASPIRATIONS: I WANNA BE FAMOUS!!!”

ON DRUMS WE HAVE:

DAVID J. SOMERSTEIN
–“I’m 18, medium height, medium weight, cool black hair, short-sighted, great dress sense, awesome rhythm sense. Originally from Pittsburgh, PA; moved to Freehold as a senior.

HOBBIES: Drumming is my life (I guess my folks wish they’d never bought me that kit!). When I’m not playing drums, I watch movies. My all-time fave is still
The Empire Strikes Back
(I know, I know). I support the Steelers. Can’t think of anything else real important.

FAVE BANDS: Talking Heads (but I was into them before Justin was!), The Ramones, U2, R.E.M.

FAVE FOOD: Bananas. I am the ape man.

ASPIRATIONS: To play drums onstage for The Ramones sometime. Oh, and to be totally rich.”

ON KEYBOARDS WE HAVE:

JOSEPH JENNINGS (JOE)–“I’m 18, 6’1”, 140 lbs., brown hair, brown eyes, single and lookin’ for lurve!

HOBBIES: Shooting hoops, making out, watching TV.

FAVE BANDS: Blue Idea, of course.

FAVE FOOD: You name it, I’ll eat it.

ASPIRATIONS: To marry any of Charlie’s Angels. Preferably all of them.”

AND FINALLY, ON BASS AND BACKING VOCALS WE HAVE:

HELENA JANE NICHOLLS–“I’m nearly 17 years old, 5’8”, I have dark brown hair, greenish eyes, and I’m not telling you my weight! I’m British, but have lived in New Jersey for three years. I just graduated, a year ahead for my age.

HOBBIES: Playing bass, writing songs, singing, writing letters to my best friend Sam in England.

FAVE BANDS: Blondie, The Cure, The Clash.

FAVE FOOD: English fish and chips, chocolate digestive biscuits.

ASPIRATIONS: I’d like to really make a difference. I want Blue Idea to be really successful so that I can help promote world peace through my songs.”

Well, that’s us. And now for some history, so pay attention, you guys at the back!

We all met in high school, in Freehold, NJ. Justin, our resident heartthrob (or so he likes to think), got the band together and gave us our name. To be honest, we were pretty rubbish at first (that’s an English term for “lame,” in case you didn’t know), but like most things in life, if you practice and practice, you eventually get better.

We spent months rehearsing, and yup, a lot of the time it was totally boring and we thought we’d never get anywhere, but finally we got our break. A guy from the record company spotted us at a show at The Stone Pony down in Asbury Park. His name is Willy Watts-Davis (a Brit like me) and we love him! He hadn’t even come to see us, but had driven down from NYC to check out the band we opened for (who shall remain nameless … Saul).

The rest, hopefully, will be history. We’ve now been signed by Ringside Records; they’ve got an agent to book us on our first tour, and we’ll be in the studio later this fall to record our first album! So watch this space.…

THE TOUR

DAY TWO

The tour began yesterday, early on a hot July morning. It would’ve been earlier, only Joe overslept … no doubt starting as he means to go on. Still, as his dad was the one who got us a great deal on our van, we didn’t give him too much of a hard time.

We love our van. It’s metallic blue, and only a little bit used. We paid for it out of our advance, and it’s the first vehicle any of us have ever owned (even if it is only part-owned). It has comfortable seats and a radio and everything, and a ton of space in the back for all our gear.

Let me tell you what we packed:

1. Instruments and equipment (amps, cables, microphones, etc.)
   
2. Lots of clean socks and underwear
   
3. Bedclothes, so we can sleep in the van if we have to (shudder)
   
4. A box of cassette singles of our favorite tune, to sell on the road
   
5. Publicity photographs—hey, you never know. Someone might want our autographs.
   
6. Fake ID for me (ONLY JOKING, PARENTS)
   
7. A ton of blank sheets of paper with “Blue Idea–Mailing List” printed, by yours truly, at the top. For all you future fans to write down your names and addresses so we can send you fun stuff (this ‘zine, for starters, hot off the press!).
   

(You will soon discover that I love writing lists.)

It was sooooo embarrassing–my folks actually came outside and waved good-bye to me when we drove off. My Mum (that’s Mum, not Mom, by the way) said that she had to pretend I was off to camp for the summer, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to let me go. She can’t stand the thought of me and a “bunch of teenage boys gallivanting off unsupervised around the country.” She even called the record company (cringe) to try and get them to send someone with us, but it doesn’t work like that. (And funnily enough, nobody wanted to come anyway–can’t imagine why.… ) Heh, heh, heh … freedom!!!! America is great–I’d never have been allowed to do this in England!

Joe had to swear to his folks that we wouldn’t be playing in seedy cowboy bars–he says they thought that every night would be like that scene in
The Blues Brothers
, where they have to play behind a wire screen because everyone is throwing bottles at them. Anyway, we can’t play in cowboy bars, seedy or otherwise, because (a) I’m not old enough and (b) we don’t play Country ‘n’ Western.

DAY FIVE

I hoped I’d be able to write this diary every day, but no chance. I’m either too tired or too busy. But I don’t care–this is the most fun we’ve ever had! Being on the road is fantastic! It’s incredible to see a new place every single night, especially for a Brit like me, who hasn’t been around the States much at all. We were in Washington, D.C., yesterday, and I really liked it. The neighborhood where the venue is was a bit rough, but on the whole it’s such a cool place. I hope we get to play there lots more times.

We even did a tiny bit of sightseeing—David had a cousin whose name is on the Vietnam Memorial, so we went to see who could spot it first. (Only we couldn’t find it, so David wasn’t very happy yesterday.)

But usually there’s no time to stop and look at anything historical or notable. Here’s what we do on a typical day:

1. Check out of our one, very small, motel room. You’d think I could have my own room, being a girl and all, wouldn’t you? But no, I have to put up with these three snoring (and worse!!) all night long. Thankfully we haven’t yet had to sleep in the van.
   
2. Have breakfast, and lots of coffee to wake us up after another late night.
   
3. Drive, drive, drive, drive … and then drive some more.
   
4. Find the venue, without the driver killing the navigator, or vice versa (we all take turns driving and map-reading).
   
5. Call Mickey, our manager (this is my job), from a pay phone, to let him know that we’re all still alive, and haven’t caught scurvy or fleas yet. In the meantime, he’s talked to Willie, our product manager at Ringside, and passes on any interview requests or names for the guest list (so far, three of each—but it’s early days yet).
   
6. Unload the van, sound-check, go and eat.
   
7. Come back, watch everyone arrive, play our set, leave again. We’re first on the bill every night, so it’s not really surprising that people pretty much stay at the bar. Willie told us not to mind about this–until our single’s out, no one will have heard of us anyway, so we should just be looking at these first few weeks as warm-ups, “for the cohesiveness of the band.”
   

Anyway, that’s all for now, folks! Tune in again for the next thrilling installment of “Blue Idea on the Road”!

Bye from all of us,

   xxx

Three months later we made our first album. The studio was in Manhattan, so we mostly commuted back and forth by train from Freehold, although occasionally, when we worked late into the night, we got a cab back to Joe’s aunt Sandi’s place (where we’d stayed after our historic first meeting with Ringside) and crashed there instead.

The weeks we spent recording were a revelation in every way: from the infinitely superior studio gear we had on loan (my borrowed bass was so easy to play, notes dripped from its neck like honey off a spoon), to the pressure we felt to finish the record on schedule, to the huge amounts of pot smoked continually by everyone—except myself. I thought all drugs were evil.

People from Ringside were always dropping by to see how we were getting on, although I started to realize that they mostly did so as an excuse for an afternoon off work and a share of a large joint. I felt really frustrated and left out when they all spliffed up—people got so boring when they were stoned, and it made the chances of our finishing on schedule diminish even further. I just wanted to be getting on with the task at hand, but if I tried to bully the boys when they were high, they brushed me away like an annoying little fly, and settled further down into their exclusive catatonia.

Willy had booked Dean Barnes to produce our record. He was a well-respected and talented East Coast indie producer, whose mellow manner and quiet good nature belied his absolute perfectionism. My only problem with him was that he was the biggest stoner out of everyone, but Willy assured me that being permanently wasted was pretty much endemic among producers, and not to worry about it.

It was, however, a miracle that we as a band survived the discipline of the studio. Dean would regularly make us repeat a few lines of a song about thirty times in a row, without raising his voice or sounding remotely disappointed in us, until we were all fit to be tied.

“Come on, guys, better. And again.”

“Concentrate, David, you’re tailing off at the end.”

“Justin, you’re too pitchy on those high notes. Breathe.”

“Nearly there. Keep going. One more time …”

Once after Dean had said “one more time” nine times in succession, after we’d already been playing the same song for two days, Justin threw down his guitar and stormed out of the studio, punching and kicking the doorframe in fury on his way out. I sat down in despair, thinking that we would never get the bloody record made—we’d been working for a week already and had finished only three songs. I had no idea that it took so long. I’d believed we would just breeze in there and do the whole lot in a couple of takes, and that would be that. Joe echoed my thoughts.

“I thought we just recorded, then it was Dean’s job to fix it afterward,” he grumbled.

Dean just looked up from the mixing desk, through the glass that separated him from us, and said over the intercom, “Okay, let’s take a break.”

Slowly and painfully, however, the album came together. We argued about everything, from artwork to liner notes to sequencing, but with guidance and a lot of hard work from Willy, Dean, and Mickey, somehow the day came when we received a box from Ringside full of pristine shiny vinyl copies of
Switch On
by Blue Idea. Suddenly the hard work seemed worth it, and we all stood around like new parents, grinning stupidly and proudly at one another.

The tour continued into the spring of 1984, on a considerably larger scale. The album was sent to college radio stations in towns all over the country, the plan being that we should play as many of those towns as possible. We played five shows a week, and by the third week we had moved through Florida and Louisiana, into Texas, and then across to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Our audiences got marginally bigger (about forty-five people had signed our fan-base sheets), but still regularly comprised the afternoon drinkers too inebriated to get off their bar stools and go home when we came onstage; or worse, the frat boys who thought that they were above us.