“Sure. But is that it for the list?”
“That’s five. Do you want to change anything?”
“Did I say ‘Stir It Up’? Bob Marley?”
“No.”
“I’d better have that in.”
“What do you want to leave out?”
“Prince.”
“No problem.”
“And I’ll have ‘Angel’ instead of ‘Think.’ ”
“Right.” She looks at her watch. “I’d better ask you a couple of questions before I get back. Why did you want to start it up again?”
“It was a friend’s idea really.” A friend. Pathetic. “She organized it without telling me, as a sort of birthday present. I’d better have a James Brown in there, too, I think. ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.’ Instead of the Elvis.”
I watch her carefully while she does the necessary crossing out and writing in.
“Nice friend.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s her name?”
“Umm … Laura.”
“Surname?
“Just … Lydon.”
“And that motto, ‘Dance Music for Old People.’ Is that yours?”
“Laura’s.”
“What does it mean?”
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but I’d like ‘Family Affair’ by Sly and the Family Stone in there. Instead of ‘Sin City.’ ”
She crosses out and scribbles again.
“ ‘Dance Music for Old People’?”
“Oh, you know … a lot of people aren’t too old for clubs, but they’re too old for acid jazz and garage and ambient and all that. They want to hear a bit of Motown and vintage funk and Stax and a bit of new stuff and so on all jumbled together, and there’s nowhere for them.”
“Fair enough. That’ll do me, I think.” She drains her orange juice. “Cheers. I’m looking forward to next Friday. I used to love the music you played.”
“I’ll make you a tape, if you want.”
“Would you? Really? I could have my own Groucho Club at home.”
“No problem. I love making tapes.”
I know that I’ll do it, tonight, probably, and I also know that when I’m peeling the wrapper off the cassette box and press the pause button, it will feel like a betrayal.
“I don’t believe it,” says Laura when I tell her about Caroline. “How could you?”
“What?”
“Ever since I’ve known you you’ve told me that ‘Let’s Get It On’ by Marvin Gaye was the greatest record of all time, and now it doesn’t even make your top five.”
“Shit. Fuck. Bollocks. I knew I’d … ”
“And what happened to Al Green? And the Clash? And Chuck Berry? And that man we had the argument about? Solomon somebody?”
Jesus.
I call Caroline the next morning. She’s not there. I leave a message. She doesn’t call back. I ring again. I leave another message. It’s getting kind of embarrassing, but there’s no way ‘Let’s Get It On’ isn’t going in that top five. The third time I try I get through to her, and she sounds embarrassed but apologetic, and when she realizes that I’m only calling to change the list she relaxes.
“OK. Definitive top five. Number one, ‘Let’s Get It On,’ by Marvin Gaye. Number two, ‘This Is the House That Jack Built,’ by Aretha Franklin. Number three, ‘Back in the USA,’ by Chuck Berry. Number four, ‘White Man in the Hammersmith Palais,’ by the Clash. And the last one, last but not least, ha ha, ‘So Tired of Being Alone,’ by Al Green.”
“I can’t change it again, you know. That’s it.”
“Fine.”
“But I was thinking that maybe it would make sense to do your five favorite club records. The editor likes the story, by the way, the Laura stuff.”
“Oh.”
“Is it possible to get a quick list of floor-fillers off you, or is that too much to ask?”
“No. I know what they are.” I spell it all out for her (although when the article appears it says ‘In the Ghetto,’ like the Elvis song, a mistake that Barry pretends is due to my ignorance).
“I’ve nearly finished your tape.”
“Have you? That’s really sweet of you.”
“Shall I send it to you? Or do you fancy a drink?”
“Umm … A drink would be great. I’d like to buy you one to thank you.”
“Great.”
Tapes, eh? They work every time.
“Who’s it for?” Laura asks when she sees me fiddling around with fades and running orders and levels.
“Oh, just that woman who interviewed me for the free paper. Carol? Caroline? Something like that. She said it would be easier, you know, if she had a feel for the kind of music we play.” But I can’t say it without blushing and staring intently at the cassette deck, and I know she doesn’t really believe me. She of all people knows what compilation tapes represent.
The day before I’m supposed to be meeting Caroline for a drink, I develop all the textbook symptoms of a crush: nervous stomach, long periods spent daydreaming, an inability to remember what she looks like. I can bring back the dress and the boots, and I can see her bangs, but her face is a blank, and I fill it in with some anonymous rent-a-cracker details—pouty red lips, even though it was her well-scrubbed English clever-girl look that attracted me to her in the first place; almond-shaped eyes, even though she was wearing sunglasses most of the time; pale, perfect skin, even though I know she’s quite freckly. When I meet her I know there’ll be an initial twinge of disappointment—this is what all that internal fuss was about?—and then I’ll find something to get excited about again: the fact that she’s turned up at all, a sexy voice, intelligence, wit, something. And between the second and the third meeting a whole new set of myths will be born.
This time, something different happens, though. It’s the daydreaming that does it. I’m doing the usual thing—imagining in tiny detail the entire course of the relationship, from first kiss, to bed, to moving in together, to getting married (in the past I have even organized the track listing of the party tapes), to how pretty she’ll look when she’s pregnant, to names of children—until suddenly I realize that there’s nothing left to actually, like, happen. I’ve done it all, lived through the whole relationship in my head. I’ve watched the film on fast-forward; I know the whole plot, the ending, all the good bit. Now I’ve got to rewind and watch it all over again in real time, and where’s the fun in that?
And fucking … when’s it all going to fucking stop? I’m going to jump from rock to rock for the rest of my life until there aren’t any rocks left? I’m going to run each time I get itchy feet? Because I get them about once a quarter, along with the utilities bills. More than that, even, during British Summer Time. I’ve been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, between you and me, I have come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains.
I know what’s wrong with Laura. What’s wrong with Laura is that I’ll never see her for the first or second or third time again. I’ll never spend two or three days in a sweat trying to remember what she looks like, never again will I get to a pub half an hour early to meet her, staring at the same article in a magazine and looking at my watch every thirty seconds, never again will thinking about her set something off in me like ‘Let’s Get It On’ sets something off in me. And sure, I love her and like her and have good conversations, nice sex and intense rows with her, and she looks after me and worries about me and arranges the Groucho for me, but what does all that count for, when someone with bare arms, a nice smile, and a pair of Doc Martens comes into the shop and says she wants to interview me? Nothing, that’s what, but maybe it should count for a bit more.
Fuck it. I’ll post the fucking tape. Probably.
Thirty-four
She’s a quarter of an hour late, which means I’ve been in the pub staring at the same article in a magazine for forty-five minutes. She’s apologetic, although not enthusiastically apologetic, considering; but I don’t say anything to her about it. Today’s not the right day.