“Our first album sold forty-five thousand copies in the first six months, but in ten years it had sold close to one million: nine hundred and seventy-seven thousand, six hundred and forty-nine copies.”
“Amazing that you can remember!”
“Our second was much more successful. We sold two million, seven hundred thousand—”
Maud interrupted him: “Please, Nikolai…”
“You can’t stop me now,” he shouted. His head was high in the air, rocking from side to side. Indeed, she could not stop him, and he listed the precise sales of every one of the twelve albums his band released prior to his appearance in John Boyd’s film. It took nearly ten minutes.
“Last,” he said, coming to the end, “was the album we called Hero Ground Zero which contained the song ‘Hero Ground Zero’ that was written for John Boyd’s film, in which I appeared as Nikolai Andréevich. That sold quite poorly because I had left the band before the filming and we didn’t tour. Just eight hundred and fifty-two thousand copies—it’s the only one I don’t have precise figures for.”
“Precise enough!” I laughed.
“No!” He turned on me, very serious. “Not precise enough at all; I wish I had exact figures.”
“The film changed things for you,” I said, a simple statement of fact that seemed to divert him and bring him back into the present.
“I saw these wonderful things,” he said, smiling happily. “And I was able to draw them. Now I paint them. You sell them. Maud gets money. This is all very good indeed. I am very happy about it.”
“Good!” I agreed, watching Maud, who appeared to be terribly uneasy, perhaps embarrassed at what a simpleton her husband had seemed.
Nik noticed Maud’s anxiety and startled both of us when he spoke again. “Louis likes you, Maud,” he said. “I can see that. I’m not jealous.”
This unsettled me. How did he know I was so attracted to Maud? I supposed he had an eye for it, or sixth sense.
He turned to his wife. “I neglected you, Maud, when the band was on the road all the time. But darling, I never cheated on you. All the other rock guys were cheating, but I loved you so much. We should have had children, Maud. But how could we have a family when I was away all the time? Life is better now. Don’t you think, Maud? Don’t you agree that life is better for us now?”
Maud nodded, looking shyly at me. It was clear that Nik was a good-hearted man, a sweet, kind man. What he had seen, and his representations in charcoal and paint, obviously delighted him; he felt special. He felt chosen. He was proud of himself.
“Life is good, Nik,” she agreed. “Better now, yes.”
But I sometimes wondered if Nik’s dependence on her was hard for her to accept. Now she looked at me awkwardly, as if to say: “I will never have any peace now.”
It occurred to me while we were talking that Nik might be able to give Walter some advice. Despite Maud’s discomfort I decided to take a chance. Walter was frightened, troubled, and on the edge of depression. Nik by contrast was happy.
“Maud, Nik, can I prevail on you for some advice?”
They both nodded.
“I told you about my godson Walter,” I continued. “He has been experiencing some strange things himself. Not visions, but sounds, like music, and it is rarely pleasant.”
“You think Nik could help?” Maud looked quizzical.
“You know, yes, I do think he might be able to help,” I confessed. “Nik seems to bear what happened to him, the massive breakdown he suffered, with such equanimity, and he has steered it to such a wonderful outcome with his art.”
“Nik was a working musician once, just like your godson.” She was ready to agree. “I can’t see any harm in trying.”
I described what Walter had been experiencing, without embellishment; my godson was hearing daunting sounds that he believed might be emanating from the people in his audience. Nik and Maud listened carefully. Then Nik seemed to make a decision.
“There is no question,” he interjected firmly. “I can help your godson. I know exactly how to help.”
After they left, I considered whether I should call Walter, and when.
I hadn’t spoken to him for some time. His manager Frank Lovelace was, as I say, an extremely hard-driving and high-achieving man, and I’d heard that Walter was becoming uneasy about where his band was headed under Lovelace’s guidance.
Lovelace was good-looking in a slightly battered, east London way with a good head of dark hair. He was midheight, about five foot nine, and carried himself lightly, in a manner that suggested he would be fast-moving in a fight. He was always suited up, in a kind of shiny mohair that looked cheap but was actually very expensive. He was not always without a tie, but he preferred expensive dark shirts in equally expensive-looking material, often with gold or silver thread at the seams, the two top buttons left open. His hands were calloused because he spent a fair bit of time boxing for a hobby, as his slightly battered nose betrayed. His eyes were a vivid blue, his teeth rather wolverine, but they were shiny white. Even so, his breath wasn’t always good. One felt challenged not to grimace and look away when he came close in order to say something intimate or secret.
To make deals in the music business it was not unusual for managers to be tough guys, and to intimidate the record company people into favoring the artists they represented, but also to bully the artists in order to make good on careless promises they had made to record companies or show promoters.
“He’ll do what I fucking say,” Lovelace would tell the businesspeople he dealt with, the show promoters and record company bosses. “Just give us the advance we need and leave him to me.”
If there were any qualifications or reservations, he might sink into personal attacks.
“Listen,” he would hiss, his face inches from his adversary. “You fucking little twat. I was in this business when you were at school lusting over Debbie Harry.”
Despite my conviction that he was potentially an artist destined for more than Dingwalls, and that Lovelace’s efforts could almost certainly make him richer, Walter seemed to be entirely comfortable in the old dive, and in other modest venues like it. He appeared to love the smoky pubs and clubs packed to the roof with fans who could reach out and touch him, punch him, or even spit at him in the Fourth Wave manner if they wished. The band was selling a lot of albums and CDs, and he and Siobhan had a good little flat in South Ealing. She had also inherited her father’s cottage in Duncannon close to the sea near Waterford in Ireland. They retreated there sometimes when Walter wanted to write new songs. Walter’s band lineup was simple: singer with a harmonica, guitar, bass, drums.
I’d often been to see them at Dingwalls—rehearsals and live performances. I’d station myself at the bar at the back. On guitar was Crow Williams. Crow was a purist. He played a Fender Telecaster with heavy strings through a small, but loud, vintage Fender Deluxe amplifier.
“For fuck’s sake,” he would shout in rehearsal. “I can’t fucking hear myself. And when I can hear, we sound like a bad imitation of the fucking Shadows.” His Telecaster would bounce off the wooden floor and there would be another scar on its pale cream body. The band members just looked on, impassive. Crow never hit anyone, but he was scary.
He used no effects. No pedals, no echo, no compression. He got his name from his black hair that he wore long like Ronnie Wood of the Stones; or it could have been from his grim expression and slightly hooked nose. He was striking-looking, and attractive to women—his blonde wife, Agneta, was a stunning and voluptuous Swedish businesswoman who looked like a glamour model. Crow had met Walter in their college days. He had been at a nearby college studying art, while Rain was at the same place studying journalism, so he knew her pretty well. Rain told me that Crow was really the leader of the band, even though he never wrote songs and never spoke about the band in public. In group interviews with the press he would never utter a single word, and rarely even nod to support what the other band members said. But he was the one who decided what they would play, how they would play it, and even how long they would perform. He was against onstage showing off of any kind, except by Walter, who was permitted a few flashy moments simply because he was the front man. Crow never seemed jealous of Walter’s status or reputation. Whenever creative matters came up for discussion, for example prior to recording sessions, he would simply pull out the same six vinyl albums.