The Alternative Hero Part 21

SUGGESTED LISTENING: The Cardiacs, BBC Sessions EP BBC Sessions EP (Strange Fruit, 1988) (Strange Fruit, 1988) Lance!

You know what it's like on one of those those days. days.

One of those days when it's like you've got a million things to do. So many things that you actually make a list, as your mother used to tell you to do, although her lists are more likely to consist of things like "pick up beef from butcher's, have hair done, order flowers" rather than the fascinating contents of the following: get suit from dry cleaner's buy laces buy stain remover for Polly iron s.h.i.+rt (breakfast!!) pay council tax ring housing-benefit office ring bank re: extending overdraft limit Put more credit on phone!!-charge battery ring sister re: lunch on sunday finish application form finish JSA report check shoes-if dirty, polish take: (job centre) JSA book (job meeting) pa.s.sport, NI number, pen/paper (webster meeting) laptop, printouts, polly's mr men books take out cash money on oystercard 10 a.m. sign on 11 a.m. new fetter lane EC4 (james brandish) 1 p.m. geoff W, no. 3A So, you're up on time, jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, cup of tea and straight outside, cursing at the p.i.s.sing rain, leg it to the dry cleaner's to collect your suit, grab the laces and Polly's stain remover (don't ask), and belt back home before everything gets drenched. You're the world's worst s.h.i.+rt ironer but it starts to look wearable after about ten minutes, so you sling in some toast and settle down at the kitchen table for the first of your phone calls.

The council tax one is without hitch, but when you ring the housing-benefit office you get put in a calling queue for about twenty minutes. You clutch your mobile between your ear and shoulder and continue with your tasks: b.u.t.tering and eating toast, cleaning and polis.h.i.+ng shoes. Halfway through relacing them you finally reach the front of the queue and a wonderfully circular conversation ensues: "We don't seem to have your claim on our system."

"I sent the form in ten days ago."

"Sometimes it takes up to three weeks to be put onto our claiming system."

"So where is it now?"

"In our queuing system."

"How do I know it's definitely been received?"

"You could speak to the queuing department, but you'll need a claim number for them to be able to find your form."

"Can I get a claim number?"

"Not until the form gets put onto our claiming system."

And so on. You hang up and proceed to what should be a more straightforward experience: ringing your bank. Wrong. Straight onto another queuing system, and with the clock nearing quarter past nine there's no choice but to continue your ch.o.r.es with your phone still wedged under your ear, your head c.o.c.ked at a neck-cricking angle. Finally you speak to a human being and-after surprisingly little persuasion-your wish of a few extra hundred quid is granted. You're just reaching for your to-do list to get the next item, when one of the items decides to get you.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Clive! It's Maggie!"

You dispense with your sister as swiftly as you can without having an argument, then continue your way down the list. Pretty good idea, really, this list. Those parents, eh? Occasionally they have a point.

Quarter to ten and you're on the bus, one of those disorienting rainy bus journeys where you can never see where the h.e.l.l you are. Finally the Job Centre appears through the steamed-up and splattered windows; you dash through the rain to catch your ten minutes of hearing about all the exciting data-entry vacancies north London has to offer. Then it's back on the bus for more wet public travel, and this time you're not so lucky: there's something happening at Angel so the bus has to go some crazy route which not only takes you miles in the wrong direction, but the added traffic is horrendous. Ten minutes of trying to circulate the Old Street roundabout and you're getting your sweat on in your woollen suit, toying with the idea of bus hopping, but it's so hard when you can't see where the f.u.c.k you are-and would a different bus necessarily be any quicker? Suddenly a picture appears in your head of Mr. James Brandish (a City recruitment consultant you've been hooked up with via an old university friend) tapping his watch as it nears five past eleven, mentally crossing off the many human-resources departments who simply wouldn't accept this lateness. You stand up and stumble to the back of the bus, leaning over to wipe a peephole in the condensation so you can see if any potential connecting bus is behind. A glance at your watch (10:46), a final flash of James Brandish-and you belt down the stairs, beg the driver to let you off and race through the rain to catch another bus just as its doors are closing.

10:58 and you're pelting down Hatton Garden (past the jewellery shop where you considered buying an engagement ring five years ago), nearly enjoying a collision with a bike as you hurtle round Holborn Circus and finally coming to a halt outside the office in question. You're dripping with sweat and your hair's all over the place, but you decide this can be more easily explained than lateness of even a minute, so you tuck in your s.h.i.+rt and firmly press the intercom.

It's important to reflect on the circ.u.mstances which sometimes guide us in a slightly curious direction. London is not an easy city: its size, expense, weather and transport system are often enough to drive one potty, and this has so far been, in a number of ways, a fairly typical London morning. The next fifty minutes, in a very different way, are also highly representative of the kind of minutes one can experience in London when knowing the right people. An old university friend is often the best of references; the sort of connection which can turn "sorry," "nothing at the moment," "not the sort of skill-set we can place" and "goodbye" into "excellent," "inundated with opportunities," "should find you something by the end of the week" and "see you soon." Certainly, they will not be the sort of jobs you crave, but needs must when Satan gobs in your wallet and blows his nose on your career-development plan. A brisk handshake, a promise of a phone call on Thursday morning, a last glug of Marks & Spencer's organic coffee later and you are back on New Fetter Lane in the drizzle.

You stroll as casually as you can back up Hatton Garden, chewing over the prospect of health and colour returning to your bank balance, but lamenting the immediate shrinkage of your free daytime. It's been a while since you've had a real nine-to-five; you gallingly recall how deadening a schedule it is, week in, week out. But hey. It's only Tuesday. You've got almost a week before any potential job could start, and an hour before you're due at Webster's. It's been a tough morning, but you've achieved everything on your list. And there, across Clerkenwell Road, as if by magic, is the Duke of York. And what's the time? Midday.

On the dot.

Now, you're fully aware that you've an afternoon of work, as defined by Mr. Geoffrey Webster, to get through: a collaborative and inventive burst of brainstorming for which full alertness and flowing creative juices are mandatory. But a quick pint won't do any harm. On the contrary, given your previous record of being overa.n.a.lytical, nervous and p.r.o.ne to weeping in public places, it'll probably be just the ticket. You march in, order yourself a Stella and settle down by the window to watch the rainy traffic. They're playing the first Killers alb.u.m, so you cast aside the disappointing memory of seeing them live at Reading and enjoy the alb.u.m for what it is.

The first few gulps are just as refres.h.i.+ng as you expect them to be, and by the time a text message appears at five past twelve you've had a whole half. Never mind, always the way: the second half will be slower. You glance at your phone. Alan, of course: "HOWD IT GO" (no punctuation as usual). You hammer out the good news; then, already feeling a positive rush from the alcohol (and "Everything Will Be Alright" is the Killers song currently playing), you take a chance on adding the following: Meeting Webster later, prob going to 3 Kings after, turn up later if you want but make it look accidental You've decided this won't be a problem. After all, how would Webster know Alan had driven from four suburbs away to accidentally b.u.mp into him? And Alan will hopefully behave himself-but even if he doesn't, your brief friends.h.i.+p with Webster has just about run its course, with his impending departure to G.o.d knows where, so it won't make an awful lot of difference if he thinks Alan's a leering goon or, as Billy Flus.h.i.+ng would have it, a dullard.

You take a few more gulps. Everything will be all right. You're just wondering to what sort of horrendous job Mr. Brandish will send you when another text arrives.

Except it isn't a text. It's your phone telling you the battery's running out. s.h.i.+t! That was on the list too, giving it ten minutes on the charger! How could you have missed it? And this silly new phone of yours has a rubbish battery-two more of these alerts and it's curtains. Pondering what to do about this, you drain your pint. Gah. The first pint is always so fast. But never mind.

The second pint will be slower.

By the time you've ordered it and returned to the window seat, your phone has spoken again. This time it really is a text.

Great will do what time roughly

No sooner has this appeared, it's the low-battery noise once more. There's no shutting this phone up. For the second time that day, beads of sweat appear on your brow. It's vital that Alan should know what time to arrive; you don't want him getting there just as you're ordering food 'cos he'll have nothing to do for the next forty minutes, and it will will look like the whole thing was planned. But right now you've no way of knowing what time to tell him. d.a.m.n! Why the h.e.l.l didn't you charge the battery? Angrily you s.n.a.t.c.h your to-do list from the bottom of your bag. How in G.o.d's name did you ... Sister. Sister! It's all the fault of your sister! You were meant to ring her look like the whole thing was planned. But right now you've no way of knowing what time to tell him. d.a.m.n! Why the h.e.l.l didn't you charge the battery? Angrily you s.n.a.t.c.h your to-do list from the bottom of your bag. How in G.o.d's name did you ... Sister. Sister! It's all the fault of your sister! You were meant to ring her after after you put your phone on charge, but she rang you and jumped the queue! So you missed the bit about checking your battery and ... you put your phone on charge, but she rang you and jumped the queue! So you missed the bit about checking your battery and ...

... putting credit on your phone.

Now this is getting stupid. You were down to your last couple of quid last night, and since then you've made those stupid long phone calls. Never having grasped the finer points of your phone's tariff system, you've no clue how much credit will be left, only that it won't be much. You could call the service that tells you how much is left, but then the battery will instantly die.

a.r.s.e!

But there must be something good in this pint, for after your next sip comes a brainwave: the sort of thought that simply doesn't occur very often in 2007, although ten years ago it would be obvious. You drain your pint, gather up your belongings, bid farewell to the barman and, feeling that usual extra bright daylight after a daytime pub stop, look up and down the road for a pay phone.

It's years since you've had reason to be inside one of these things, and you haven't missed them. Forty-pence minimum! You shove your pair of coins in the slot and wait as Alan's phone rings ... and rings. Voice mail. Actually, that's better; you don't have to waste time talking to him.

"Alan, it's Clive. Um ... listen, I'm not sure what time's gonna be best for later, and my b.l.o.o.d.y phone's running low on credit and battery so what I'll do is ... I think I'm gonna have enough juice for [bleep! bleep! bleep! bleep! [bleep! bleep! bleep! bleep! announces the accursed mobile as its final power courses through the circuit] ... well, I'll hopefully have enough juice for, like, a one-word message ... y'know, after it's had a rest, so I'll just write the time you should get there. I should think it'll be seven-ish, but we'll see. All right? Later." announces the accursed mobile as its final power courses through the circuit] ... well, I'll hopefully have enough juice for, like, a one-word message ... y'know, after it's had a rest, so I'll just write the time you should get there. I should think it'll be seven-ish, but we'll see. All right? Later."

Yet another rescue mission accomplished, you trot back over the road just in time to catch your bus. You climb to the top deck, where, apart from feeling a little dazed, prematurely knackered and slightly in need of a p.i.s.s, you manage to enjoy the half-hour ride back to your home turf. You scoot round to your own street, ring the buzzer of 3A and shake the hand of the beaming former indie-rock icon who energetically swishes open his front door-but only then do you recall another, infinitely more important thing Alan should know before bowling happily into the boozer this evening.

"Hey!" exclaims Webster, chuckling slightly. "What's with the suit, Alan?"

b.u.g.g.e.r.

Considering the pair of pints (you realise that "have lunch" might also have been a good thing to write on the to-do list) and the maelstrom of worries churning around inside you all afternoon, you do pretty well at the Webster children's-book workshop. Having bonded over toys, shrines and Belgian beer three days previously, frankness is forthcoming and ideas surprisingly plentiful. But every time Webster leaves the room to do anything-put the kettle on, visit the loo, make a phone call-you're frantically working out how you can say what you need to say in the shortest possible text message before your phone bleeps its last: 7 p.m. Web thinks my name is Alan please don't call me clive sorry explain later7 my name is alan will explain later7 my names alan explain l8r Other lines of communication haven't been written off: it's a possibility that you could open up your email page on Webster's computer, compose the appropriate message to Alan and send it before he reappears, but it's risky. If the page locks up, he could return to find the name Clive Beresford slapped all over his screen, shortly before showing you the colour of his front door and reacquainting you with his roadie pals. Just about the only safe option is to announce you must suddenly pop home for something, giving you the chance to run to another pay phone-but what for, and why is it so urgent? You'd need an excuse-but imaginative resources run dangerously low when you've spent the last few hours trying to dream up catchphrases for a talking fly.

Inevitably, because of all this mental turmoil, you haven't had much chance to properly take in your surroundings. You are, after all, inside Lance Webster's flat; notes should be made, searching questions should be asked, a small amount of emotion should even be felt. But in truth, there's not an awful lot to see. You're working on a laptop in a comfortable but spa.r.s.ely furnished front room; the kitchen is functional but hardly top of the range; there's a paucity of gold discs, musical instruments or any other memorabilia that might suggest the abode of a pop star; there's a flash-looking stereo but only a small rack of CDs. An indifferent ginger cat you've been warned not to approach-evidently the more vicious colleague of the recently departed Jessica-periodically prowls through the room. You haven't been offered "the grand tour" and you're not completely comfortable asking for it, but the hospitality has been reasonable enough: tea, biscuits and even, at around four, a round of cheese and pickle sandwiches. But the distinct impression remains that you've purposely not been allowed into the real inner sanctum, the studio, where Geoff still occasionally becomes Lance. The only item you've seen that's worthy of a second thought is a framed photograph, on the mantelpiece, of a male toddler.

The session starts winding down at around half past six. Webster is beside himself with joy at the afternoon's achievements and you feign suitable amounts of enthusiasm and satisfaction, but you're close to exhaustion, regretting every last millilitre of beer you consumed earlier in the day for both its mental and physical effects (you've had a pounding headache for the last two hours). Delightedly, Webster asks if you're still up for "some grub," to which you nod and smile. He dashes upstairs to "freshen up," leaving you to contemplate your mobile phone and whether, in your hour of greatest need, it will be there for you.

You hold down the power b.u.t.ton gingerly just as the ginger cat strolls into the room. You eye each other warily as the phone boots up. The first thing that happens is it makes the low-battery noise again. The cat doesn't like this noise, flips back its ears and jumps onto the windowsill: an area Webster has spent a considerable portion of the afternoon trying to stop the cat reaching. You do your best to ignore its behaviour, racing to your "write message" function, but the cat is poking its nose through the open crack in the window. You quickly write your prerehea.r.s.ed message (you've risked expanding it to "745 Web thinks my name is Alan sorry explain l8r"), scroll to Alan's number (thank f.u.c.k his name begins with "A") and press send just as the cat wins its grip on the bottom of the window and pushes it upwards to make good its escape.

"Lance!" you shout, running into the hall and halfway up the stairs. "Lance! Your cat's trying to get out of the lounge window!"

In the silence that follows-as the name you have chosen to shout reverberates around your bewildered head-your phone bleeps to merrily announce its own untimely death and an upstairs door creaks open.

"Sorry," Webster's voice slowly articulates, "what was that you said?"

"I, er ... I said ... that your cat ... is trying to escape ... from the lounge window."

Webster runs wordlessly past you down the stairs and rushes out the front door. Mercifully he appears a moment later holding the wretched animal, which he carries into the kitchen. He throws a handful of cat food into a bowl and leaves the room, shutting the door. He grabs a jacket from one of the coat hooks in the hall and then stops, looking straight at you with a hard, featureless stare that could mean a number of things. You reasonably decide it's probably "What f.u.c.king name did you just call me, and why?"-so you respond with a look one might give a girlfriend if caught trying on her clothes.

After a few incredibly long seconds, your companion shakes himself out of his brief trance, announces brightly, "Come on, then-let's do it," grabs a batch of printouts from the day's travails ("just in case we want to talk about it in the pub") and you're off towards the drinking hole of choice as if nothing has happened. You decide he's either convinced himself he heard wrong, or surmised that you did indeed Google him after he told you the band name the other night. Either way, the banter is soon back up to speed, or as speedy as you can manage. Christ knows whether Alan received your text.

You feel slightly better as soon as the first drink is placed in front of you, your brain and body probably in limbo since the last one some six and a half hours ago. The two of you chat about this and that, consider ordering food but decide to wait awhile. Webster is in his usual good mood but your own brain wanders easily; on more than one occasion in the next half an hour Webster asks you if you're okay. The final time he asks, you apologise and slope off to the toilet.

Once inside, you splash some cold water on the gaunt, ill-looking face reflected in the mirror and decide, not for the first time, that enough is enough. You simply cannot keep doing this: living your life via a string of grey lies, all of which cascade into one another, leaving you with a perpetually impossible cleanup task. You must shape up, turn the leaf, cease the "harmless" lunchtime pints, get your s.h.i.+t together, be honest. Possibly even right now. With the much-lied-to alternative hero of yours, who waits on the other side of the wall.

But sadly none of this will be possible. Exactly as you initially felt his presence about a month ago, when you leave the gents' and return to the pub's main room you just know know that Webster has vanished. You know, even before you see his jacket missing from the back of his chair, the pile of papers gone from the little table. The room simply feels Webster-less, before you've even rounded the corner. You approach the table, your new pint waiting (at least he had the decency to deliver it)-no trace of a drink for him. He's not at the bar. Then you spot the thing. Your bag is slightly open. You look inside: perhaps a note? But nothing. Apart from your wallet, not zipped shut properly, one of the credit cards sticking out. A card that of course bears the name "Mr. C. Beresford." Not "Mr. A. Potter": that innocent, sensible name of a man who doesn't go putting crazed, drunken notes through ex-pop stars' front doors at two in the morning. that Webster has vanished. You know, even before you see his jacket missing from the back of his chair, the pile of papers gone from the little table. The room simply feels Webster-less, before you've even rounded the corner. You approach the table, your new pint waiting (at least he had the decency to deliver it)-no trace of a drink for him. He's not at the bar. Then you spot the thing. Your bag is slightly open. You look inside: perhaps a note? But nothing. Apart from your wallet, not zipped shut properly, one of the credit cards sticking out. A card that of course bears the name "Mr. C. Beresford." Not "Mr. A. Potter": that innocent, sensible name of a man who doesn't go putting crazed, drunken notes through ex-pop stars' front doors at two in the morning.

You sit down and instinctively clutch the pint gla.s.s in front of you. You consider crying, but no tears come (which isn't an altogether bad thing-it would start to become a habit). You look up, frowning hard, your eyes coming to rest on the clock behind the bar. Quarter to eight. Punctual as ever, Alan comes bursting through the door, swinging his car keys, glancing around the pub. He meets your eyes and comes bowling over. Nice that he's tried to make it look accidental, just as you asked him to.

"Where is he? Is he in the loo? Am I too late?"

You look up at your old friend wearily, and shake your head.

"He's gone."

"Gone? Whaddya mean? You said seven forty-five, didn't you? And what did you mean, he thinks your name is Alan?"

"Alan-get yourself a drink, and I'll explain everything."

He waits a second, then mopes off to the bar.

So.

That's how it happens.

You know how it is.

Given the chance to do it all again, perhaps you'd do things differently.

But that chance is probably not going to come.

Is it.

This is what you wanted, now throw it away.Thieving Magpies, "This Is What You Wanted"

SUGGESTED LISTENING: Longpigs, The Sun Is Often Out The Sun Is Often Out (Mother, 1996) (Mother, 1996) Farewell, Zeitgeist Man At around 3 p.m. on Wednesday, 8 April 1998, Lance Webster walked into BFM's headquarters on London's Mortimer Street, ostensibly for a meeting with his former label's product and marketing team about a planned Thieving Magpies "greatest hits" release. He signed in with security, settled himself down cross-legged by the lifts, hoisted a large hand-painted sign bearing the legend say no to pointless records and remained there until removed by police at around four.

During his one-hour, one-man demonstration, a wave of gossip swept through the London offices of the British music industry. From record company to management office, rock venue to promoter, press agency to music paper-the telephone-propelled whispers of derision streaked across the city until a small crowd of highly amused and merrily intoxicated industry representatives gathered on the pavement outside to catch a glimpse of the fallen indie idol and his latest madcap blunder. I myself was halfway through my first-and, as it happened, last-week working as a staff writer for the dying Britpop rag Craze; Craze; I shelved my workload and jumped in a taxi, arriving on Mortimer Street to find I was Webster's sole supporter. I shelved my workload and jumped in a taxi, arriving on Mortimer Street to find I was Webster's sole supporter.

To add stinging insult to considerable injury, Webster had dressed from head to toe in white (a reference point woefully displaying his inflated opinion of his intentions) and had printed a stack of information leaflets, which he handed to anyone entering or exiting the lifts, painstakingly listing BFM's crimes against the campaigner himself, his erstwhile group and British music fans in general. The rambling and frequently repet.i.tive copy boiled down to three main points: that BFM had effectively "a.s.sa.s.sinated" the Thieving Magpies via a sustained policy of underspend, forcing them to embark on a ma.s.sively overlong tour to promote The Social Trap The Social Trap, accompanied by a level of financial support fit for a "recently signed band on their first outing" rather than an act who'd just sold four million alb.u.ms. "But we were an 'old school' alternative band," harped the leaflet, "so obviously obviously we were used to slumming it." we were used to slumming it."

that the same label "blackmailed" Webster into swiftly releasing a "substandard" solo alb.u.m (1997's Commercial Suicide) Commercial Suicide) to fulfil his contractual obligations. to fulfil his contractual obligations.

that "greatest hits" alb.u.ms are an utter swindle and merely a quick, cheap, easy way for record companies to make pots of cash out of their old catalogue. BFM's decision to release such an alb.u.m by a band they themselves had "destroyed" proved they had respect for neither their artists nor the listening public.

While there may have lurked a grain of truth in all three charges, the fact it was Lance Webster who chose to bring them, and in such a public and pathetic manner, struck a distinctly incongruous note. In the weeks and months following the Magpies' infamous final performance in August 1995, Webster appeared to do everything in his power to sabotage attempts at salvaging the band's career: prohibiting further single releases, refusing requests to record new material, rubbis.h.i.+ng their output whenever the opportunity arose, even blocking plans to stage a special free gig for those who'd been present at the abortive Aylesbury show. When the ent.i.ty known as Thieving Magpies officially ceased to exist in March 1996, Webster redirected his bile towards the record industry itself, calling it a "c.o.ke-addled circus of pointless, peripheral morons," adding petulantly that "everything was fine before Britpop came along and f.u.c.ked everything up."

The typewriters of the music press duly veered between ignoring the man completely (NME) (NME), encouraging hot debate as to whether he was right or plain bonkers (Melody Maker) (Melody Maker) and merciless mockery and merciless mockery (Craze, Select, Vox) (Craze, Select, Vox). A number of publications mentioned the continued absence of Gloria Feathers, musing that Webster seemed a very lost and unfortunate soul without her apparently "cosmic" guidance. For my own part, still scribbling as hard as I could for my fanzine Definitely Not Definitely Not (which aimed to give s.p.a.ce to anything but Britpop), I went as far off the scale as you could imagine: (which aimed to give s.p.a.ce to anything but Britpop), I went as far off the scale as you could imagine: The behaviour of the man is admittedly perplexing, but how can anyone be surprised? He's spent the last ten years giving us precisely what we wanted: consistently brilliant, inventive alternative rock, endlessly witty and thought-provoking lyrics, exhilarating live shows and entertaining interviews. But he made one mistake; and now you've all decided you don't want him anymore. You're either too drunk, too stupid or you've shoved too much white s.h.i.+t up your nose to realise that Lance Webster, and a few others like him, are the reason you're able to do what you do today. None of these Britpop bands, none of your s.h.i.+tty little magazines, would be selling anything anything if he hadn't done the groundwork. If you sat down and examined your rock history for one second, you'd realise he's the closest thing Britain's ever had to its own Cobain. And who are you clueless p.r.i.c.ks wors.h.i.+pping instead? The Gallagher brothers: a pair of charmless, primeval fools who've somehow learned to use a microphone and string a few chords together. They're the kings of your pitiable little world, and you lap it up like the weak, brain-dead, sycophantic little c.u.n.ts that you are. if he hadn't done the groundwork. If you sat down and examined your rock history for one second, you'd realise he's the closest thing Britain's ever had to its own Cobain. And who are you clueless p.r.i.c.ks wors.h.i.+pping instead? The Gallagher brothers: a pair of charmless, primeval fools who've somehow learned to use a microphone and string a few chords together. They're the kings of your pitiable little world, and you lap it up like the weak, brain-dead, sycophantic little c.u.n.ts that you are.

But irrespective of your opinion on the man, it came to everyone's surprise in the summer of that year when it emerged that Lance Webster would be appearing at a brand-new festival, V96, to road-test material for an upcoming solo tour and alb.u.m. Odder still, he had agreed to a midafternoon slot on the weekend's Britpop-heavy second stage, sandwiched between s.p.a.ce and Kula Shaker. Even the choice of festival itself was puzzling; as quickly became clear, everything about the clean, well-ordered V was emphatically "new school," from the wooden walkways of the inner arena to the ticketed method of purchasing drinks. Still, a couple of thousand faithful dragged themselves away from the delights of Mike Flowers Pops on the main stage and waited with bated breath or (in my case) bitten-down-almost-to-the-cuticle fingernails for Webster's appearance, hoping that this time he would be sober.

In retrospect, it probably would have been better if he'd been drunk. Accompanied by nothing more than an acoustic guitar and an expressionless male piano player barely into his teens, he slouched on, uttered no word of greeting and proceeded to play six of the most dismal ballad-style numbers imaginable, none of them bearing even the faintest hallmark of the man's former prowess. His voice retained its range and power, but the material it warbled was of such a bewilderingly low standard that half the audience were gone by the end of the first song. The remainder clapped politely (I remember thanking the G.o.ds he hadn't tried doing this at Reading) and steeled themselves for the next intake of bilge. Webster spoke only once, before the final track, informing us that "this is David over here; he's doing music A-level"-far from the expected, bitter slagging of all things Britpop which might at least have been worth watching. The few onlookers who'd bothered to stick around sighed and gradually sloped off to see ... well, anything.

Although in its own way as derisory as the Magpies' Aylesbury show, Webster's V96 performance had the unexpected result of temporarily killing the Lance bas.h.i.+ng; why bother, when he'd done such a good job of it himself? Consequently, by the time reports of a completed debut solo alb.u.m circulated the following spring, Webster had as good a chance as ever of redeeming himself. Frustratingly, he both did and didn't.

On the one hand, no one could deny he'd made a decent record. It was mercifully bereft of any material debuted at V96 and featured a lean combination of conventional rock and electronics, not a million miles from the sound of certain tracks on Blur Blur and and OK Computer OK Computer, two of 1997's biggest releases. Most of the songs matched the quality of those on The Social Trap The Social Trap ("The Bad Life," "Blissful Indignance"), a few of them ("Walk-In Disaster," "His Fax Beats Out the Blues") as convincing as anything the Magpies had ever recorded. All in all, Webster could hardly claim BFM forced him to put a "substandard" record out. ("The Bad Life," "Blissful Indignance"), a few of them ("Walk-In Disaster," "His Fax Beats Out the Blues") as convincing as anything the Magpies had ever recorded. All in all, Webster could hardly claim BFM forced him to put a "substandard" record out.

So much for the good news. Sadly, his behaviour throughout the summer of 1997 capably supplied the bad. For a start, the alb.u.m was mixed, mastered and ready by April, but for reasons best known to himself a managerless Webster insisted on holding the release back, employing various delaying tactics: unexpectedly lengthy publis.h.i.+ng negotiations, dissatisfaction with artwork, sudden loss of confidence with the final mix, illness, disappearing abroad, even alleged jury service. At last, a firm date of 18 August was agreed upon: later than BFM would have liked, but thank G.o.d they were finally getting the thing out there. They even grudgingly agreed to the rather portentous t.i.tle. Only after the date had been set in stone did they realise Oasis' highly antic.i.p.ated third alb.u.m Be Here Now Be Here Now was scheduled to arrive-unusually-on the Thursday of the same week, and not the following Monday as originally planned. Evidently having acquired this information via the few industry contacts he had left, Lance Webster was quietly ensuring his alb.u.m would receive as little attention as possible. was scheduled to arrive-unusually-on the Thursday of the same week, and not the following Monday as originally planned. Evidently having acquired this information via the few industry contacts he had left, Lance Webster was quietly ensuring his alb.u.m would receive as little attention as possible.

In addition, Webster refused almost all interviews, only agreeing to a handful of continental publications, a few in the States and a short chat with the Big Issue Big Issue, in which his monosyllabic grunts were so worthless the feature was ultimately abandoned. A UK tour was arranged, then sc.r.a.pped-again, the phantom jury service cited-Webster honouring only a one-off date at London's Borderline, where he enraged punters by starting his set ten minutes before the doors opened and ordering his support band to play after he'd finished.

Looking back, it's amazing any of his fans continued to bother with him at all. But I recall hearing the strong, rea.s.suring sound of "Walk-In Disaster" emerge from my radio that summer, and with it the promise of similar things to come; I remember finally getting my hands on Commercial Suicide Commercial Suicide and grinning like an idiot for practically its whole length, such was the c.o.c.ktail of relief and joy. However, I hadn't been one of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the Borderline show. In the end, it was people like me who ensured the alb.u.m entered the UK chart at twenty-five; far from the heights scaled by even and grinning like an idiot for practically its whole length, such was the c.o.c.ktail of relief and joy. However, I hadn't been one of the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at the Borderline show. In the end, it was people like me who ensured the alb.u.m entered the UK chart at twenty-five; far from the heights scaled by even The Social Trap The Social Trap, but also far from disastrous. In Europe the record fared even better, scoring a top-five showing in the charts of both Denmark and the Netherlands; although the likelihood of a hit in these territories was significantly boosted by Webster actually bothering to grace them with his presence, even dispensing that rarest of Webster commodities: a proper gig. It was for the Danish one of these that I decided Definitely Not's Definitely Not's shoestring budget could stretch to a Copenhagen plane ticket. shoestring budget could stretch to a Copenhagen plane ticket.

Digressing for a moment, it's one of the ironies in what might generously be described as my career in music journalism that both of my "breaks"-one that I allowed to slip away unfulfilled, the other so short-lived as to render it almost irrelevant-came from publications I despised. For years I had tried to interest my beloved Melody Maker Melody Maker in bits and pieces, but met with zero response (apart from the editor of the letters page). In the autumn of 1994 a friend who worked at the in bits and pieces, but met with zero response (apart from the editor of the letters page). In the autumn of 1994 a friend who worked at the NME NME whispered to me that a recruitment drive could be taking place, advising me to send in some material, which I did; a week later I got a message to call the apparently interested editor. Over half a dozen phone conversations with Alan in the days that followed, we examined my position. Aside from the knee-jerk dislike of whispered to me that a recruitment drive could be taking place, advising me to send in some material, which I did; a week later I got a message to call the apparently interested editor. Over half a dozen phone conversations with Alan in the days that followed, we examined my position. Aside from the knee-jerk dislike of NME NME proudly held by all proudly held by all Maker Maker devotees, we genuinely couldn't bear the writers, the layout, the music it championed, even the paper it was printed on. But, unsurprisingly, the greatest portion of our disgust was generated by their own hatred for the Thieving Magpies. All their alb.u.ms, with the strange exception of devotees, we genuinely couldn't bear the writers, the layout, the music it championed, even the paper it was printed on. But, unsurprisingly, the greatest portion of our disgust was generated by their own hatred for the Thieving Magpies. All their alb.u.ms, with the strange exception of The Social Trap The Social Trap, received terrible NME NME reviews, and interviews were always peppered with b.i.t.c.hy asides from the writer. Webster himself was philosophical about the situation: "It's healthy to have enemies," he bragged. "You can't have reviews, and interviews were always peppered with b.i.t.c.hy asides from the writer. Webster himself was philosophical about the situation: "It's healthy to have enemies," he bragged. "You can't have everyone everyone liking you. Christ, we'd be even liking you. Christ, we'd be even more more popular then ... I'd have to buy a bigger house! It'd be a nightmare." Still, to us, this represented the organ's greatest crime. Unable to decide, I caught the train to Manchester that weekend so Alan and I could thrash out the pros and cons of any potential employment at the popular then ... I'd have to buy a bigger house! It'd be a nightmare." Still, to us, this represented the organ's greatest crime. Unable to decide, I caught the train to Manchester that weekend so Alan and I could thrash out the pros and cons of any potential employment at the NME NME together. Just before I left on the Sunday afternoon, we finally reached a decision, over which Alan's rational business head reigned: as a purely "foot in the door" exercise my pride could temporarily be swallowed, so I would call Stamford Street the following morning and feign enthusiasm for whatever was being offered. I bade Alan farewell and settled back on the London train with a two-litre bottle of cider and Soundgarden on my stereo. By the time the train hit Rugby I'd finished all the drink, permanently reversed the decision-and together. Just before I left on the Sunday afternoon, we finally reached a decision, over which Alan's rational business head reigned: as a purely "foot in the door" exercise my pride could temporarily be swallowed, so I would call Stamford Street the following morning and feign enthusiasm for whatever was being offered. I bade Alan farewell and settled back on the London train with a two-litre bottle of cider and Soundgarden on my stereo. By the time the train hit Rugby I'd finished all the drink, permanently reversed the decision-and Definitely Not Definitely Not was born. was born.

As you've probably gathered, I never really got got Britpop. I fully agreed with Webster's thesis that it was a fairly decent little scene with some fairly decent music. It was not, as rock historians often desperately scribble, the most important and influential movement in British music over the last twenty-five years. For a start, that's a claim to a pretty weak accolade; there've only really been two of the d.a.m.n things, and even then Britpop lost by some distance to its one compet.i.tor, acid house, whose musical influence remains almost omnipresent, registering (albeit sometimes unwittingly) on the dial of every current artist from John Lydon to s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sey All that Britpop has given us is some faintly memorable pub songs and an opportunity for a band like the Kaiser Chiefs to exist: a group in every way inferior to the Barron Knights. Britpop. I fully agreed with Webster's thesis that it was a fairly decent little scene with some fairly decent music. It was not, as rock historians often desperately scribble, the most important and influential movement in British music over the last twenty-five years. For a start, that's a claim to a pretty weak accolade; there've only really been two of the d.a.m.n things, and even then Britpop lost by some distance to its one compet.i.tor, acid house, whose musical influence remains almost omnipresent, registering (albeit sometimes unwittingly) on the dial of every current artist from John Lydon to s.h.i.+rley Ba.s.sey All that Britpop has given us is some faintly memorable pub songs and an opportunity for a band like the Kaiser Chiefs to exist: a group in every way inferior to the Barron Knights.

But then, Britpop never really got me me either. Everything about the effect it had on me was wrong, or at least at odds with what everyone else seemed to be feeling. I detested Oasis, from the moment I heard the opening chords of "Shakermaker" to the first time I listened in disbelief as Liam Gallagher t.w.a.ttily yelled "Good evening, Great Britain!" on a BBC session. I loved Blur's either. Everything about the effect it had on me was wrong, or at least at odds with what everyone else seemed to be feeling. I detested Oasis, from the moment I heard the opening chords of "Shakermaker" to the first time I listened in disbelief as Liam Gallagher t.w.a.ttily yelled "Good evening, Great Britain!" on a BBC session. I loved Blur's Modern Life Is Rubbish Modern Life Is Rubbish but considered but considered Parklife Parklife a motley collection of disjointed ditties which sagged badly in the middle a motley collection of disjointed ditties which sagged badly in the middle (The Great Escape (The Great Escape was far better, but now everyone else hates it). I didn't like the way all the indie fans in England suddenly cut their hair. My favourite bands of the era (Longpigs, Dubstar, Marion) were the ones who seemed to die immediately afterwards. My favourite songs (Sleeper's "What Do I Do Now," My Life Story's "12 Reasons Why I Love Her," Supernatural' "The Day Before Yesterday's Man," Bennett's "Mum's Gone to Iceland") were far from the biggest hits of the period. It was all very much like a jolly good party which someone had forgotten to send me an invitation to. When the Magpies returned in 1995 I felt vindicated that their success still remained, but when the tidal wave of backlash began after the Aylesbury debacle, I experienced, as you've seen, fury such as I hadn't felt since a day in 1981 when my sister melted all my Easter chocolate on a radiator. All of this bile flowed straight into was far better, but now everyone else hates it). I didn't like the way all the indie fans in England suddenly cut their hair. My favourite bands of the era (Longpigs, Dubstar, Marion) were the ones who seemed to die immediately afterwards. My favourite songs (Sleeper's "What Do I Do Now," My Life Story's "12 Reasons Why I Love Her," Supernatural' "The Day Before Yesterday's Man," Bennett's "Mum's Gone to Iceland") were far from the biggest hits of the period. It was all very much like a jolly good party which someone had forgotten to send me an invitation to. When the Magpies returned in 1995 I felt vindicated that their success still remained, but when the tidal wave of backlash began after the Aylesbury debacle, I experienced, as you've seen, fury such as I hadn't felt since a day in 1981 when my sister melted all my Easter chocolate on a radiator. All of this bile flowed straight into Definitely Not Definitely Not, which found a gratifyingly large circulation despite my heaping praise on the unlikeliest of people in my determination to crush the Britpop hyperbole: I had the most marvellous argument at the weekend over a few drinks in the Jeremy Bentham. Unfortunately someone brought along a friend who I'd already earmarked as a goon on account of his Oasis T-s.h.i.+rt. However this was tolerated until a Phil Collins song ("Sussudio") randomly came on the pub's stereo."Aw, what the f.u.c.k are they playing this s.h.i.+t for?" began the goon. "I thought we'd seen the last of this b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.""What d'you mean?" I enquired innocently."I mean," he replied, a smug tone creeping into his voice, "now the revolution has come we shouldn't have to sit in a pub listening to Phil Collins.""You don't like Phil Collins.""Whether I like him or not isn't the point. We have real music now, real honest British pop played on real instruments ... by the people, for the people ... created by real characters living real life, not hiding away in their Surrey mansions staring at their gold discs.""I've always quite liked old Phil," I muttered, biding my time."Yeah," scoffed the goon, "the same way I like putting my f.u.c.king head in the oven.""There's nothing wrong with Phil Collins.""No, other than he's a complete c.o.c.k. You don't honestly like him?""Yeah, I do, actually. He's got an ounce of intelligence, which is more than those k.n.o.bs combined," I concluded, gesturing at his T-s.h.i.+rt."Oh, come on, Clive," joined in one of the others. "If it was a choice between having Liam Gallagher or Phil Collins round for dinner, you'd definitely go for-""Phil Collins," I insisted. "He'd be a perfectly charming, courteous, entertaining guest. You could quiz him about twenty-five years in the music business as opposed to two c.r.a.ppy little years. Plus there's the added bonus that he can actually use cutlery.""He's the devil," said the goon, shaking his head and sipping his vodka tonic."Oh, yeah? And how much good has Liam f.u.c.king Gallagher done? I don't see him doing charity work. That's the trouble with this f.u.c.king Britpop s.h.i.+t, everyone thinks the sun s.h.i.+nes out of the Gallaghers' a.r.s.es, when all they're doing is shoving royalties straight up their noses. People like Phil Collins get completely p.i.s.sed on now, even though he's probably done more for 'the people,' as you put it, than all the f.u.c.king Britpop t.w.a.ts put together."

Meant every b.l.o.o.d.y last word of it, as well. I don't remember seeing the goon again after that.

So, another deeply ironic note struck when, in the autumn of 1997, I received a call (on my first-ever mobile phone) from Stuart Harris, editor of Craze Craze-the most defiantly, laddishly Britpop of all the new "music" magazines. Harris had finally realised the musical foundation on which his magazine was built had long since pa.s.sed its sell-by date, and that diversification would be essential for Crazes Crazes survival. He'd been aware of survival. He'd been aware of Definitely Not Definitely Not for a while, he explained, but had been struck by-of all things-the pa.s.sionate review I had written for Lance Webster's show at Copenhagen's Christiania Grey Hall: for a while, he explained, but had been struck by-of all things-the pa.s.sionate review I had written for Lance Webster's show at Copenhagen's Christiania Grey Hall: No apologies will be made for the liberal use of superlatives and melodrama in this review. No explanation will be given for how glorious glorious is the sight of Webster, his head thrown back, his face frozen in that familiar but long-missed plateau of exhilaration. I refuse to hold back when I say that tonight a lost lover is welcomed home, a long-dreamed-of kiss has been returned, a brutal husband has finally chosen to be kind. The bittersweet pa.s.sion of "More Than Ever," the adrenaline rush of "Walk-In Disaster," the bite of "Disposal"-it's all here, and more. And the acoustic encore of "This Is What You Wanted" is almost too much to bear; the years of disappointment, the hurt and the yearning, the purple, the blue and the red. The wounds. They're all healed. The silver and gold return. It's all better now. is the sight of Webster, his head thrown back, his face frozen in that familiar but long-missed plateau of exhilaration. I refuse to hold back when I say that tonight a lost lover is welcomed home, a long-dreamed-of kiss has been returned, a brutal husband has finally chosen to be kind. The bittersweet pa.s.sion of "More Than Ever," the adrenaline rush of "Walk-In Disaster," the bite of "Disposal"-it's all here, and more. And the acoustic encore of "This Is What You Wanted" is almost too much to bear; the years of disappointment, the hurt and the yearning, the purple, the blue and the red. The wounds. They're all healed. The silver and gold return. It's all better now.

Yeah, I know. What can I say? I was probably stoned. For some reason, Harris saw this and thought a slice of my old-fas.h.i.+oned Maker Maker-style gothic waxings would be a good antidote to the tiresomely thuggish scrawlings of people like deputy editor Tony Gloster, who was still snarling from our run-in during The Boo Radleys at Aylesbury Over the next six months Harris kept an eye on my work, all the while arguing with Gloster about my potential involvement, as I discovered later. Finally, a week before Webster pulled his Lennon-style stunt at BFM's headquarters, Harris offered me a position to belatedly develop the magazine's "non-Britpop wing." Believing (rightly, as it turned out) that it would be my last chance to write for a real publication, rather than one I had to staple together myself, I cast my principles aside and accepted.

Meanwhile, Lance Webster's future was also looking slightly more rosy. Following his European dates and the lackl.u.s.tre release of the single "Blissful Indignance," Webster was without a record deal for the first time since 1986. This state of affairs appeared to revitalise him: he reunited with manager Bob Grant, returned to the studio and started hunting for a new label, with Music Week Music Week reporting in March '98 that negotiations had commenced with a "prominent indie." How those chickens must have been counted at the beginning of that April: by the label, whoever they were, by Bob Grant, by me. reporting in March '98 that negotiations had commenced with a "prominent indie." How those chickens must have been counted at the beginning of that April: by the label, whoever they were, by Bob Grant, by me.

Then the "madness" returned.

I remember sitting at my desk in Craze's Craze's poky little Camden Town office, wrestling with a pile of paperwork, trying to eavesdrop on the new Ma.s.sive Attack alb.u.m which Stuart Harris was reviewing next door, when my archenemy Gloster (still dressing like a cut-price Graham c.o.xon) slithered into the room and sardonically informed me of my hero's antics across town. poky little Camden Town office, wrestling with a pile of paperwork, trying to eavesdrop on the new Ma.s.sive Attack alb.u.m which Stuart Harris was reviewing next door, when my archenemy Gloster (still dressing like a cut-price Graham c.o.xon) slithered into the room and sardonically informed me of my hero's antics across town.

"Isn't it time someone sectioned him?" he laughed, sliding out again.

It was three thirty. Two hours of official work time to go, but the monthly issue deadline was looming and people normally seemed to stay until at least seven. But I felt so nervous, fidgety, unable to relax or concentrate-as if I was needed, somehow. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d Gloster had done it on purpose to torture me. I pushed papers around my desk pathetically for the next five minutes before calculating that if I cabbed it over there for a quick half an hour I could be back by five; then I could continue working until the building was locked, if need be. I dashed out onto Pratt Street and was in a taxi two minutes later.

What good I imagined I'd be able to do was debatable. There was a crowd of k.n.o.bs on the pavement outside the BFM building, some holding pints from the nearby pub, some whom I recognised from rival publications or record labels. Unfortunately one of them also recognised me.

"Eh! It's 'definitely never' bloke."

"Hi," I greeted him abruptly, and pushed my way through the doors.

Inside the foyer the scene was grimly familiar. The receptionists were attempting to continue as normal while four security guards, plus a few members of label staff and poor old Bob Grant, surrounded the white-shrouded figure. I could see his ridiculous sign, still held aloft, and after a few seconds I spied that the fool had shaved all his hair off. It was apparent that no one had yet tried any force; perhaps they remembered what had happened at Aylesbury.