The Alternative Hero Part 9

"Any good?"

"Fantastic. The ruck was brilliant. Stage-dived, too [this bit was a lie]."

"Hmm," Alan murmured, idly watching some girls limbering up across the pitch. "I remember their drummer being great."

I was delighted at this gaping hole in Alan's usually spotless knowledge, though it presented a dilemma. Should I reply truthfully or, in the name of harmony, let his clumping error lie-but potentially leave myself open to looking similarly ignorant later on? Just as I was deciding, Billy showed up.

"Good grief, Charlie Brown," he blethered, with his rather awkward chuckle.

I shrugged at Alan apologetically.

"That's, um, one of Carter's song t.i.tles."

"That's our favourite one," Billy continued, beaming, his forehead bearing its usual sheen of sweat. He twitched, pulling his rucksack further onto his shoulder-an endlessly uncool manoeuvre. "The other good one is [and here he fully broke into song, head bobbing and everything] 'Pump it up, Jack, pump it up, Jack-pump it up!'" 'Pump it up, Jack, pump it up, Jack-pump it up!'"

Again, I sighed and explained to Alan, "That's, um, this song, on my T-s.h.i.+rt." But it was too late.

"Laters," Alan muttered, and wandered off.

"Billy!" I snapped, once Alan was out of earshot.

"What?"

"Couldn't you be a bit more ... ?"

I regarded him, his confused expression, his mum-cut hair, his relentless habit of pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses back up his nose. No, he probably couldn't. Oh well.

"Want to go for a milk shake?" he enquired excitedly. I pondered my wealth of more attractive options.

"Yeah, all right."

Anyway. Summer came and went, GCSE results arrived and suddenly we were sixth formers. Thinking this might mean a marked improvement in Alan's at-school att.i.tude towards me, I bowled up to him outside the a.s.sembly hall on the first day back and asked him how Reading Festival was.

"Um, yeah, it was wicked, man," he responded, then frowned, played with his floppy hair and wandered off towards a group of people from his own year.

So there we were, Billy Flus.h.i.+ng and me, halfway through an interest-free ninety minutes during which some old teacher, the ident.i.ty of whom unsurprisingly escapes me, furnished us with riveting details of Bismarck's progress up the Prussian power ladder. We started mumbling things to each other in stupid German accents, certain phrases from our life at the time: "I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush;" "Don't ask any more stupid questions;" "Take me down to the paradise city" "I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush;" "Don't ask any more stupid questions;" "Take me down to the paradise city" (all hilarious, I a.s.sure you), eventually coming across (all hilarious, I a.s.sure you), eventually coming across "Ich bin ein Berliner," "Ich bin ein Berliner," which Billy tried to convince me actually translated to "I am a jam doughnut" (which is kind of true, but I'll let someone else explain that one). Finding this vastly entertaining, I shortly uttered those fateful words "vorsprung durch peanut." And why? On account, obviously, of which Billy tried to convince me actually translated to "I am a jam doughnut" (which is kind of true, but I'll let someone else explain that one). Finding this vastly entertaining, I shortly uttered those fateful words "vorsprung durch peanut." And why? On account, obviously, of "Vorsprung durch Technik," that "Vorsprung durch Technik," that nifty piece of eighties sloganeering, but also the aforementioned track "Good Grief, Charlie Brown," which had led Billy and me to decide, just as fans of the Grateful Dead were known as "Deadheads," that Carter USM fans should be known as "Peanuts" (it didn't catch on). nifty piece of eighties sloganeering, but also the aforementioned track "Good Grief, Charlie Brown," which had led Billy and me to decide, just as fans of the Grateful Dead were known as "Deadheads," that Carter USM fans should be known as "Peanuts" (it didn't catch on).

Gawd. Sorry. It's like describing an episode of a bad sitcom to someone.

And what, you may quite reasonably demand, was the earthly point of telling you all that?

Well, over the summer I had decided to start a fanzine. Apart from the fact I enjoyed writing, it seemed the only way of arranging my various ideas and opinions regarding this peculiar music whose trickle towards my eardrums had rapidly turned into a torrent, with all the attendant phrases, att.i.tudes, subgenres and items of merchandise. What I wanted to achieve was something indie laymen could read and feel comforted by, rea.s.sured that they had a sane companion on this journey into the wide alternative yonder. As I knew comparatively little myself at this point, there would be a strong atmosphere of mutual discovery in my fanzine's pages, with irreverent explanations of the various acts I encountered (Pop Will Eat Itself: "They're white, they're from Birmingham, but they rap! No one knows why." The Pixies: "Completely barmy, the band all seem to be playing different songs to each other, apart from 'Here Comes Your Man,' which sounds like The Archies' 'Sugar, Sugar' after a few pints." The Stone Roses: "I thought they would be really good. They're not"). The name of this nascent publication was originally going to be something to do with the Thieving Magpies, but I correctly figured it was likely to be taken more seriously by Alan Potter if it wasn't. I had toyed with Info Freako Info Freako but this also seemed too obvious. After that history lesson with Billy Flus.h.i.+ng there was little doubt it should be called but this also seemed too obvious. After that history lesson with Billy Flus.h.i.+ng there was little doubt it should be called Vorsprung Durch Peanut Vorsprung Durch Peanut. Billy had offered to be involved, and despite some reservations, I agreed.

The thing with Billy-and I think we've all had a friend like him at some point in our youth-was that you could have real, childish, eccentric fun fun with him, without caring for a second about how with him, without caring for a second about how cool cool you ended up appearing. When I was with him, I sank (depending on one's perspective, of course) to his level, and became a super, hyper, f.u.c.king you ended up appearing. When I was with him, I sank (depending on one's perspective, of course) to his level, and became a super, hyper, f.u.c.king supernova supernova geekboy, a nerd incarnate, laughing at things that weren't funny, entertaining possibilities that a four-year-old would dismiss as immature, and crucially, because I was slightly higher up on the school food chain, could temporarily feel as cool as a b.a.s.t.a.r.d by comparison. But the problem was, should anyone arrive on the scene who displaced geekboy, a nerd incarnate, laughing at things that weren't funny, entertaining possibilities that a four-year-old would dismiss as immature, and crucially, because I was slightly higher up on the school food chain, could temporarily feel as cool as a b.a.s.t.a.r.d by comparison. But the problem was, should anyone arrive on the scene who displaced me me from this little hierarchy-one of the "hard lads," or Alan Potter, or any member of the opposite s.e.x-I instantly wanted Billy Flus.h.i.+ng to be swallowed up by the floorboards or to spontaneously vaporise. This facet of our friends.h.i.+p eventually gave rise to One of the Nastiest Things I Have Ever Done Ever-but we'll come to that. from this little hierarchy-one of the "hard lads," or Alan Potter, or any member of the opposite s.e.x-I instantly wanted Billy Flus.h.i.+ng to be swallowed up by the floorboards or to spontaneously vaporise. This facet of our friends.h.i.+p eventually gave rise to One of the Nastiest Things I Have Ever Done Ever-but we'll come to that.

Alan Potter himself was a big part of the fanzine strategy though he was presently unaware of this. You may wonder why on earth I was still set on the idea of befriending the graceless sod when he was so blatantly uninterested in acknowledging my existence; here I must hold up my hands and utter two words of explanation, two timeless teenage preoccupations which, as we streak into the iPod-filled, Mys.p.a.ce, my-a.r.s.e, your-Facebook latter half of the first decade of the twenty-first century, show absolutely no sign of waning: Girls, and Music. Alan seemed to know a lot of both. Billy Flus.h.i.+ng, for all his entertaining observations and ability to make double history pa.s.s more quickly, had precious little of either commodity. My plan, then, was to get the first issue of the fanzine out as quickly as possible, making it so exciting that Alan Potter wouldn't be able to resist getting involved with the next one. Cue: doors opened to a wealth of newly discovered bands, easy access to gigs (Alan had many friends who drove), respect from the sixth form at large, with particular focus on the female half. At least, that was the theory.

Work began in earnest, Billy on the design, me on the actual content. I had spoken to one of the trainee teachers-a lackl.u.s.tre undergraduate known as Mr. Eversmith, who looked a good deal younger than us-and he had agreed to sneakily let us use the art-room photocopier as long as we provided the paper. Here Billy once again proved his worth: his elder brother worked for a stationery company. A tentative date in December was set for our first issue's launch, but it quickly became clear that an extra ingredient was required. We couldn't very well fill an entire organ of twenty (or even ten) pages simply with my ramblings on whoever ignited my interest from the pages of Melody Maker Melody Maker (which I'd recently abandoned (which I'd recently abandoned Smash Hits Smash Hits for). Original material was necessary, and not just my ham-fisted attempts at alb.u.m and single reviews. We needed a proper interview feature. for). Original material was necessary, and not just my ham-fisted attempts at alb.u.m and single reviews. We needed a proper interview feature.

The most impressive coup for me would obviously have been an interview with Lance Webster, but superficial enquiries confirmed this was way out of our league. Further brainstorming boiled down to an unnatural selection of the acts Billy considered "not boring," those whom I naively felt were within our grasp, and people we'd actually heard of: All About Eve's Julianne Regan, Jesus Jones' Mike Edwards, New Model Army's Justin Sullivan and The Sugarcubes' Bjork were all mentioned, among a very few others. We wrote to their record companies and were greeted, predictably, by deafening silence. After waiting vainly until half-term, I agreed to an idea Billy had suggested ages ago but for some daft reason I had rejected: try Carter USM.

Carter were a completely different matter. Slated as "ones to watch" (their anthem "Sheriff Fatman" had begun to work its magic on the more adventurous of the country's indie clubs, and I'd noticed one of their badges had by now appeared on Alan Potter's school jacket) but still hardly significant players even in the alternative sector, theirs was the only record sleeve I owned which bore a residential address. We fired off another letter and forgot about it. A week or so later I got home from school to a frosty reception from my mum, furious to report that someone from "one of those dreadful s.e.x companies" had been on the phone for me.

"What did they actually say?" I demanded.

"Oh, it's just too awful for words ..."

"No, no, Mum-what did they actually say?" actually say?"

"He said he was the boss of a s.e.x machine," she moaned, extracting the leftovers of a roast chicken from the fridge. "I can't bear it, I never thought you'd get involved in anything like that ..."

"Adrian Boss ... Boss ... and he manages Carter the Unstoppable s.e.x Machine!" I exclaimed, as if this would improve matters. My mum blinked at me for a few seconds, then sat down and started angrily pulling bits of chicken off the carca.s.s. and he manages Carter the Unstoppable s.e.x Machine!" I exclaimed, as if this would improve matters. My mum blinked at me for a few seconds, then sat down and started angrily pulling bits of chicken off the carca.s.s.

Of course she'd refused to take a number, but directory enquiries were useful for once and I was soon nervously speaking to the manager himself. Carter had a show at the Marquee the following Tuesday, he explained; there was a gap in their schedule after sound check, around seven-ish, when I was welcome to join them for a pint at a pub called the Blue Posts, "just north of Oxford Street."

"Excellent!" exclaimed Billy, when I phoned him straight afterwards. "I think I know where that is."

I had been so breathlessly excited about the whole thing, I'd forgotten to get a more detailed address.

"It's not far from Forbidden Planet."

"I don't like Forbidden Planet," I reminded him.

"Yeah, but I do. I can nip in there before we meet them."

Oh dear.

"Um, Billy ... I was thinking ... I'm not really sure we both need to go?"

"Eh?"

"Well, I reckon it would, you know ... look a bit more professional if it was just one of us-otherwise it'll just sort of look like two mates who want to meet their favourite band."

"Which it sort of is," Billy pointed out.

"Well, I don't really see it that way. I mean, this is a big deal for us!"

"I agree. But as it was my idea, perhaps it should be me who goes."

Strange thing about Billy: as awkward and difficult to take seriously as he was in person, he was actually very good on the phone, almost businesslike.

"But the whole fanzine idea was mine in the first place," I countered, "so it should really be me who goes."

"All right, how about you do the interview, I come along and take some photos?"

The thought of Billy b.u.mbling around with his camera while I attempted to interrogate the duo was more than I could deal with.

"Billy, sorry-no. Next time. Once we get going. There's just a bit too much riding on this first one. Please let me do it by myself. I'm sorry."

"Oh."

I felt pretty rotten. But sod it. I had an interview with Carter! How many other sixteen-year-olds could claim that? And the fact that they were on the cusp of some serious cult stardom (I knew this; I'd read it somewhere) meant I was officially going to be one of the hippest guys in my year. Schoolwide fame, popularity and gaggles of previously un.o.btainable girls were surely just the other side of the carol service. A state of affairs I sadly found too thrilling to keep to myself.

"You're gonna do what?"

Guess who.

"Interview Carter," I breezed, ladling some custard onto my sponge pudding. "Tomorrow evening."

"Where?"

"Oh, up in town. Before their Marquee show."

"What for?"

I grabbed some cutlery and mooched off with my lunch to an empty table near the back of the dinner hall. I didn't even need to look back. As if I was pulling him by a string attached to his nose, Alan Potter followed, and put his tray opposite mine. Oh, the power.

"What for?" he repeated.

"Oh, for this fanzine I'm starting next month."

"You're starting a fanzine?"

"Yeah. Carter are going to be the first cover stars."

I tucked into my curried something-or-other while Alan looked helplessly around him, frowning with the bewilderment of a dog who'd just had its ball taken away.

"What's the fanzine called?" he asked, finally.

"Vorsprung Durch Peanut," I enunciated, after swallowing what I had in my mouth. I enunciated, after swallowing what I had in my mouth.

"That's a b.l.o.o.d.y silly name for a fanzine, man."

"All fanzines have b.l.o.o.d.y silly names. That's the deal."

He stared down at his suddenly unappetising plate of chips.

"We wrote them a letter, the manager phoned back," I continued. "They like doing fanzine interviews, apparently. More than they do for the proper music press."

"Who's we?" Alan enquired, with a suspicious glint in his eye.

"Me and ... you know, the others involved."

"You're not doing it with that dweeb, are you?"

"Who d'you mean?"

"That k.n.o.b in your year, with the gla.s.ses and the hunchback."

"He's not got a hunchback," I protested.

"Yeah, he has. Quasi-Flus.h.i.+ng. Billy-modo. So he's doing it with you, yeah?"

"No. He's helping out a bit, you know, providing some of the paper. But he's not part part of it." of it."

The shame of it. It gets worse, unfortunately.

"So, what are you going to ask them?"

"Well, a few things. About the alb.u.m. About, you know ... how far they want to go. About the lyrics. And stuff."

"You must have a list of questions," Alan improvised, forking some chips into his mouth, his appet.i.te regained. "You've got to have your strategy worked out, man."

"Strategy?" This was a concept that hadn't occurred to me. I was interviewing them, not trying to beat them at chess.

"Yeah, sure," Alan rambled, like the expert he wasn't. "If they smell a rat, if they think you're not for real, they'll be out of there."

"Really?"

"Of course, man."

"But this is Carter. They're, you know ..."

"One of us?" Alan laughed.

"Yeah!"

"Don't believe it. That's how they come across, but if those guys want to get anywhere they'll be complete b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like everyone else. Especially to the press."

It was my turn to look confused, as my mental picture of two chummy, wacky-haired men-of-the-kids drifted down the gutter.

"Don't let that put you off, though, man!" Alan beamed, slapping me on the shoulder. "I'll come along if you like, give you a hand."

Without a second's hesitation, I nodded vigorously.

"Okay, yeah! That'd be great."

Hmm.

Well, the next day and a half pa.s.sed with agonising lack of speed until, at last, we were alighting from the train at Euston. At this point in my life central London was a relatively unknown quant.i.ty to me. I fancied that I possessed pa.s.sable awareness of its rough shape and contents, but in reality this consisted of little more than Trafalgar Square, Harrods, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford Street and whatever other snippets had engraved themselves on my cranium from the occasional half-term shopping and "culture" trip with members of my family. Plus, as I acknowledged to myself with a hefty slab of guilt when Alan and I emerged from the tube at Tottenham Court Road, the bit of New Oxford Street that was then home to Billy's beloved Forbidden Planet. It was a mildish November evening, which I was glad about; I was dressed in a black, long-sleeved Thieving Magpies T-s.h.i.+rt but had forgone any sort of jacket as none of mine was remotely what one would wear to meet a pair of fledgling alternative superstars. Alan, on the other hand, looked irritatingly cool in a Red Hot Chili Peppers Mother's Milk Mother's Milk T-s.h.i.+rt and a black leather jacket (which I later discovered was actually his brother's). We sauntered down the rapidly emptying shopping strip and came to a halt at the corner of Newman Street, on which, Alan had a.s.sured me, resided the boozer in question. T-s.h.i.+rt and a black leather jacket (which I later discovered was actually his brother's). We sauntered down the rapidly emptying shopping strip and came to a halt at the corner of Newman Street, on which, Alan had a.s.sured me, resided the boozer in question.

"We're a bit early, man-let's walk round the block a bit."

Alan's standoffishness towards me had thawed considerably on the journey up (just as it had materialised on the way back from the first Magpies show). Rather than being pleased about this, I was actually pretty p.i.s.sed off. Was he so surgically attached to school etiquette that he felt unable to communicate with me in a civil manner within a ten-mile radius of the place? How "alternative," then, did that really make him? I planned to firmly ask him, as soon as the interview was behind us. But for now we nattered amiably about the musical concerns of the day.

"When's it out?"

"Monday."