Read Online Frank: The True Story that Inspired the Movie by Jon Ronson - Free Book Online Page A

keyboard. There was one song I played fantastically well. It was a twelve-bar blues in C. It was literally the only song I knew how to play.
For busking this was fine – nobody stayed around long enough to become aware of my limitations. But one day a man approached me and said he ran a wine bar in Guildford, south-west of London,
and did I want to play a set at his club?
    ‘That sounds great,’ I said.
    I caught the train to Guildford and found the wine bar. I set up my keyboard and played my song. The owner turned to his bar staff and gave them a look to say, ‘See?’
    After ten minutes I stopped. There was a lot of applause. Then I played my song again but slower. Then I played it again, but back at the original speed. Someone shouted, ‘Play a different
song.’
    I looked at the crowd. They were evidently puzzled. And irritated. A fake pianist had entered their world and was banging away at the keys, a young man being odd and dysfunctional on the
makeshift stage, presumably unaware not just of what was required of a wine-bar pianist but of how to be an adult human in general. Panicked, I hurriedly invented something – an
unsatisfactory improvisation around my song. The owner asked me to stop and go home.
    ***
    I went to comedy shows. I’d creep backstage and stand there, looking at the comedians. I saw Paul Merton and John Dowie try and out-funny each other in a gloomy
underground dressing room at a club in Edinburgh. Paul Merton made a joke. John Dowie responded with something funnier, then Paul Merton said something funnier still, and so on. Everyone was
laughing but it was tense and disturbing, like the Russian roulette scene from
The Deer Hunter
.
    Backstage at a different club the comedian Mark Thomas stalked angrily over to me.
    ‘You always just
stand
there,’ he said. ‘When are you going to
do
something?’
    So I decided to try. I put myself forward in the student union election to become the college entertainments officer.
    It was to be a year’s sabbatical. I’d be in charge of two venues – a basement bar on Bolsover Street in Central London and a big dining hall around the corner
on New Cavendish Street. I’d have a budget to put on discos on Fridays and concerts on Saturdays and comedy on Tuesdays. Then after a year I’d return to finish my degree. Nobody stood
against me. It was a one-horse race. I was elected.
    The entertainment office was on the top floor of the Student Union – a 1960s building in Bolsover Street. I’d sit in the corner, the social secretary elect learning the ropes from
his predecessor. I took it all in – how he negotiated fees, dealt with the roadies and the bar staff, even what he said when he answered the phone. He said, ‘Ents.’
    He warned me that the big music-booking agents tended to see the likes of us as easy prey. If anyone would book their terrible bands it would be us. History would prove this right. I
did
book their terrible bands.
    One day I was sitting in the office when the telephone rang. I was alone. My predecessor was off dealing with some issue. I wasn’t supposed to answer the phone. But it kept ringing.
Finally I picked it up.
    ‘Ents,’ I said.
    There was a silence. ‘
What?
’ the voice said.
    ‘ . . . Ents?’ I said.
    ‘Oh,’ the man said. ‘I thought you said Ants. Jesus! OK. So Frank’s playing at your bar tonight and our keyboard player can’t make it and so we’re going to
have to cancel unless you know any keyboard players.’
    I cleared my throat. ‘I play keyboards,’ I said.
    ‘Well you’re in!’ the man shouted.
    I glanced at the receiver. ‘But I don’t know any of your songs,’ I said.
    ‘Wait a minute,’ the man said.
    I heard muffled voices. He came back to the phone. ‘Can you play C, F and G?’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    ‘Well, you’re in!’ he said.
    The man on the phone said I should meet them at the soundcheck at 5pm. He added that his name was Mike, and Frank’s real name was