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Authors: Cathi Unsworth
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that you were just talking about.’
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said, darkly.
‘Yeah,’ I smiled earnestly, ‘I bookmarked them when I found them, ’cos I thought you might like to pay them a visit.’
‘Too right,’ he nodded, then brushed the minor annoyance aside for later. ‘So you reckon people are starting to get into this stuff again? I mean, the good stuff,not just this modern shit?’
‘I think it’s just waiting to happen,’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘These people are into their Lord Byrons and Bram Stokers and all that Decadents shit. Now Vincent Smith is a genuine lost boy, a proper decadent, a real rock’n’roll legend. You know that better than anyone. He invented the way they all look, for Christ’s sake. And from a selling context – andI’m not comparing him to the twat, only the effect he seemed to have on an entire generation – he’s like the Richie Manic of goth, isn’t he? And then there’s the love interest, Sylvana, the goth Ophelia…’
‘Yeah,’ fresh light came into Granger’s eyes, ‘and actually…’ he paused and clicked his fingers. ‘If you’re lookin’ at it that way, then the love interest kinda makes him Kurt Cobain, stroke,Richie Manic.’
Our pupils locked.
‘Genius,’ said Granger. ‘Precisely the sort of shit they’re eatin’ up these days. You’re right, mate, the timing’s there now…’
I could see the gears shifting in his head.
‘Are
you
still in touch with the rest of the band?’ I asked him.
‘We-eell,’ he considered, ‘not really, but I’ve never fallen out with any of ’em. They still used my pictures for
Shots
andif I see them about they’re always friendly. We go back a long way. I don’t reckon it would be difficult to get ’em to talk…’
‘’Cos what I was thinking,’ I leaned in closer, painfully aware of every James and Jocasta in the place as a potential, better-connectedrival, ‘is that we could present this not only as a music biography, but also like a true crime book, an investigation. You know, tryand pitch it to them like we’re actually really looking for him.’
Gavin’s eyes slid from mine as I made this comment and darted around the room, as if he was mentally snapping an image of everyone in it.
He was obviously thinking what I was thinking.
Room-sweep finished, his eyes came back to mine. ‘Don’t say any more, mate. We’ve got to keep this to ourselves,’ he said. ‘Walls have ears.’He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s leave these drinks and get outta here. Go back to mine.’
By the end of the week, we had our dossier. A pile of clippings from Gavin’s files, the Internet, and various zines and anthologies. Plus his favourite black-and-white prints redone, mindful of a slew of recent punk picture compendiums that had all made a mint out of the Spirit of ’77.
Plus – andthis was the really good bit – Gavin got on the phone. Made some inquiries. Because of their past history, Lynton Powell and Kevin Holme agreed on principle that they would speak to us if we had a deal. As did Tony Stevens, their record company guy, who still remained somewhat of an indie legend even after his label had busted through to the mainstream. That only left Steve Mullin, who was in LA recordingsome trendy metal band, but Powell promised to put in a word and didn’t think it would be a problem.
All of them seemed to think it would be a bit of a miracle if we did get a deal, though.
Gavin and I didn’t. We were men on a mission. I wrote up our synopsis over fevered nights in Camden Road, where the flurry of activity seemed to raise the temperature not just of the flat, but of the twowomen in my life as well.
Mother, for a start, couldn’t resist poking her nose in.Regardless of the fact she had no idea who Bono was, let alone Vincent Smith, she had heard the magic words ‘writing a book’ and started to dwell on what this could mean. After only a few
NME
that you were just talking about.’
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said, darkly.
‘Yeah,’ I smiled earnestly, ‘I bookmarked them when I found them, ’cos I thought you might like to pay them a visit.’
‘Too right,’ he nodded, then brushed the minor annoyance aside for later. ‘So you reckon people are starting to get into this stuff again? I mean, the good stuff,not just this modern shit?’
‘I think it’s just waiting to happen,’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘These people are into their Lord Byrons and Bram Stokers and all that Decadents shit. Now Vincent Smith is a genuine lost boy, a proper decadent, a real rock’n’roll legend. You know that better than anyone. He invented the way they all look, for Christ’s sake. And from a selling context – andI’m not comparing him to the twat, only the effect he seemed to have on an entire generation – he’s like the Richie Manic of goth, isn’t he? And then there’s the love interest, Sylvana, the goth Ophelia…’
‘Yeah,’ fresh light came into Granger’s eyes, ‘and actually…’ he paused and clicked his fingers. ‘If you’re lookin’ at it that way, then the love interest kinda makes him Kurt Cobain, stroke,Richie Manic.’
Our pupils locked.
‘Genius,’ said Granger. ‘Precisely the sort of shit they’re eatin’ up these days. You’re right, mate, the timing’s there now…’
I could see the gears shifting in his head.
‘Are
you
still in touch with the rest of the band?’ I asked him.
‘We-eell,’ he considered, ‘not really, but I’ve never fallen out with any of ’em. They still used my pictures for
Shots
andif I see them about they’re always friendly. We go back a long way. I don’t reckon it would be difficult to get ’em to talk…’
‘’Cos what I was thinking,’ I leaned in closer, painfully aware of every James and Jocasta in the place as a potential, better-connectedrival, ‘is that we could present this not only as a music biography, but also like a true crime book, an investigation. You know, tryand pitch it to them like we’re actually really looking for him.’
Gavin’s eyes slid from mine as I made this comment and darted around the room, as if he was mentally snapping an image of everyone in it.
He was obviously thinking what I was thinking.
Room-sweep finished, his eyes came back to mine. ‘Don’t say any more, mate. We’ve got to keep this to ourselves,’ he said. ‘Walls have ears.’He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Let’s leave these drinks and get outta here. Go back to mine.’
By the end of the week, we had our dossier. A pile of clippings from Gavin’s files, the Internet, and various zines and anthologies. Plus his favourite black-and-white prints redone, mindful of a slew of recent punk picture compendiums that had all made a mint out of the Spirit of ’77.
Plus – andthis was the really good bit – Gavin got on the phone. Made some inquiries. Because of their past history, Lynton Powell and Kevin Holme agreed on principle that they would speak to us if we had a deal. As did Tony Stevens, their record company guy, who still remained somewhat of an indie legend even after his label had busted through to the mainstream. That only left Steve Mullin, who was in LA recordingsome trendy metal band, but Powell promised to put in a word and didn’t think it would be a problem.
All of them seemed to think it would be a bit of a miracle if we did get a deal, though.
Gavin and I didn’t. We were men on a mission. I wrote up our synopsis over fevered nights in Camden Road, where the flurry of activity seemed to raise the temperature not just of the flat, but of the twowomen in my life as well.
Mother, for a start, couldn’t resist poking her nose in.Regardless of the fact she had no idea who Bono was, let alone Vincent Smith, she had heard the magic words ‘writing a book’ and started to dwell on what this could mean. After only a few
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