Read Online The True Story of Butterfish by Nick Earls - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Earls
Tags: Fiction/General
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office buildings.
I could just make out the way ahead, the bare earth between the patches of pale dry grass. I found my way to the road, and turned right. In the distance there were streetlights, the houses of unseen neighbours, the gap in the hedge that would lead me to my bed.
I had made a start on a new song when the band broke up. I had given it the working title âThe Light that Guides You Homeâ. I tried bits of it out with Derek, enough that I could sometimes hear him humming or singing a line or two to himself as he gazed out the tour bus window. It wasnât coming together though. It wasnât right. I was blaming that on Derek, and I knew that wasnât right either. But he didnât get it. Derek could be a blunt instrument more often than he realised, and it wasnât always smart to set him to work on the finer details.
âAn over-ripe overblown balladâ Rolling Stone had called Still Water, and given it two stars on its way to becoming our first US number one. It was our big break, the song that put us on planes and talk shows and stopped us seeing Brisbane for about two years. I can hardly remember finishing a conversation all that time.
Itâs where Derek would have taken the new song too. Rolling Stone wasnât entirely wrong about Still Water â it just misjudged the marketâs bottomless appetite for over-ripe overblown ballads. And I didnât want that for The Light that Guides You Home. Night after night Derek would sing Still Water, and each night Iâd hate him for it just a little more. By the end, it was as overblown as Elvis when he faced the final fried peanut butter sandwich, and Derek, as far as I was concerned, was the man who overblew it, who turned it into a big pompous bastard of a song that only a stadium could love.
I could do an acoustic version of that song right now â just me and an upright piano â and show the bits people never heard. Strip it back and make it small, make it lean and underdone, and show people the song it might have been. But we added Derek, and charisma, and sold twelve million albums instead. That was The True Story of Butterfish. We followed it up with Supernature, which sold eight million, then came Written in Sand, Written in Sea. One hundred and forty-seven thousand copies sold, last time someone put the unit count into words and I didnât have my hands over my ears. âRarely can an album be called pretentious and directionless at the same time,â Rolling Stone said. âWhere are the effortless hooks from Frick and Holland that we became used to on their first two albums? Could be thereâs some turbulence in the still water these days.â
I also saw reviews that said âFile this somewhere between esoteric and badâ and âItâs either confused or confusing, neither of which is exactly a good thingâ. So I stopped looking. Our US publicist told us sheâd bundle them up at the end of the tour and send us each a copy. I hadnât seen mine and I didnât go chasing it.
We were in Frankfurt, drinking tall glasses of Schoefferhofer beer on a barge on the Main on a bright spring evening when we got the call to say our US label was dumping us.
âFuckers. They were never behind us,â Derek said, holding his phone like a stone that he might throw into the river.
He had a jacket on, since there was a cool breeze coming up the river, and his collar was turned up as if he was in a video. He needed a shave, and some sleep. His eyes were puffy. He had spent days looking as if heâd just woken up. I thought he had taken some pills before weâd taped an interview for MTV Europe earlier in the day, and he was on his way down by the evening. He had been like a sleepwalker with his finger in a power point on the show â jangly energy, scratchy thought processes and somnolence, all in the one body.
The barge was called the Bootshaus Dreyer, and the
I could just make out the way ahead, the bare earth between the patches of pale dry grass. I found my way to the road, and turned right. In the distance there were streetlights, the houses of unseen neighbours, the gap in the hedge that would lead me to my bed.
I had made a start on a new song when the band broke up. I had given it the working title âThe Light that Guides You Homeâ. I tried bits of it out with Derek, enough that I could sometimes hear him humming or singing a line or two to himself as he gazed out the tour bus window. It wasnât coming together though. It wasnât right. I was blaming that on Derek, and I knew that wasnât right either. But he didnât get it. Derek could be a blunt instrument more often than he realised, and it wasnât always smart to set him to work on the finer details.
âAn over-ripe overblown balladâ Rolling Stone had called Still Water, and given it two stars on its way to becoming our first US number one. It was our big break, the song that put us on planes and talk shows and stopped us seeing Brisbane for about two years. I can hardly remember finishing a conversation all that time.
Itâs where Derek would have taken the new song too. Rolling Stone wasnât entirely wrong about Still Water â it just misjudged the marketâs bottomless appetite for over-ripe overblown ballads. And I didnât want that for The Light that Guides You Home. Night after night Derek would sing Still Water, and each night Iâd hate him for it just a little more. By the end, it was as overblown as Elvis when he faced the final fried peanut butter sandwich, and Derek, as far as I was concerned, was the man who overblew it, who turned it into a big pompous bastard of a song that only a stadium could love.
I could do an acoustic version of that song right now â just me and an upright piano â and show the bits people never heard. Strip it back and make it small, make it lean and underdone, and show people the song it might have been. But we added Derek, and charisma, and sold twelve million albums instead. That was The True Story of Butterfish. We followed it up with Supernature, which sold eight million, then came Written in Sand, Written in Sea. One hundred and forty-seven thousand copies sold, last time someone put the unit count into words and I didnât have my hands over my ears. âRarely can an album be called pretentious and directionless at the same time,â Rolling Stone said. âWhere are the effortless hooks from Frick and Holland that we became used to on their first two albums? Could be thereâs some turbulence in the still water these days.â
I also saw reviews that said âFile this somewhere between esoteric and badâ and âItâs either confused or confusing, neither of which is exactly a good thingâ. So I stopped looking. Our US publicist told us sheâd bundle them up at the end of the tour and send us each a copy. I hadnât seen mine and I didnât go chasing it.
We were in Frankfurt, drinking tall glasses of Schoefferhofer beer on a barge on the Main on a bright spring evening when we got the call to say our US label was dumping us.
âFuckers. They were never behind us,â Derek said, holding his phone like a stone that he might throw into the river.
He had a jacket on, since there was a cool breeze coming up the river, and his collar was turned up as if he was in a video. He needed a shave, and some sleep. His eyes were puffy. He had spent days looking as if heâd just woken up. I thought he had taken some pills before weâd taped an interview for MTV Europe earlier in the day, and he was on his way down by the evening. He had been like a sleepwalker with his finger in a power point on the show â jangly energy, scratchy thought processes and somnolence, all in the one body.
The barge was called the Bootshaus Dreyer, and the
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