Chapter Text
The 1975 (ILIWYS)
Burial - Near Dark
Frail State Of Mind
John Maus - Hey Moon
PART ONE
On principle, I avoided Notting Hill like a disease. It felt like a big fat cliché, and since I never ventured west of Baker Street as a student, it didn’t even have the advantage of being slightly familiar, or sparking memories of being young, dumb and drunk like Soho did. I so wished that I was heavily inebriated now. I was about to walk into a party that, based on my new manager’s histrionic WhatsApp messages, promised to be quite outrageous, and perhaps the first big Party with a capital P. The house was completely blurred out on street view when I looked it up – a dead cert for a celebrity home – and the fear of getting lost was the only thing that kept me from downing the half bottle of Bordeaux that languished in my fridge before I left.
Elgin Crescent . This was definitely the right street; I counted the odd numbers until I got to the right house, a narrow, minimalist, rather jarring creation squeezed between the area’s classic, rococo houses. The top two floors were visible from the road, but everything else was shielded from view by a high wall and electric gate, both painted a flat grey and so solid they could probably withstand a bomb. The only visual disturbance to this minimalism was the little, red LED light that peeped out from on top of an intercom, a brushed steel plaque lying flush against the spotless wall.
Stalling for time, I kicked my heel against the kerb and exhaled heavily into the autumn air, until I could see it in front of my face. I knew I was probably meant to be puffed up with excitement and flattery at my position, but instead I had jangling nerves and a hint of nausea in the pit of my stomach. I tried to see myself through other people’s eyes for a moment, imagining an unknown face walking in, complete with (artfully) unbrushed brown hair, wearing a too-big suit and candy-striped silk shirt. It was a get-up that could have passed for Depeche Mode fancy dress.
The handles of the black plastic bag I was carrying cut into my hand; it suddenly seemed quite vulgar. Despite the salubrious address, it felt unnatural to show up at any home without at least a symbolic, boozy offering, but the bottle of middle-shelf gin and flimsy carrier bag appeared pathetic now. The only sign of activity behind the behemoth of a wall was a faintly audible bass rumble.
‘Hurry the fuck up, already,’ I muttered to myself, and resolutely pressed the buzzer.
After a torturous ten seconds, the intercom crackled to life with a deep, possibly female voice. ‘Hello?’
I cleared my throat, but still croaked, and when I spoke it sounded like another question. ‘It’s Joanna. Dean invited me?’
‘Dean… oh, sure. Come on in.’
The gate inched open painfully slowly, revealing a front door and general façade to the lower floors of the house that was entirely out of character with the rest of the street, in that it looked like the house from Ex Machina . A red neon glow filled the hallway, just about visible through the glass above the door. Neon glows were something of a theme, as I would later discover. As I walked up, I half expected to have to knock again, but mercifully it opened just as I reached the porch. Dean’s not-quite-sober grin greeted me.
‘Jo! Heard your voice on the intercom, Sal came to fetch me. You’ve been an absolute eternity ! I’ve been boasting about my new signing to anyone who will listen, and it’s far more difficult when your face isn’t here. What detained you?’
‘Bloody Central line. It’s a hellhole tonight.' I kicked a few coats aside in the hallway and eyed up the copious number of furs.
‘Well, when isn’t it? You haven’t missed much’ – he paused to take a drag from a joint. ‘Only I didn’t want you to not get the opportunity to see the place, I know you have something of a penchant for this stuff, after we scouted all that modernist stuff for the video. Drove me nuts, but I do admit, it grows on you…'
He was right - I was fascinated. The hallway opened out into an enormous open-plan room, double height with a glass mezzanine. Through the bi-fold doors, I could make out an exquisitely manicured garden, though nobody used it to smoke; clearly the owner had neither qualms about that, nor fire alarms, since a heady recipe of incense, weed and cigarette smoke filled the room with a general fug right up to the ceilings. It was packed out with a baffling mix of people, some that I recognised with a jolt, and other people who, although their faces were indiscernible, were clearly part of an unspoken clan of the achingly beautiful and wealthy.
We turned to edge down the hallway, between the tall, lithe party people with loud voices. ‘She’s just got back from tour.’ Dean gestured pointedly towards a woman with impossibly long braids, who was flanked by an adoring circle of friends - the host. ‘And over here, this is the guy I’m hoping will style your next video…’
These characters all blurred into one amorphous whole after an hour, partly because Dean always made introductions at record speed, and partly because it was far too easy to keep swiping freshly poured glasses of something fruity and ice cold, that probably contained absinthe. Throughout I managed to cling to my bag, which carried my Mac – Helen and I had spent most of the afternoon alternating between recording slapdash demos and checking on her fresh dye job before washing it out (she was going tangerine orange for our next show).
By this point I felt ridiculous for having been so anxious about arriving; true, it was overwhelming to interact with dozens of people within minutes, but most exchanges had consisted of the same, rather slack handshake or air kiss, accompanied by a performative sort of simper, or very occasionally, a sincere expression of interest. But I desperately needed a breather, some time to stand in the corner just to people-watch and recharge my social battery. I squeezed between the huddles of people swaying (more from intoxication than any of the beats playing over a mysterious audio source). This wasn’t difficult; though considered perfectly average in height when in more grounded company, in these circles I was an anomaly. Most of the female half of the room could probably add ‘model’ to their CV, which I considered was reflective of the industry’s prerequisite for our success. There were plenty of rather pretty boys, offering machismo and foppishness alike, plus an inordinate amount of middle-aged men who probably held most of the power: almost exclusively dressed in black, or dressed a little too down for the occasion, just because they could get away with it.
It was like inspecting a hectic, interactive museum exhibit. I wasn’t sure if I wanted (or even needed) this crowd’s approval, much less to be a part of it, yet Dean seemed to think it was important that I be there. It was a strange relief to not have been approached in my spot at the edge of the room, perched atop a stray bar stool and chewing on one of the definitely-not-recyclable plastic straws that I had plucked from a kitschy diner-style holder nearby.
Having exhausted my line of sight in the main room, I replaced the drained glass with a fresh tumbler of that delicious cocktail from one of the trays that kept being mysteriously refilled by a very subtle caterer. Slipping off the stool, I located a doorway to my left, and wandered into the next room.
The bland Scandi décor was carried through into this one, but it seemed to function as a media room, judging by the enormous screen that took up half of one wall, and an audiophilic one at that, a custom sound system installed in each corner. There was even a speaker that emanated the dull thud of something ambient from within the coffee table. Fucking hell , I thought, shaking my head. What the rich will find to spend their money on.
The people huddled around a pouffe in the corner that balanced a gold tray, taking turns to lean down and snort, which I took as my cue to continue exploring. It wouldn’t do to partake - anything even mildly stimulating would mess me up for at least a day and a night.
It took forever to locate the stairs, which were sickeningly glassy and vertigo-inducing. I had never missed a bannister more in my life. As I ascended, two young men fumbled their way down past me, giggling at a private joke and more than a little unsteady on their feet, followed by a girl who looked slightly dazed, and plonked herself down on one of the crystalline stairs halfway up, to fish her phone out from her bra. I sidestepped all three messy passers-by, and mentally made a bet with myself to see how many bathrooms there were; four was my best guess, but I didn’t end up finding out. Not all the bedroom doors were closed, but even through the ones that were open, it was easy to glimpse flagrant couplings, two or possibly more people at it like rabbits. Since I wasn't much of a fan of voyeurism, I followed the corridor past the mezzanine level, and through to the back half of the house that overlooked the garden. This end had one empty bedroom (minimally decorated, again), a bathroom that seemed to be engaged, and a study-library situation in the smallest room I had seen yet. I crept inside the latter, and shut the door behind me, praying for some peace and quiet.
This room was far more personalised – there were floor-to-ceiling glass shelves, which was quite a feat, as this room, much like the rest of the house, had ceilings about ten feet high. On the shelves was just about anything that would fit – books, records, stacks of paper, one or two odd sculptures, and several boxes of tape labelled with project names and dates. I hadn’t had any qualms about nosing around until now, but I felt a prickle of guilt as I peered behind a high-backed swivel chair. Mirrored drawers slid satisfyingly out of a corner desk to reveal neat rows of CD cases, painstakingly categorised by date, and print cuttings; it was reassuring to see that even superstars like the host were sentimental about such things.
I got down to my knees to take a closer look at the books on the lower shelves, and slid a large photography tome out from the stack. It creaked slightly as I opened it, as if never opened before, which was unbelievable considering the incredible opulence of the images that leaped out from the glossy pages. This one held the interiors of palaces in the Middle East, whilst the next one I flicked through was on the topic of couture of the nineties, the next on post-war brutalism, and so the variety continued on and on. The pile next to me slowly increased, and though I became aware of an ache in my back, I was utterly absorbed – so much so that when the door behind me squeaked open, I jumped in momentary panic.
‘Whoops, sorry- oh. Joanna? Shit, is that you?’
The rosy-cheeked face of a boy I knew gazed down at me bemusedly. His blonde curls bounced as he grinned widely, almost totally unchanged from when we met a year previously.
‘Robin!’ I scrambled to my feet, and we exchanged hugs, slapping shoulders awkwardly. ‘What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.’
‘Long story,’ he pulled a face. ‘But I’m an assistant to Rachel, who styles Diane, and I guess you can join the dots…’ Robin gestured downwards, as if pointing through the floor to the superstar and her stylist below. He was dressed similarly to me, except perhaps in a more well-fitting suit – he always did like drainpipe trousers - complete with the slightly studied air that comes with a job in fashion. He leaned over the books I’d left scattered on the floor, nudging one of them with his toe. ‘Found something better to do at this party?’
‘It’s exhausting. I can’t be down there any longer.’
‘How come you’re here?’
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘My new manager, Dean… he thought it would be a good idea.’
‘Manager? Wow. Good for you.’ He genuinely seemed to mean it too, his eyes glowing with sincerity.
‘Thanks,’ I flushed. ‘What about you? Do you still get time to play?’
Robin paused, and spun the swivel chair round until he was able to ensconce himself in it, running his hands along the soft velvet arms. ‘Not any more. We had already been going for a couple of years by the time you saw us, remember? I was fed up of slogging it out and getting nowhere.’
This was a pity, I thought, and I told him so. Robin’s band used to have some success on the London circuit, and they had found themselves topping various ‘Ones to Watch’ lists around the time that I was dragged into the upper rooms of the Old Blue Last by Helen, as she announced that there was someone she wanted me to meet. True, I had been impressed – not just by the music, but by Robin’s own model good looks that often graced the pages of the indie monthlies and music publications displayed for free, from Rough Trade to the pub venues of Bethnal Green and Dalston. His was a particularly cherubic brand of good looks, kind of an eighties movie heartthrob character, and though I wasn’t sure what my type even was these days, he had classically pretty blue eyes that practically ensured everyone thought he was God’s gift. Several gigs and a couple of house parties passed with flirtation, but nothing more, and I was too busy concentrating on my own things to put much effort in, holing up in the living room of the flat that Helen and I shared in Streatham instead of trekking out to the next show in a new part of town. But here he was in front of me now, the band-boy-turned-clothes-hanger. At a decadent house party, behind a closed door.
The conversation turned back to the party itself, and the crazy house. I sat on the floor, leaning against some of the mirrored drawers I had poked through earlier, and was growing aware that my mouth was dry.
‘I’ve been to a few places in West on this sort of level, actually.’ Robin’s tone took a slightly boastful turn, and I became aware that he was attempting to impress me. ‘Holland Park is full of politicians, but you wouldn’t believe how many journalists live amongst them, cheek by jowl, all hosting soirees just to get some juicy headlines.’
‘Don’t you find it a bit shallow?’
‘Well… where’s the line any more? There are shallow and real people wherever you go.’
‘But in what proportion? It feels like everyone down there has been looking straight through me. I doubt any of them could remember my name.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ he waved a slightly dismissive hand. ‘Let me introduce you to Rachel, at least – she’s just amazing, a total babe…’ I found myself tuning out already, staring at Robin’s lips as they moved but not really hearing anything that came from them.
‘Jo? Shall we go downstairs?’
I jolted, and he came back into focus. ‘Hmm?’
‘Or we can poke around the top floor a bit more,’ he said quickly, but I caught his drift immediately. He still tried his best to act casual though, lazily turning the pages of a volume on silent film and passing a cursory glance over the harshly painted face of Rudolph Valentino. God , I thought, men are so transparent.
‘I might stay here for a bit.’ I replied calmly, and as he turned back to look at me, his knee knocked against mine, without pulling away again.
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded, but he clearly fancied his chances. As he leaned in, I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes – so predictable, like a sitcom – and tried to relax my face before his lips met mine. It was a satisfying kiss, but it felt oddly perfunctory, as though I was a box he wanted to tick just because I was that person who slipped through the net once, now conveniently hooked due to the debauched circumstances.
Still, I let myself enjoy it a little as his hand slipped inside my jacket, feeling for my waist through my silk shirt, and I felt a familiar flutter in my groin at the thought of getting some unexpected action this evening. Suddenly the image of the couples in the bedrooms nearby popped into my head, and I pulled away again, feeling slightly sleazy. I didn’t want to fuck him tonight, just to be another scene for someone to walk in on.
Robin was a bit thrown by this, and slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed and one hand still firmly pressed to my waist. I placed my own hand over his, and removed it gently.
‘You know, I might go and get some fresh air. Stay here, look through some more of these if you want. Though maybe you should put them back before Diane sees what a mess we’ve made.’ I smiled impishly at him. ‘And message me, if you want.’ I added, and walked back out onto the landing without turning back to see his reaction, feeling audacious.
***
I ventured back down the stairs again, past the girl who now seemed to have fallen asleep onto her phone, the gold lame straps of her dress slipping down her shoulder slightly. The sound of the music was thunderous – I had forgotten this, and winced at the thought of wandering back into the same roiling sea of people I had escaped earlier. Instead, I followed the staircase further down to the basement level, relishing in the way the sound faded almost completely. True to form, the neon light switched to ultraviolet, and I took a childish pleasure in seeing the white laces of my trainers reflected garishly back at me as I trod carefully along a dark, mirrored corridor. The lack of sound from the floors above was truly odd now, and the over-analysis that I had resisted upstairs began to flood back into my brain.
Had I been rude to Robin? Was I just being a prude? I didn’t think so, since he was objectively attractive, but I had never particularly fixated upon him as an object of desire. Okay, so I was allowed to have fun. But most people’s idea of fun was not appealing to me, in the sense that I had no urge to bump uglies with a boy who would probably be hopeless at getting me off, or at least take twice the time that I took myself. I would never, and could never fully feel comfortable in a scenario like that. Robin was sweet, but I didn’t care for him. And that was my prerequisite nowadays.
But my attention was diverted as soon as I stopped before a glass door that rested on a slider, padded all around with sound-proofing, and the realisation came to me. Of course this house had a studio. I pressed my forehead against the glass, letting my breath fog it up a little. The outlines of guitars were indistinct, but still there, and a vocal booth was fully set up, headphones resting casually on the stool as if only just put down in the middle of a session. The desk was extensive, at least two metres wide, with three Mac screens lining the top. It was a set-up I could only dream of, and for a few wistful moments, I imagined myself as the terrifyingly glamorous, unstoppably successful woman Dean had pointed out to me earlier, the homeowner; spending days at a time recording my magnum opus, surrounded by friends and collaborators when I wanted, and left entirely to my own devices amongst a veritable feast of equipment to make the weirdest sounds I could. I thought of my own pitiful set-up at home, cobbled together from things gifted, thrifted and eBayed, and let the glass mist up a bit more as I huffed disconsolately.
Without any warning, a pair of dark, shining eyes and a pale face suddenly loomed up close on the other side of the glass. I jumped back in shock, clapping a hand to my chest in mock trauma to try and play it off humorously. The studio door slid open with a pleasant, smooth click, and revealed a man who seemed uncannily familiar. Yet again, seeing a face like his was completely to be expected at a party like this. Typical Dean, rubbing shoulders with rock stars too.
He grinned wryly when he spoke, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Shit, did I make you jump? Sorry.’
‘Oh, no… I probably deserve it. I’m just being nosy. Thought I would explore the place while I had the chance.’ My hand went straight to my collar to fiddle with my necklace, a nervous habit.
‘You’re at the best bit now, honestly. You would not believe what she’s got down here. Take a look.’ He pushed open the sliding door a little further, so that I was able to crane my neck around it to look. Without the glare of the UV lights upon the glass door, the darkened room came into focus properly now, and I could make out a beautiful upright piano, as well as dozens of other instruments, some in cases and others propped up on stands. The room must have been twenty feet wide, and I couldn’t have told you how far back it went, but probably as far as the house itself; this was a basement studio in every respect, and the grandest one I could ever have imagined.
The man pulled back slightly, and made a gesture of encouragement with his hand. ‘Come right inside, it’s fucking wild.’ I stepped over the threshold and followed him down a few steps into the studio. He seemed energetic, almost puppyish, but by way of his personality, not another gurning cokehead, and this made his age indistinct and difficult to pinpoint. I took a second to glance sideways at him. His dark hair curled chaotically in every direction, and he sported a pea green denim jacket that was buttoned all the way up, with straight black trousers and scuffed Converse that lent him the insouciant air of a schoolboy who had bunked off for the afternoon. It only took a beat or two to realise that I knew who this was. I hadn’t been living under a rock for the last five or six years - I had heard the songs play out incessantly on the radio, seen snatches of festival sets without really lingering, and the television appearances and interviews that were footnoted with a dubious, occasionally even arrogant reputation. But I was hardly about to let him know all of that. After all, my own opinion was relatively unformed, so it was practically like meeting a stranger anyway. Still, I made a concerted effort to avoid looking directly at him so that I wouldn’t appear to be taken aback in any way, since my adrenaline was up and I didn’t trust my poker face.
‘I’ve been messing around with that.’ Matty nodded towards the desk, and I could see now that the screens were glowing with activity. ‘Want to hear?’
‘Yes please.’ I followed him to the swivel chairs in front of the absurdly long desk, my head still buzzing with the surrealism of my situation. ‘How long have you been here for?’
‘At least an hour. I couldn’t deal with all of them,’ he jammed his thumb towards the ceiling. ‘And besides, it’s the absolute worst environment for me to be in. I would have left already, but then I saw this lot, and now I can’t tear myself away, like Gollum.’ He gazed triumphantly at the dizzying spectrum of faders on the console, and pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the chair like a child. With a flick of the wrist, he triggered a sample; a crisp, arpeggiated synth oscillated between the monitors. ‘Push that, the red one. Yeah.’ He pointed towards the red fader nearest to me, and nodded in approval as I phased in a skittering beat, slightly syncopated to alter the rhythm of the whole sound. ‘Doesn’t that sound insane? Very Sparks. I found that ancient drum machine and messed about with it for a bit.’
He couldn’t have been more detached from the chaos of the rest of the party if he tried. Whilst everyone upstairs frenetically grasped at each other and yammered into each other’s ears, Matty was like an oasis of serenity, clearly quite blissed out at his good fortune in finding the basement fully equipped and ready to be exploited. Despite this, his concentration face was verging on a frown, and I suspected he might have easily forgotten I was there whilst he tweaked the sound – the next second, everything was twice as fast, and in the next instant, it slowed down to a leaden vaporwave beat. His eyebrows shot up, and his head tilted from one side to the other, as if trying to detect something.
For god’s sake Jo, I internally berated myself and inhaled sharply. Don’t just sit there and watch.
‘It sounded like early Boards of Canada, before that. Or a little bit Burial.’
‘It did… I hadn’t thought of that.’ He looked back towards me approvingly, and it was as if he was only then seeing me properly for the first time. I allowed myself to meet his gaze finally – it had to happen at some point. The way he looked was startlingly direct, and implied a certain generosity of attention, so that anyone on the receiving end would know that he had time for them, that they were seen, with emphasis, and that he wanted to hear their response to whatever came out of his mouth in the next minute. ‘Can you add something to this yourself?’
Never mind his words, his face was unbearably charming. It was something to do with the way his features aligned when he engaged in conversation, how his slightly tired eyes changed to wide and bright, and the delicate, gently sloping contours of his nose and cheekbones were highlighted with all this extra energy. Noticing these details was highly inconvenient; I was hyper-aware of my facial expression, the way my clothes felt against my skin, the way I sat and the way I took my next breath. But what was really striking was that all of these pretty features were filtered through a lens of warm vitality, rather than the wan, slightly pinched appearance of many male musicians with model good looks. Perhaps it was a by-product of his conversational warmth, or just the neon light playing tricks with my eyes. I couldn’t really be sure.
‘Okay. But only if I get to try this.’ I slid off the swivel chair and lifted a very ostentatious saxophone out of its stand, engraved all over with elaborate paisley motifs.
‘Oh, excellent choice. Can you play?’
‘No, I’m hoping to channel the spirit of Coltrane.’ I responded drily, and immediately worried if I’d been too sarcastic, but he merely raised his eyebrows in amusement and lifted the mic behind him closer towards me.
‘Go on then. Start the séance.’
I put on the headphones and began. In truth, I hadn’t played since I was seventeen, but most of the scales and runs felt natural, like riding the proverbial bike. It was a beautiful instrument, immensely satisfying to play, and I wondered darkly if it would be missed if I took it home with me. Somehow I suspected not.
Three minutes later, I finished with a neat trill, reluctant to drag it out. Matty flashed a thumbs up and took the headphones off.
‘How many do you play?’
‘What?’ I missed a beat, confused for a moment. I was still burning with curiosity at what he thought.
‘This lot.’ He nodded towards the jumble of instruments lining the room. 'How many could you just pick up and play, like that?'
‘About…’ I counted on my fingers silently. ‘Six. No, seven. Sax, piano, drums, flute, violin, guitar and bass.’
Matty whistled. ‘So you’re quite the musical polymath. Who are you?’
‘Joanna. But that’s a broad question.’
‘Matty.’ He held his hand out, both sincere and slightly mocking all at the same time; I shook it gingerly. ‘I know it is, but the answer is always pretty telling. Where have you come from?’
‘Bristol, but I’ve lived in London - south - for six years. And I came here tonight with my… friend.’ I paused, and altered my words. ‘My manager. I suppose I’m a musician.’
‘No supposing about that, Joanna . Not after what I've heard.’ He enunciated my name with gravity, not unkindly. ‘That’s a relief. I swear half of that lot up there think they DJ, which is fine and all, but I’m bored out of my mind.’
‘Who invited you?’
‘Someone who hasn’t seen me in quite a while. They didn’t seem to have got the memo that I don’t really do this scene any more.’
‘The fashion types?’
‘The coke types. Been there, done that and more, lost the t-shirt.’ He counted the list out on his fingers for added emphasis, and although it probably wasn’t intended to be, the impression was slightly comical.
‘Oh.’ I fidgeted with my necklace again, swivelling around in my chair. Again, I knew some of this already, but didn’t want to let on. I was painfully aware that I wasn’t asking some of the same questions back, but then it was one thing to let him introduce himself, and quite another to act entirely oblivious. ‘Best we stay down here then. I’ve already seen more than I intended.’
‘Fine by me if I get free rein. Nobody’s stopped me yet, although I was afraid at first that you were someone sent to turf me out.’ He wandered over to the upright piano, playing a tentative chord. ‘Give us a rendition. Something of your own.’
‘You don’t want to hear that.’ I felt a bit light-headed at the thought of playing something of my own. I wasn’t ready for that judgement quite yet.
‘You don’t know what I do and don’t want to hear,’ he shot back, playing a more dissonant chord as if to drive the point home. ‘But alright. Play something else then. Whatever comes to mind.’ He leaned away from the keys, and I pulled the piano stool out. This, at least, wasn’t like summoning a long-lost skill, since I played almost every day, and I always enjoyed watching people’s expressions as I switched style and key, in an attempt to impress.
I barely played for half a minute before Matty spoke over it. ‘Bloody hell, what is that? Gershwin?’
‘No, that’s actually mine.’
‘Sneaky. And so good.’ His right hand joined my left one at the deep end, and I played higher to make room. He hopped around, trying to predict my chords and play an octave lower, but I delighted in catching him out, changing key even when it sounded slightly off, just because I could. At this he laughed in my ear, an admittedly delicious sound, and a tingle went down my back.
By the time I had picked up a bass, I felt truly comfortable, and Matty alternated between instruments, dragging a little sampler around with him, which he fiddled around with back at the mixing desk whilst I tracked some loose, lumbering basslines on a gorgeous instrument that had to be at least forty years old. So far he had been happy to talk shop – making sounds that amused him, and exploiting the space and equipment. I had half-forgotten I was at a party at all, and I was already starting to form my own impression of Matty based solely off his peaceful, inquisitive company. As far as I knew, he had never been economical with words, but in this context, neither small talk nor a constant stream of commentary was necessary. And then, out of nowhere, it changed direction.
‘You know, this really sounds like a soundtrack to a space movie. I’ve always wanted to do one.’
‘They’re my favourite kind of movie.’
‘You’ve seen the cinema next door, right?’
‘The what now?’ My eyes widened at the thought, although really, I shouldn’t have been surprised at this point.
‘I only poked my head round before, felt a bit guilty about it but I quite fancy going back to be nosy. Let’s see the state of the archives.’ Matty fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it with a flourish as he got to his feet.
It was disorientating to leave the safe, dark enclave of the studio, especially when the ultraviolet lights burst through as he slid the door open. It was as though I was entering reality again, which made the whole situation seem even more surreal, like a lucid dream.
Matty pushed open a door that I hadn’t noticed before, set back into the wall and made of the same smooth granite as the walls of the corridor and basement. The whole place seemed like an underground bunker, an utterly separate, muffled sanctuary. I reached out to touch the walls as I passed, revelling in their industrial coolness even as I felt the vibrations from the party above.
Another few metres away, he opened a second door, which was richly padded with velvet again. I suppressed a gasp as he pushed it right back, and dim spotlights came on, softly illuminating a room with six plush recliners, and a screen taking up one wall. At the back of the room stood a trademark glassy cabinet, this time stacked with DVDs and a few large tape rolls.
‘You’d think they’d just stream everything in a place like this… but there’s even a 35mm projector.’ He gawped at the spindly equipment that was tucked away in the corner, switching the torch in his phone on to inspect it more closely.
‘Do you fancy yourself as an aspiring film-maker?’ I asked, only half-joking.
‘A bit, yeah. Not to sound pretentious, but it seems like something that comes naturally to creative people I guess? And everyone’s creative, in their own way, but if you visualise an artistic journey of any sort - writing, making music, even consuming by reading, you’re almost playing a little film in your head. Does that make sense?’
‘Yep.’ He watched for my acknowledgement, and I grinned encouragingly. ‘But then sometimes I'm afraid that it’s one of those endeavours that I imagine I’ll be good at, and then when I try, it’s soul-crushing how difficult it is, or how average the result is.’
‘But making music is just like that though.’ Matty left the projector alone and turned back towards me, pulling at the dark curls behind his ear in thought, and smoothing them down. ‘Do you remember the first time you recorded yourself? It’s the most embarrassing thing ever, until you gain an acceptable level of self-awareness, self-criticism or whatever, and then it isn’t.’
‘I guess you build up that resilience pretty quickly. You have to, if you want to capture your work.’
‘Exactly. And if it’s been a long time since you properly invested yourself in a new discipline, you’re going to forget just how utterly natural that embarrassment or insecurity is.’
Talking to Matty was like speaking to an extension of my own sub-conscience. He drew me into a commentary on the homeowner’s film collection, a back-and-forth on criminally underrated films, then the job of an actor versus the job of a musician, and then film criticism and whether it was precisely as unnecessary as music criticism. Without instruments around to distract us, we slouched opposite each other in the deep velvet cinema chairs, occasionally diving onto phones to fact check a claim or comment, but yammering away all the while. He was a top tier rambler, with so much to say about every tiny idea or concept; no wonder he came across so smart-alecky in print. But experiencing the force of his personality face to face, it was so clearly just a restless curiosity that he possessed, combined with an enormous depth and breadth of knowledge, yet devoid of any of the conceit or self-importance that I had expected.
Matty smoked one cigarette after the other, tipping his head back and letting the smoke curl upwards during a lull in the conversation. I watched, mesmerised; fatigue and my earlier alcohol consumption was making me feel faintly delirious, but not so much that all my senses were dulled.
I caught the distinctive pool-smell of chlorine, and my gaze snapped up to where a ventilation grille near the ceiling had begun to circulate air. ‘Do you smell that?’
‘Swimming pool.’ He jerked upright, eyes wide. ‘God, and I thought this place couldn’t get any better.’
‘I didn’t see another doorway. Maybe the pipes run out to the garden?’
‘Maybe.’ Matty swung his legs back over the cinema chair, and I followed him out into the ultraviolet glare again. ‘There’s a basement doorway to the outside, through the studio.’
He was right; behind the vocal booths was a French door that opened out onto a sleek patio, with narrow steps up to the main garden, which sat on a level with the rest of the party upstairs. He took these steps two at a time, and I had to jog to keep up.
It had gotten chillier since my kerb-side procrastination earlier in the evening, and I began to wish I had brought a knitted layer. The lawn was impeccably manicured, which prevented my feet from sinking into the ground, and spotlights lit up where the grass met flowerbeds either side. We saw the steam rising from the water’s surface before glimpsing the pool itself, a crisp, dark marble hollow in the landscaping with yet more ultraviolet spotlights that filled the water with a cool glow.
‘She doesn’t do anything by halves, eh?’ Matty shook his head, kneeling down to slip a hand in, and shooting ripples across the pool’s glassy surface.
‘Don’t blame her, to be honest… if I had that sort of cash, I’d build my own personal holiday resort in Notting Hill, too.’ I perched on a short pillar that held a small floodlight. ‘Not sure about the marble though. Give me granite any day.’
‘ Grand Designs should give you a job.’
‘Amateurs. I just want a Span house.’
‘Oh, they’re lovely - such serene spaces,’ he exclaimed, turning to face me again. ‘And everyone raves about Erno Goldfinger, but Trellick Tower just doesn’t seem as peaceful in comparison… Joanna, be careful. I’m not dressed appropriately to bail you out.’
I had rolled up my blazer sleeves and was dunking my arms into the water all the way up to my elbow. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. It’s like when you’re washing up, and the hot water is so comforting. When I was a kid helping my mum out, I used to stand there for ages with my arms in the sink, rinsing suds off the cutlery as slowly as I could get away with, until my fingers went all wrinkly.’
‘I’ve heard a really hot shower is bad for you now.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read. It doesn’t take into account a hot bath’s positive effects on winter downers.’
‘Mm… the days are already so short. It can be so disorientating, feeling time slipping through your fingers.’
I heard a shriek of laughter in the distance - Dean’s - and craned my neck to gaze back down the garden, suddenly dreading the thought of unexpected company disturbing us.
‘They won’t wind down for a while at least. It’s...’ Matty fished his phone out of his pocket. ‘Wow. Four thirty.’
‘Fuck,’ I pulled my arms back out of the pool, rubbing them furiously as the night air raised goosebumps on my damp skin. ‘I didn’t mean to stay this late! I’m playing tomorrow.’
‘Oh, amazing. Where?’
‘Support slot at Moth Club. Sorry, I’m not usually such a grandma… this one’s just important. I think I left my bag in the basement.’
‘No worries, let’s get it.’ He got to his feet and gestured towards the house. ‘Why such a big deal?’
On the way back, I told him how Dean had set the whole thing up; how we were expecting three, maybe four A&Rs from different labels to come down, and how a follow-up headline show hinged on the reception of tomorrow’s set. I was actually surprisingly calm about it. Dean could do what he liked, make me shake hands with whoever he wanted, as long as I was able to perform as normal. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to sign, in the traditional sense, but Dean had other ideas, and I suspected there would be a battle of wills further down the line. Actually, that was ungenerous - his enthusiasm was genuine, I could tell, which answered for a lot of his ambition. Still that wouldn’t prevent me from digging in my heels every now and then, to maintain my autonomy.
‘Don’t let them tell you it’s going to be definitive - which they will, if they haven’t already.’ Matty advised, as I pushed open the French door, relishing being back inside that cocoon of weird neon warmth. ‘If it changes anything, cool. If it doesn’t, great. You don’t have to do anything different yourself. Unless you’re really keen for it,’ he added this last in a rush. ‘And ambitious. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, obviously.’
‘I am, a bit. Don’t worry.’ I grinned. ‘I don’t want to come across as apathetic. But low expectations, less disappointment, you see. Why, do you think I should polish up my ego?’
‘I always recommend that. Hardly surprising.’ He eyed my bag, curiosity writ large across his face. ‘Do you have tracks on that?’
‘My laptop? Yeah,’ I swung it off my shoulder and slipped the Mac out of its case.
‘Can I be nosy?’ Matty asked, and I was gratified to hear the excitement in his voice.
‘You can be better than that. Will you help me with one of them?’
‘Deal.’
***
An hour later, we were already on the third project, and I was getting used to briefing him, almost like a studio engineer. We were in a different world entirely, for a time; swivel chairs pushed together so we could both see what we were doing, and all my plans of leaving promptly forgotten.
‘This one’s just too… flat. I want to bulk out the bass, make it pop a bit more.’ I frowned quizzically at the screen and cupped my chin in my hands. ‘It’s been infuriating me for days .’
‘May I?’
I nodded, and Matty pulled my laptop onto his lap and put on my headphones. He played about for a second, brows furrowed in concentration, and I couldn’t see what he was doing on the screen. ‘It’s sounding seriously good already, but I do know what you mean… if I just…’
He chewed his lip a little as his eyes darted around, nodding along every now and then whilst he evaluated whatever it was he did to the track. I stared in unabashed envy, wishing I could hear what he heard and work out what sort of sorcery was going on.
‘That should do it.’ He passed the headphones back to me, looking pleased with himself. Rather than listen privately, I plugged an aux cord into the laptop and pressed play, so that the track blared out on the monitors in front of us. Sure enough, my drums, vocals and the warm synth were dense and sumptuous; my head fell back and I rubbed my eyes in incredulity.
‘Fuck. You just did it. It’s perfect.’
‘Well, it’s your music. I just emphasised the best bits.’
My cheeks grew warm at the implied compliment. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I drummed my fingers lightly on my knee and nodded quickly. ‘There’s one last one I want to add to. Just a vocal melody, I got an idea this evening. Do you reckon there’s an interface around here I can use?’
‘Oh, don’t faff about with one of those,’ Matty wrinkled his nose and waved a hand around flippantly. ‘Just take a voice note or something. They’re almost painfully true to life anyway. And it’s essentially a demo.’
Christ , I thought. No hiding inside the booth then. He pulled the headphones off his ears and slipped them over my own, somehow managing to push my hair back from my ears in the process. I jumped almost imperceptibly at the brief contact, as though he’d given me a static shock.
‘Right…’ I fumbled with my phone, pressing play on the demo and waiting for the right moment. I had to turn my head slightly, so he wasn’t in my peripheral vision. Performing to all the venerated people at the gig the next night didn’t compare to my nerves now, which were somewhat unexpected. I knew it was because, by this point, I desired his approval and respect, at least as a musician, if not also as a new acquaintance.
It took barely a minute, in one take, and I stopped the recording almost immediately once I had finished. Matty reached for my laptop.
‘Can I grab this again?'
I nodded, and he tinkered around with it for a bit longer.
‘I’ve compressed it a bit more, plus a few other things… have a play around.’
He was being modest - he had done more than that, I could tell just by listening, the subtlest of effects. I felt myself glowing with satisfaction at hearing my idea come to life; playing it cool was difficult, but I tried nevertheless.
Once everything was aligned, we connected my laptop up to the studio’s monitors, and listened. It was unsettling to hear the music booming out, stuff that I had previously kept between me, my ears and Logic. But as Matty’s foot bobbed up and down, and he turned to me and smiled winningly, suddenly it was okay.
‘What is it now, six in the morning?’ I asked, snapping out of my trance. ‘God knows how many hours of sleep I’ll get.’
‘No point sleeping at all now. Some of my best performances have been when I’m practically running on fumes.’ He checked his phone. ‘You’re spot on though. And I’ve run out of cigs. This is a posh part of town, is there an off-licence around?’
‘Think so,’ - my black-bag offering came to mind. I packed my laptop away and pulled my jacket back on.
The walk up the stairs and back into the party took on an eerie quality, as the morning light filtered weakly through the glassy walls on the ground floor. The house had become that liminal space of a party in its dying hours, where nothing is quite real and responsibilities are still non-existent, which was certainly the way some people were living it out. The music had transitioned into a pulsing thrum of vaporwave that still accompanied the conversations of the people that remained, maybe about a quarter of the original crowd. Matty whipped a baseball cap out of a pocket in his jacket and pulled it on in the hall mirror, tugging curls into the right place, and as I glanced around, I caught Robin’s eye. He was ensconced on one of the pale blue velvet sofas, sandwiched between Dean (who was out for the count) and a gothy-looking girl. Surprise flashed across his face, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction as I turned back and followed Matty out the front door. He walked energetically, despite being only an inch or two taller than me, and I had to step out quickly to keep up.
‘Ladbroke Grove actually isn’t as bad as Mayfair. That’s a desert, compared to this. Fucking impossible to buy a pint of milk.’
‘Not my ends,’ I shrugged.
‘Where are you then?’
‘Streatham, way away. Cheaper, closer to people and places that matter to me.’
‘Oh,’ he paused. ‘Like who? Parents? Siblings? Boyfriend, girlfriend?’
He was asking carefully, despite the restless fidgeting with his lighter, a pretence at absent-mindedness. Small talk didn't suit him; he had no subtlety. I hid a tiny smile. ‘Best friend, bandmate. Helen and I live together, she keeps me sane. Plus it’s easy to get into central and get the train home to Bristol.’
‘I should really travel home more. Easier said than done.’ He dragged his Converse against the pavement flags, and flung an arm out dramatically as we turned a corner. ‘Coffee and offie - perfect!’
It was the sort of outrageous cafe that sold cappuccinos for three pound fifty, but it was the only option at this hour. They were cranking up the shutters as we waltzed in, baristas glancing us over and making their implicit judgements about where we had come from. The lightbulbs emanated a cold white light, exacerbating my fatigue, and I squeezed my eyelids together, trying not to rub them and make them sore. I insisted on paying for both coffees - it was the very least, I argued, for all the help he’d given me with the demos - and held them both whilst he dashed into the off-licence next door. He lit up again once back outside, and we dithered outside for a second whilst figuring out our directions.
‘I’m going to hop in a cab. Are you heading to the tube station?’
I nodded.
‘Okay, well.’ His speech seemed stilted again, the niceties a struggle to him. He fiddled with the lid on the coffee cup, suddenly appearing very interested in the condensation underneath. ‘If you want, you can take my number.’ His gaze flickered back to me, as if to judge my reaction.
‘Yes please,’ I handed him my phone, ignoring the light-headedness that made me step back a little to steady myself.
‘Don’t worry about bothering me. I like being bothered, especially when it’s about making me feel useful.’ He handed it back to me, straight-faced. ‘Seriously, Joanna. Anything I can do.’ He hailed down a cab a beat later, but before he got in, flashed an enormous grin and gave me a hug goodbye. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and he was a good hugger; genuine, firm, not too brief. But in the next moment he was gone, and I stood on the kerb in the middle of Ladbroke Grove, feeling weightless.