I remember sitting on the wall outside the venue. It was January but you couldn’t tell it from the way the girls in the queue were dressed. I remember the sticky floors that stank of Dark Fruits leading up to the scratchy carpeted stairs that clearly hadn’t been replaced this side of the millennia. There was always a girl crying at the top of the stairs with a fake tanned arm around her shoulder and a “he’s not worth it, Babe”.
I remember the barmaid who worked at that bar, who worked with tired eyes and nicotine-stained fingers, seemingly always in need of her next fag break. The room hummed as the crowd started to draw. We would always sneak backstage to feel the boy’s ego’s bursting out of their skulls, eyeing up the girls in the crowd like foxes among hares. I remember the peeling paint on the walls and the years of graffiti carefully curated underneath. One flake of magnolia wall revealed a heart holding the letters “R+J.” My R to his ever ironically teenage J.
Martyrdom were up first that night, likeable enough boys smearing shoplifted guy liner onto their cheeks. Poundland war paint- seemed fitting for a night like this. Boys like this were the James Bond of year 11. They were not doing international espionage or shagging models, quite the opposite in-fact. But they did lead double lives. Maths GCSE by day, slipknot by night. I shared a silent giggle to myself imagining these 6,2” metal heads in trouble for leaving their P.E kit at home.
One of the boys always had his mum in the crowd. Sharon, I remember her. Pillar-box red hair and a smoker’s cough. She went to the same support group as Jess's dad. They’re not supposed to talk outside of the meetings, but they always do. Affectionately, she was Shaz. Life of the party, although her son wishes otherwise. She worked as hard as she played, shift after shift. No matter how many hours had worn her down that week she would always turn up for her son. That night, Shaz’s words were more slurred than usual, her movement less stable. She had already drunkenly flirted her way past the bouncers, insisting that “beautiful girls shouldn’t have to get their purse out.” In a way she was right, she must have forgotten it was free entry.
The crowd had filled in, the clock struck nine and the host took to the stage with a “boy’s you’re on first.”
Jumping, whooping they filed on, excitable lambs to the slaughter. The atmosphere rose and the wheel, for once should have been in their favour. However, as they passed Shaz, she messily slapped each of them on the arse before telling me to “take care of her boys, dahlynn.” Silence can be the loudest noise but stunned silence is even louder, as I now know. Her son’s face contorted into an even denser scowl before stomping on stage. Shazza was escorted out.
Martyrdom died on stage. Sharron’s son came out of the spotlight and added to the vibrant tapestry of backstage by punching a hole in the wall. Like clockwork, Jess was there, with a bag of ice and a comforting arm.
“Take a breather mate, yeah? 10 minutes out”
“It’s just....”
“I know”
Jess always seemed to know in times like these.
It was a Friday when I met Jess. A soggy sofa in a disused classroom called his name. I used to sit and watch from the other side of the broken blinds as his toyed with his 12 string - everybody had to know it was a 12 string. Often it would be Leonard Cohen, more often than that Bob Dylan but that day it was Lou Reed. His hair lay slack around his jaw with his sunglasses still on inside, the indie girl’s wet dream. The opening of ‘Walk on the wild side’ rang out through the crumbling halls.
That’s what made me first say hello to him. I will admit I felt a specific smugness in knowing the song and took even more pleasure saying, “the velvet underground, right?” as I sat next to him. Now, the thought of pandering to him like that makes my stomach turn. But then, he made me feel like someone different, someone good. We sat, chatted and the world melted away.
“I’ve seen you before, you’re Lucy’s friend?”
In my 17-year-old, fantasy ‘cool girl’ scenario I would have replied “what’s it to you?” then chain smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, washing it down with a black coffee to achieve the ultimate mysterious aura.
Instead, I giggled, “hahahahaha, yeah! How do you know her?”
Turns out, she drummed for Jess the week before and I had so happened to be there. He remembered me. HE remembered ME.
“Red dress, you reminded me of Kate Moss a bit”
“The model look or the endless-amounts-of-coke look?”
“Both”
And on you strummed.
They (our friends, his fans, the adoring public) knew him as soft, gentle. Sweetness and light bundled into a long-sleeved T-shirt. And although a cheeky grin can wash away a lifetime of sins, they weren’t wrong. He was serious with me. I knew his mum, his friends, his dad. From then on, he called me Kate. The smugness rose within me every time he did.
Our first date was to a cafe that had old sacs of coffee for beanbags and bikes on the wall, I had never felt more adult in my life. We were set to meet inside but as I reached the door my knees buckled. My heart froze. Every ounce of Kate Moss cool left my body. He was already there leaning on the counter and tapping your feet absent-mindedly. Before these first date nerves even saw the light of day he sprang up and flew open the glass door as if it were made of paper.
“Hello, trouble” Trouble? Kate was back.
“Of all the gin joints”
“Oh, Casablanca?”
“No, the Simpsons”
He giggled. I made HIM giggle.
At the till Jess slid his arm round my waist and pulled my hip into his. My heart raced ahead of my body as I struggled to hold my legs back from breaking into a skip. We sat in a booth as he told stupid jokes and showed me the harmonica he always kept in his pocket. Of COURSE, he always kept a harmonica in his pocket.
“So, at synagogue one Saturday there’s an argument...”
“Here we fucking go, Jess”
“What?”
“Oh, and I suppose the prostitute and the Irishman were there too?”
“No, but my mother, Miss. Levy, was”
If I were near a mirror, I would have seen a shade of red that would make Trotsky jealous.
He laughed from his stomach and pinched a cheek. “Look at that face, Oy vey!”
After batting him away, he continued.
“So, they ask, do you sit or stand for prayer? Half of them sit and half stand. They argue, screaming, shouting, until Rabbi Cohen comes in and they ask him ‘should we stand to pray?’”
I’d heard this one before, but I could see in his eyes that glimmer of excitement that only comes before a punchline you’ve told a million times.
“And?”
“And Rabbi Cohen says, no that’s not the tradition. So, they ask should we sit to pray, and he says no, that’s not the tradition. They go bat shit right, out of their minds on poor Rabbi Cohen saying, ‘this makes no sense, and we were screaming and shouting at each other!’ There’s a pause ‘and that,’ says Rabbi Cohen, ‘is the tradition’”
Later, he pulled something else from his pocket. A small silver hip flask of whisky he poured into his coffee. It was 1 pm. I wanted to protest or question him but right on cue he smirked and said, “You won’t tell anyone will you, Moss?” with a wink that would thaw the coldest of hearts.
He took me to gigs and parties and I liked being the girlfriend in the audience. I loved being the girlfriend in the audience. Every time someone said hello to him, they would say hello through me. I lived that time transparent. But there is a pleasure to be had in being a ghost. There’s whispers and chit chat to soothe and shadows to dwell in. The tax of existence gets rebated.
Before this night there had been many others, both for us and the bar itself. Before this it was a dance hall, clad in gold and red tinsel for boys and their shadows to jive, drink and laugh. The delicate plasterwork and sweeping ceilings had now been replaced with the low sweaty ceiling but the floor remained the same. The scuffs along the edges seemed everlasting, the same as a dog’s paw print immortalised in wet cement. The time before the dance hall exists now only in rumours, but urban legend has it that it was once a burial ground for hanged witches. One girl claimed that if you stayed until 3am the lights would flicker unprompted, and a moan could be heard from the Women’s bathroom. No one had the heart to tell her otherwise.
He played later that night. I clung to his arm leaving a trail of ectoplasm in my wake. The sea of black T-shirt’s and miniskirts parted for us as we trudged towards the bar.
“Vodka and tonic?” He asked
“Sure…” my train of thought trailed off with the unique shriek of teenage girldom forcing its way through the crowd. They were clearly screeching at us. “Are they always like that?”
“Not really, sometimes ….” His train of thought drifted off to when he saw who the girls were with.
It’s not fair to say that I was scared of his dad. Maybe unnerved, maybe angered, but watching him buy shots for those girls felt insidious. Like taking candy from a baby and replacing it with MDMA.
“Jess, son, give your old dad a hand, will you?”
He hadn’t seen his dad in six months. He didn’t know where his dad was or what he was doing or who he was doing it with. A deliberate vanishing act that Jess swore never to repeat.
Although his dad would often have his head in the clouds, Jess was never ‘as bad’ as his dad and “would never let it get to that state”. Jess would simply have a drink or five to settle his nerves on stage. It was the ever-present ritual guaranteed to bring small town stardom.
He kept me away from his dad. Told me to stand back and stay out of it while screams and sobs were hurled back and forth, and a bag of white powder was slipped from father to son. I can only assume it was his dad’s own white flag, but Jess never said and by the time I turned to ask his dad had vanished between two bouncers and Jess was up on stage.
His set, everyone agreed, was perfect, soulful, electric. I stood at the back, a blushing schoolgirl when he dedicated a song to me. Everyone swooned and cringed in the poetry of the moment. An hour later when I found him covered in your own vomit this kitschy charm shattered. When the ambulance came, he tried to pass the oxygen mask off as chic but the bed pan next to him did sour the image.
Jess could see things in a crystal-clear way that was foggy for others. He could cut through the bullshit with a Samurai sword when it came to everyone except himself, but isn’t that the tradition?
One thing his eyes would often dart back and forth across was the open-secret history that lurked throughout his blood. Of his father and his father forever stagnant. Jess’s grandfather was once a stern and solemn character with polished leather shoes and a sturdy leather belt. He liked a beer after work and everyone else would pay the price. But he worked hard and long and, when he could, straight. Officially, he sold windows but if an old radio or ironing board had fallen off the back of a lorry that probably was part of the deal. It was the 60’s and true to the saying he barely remembers it now.
After that night, Jess always described his grandad as ‘rotting’. He’d be ‘rotting away’ at a care home or a bingo hall. A switch had been flipped. Jess forgot to conceal the odd bouts of venom that were so unlike the boy I knew.
He never hurt me, but that wouldn’t exempt me from being a ‘slut’ or a ‘whore’ whenever he lost his tongue completely. The same names he’d heard Miss. Levy called in fits of intoxicated rage. I saw him read Freud and Foucault to claw his way out with intellect, but no volume of paper can show you how far you have slipped through the looking glass.
There were more nights with open mic and ‘Just one more’s. He shone like never before. Friday night would roll around and he would be the town legend. After he played, I would always be on his arm to balance him and clean up his mess.
He saw his dad more and more since that night, until Fridays took place seven days a week. But that charm was his greatest gift of all. Despite the endless I spent with him laughing and crying it fooled me. No matter what name he called me or what alley I dragged him home from, as soon as he’d swung back round, I was his messiah. Each time I felt less and less sorry for him. He slurred that I was his “saviour”, but how could I ever save someone who couldn’t save themselves.
A script began to emerge. He was disgusted with himself, I was all he needed, and he’d work to make it right. A bunch of flowers were delivered last time. White lilies. The note inside read:
“Dear Miss. Moss,
The next flowers you’ll get from me will be different, you’ll see.
Love, Your Jess”
I kept it in my purse and re-read it now, in the cab to the hospital. His mum told me I should go. Before he asks me, I’m not angry, I’m fucking furious.
But the second I see him, he’ll ask why I didn’t bring him a balloon and I’ll laugh. He’ll pull me close and turn this shit show into a moment of bitter sweetness. And I’ll sleep in the chair next to his bed even though it’s the last thing he deserves. It doesn’t bear to think that next time I have flowers I could laying them for him. And so, I don’t. I wind down the window cling to the note card, praying for him. That’s the tradition.
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