Utopia Avenue

“Stop. This isn’t a grudge. It’s consequences. If yer want him in yer life, great. Bully for you. That’s yer choice. I don’t want him in mine. That’s my choice. End o’ story. Just…stop.” “Men his age can and do drop dead. ’Specially if their liver’s fucked. The dead can’t sign peace treaties. And he’s still yer dad.”

All that work, those meetings, phone calls, letters, the favors I cashed in, the crap I took from Howie Stoker, from Victor French, from everyone—all to get Paradise recorded and released, all turning to shit… Shut up and listen. The greatest jazz pianist in the world is playing ten yards away.

Where do I begin? “His brother’s dead. He was driving. He blames himself. The whole thing’s hit him very hard.” “Once I knew a stable-boy,” says Francis Bacon. “He used to say, ‘Grief is the bill of love, fallen due.’ I can’t recall his face or even name, but I remember that line. Isn’t it odd, what sticks?”

“The best pop songs are art,” says Jasper. “Making art is already a political act. The artist rejects the dominant version of the world. The artist proposes a new version. A subversion. It’s there in the etymology. Tyrants are right to fear art.” “And music scares ’em shitless,” says Dean. “It’s the hooks. Once music’s in yer, it’s in for good. The

“Mecca’ll shoot while you’re playing,” says Levon. “In situ. Nothing cheesy. Think of those portraits on the Blue Note albums.” “You only said ‘Blue Note’ so I’d agree,” grumbles Griff. “You can see into my soul,” agrees Levon.

Art is unbiddable; all you can do is signal your readiness. Wrong turns, eliminated, reveal the right path.

THE SKY TURNS dark. Dean sucks a toffee as the Beast passes through Pease Pottage, a village less quaint than its name. “If I had to choose one gig, it’d be Little Richard at the Folkestone Odeon. ’Bout ten years ago. Bill Shanks took us. Bill owns the record shop in Gravesend and sold me my first proper guitar. He drove my brother Ray ’n’ me and a

If Dean could click his fingers and erase Bruce Fletcher’s existence, no questions asked, no murder investigation, he wouldn’t hesitate. In fact, he clicked his fingers now, just on the off chance it would work.

“Some kid of Joe Boyd’s. His name didn’t stick. Nick Duck, Nick Lake, or something. I need to clean some of your shit up.”