Utopia Avenue

“In awe of her as I was, I never wanted to be Nina Simone,” continues Elf. “I’m a white English folk singer. She’s a black Juilliard-trained genius. She plays blues with her left hand and Bach with her right. I saw her do it. All I wanted was a few ounces of her self-assurance. I still do. Heckling Nina Simone would be like heckling a mountain. Unt

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

“The Narrow Road to the Deep North,” says Tiffany. “That’s jolly evocative,” says Elf. “I love it.” “The title’s from Bashō,” says Jasper. “The Japanese poet.”

“That smug shit was a shitting ponce.” “Was he? I thought he was quite polite.” Dean stopped. “Don’t yer ever get pissed off?” “I’ve tried, but I’m unconvincing.” “It’s not a matter of ‘convincing’! It’s a bloody emotion!” Jasper blinked. “Exactly.”

At the end of its eight-minute journey from the sun, light passes through the stained glass of St. Matthias Church in Richmond, London, and enters the dual darkrooms of Jasper’s eyeballs. The rods and cones packing his retinas convert the light into electrical impulses that travel along optic nerves into his brain, which translates the varying wave

“The mystery o’ fishing’s this,” said Dean’s dad, “what’s the hook, who’s got the rod, what’s the maggot, what’s the fish?” “Why’s that a mystery, Dad?” “Yer’ll understand when yer older.” “But ain’t it obvious what’s what?” “It changes, son. In a heartbeat.”

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Dean had to borrow fifteen pounds from Moonwhale to pay his quarter share of this “gift.” More debt…I’m going to have to start serving coffees again, at this rate. “Yer should always look a gift horse in its mouth. They’re never gifts.”

“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.”

Jasper drew a spiral on the steamy glass. “Eight days.” “Speak English, not Cryptic Crossword. Please. I have a headache as big as East Anglia.” “My Dutch grandfather used to say, ‘If you don’t know what to do, do nothing for eight days.’ ” Dean asked, “Why eight?” “Less than eight is haste. More than eight is procrastination. Eight days is long en