For Two Nights Only Read online

  For Two Nights Only

  Graham Kelly

  Text copyright © Graham Kelly

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Jacob Pluta

  Contents

  Side A...................................................................................................................................................................... 3

  Track 1.................................................................................................................................................................... 4

  Track 2.................................................................................................................................................................. 30

  Side B.................................................................................................................................................................... 33

  Track 3.................................................................................................................................................................. 34

  Track 4.................................................................................................................................................................. 42

  Side C.................................................................................................................................................................... 45

  Track 5.................................................................................................................................................................. 46

  Track 6.................................................................................................................................................................. 53

  Track 7.................................................................................................................................................................. 58

  Track 8.................................................................................................................................................................. 62

  Track 9.................................................................................................................................................................. 68

  Track 10............................................................................................................................................................... 71

  Side D................................................................................................................................................................... 74

  Track 11............................................................................................................................................................... 75

  Track 12............................................................................................................................................................... 80

  Track 13 (Medley A)............................................................................................................................................. 82

  Track 13 (Medley B)............................................................................................................................................. 83

  Track 13 (Medley C).............................................................................................................................................. 84

  Track 14............................................................................................................................................................... 89

  Track 15............................................................................................................................................................... 92

  Manufacturing the Pearl.............................................................................................................................. 98

  Bonus Track........................................................................................................................................................ 101

  Side A

  Track 1

  Click.

  We’re going. You’re on–

  This isn’t a performance, Chris.

  I know. But you asked me here. I assumed you had something to say.

  We’ll get there. But—.

  Just one second.

  Click.

  I picked up the digital recorder, backed up to the beginning and hit play. The small speaker on the side of the device repeated the short exchange, our voices crisp and clear.

  Click.

  Okay, we’re good. Just being sure.

  I checked the recorder at the start of every interview, but not for the reason people think. I know the compact little machine; it’s reliable, the microphone picks up every sound, every time. No, it’s not about checking the gear, the false start is to shake people, to throw them off. It’s a way of disrupting the persona the interviewee assumed when we began.

  Everyone adopts a public face, a facade, and everyone denies they do. I’m being myself, they say. This is the real me. It’s not. There’s a hyper-awareness you can’t shake when you’re being recorded. Every word from me carries an exaggerated importance, and if you’ve done a thousand of these, like the man across the table, you’ve learned to fake your way through it. You try extra hard to be memorable, which is why most people come off as arrogant or out of touch in a printed interview. If you weren’t in the room at the time the words were spoken you’re too far removed from the moment and its intensity. A good conversation, for me, includes verbal sparring, some jabs and callbacks. And that doesn’t translate to print. That’s not exoneration for every idiotic thing a famous person has said on record. Even within those moments of hyper-awareness, one can be conceited.

  I start the charade and then I stop it. The subject stumbles, can’t get his persona back in full. He or she tries to resume, but a little something has been lost.

  Sure, the best actor in the world might stay in character onstage if something disrupts his monologue, but this wasn’t the best actor in the world.

  Darin, did you do it?

  Always start with the toughest question. Another way of crumbling the wall. The expectation is that I’ll ease into things because I wouldn’t want the conversation to start uncomfortably. Toss that notion early. This will not be the typical interview; these are not rules the subject recognizes.

  Could you be more specific? I’ve done a lot of things.

  Charlotte.

  Still not sure what you’re talking about.

  Her death. Were you responsible?

  You’re my guest, Chris. Demonstrate some tact. Don’t insult the host, or I’ll put you on a plane back to the States.

  I’m not taking it completely off the table.

  Then leave it on the table. Just don’t pick it up and put it in my face.

  It’s in the back of his mind. He knows I’ll be coming back to it, at some point. If he’s as intelligent as I think he is, he’s already working out what he’s going to say when I bring it back up.

  Fine. Tell me about you as a kid. What were you like at fourteen?

  Fourteen? Nice question, I like it, it’s interesting. Fourteen. I was anxious.

  About what?

  Everything. My parents divorcing. My life changing. My ability to get a girlfriend. My ability to keep a girlfriend. I was a nervous kid, I had lots of tics and I got made fun of for it.

  Your parents didn’t get divorced.

  No, but maybe they should’ve.

  Give me an example of one of your tics.

  –

  Full disclosure. That’s what you agreed to. If you’re not interested in that,
I’m not interested in being here.

  I don’t see how it’s important.

  Maybe it’s not. That’s for me to figure out. This might never make it to the page, but it could be important.

  Bollocks.

  I’m trying to engage you in conversation. If you think there’s enough for a book here, we need to touch on everything. We’re just getting started, so relax and let’s talk.

  Would you like a drink? I could use a drink.

  It was half past eleven in the morning. I shook my head.

  No, I’m fine. Do you need a drink?

  There was still a fog behind his eyes. I guessed that he’d been awake for maybe an hour.

  Always.

  His smile was wide, boyish, innocent but suggestive. It was the same one he flashed for the camera, for girls to confirm a rendezvous later that night, for the crowd before the opening chords of the first song of the concert. I’d seen it in dozens of magazines while researching.

  Okay, make yourself a drink.

  He stood up, crossed the room and disappeared through a tall doorway.

  Click.

  I flipped to the front of my notebook and reviewed the storyline I hoped to move through, the product of two uninterrupted months of research. I’d passed on every assignment offered me to prepare for this forty-eight hour sitdown. Darin had hinted that if we got along well, and there was enough “good material,” he’d let me skip an article and go right to a book. For me it would be a long step forward into a new echelon of work. I could say goodbye to picking up assignments, scrounging and schmoozing, instead positioning myself as a biographer to famous musicians. My chances of doing so were not extraordinary. Over an eight-year career I’d developed a reputation as a top music journalist, respected by my peers for ability and work ethic, and by those I interviewed for how I presented their stories. In this case my ability would be irrelevant; an authorized biography of Darin could sell millions of copies on both sides of the Atlantic no matter how poorly I laid down the story.

  Darin’s relationship with the press had grown standoffish, and details remained scarce about his personal life. Though he’d given nearly a hundred interviews over his career, he often stayed on target promoting his latest album and answered personal questions only superficially. What I’d been able to dig up was not extensive

  He had grown up middleclass in Grand Rapids, Michigan; older and younger siblings; music lessons early due to his father’s influence; mother was a teacher; success before he was out of his teens; the typical rumors of a life lived fast: models, hard drugs, groupies, booze; hit record after hit record; hounded by the press; a move to England in his early-twenties, the hit records still coming but much less often; a fade from the spotlight; three years without a record, no even a single; father passes away and Darin doesn’t attend the funeral; sister marries, no attendance at the wedding; no new songs; a stepping out with a beautiful strawberry blonde and rumors of bliss; the first interview in two years, in which Darin comes across as unstable and paranoid, followed by public concern; death of girlfriend under mysterious circumstances; a police investigation, threats of deportation; charges dropped but with a heavy dose of skepticism from the press; a year and a half of silence; an invitation extended to a well-known music journalist to conduct an interview and write an article, with the promise of a biography if things go well.

  I flipped back to where I’d begun my notes. Just a 1 and a 4 on the page, and the word ‘Anxious.’

  “Darin! Please!”

  Click.

  Sorry love, but it’s time to work again. How do you suppose I pay for these nice things you don’t mind enjoying if you never let me work?

  He came back into the sitting room, still in the maroon bathrobe he’d been wearing when he greeted me at the front door. It was tied loosely around his waist, open enough to reveal his ribs and a few black hairs a quarter of the way down his chest. Physically he was unimposing, well below six feet and lucky if he topped a hundred and thirty pounds. He would’ve been hardly worth notice if he weren’t unrelentingly confident.

  Behind him followed a gorgeous brunette trying to keep pace. I put her at twenty-three. Her skin was taught, smooth and supple. Before it even got to me I knew she was swimming in an overly fragrant perfume. She wore a small white bikini that glowed against her deeply tanned skin, imprinted with red roses that barely covered her breasts and triangle of femininity.

  Chris, can you please tell Geneva here that we truly are working? Then, to her, Sweety, I’m not fucking with you. Chris has traveled all the way from the United States to speak with me, and I can’t very well leave him sitting here while I entertain you. I promise I’ll have plenty of time for you tonight. We’ll get dinner, I’ll send a car for you around eight. Text me where you’d like to eat.

  Geneva raised herself up onto her tiptoes and dropped back to the soles of her feet, sending her breasts bobbing up and down while she attempted an adult version of a temper tantrum, her lips pressed firmly together and her brow furrowed. She tried to pout but couldn’t sell it, the promise of a dinner with Darin outshining her acting skills.

  Really? You won’t cancel?

  Of course not. We’ve got a witness, he can testify to it. Right Chris?

  I slowly nodded, doing my best to convey sincerity.

  Go get changed and tell Oscar to take you home. I have to see to my guest.

  She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he halfheartedly accepted. She began to leave the room but stopped short, turning back and focusing on me.

  Where are you from?

  I live in New York City.

  She shrieked with surprise and took a step toward me, deliberately and slowly bending over to place her face inches away from mine. Her perfume was suffocating.

  I’ve always dreamt of going.

  You should. It’s a great city.

  She nodded emphatically and then, as if dawning on her that it was the appropriate thing to do, reached out a hand.

  Geneva.

  I took it and we shook. Hers was warm, almost clammy.

  Nice to meet you, Geneva. Perhaps we’ll be seeing more of each other. Over her shoulder I saw Darin shake his head, grinning.

  I’d like that, she smiled.

  She turned and darted out of the room, almost skipping as she went.

  As soon as she was through the door Darin fell into the chair across from me, his drink landing on the table with a thud.

  Fucking children, these women. I don’t know why I keep it going. I mean, I do, the sex is incredible and they can last all night, but it’s all air and no oxygen. Know what I mean? And did you see the way she raped you with her eyes right in front of me? Unbelievable. As if you’re going to take her to New York. Or would you?

  Not a chance.

  I suspected that about you. See that’s the problem with these girls, they’re hangers-on. It becomes a way of life, and when they see it work once they think that’s the key and it’ll work a thousand more times with whatever guy they meet.

  You don’t think it works for them?

  No, it does, but not forever.

  What do you think happens when it stops working? What then?

  Housewives. With men much less successful than myself. Darin laughed loudly, filling the whole room. I don’t know, they figure it out eventually I imagine. He took a large gulp of his drink, a brown liquor with plenty of ice.

  Do women always stay the night?

  Last night I only had one.

  And tonight?

  I’ll have at least one. I don’t know Geneva very well, it is as yet unclear what she’s game for.

  But it’s a regular occurrence?

  I don’t know about regular. It happens when I want it to happen.

  What do you get out of it?

  I think that’s probably quite obvious.

  Are they replacements for Charlotte?

  No one can replace Charly.

  But you enjoy the company?
>
  They help me sleep. Sometimes they help me forget about sleeping.

  Do you have trouble with that? With sleeping?

  Often, yes.

  Why?

  I don’t know, really. Darin sat up, as if finally interested in the conversation.

  I don’t believe that. I’ve listened to your music, you’re introspective, you know yourself. I don’t believe you haven’t thought about this.

  Well look, it’s a stupid question, no offense. Why does anyone have a hard time sleeping? The pressures of life. I’ve got a dozen people in my immediate circle affected by whether or not I can continue to do what I do, not to mention all the other people that get paid when I put out a new song, whether it’s at the record label or the people at the venues, or the team that tours with me that does my sound and my lighting and my stage show, my touring bandmates. Hell, I even think about the record shop owners who rely on people still wanting to go out and buy albums. Record shops are dying left and right. It’s a fucking tragedy.

  And if you didn’t continue to put out music you think there wouldn’t be anyone else filling that void?

  Well sure, the people at the venues would work other shows, other people would hop into the spotlight because the record labels would continue to push their product. I’m just one of their products, I know that. But Oscar, for example, he’d be out of work.

  Your butler.

  My friend and assistant, yes.

  By now you must have enough money that you could continue to live this exact life without having to write another song ever, am I right? Keep Oscar. Keep this mansion. It doesn’t add up. Where does the pressure really come from?

  Maybe it’s not financial after all. Good call. I shall have another chat with my accountant. Again his sly smile, a shake of his glass to settle the ice, and a large gulp.

  Were you popular in school?

  Darin paused for a long moment and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the west side of the sitting room. I looked outside to see if I could identify what he was looking at, where his mind had wandered to. Through the glass a large expanse of grass, shrubs and flowers constructed a spectacular yard that reached out from the house for the length of a football field before abutting a thick line of trees. I got the impression the yard wrapped around both sides of the house, and that Darin owned everything that could be seen from here. Somewhere in the dense woods that outlined his beautiful mix of lawn and gardens, a property line existed that signaled an end to his personal space, though it was far enough away he need never worry.