This Beats Perfect Read online

  Rebecca Denton lives in Hackney with her family, two guitars, two pianos, a trumpet and a few vintage game consoles. She spent her career travelling the world making music TV for MTV and Channel 4, and creating content for kids, and young adults on Cartoon Network, BBC and ITV. She’s filmed with Iggy Pop, MIA, Kaiser Chiefs, Sonic Youth, Jack White, The Kills, Dirty Pretty Things and Laura Marling to name a few …

  Copyright

  Published by Atom

  ISBN: 978-0-349-00271-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Denton

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Atom

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to my Mum.

  Track List

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Intro

  1.

  I Am Rock ’n’ Roll (Edward Gains)

  2.

  Tightrope (Janelle Monáe featuring Big Boi)

  3.

  Charmless Man (Blur)

  4.

  Going to the Party (Alabama Shakes)

  5.

  Futile Devices (Sufjan Stevens)

  6.

  Before I Sleep (Marika Hackman)

  7.

  The Masses Are Asses (L7)

  8.

  Tally Ho (The Clean)

  9.

  Empty Room (Arcade Fire)

  10.

  Celebrity Skin (Hole)

  11.

  Fallin’ (De La Soul and Teenage Fanclub)

  12.

  I Think I Smell a Rat (The White Stripes)

  13.

  Consequence of Sounds (Regina Spektor)

  14.

  Rudderless (The Lemonheads)

  15.

  Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want (The Smiths)

  16.

  Red-Eyed and Blue (Wilco)

  17.

  Please Wake Me Up (Tom Waits)

  18.

  No Diggity (Blackstreet featuring Dr Dre)

  19.

  Good Vibrations (The Beach Boys)

  20.

  Heavenly Pop Hit (The Chills)

  21.

  The Weight (The Band)

  22.

  The Tide Is High (Blondie)

  23.

  Summer Friends (Chance the Rapper)

  24.

  Big Time Sensuality (Björk)

  25.

  To Hell With Good Intentions (Mclusky)

  26.

  Sleepless (Flume)

  27.

  Jealous Hearted Blues (Ma Rainey)

  28.

  Goodbye England (Laura Marling)

  29.

  And Your Bird Can Sing (The Beatles)

  30.

  Please Mr Postman (The Marvelettes)

  31.

  Sun It Rises (Fleet Foxes)

  32.

  The Ballad of Beginnings (Amelie Ayres)

  Acknowledgements

  The Intro

  The list that accompanied the highly anticipated invitation from her dad was strict as hell.

  Do not touch the rider unless Mel says it’s okay.

  Do not touch any instruments, cords, cables, speakers or equipment of any kind! Not even the kettle! Nothing! If you need to charge your phone, speak to Mel.

  No photos.

  Absolutely do not enter any dressing rooms.

  Arrive before 6.45 p.m., go to the side entrance and ask for Mel.

  Text me if there are any problems.

  No alcohol – this means beer as well.

  No photos includes selfies. No selfies.

  Amelie Ayres had picked out her outfit the week before. The deliberation in Topshop had been short and to the point; after five minutes, and to her mother’s disappointment, she’d opted for (in her mother’s words) ‘another pair of bloody jeans’. And now, here she was, on her seventeenth birthday, wearing true-blue denim and her favourite faded T-shirt, on her way to London’s old Hammersmith Apollo. She flicked open the mirror in her bag to check her look. Her brown fringe was sufficiently straight, and her blue eyes were looking less tired and bloodshot than usual. It would do. She quickly re-applied some of her best friend Maisie’s glossy candy-pink lippy.

  She was buzzing with excitement. Not about seeing The Keep (they were dreadful beyond measure); no, tonight, for Amelie, was all about being backstage with her dad. She reached for her phone.

  TO MAISIE: OMG, on my way. Legs shaved. Arm pits wiped. Not allowed to take pics, but will try a sly snapchat.

  FROM MAISIE: You better! Have fun, beee-atch! X

  FROM MUM: Have fun. Be Good! No photos! Say hello to your father! Mum xo , ,

  Although Amelie’s parents had never been together, her father had been in her life as regularly as he could manage with his international career. He called or Skyped when he could – and he never let it go more than a few weeks between visits. But since he’d built his prestigious East End recording studio, he’d been way more settled in London and, for the first time, she was going to get a real glimpse into his world.

  His band, Ash Fault, had had some small success. In the 1990s they had a few songs in the top forty, he’d appeared on Top of the Pops and even dated an actress from Hollyoaks, who Amelie had failed to find with Google more than once.

  ‘I actually don’t believe anything happened in the whole world ever before 1998,’ Amelie had complained. ‘What did you do before Google?’

  ‘You remembered things all by yourself, Amelie,’ her dad replied.

  ‘You could lie effectively,’ her mother moaned.

  Amelie thought her dad used to be quite handsome, with his longish, shaggy hair and his classic nineties baggy T-shirts and flannel shirts, but she couldn’t for the life of her imagine her parents together. She’d never known it.

  These days, Mike Church was one of the most sought after sound engineers in Europe. He preferred not to work with just one act, so he was forever being flown here and there to do big, one-off shows. That’s what he was doing tonight; and why, in forty-five minutes’ time, Amelie would be joining him backstage at the pop event of the year – The Keep’s only UK tour date.

  The Keep were one of the biggest, most over-exposed boybands in the world. They had dominated entertainment news online, on TV, on radio and in every social media stream, everywhere, all day, all the time for the last few years. Comprised of five members – Charlie, Kyle, Lee, Art and Maxx – to Amelie they were nothing but a run-of-the-mill boyband. A BIG, massive, hugely successful one, but still with the slightly tragic matchy-matchy outfits, super-styled hair and swathes of tweenage fans. The band’s image was starting to look vaguely pathetic now they were around twenty-one.

  Amelie hated everything they represented. But even she knew their names. Everyone did.

  Charlie, the blond with the hair that sat entirely horizontal, was the clean cut All-American one with the white teeth and the slightly preppy look.

  In contrast, Kyle’s brown, highlighted hair was completely vertical. He was tall and lean with an
impossibly perfect body to go with his pretty, happy and open smile. Kyle looked like he might know what a curling wand or a collagen wave was.

  Lee – the rebel – had longer, perfectly messy hair and wore rock star hats and long scarves around his neck. He was skinny and had the lion’s share of the band’s tattoos. Lee was the womaniser, the drinker and the one all the girls fancied.

  Art was the most educated of the five, the oldest and also the strangest – prone to political outbursts and speaking his own, actual thoughts. His tight, curly hair and perfectly symmetrical face had a slightly creepy air about them – he was always relegated to the back row/outer edge of the talk show couch for PR safety reasons.

  Maxx, the Memphis boy, was dark haired and, with his current rockabilly cut, had a touch of the young Elvis about him. Those with forensic knowledge knew that he was actually a very good musician, but in a horrific series of life choices he had turned his back on a solo career and ended up in The Keep.

  Amelie had to admit, grudgingly, that Maxx was kind of hot; but how could you fancy anyone whose current hit song contained the lines:

  You don’t have to say you love me, I can read it on your face.

  Baby the way you look at me; you must think I’m pretty ace. I’m your Ace Ace Baby [repeat × 4]

  Lyrics really were the least important thing in pop.

  CHAPTER 1

  I Am Rock ’n’ Roll

  ‘Excuse me!’ Amelie shouted. ‘I’m with the band …’ Her voice trailed off as she cringed in embarrassment. She had to get closer if this was ever going to work.

  Rows and rows of teenage girls funnelled by metal barriers were slowly pushing towards the entrance of the venue, moving to the soundtrack of The Keep’s new, ingeniously titled compilation album – Kept. The scene managed to be orderly, boisterous and chaotic all at once.

  ‘Tickets!’ a scalper shouted. ‘Seated circle!’

  ‘T-Shirts! CDs! Get your EXCLUSIVE merchandise right here!’ shouted a man holding a dodgy printed Keep T-shirt in one hand and glow sticks in the other, his eye scanning the crowd for police.

  ‘Big Issue!’ yelled a lady in a Keep baseball cap. ‘Exclusive interview with Maxx from The Keep!’

  ‘Mum!’ screamed a hysterical girl drowning in her oversized Keep onesie.

  ‘Keep moving forward. Stalls to the left, dress circle to the right,’ a burly security guard ordered half-heartedly.

  Amelie stood a little straighter and raised her chin. Confidence was the key here, just as Dad had told her. She tried to get closer but felt elbows rise to block her path.

  On guard were two bald men wearing audio headset’s and garish yellow high-visibility jackets, clutching clipboards. To one side, a group of mostly male photographers were chatting, smoking and laughing among themselves; and to the other a large posse of diehard fans and autograph hunters pressed up against the Mojo barriers.

  ‘Excuse me!’ shouted Amelie, waving at the nearest guard.

  ‘I said no signings today,’ he shouted without looking over. She felt her cheeks flush as she took a deep breath and tried again.

  Amelie had practised this many times in her head, but it was hard to hide the nervous edge in her voice. She had to be cool.

  ‘I’m here to see Mel! Mel Knight.’

  The guard swung around, eyes suddenly bright. ‘Ah. Name?’

  ‘Amelie,’ she stumbled. ‘Amelie Ayres.’

  ‘Amelie Ayres,’ he said in a big, booming voice. ‘Sorry, love. Yes, we’re expecting you!’

  She became aware of some murmurs of intrigue from the crowd behind her, and caught what she thought was a camera flash in the corner of her eye.

  He pulled out his radio: ‘Security to production.’

  Crackle. ‘Go ahead, security.’

  ‘She’s here. Miss Ayres.’

  Crackle. ‘Thanks, security. Mel’s on her way.’

  ‘Just wait here a sec, love.’ The security guard pulled the rope up and ushered her through. She was on the other side of the barrier, but still just a few metres from the flock of ultra-fans and tabloid shutterbugs, and she could feel their eyes on her.

  Suddenly a camera flashed, momentarily blinding her. As Amelie put her hands up to cover her face, another flash exploded, then another and instantly the air became a solid wall of sound and flare, snapping and shouting and sharp white light. Startled and shocked, it took Amelie a second to focus and she realised the paparazzi were aiming their huge lenses in her direction. She felt a familiar surge of terror, exactly as she had felt at the audition last summer when the room went quiet and all eyes were on her.

  ‘Guys, for god’s sake. She’s no one. A roadie’s kid. Forget it,’ the security guard snapped angrily. He winked at Amelie and whispered, ‘If they think you’re someone, your photo will end up all over the bloody internet.’

  Amelie felt relieved as the photographers immediately lost interest.

  There was commotion at the stage door as a very tall and striking woman came striding forward – Amelie couldn’t guess her age – with arms full of bangles, a huge, bright-red afro and a shock of magenta lipstick. She beamed at Amelie and waved her over while shouting colourfully in an American accent into her mobile phone.

  ‘Fifteen? I’ll let security know. Not much to worry about at the entrance … No, don’t bother stopping, I’ll arrange the paps and press now … Just one interview today … The Sun, of course.’

  Amelie opened her mouth to speak, but the woman held up an elegant finger with a bright blue painted nail. One second! she mouthed.

  ‘Cars arriving in around ten, stage door entrance!’ she said into her phone, before turning to address the waiting paps and fans. ‘There won’t be a fan greet today, but you’ll see them arriving. No. No. They’re running late! Sorry.’

  She gave a quick wink to Amelie before finishing her call. ‘I’ve just got to drop a little someone at the green room then I’ll be right there.’

  The woman snapped the cover on her phone shut, looked Amelie up and down, threw her arms around her and landed two air kisses a precise three centimetres from each cheek. ‘Hi, I’m Mel. Cute outfit, honey. You look FABULOUS! Aaaand you’re right on time! Let’s get you inside. Did you get here all right?’ She walked just ahead, her hips swaying from side to side as her bangles rattled in time.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Let’s get you to the green room, doll, and you can have some dinner – have you eaten?’

  ‘No, but I’m not really hungry. Thank you.’

  ‘Not hungry? You’re a pop star already! All you need now are butt implants the size of China – I know someone who can help with that – and a fling with John Mayer,’ she pursed her lips, ‘but ain’t nobody need help with that. Are you excited for tonight?’ she beamed at Amelie, her huge eyes sparkling.

  ‘Yes! Will I see my dad?’ Amelie hoped she could shadow him for the night and get in on the real action behind the scenes.

  ‘I think he’s gonna be pretty busy, honey. He’s doing the support act tonight as well, Dee Marlow? But he might pop across to see you before things kick off.’

  Mel led the way down a very tight hallway and up a small flight of stairs to the most unromantic and un-showbizzy green room Amelie could have imagined.

  Against the two facing walls sat sad, old, red corduroy couches and shoved against the far wall, underneath a pokey window, there was a small portable table over-filled with food and drinks. There were a couple of sick-looking house plants in their pots-come-ashtrays cowering in the corner and the stained, greasy wallpaper looked as though it had absorbed several decades of debauchery.

  ‘So, you can wait here. I’ll come and get you when we have a show. Okay?’

  Amelie hesitated. ‘It’s all glamour back here, right?’ Mel laughed. ‘Well don’t be fooled – this room’s hosted some real music royalty over the years. If these walls could talk …’ she looked around nostalgically, then wrinkled her nose, ‘not to mention the car
pet – god only knows the dirt this flea-bitten thing could dish out to the tabloids. You know what, I’m just gonna choose to be glad they can’t. Your dad told you no photos of the artists, right?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m just going to text Mum that I’m here safe.’

  ‘Sure thing, sweetie.’ Mel smiled. ‘See you in a bit. Everyone knows you’re here and to look after you, so don’t feel shy about saying hello. Promise?’

  Amelie nodded, sinking back into the musty couch and took it all in. The carpet was covered in a smattering of cigarette burns and a patchwork of other stains – a glass of beer spilt here, a magnum of Cristal sprayed there. The food and drinks that formed part of the rider (something Amelie had imagined to be extraordinarily glamorous) looked like an assortment of Iceland party food that had been left out too long at a kid’s birthday. She listened with longing to the action out in the hall. Voices shouting about this and that, the thud of equipment being unloaded, issues arising and being solved, it sounded so exciting.

  TO MUM: I made it. In the green room waiting for Dad!

  TO AMELIE: Just settling down to Bake Off with soupe a l’oignon! Bon Soir! Be Safe dot com! , ,

  The door swung open and a thin, bespectacled, bearded young man marched in, made a bee-line for the food and clumsily piled three mini sausage rolls and a couple of pigs-in-blankets on a napkin.

  ‘Amelie, right? Mike’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, hello.’

  ‘Pig-in-a-blanket?’

  A sorry, grey sausage was thrust under her nose.