Chapter 5: I Became Good
We head over to the studio late on our second day in London, feeling somewhat rough from the night before. Spencer's in the same condition as me, groaning as we walk up Abbey Road. I don't need to be present as such - I'm not a member of His Side, I'm not involved in the writing or recording, and Jon is playing guitar for the two tracks they're working on. Spencer doesn't need to be present either, but he's coming along, anyway. Says he might as well.
"I know that my guys are in the studio today too," he says, "but fuck 'em."
"I'm sorry that it's not working out for you, man."
He shrugs like he's not that bothered. And it's not that Spencer's doing a bad job co-producing The Police's second album, he simply says that it's a personality clash with him and Gordon: the guy's a tyrant. He's got good ideas, but so does Spencer, and whenever Spencer comes up with something brilliant, Gordon right down refuses to even hear of it, and then two days later suggests the same thing and pretends that he came up with it.
"He's a tosser, to use local slang," Spencer said last night when he opened up about it with the help of some Famous Grouse. "The guy's a tosser, and I'm sick of him."
This being the case, Spencer was more than happy to meet up for a late lunch and then head over to the studio. We try to relive last night in our heads: first the His Side show at The Rainbow Theatre (the irony of which is not lost on me), an unofficial after-party that took us from bar to bar, pub to pub, and club to club, and it started out as a big crowd, the band, the crew and local friends, and it got bigger as people heard where we were and joined us, and we joined scenes too, blended in marvellously, and I bumped into Ronnie Wood, still a good guy, and met Roger Daltrey and Simon Kirke for the first time. Spencer's still going on about Kirke since, as it turned out, both admire the other's work and they spent an hour or two talking about drumming and drummers and drum kits. And then as the night went on, our crowd started getting smaller, people calling it a night, passing out, nearly falling asleep, heading out to after-after-parties. Spencer and I managed to keep going until seven in the morning, but now the bleak afternoon sunlight feels too bright, and my voice is scratchy from the alcohol.
Surely we deserve to let ourselves go once in a while. While we're young, while we're breathing.
Dallon and Brendon left for the hotel before three in the morning. Weak, I think I told them in mild intoxication, that's weak. "But the studio," Brendon said, "need to be in the studio in the morning," and then Spencer was dragging me to meet someone. I haven't asked if Spencer was trying to keep me away from Brendon. He probably was.
Dallon and Brendon left together. They just stick it out as a team - that's what I tell myself. And I ignore the pangs of longing in my guts because I know I shouldn't feel that way about Brendon. I need to teach myself how not to.
But god, it's hard. Brendon's never been as beautiful. It's the eyes. When I first met him, his eyes were always so full of defiance, mesmerising me. In New York, full of confusion, and that broke me. Now, it's like there is clarity to him that he's never had before, a sense of purpose, and it shows in his smile, his confidence, the way he seems to be more at ease with himself.
I can't take credit for it, but it's hypnotising to watch.
When Spencer and I get to the studio, the band's in the recording room, in the middle of a song. Mike greets us somewhat tiredly, having joined the celebrations last night too: His Side's arrived in London. The sound engineer looks at us briefly, flinches, and then sits up straighter and focuses on his work, clearly unnerved by our arrival. It's only half of The Followers. It's not a big deal.
