The Singer Read online

people would pay attention to.

  Paradigm Shift was the name of our new album, and unlike Modern Synthesis, it actually had a coherent theme. It was about a new set of ideas, about seeing things in a different light—a new world view, you might say. At least, most of it was, and the songs we happened to write that didn’t fit in with this concept we just stuck in anyway, and hoped people wouldn’t notice (or would somehow forge a tenuous link to the rest of the album). It even had a “narrative arc”, according to the critics, although I can’t for the life of me see where they got that from.

  In short, this, at least, was something Endoplasmic-Reticulum would approve of—a real life concept album that had some sort of deeper intellectual meaning, marking me out as a proper, thoughtful artist rather than just another modern band, trying to get rich and famous. The trouble was, he didn’t approve of the nature of the deeper meaning. It was rebellious, disillusioned and a lot angrier than before. The twins enjoyed this tremendously, of course—they always enthusiastically seized any opportunity to improvise and come up with new musical ideas. But Endoplasmic-Reticulum had seen the real meaning behind the songs, and didn’t like it. He knew I didn’t want to be owned by him, but he didn’t want the fact to be broadcast to the world. He’d given me what I wanted, hadn’t he? He’d done me a huge favour, so I should be grateful for all the opportunities he’d provided for me. But the truth was, I didn’t have much say in the matter. Endoplasmic-Reticulum had now become our full-time manager, and as such could control us in anything we did. He decided where we played, when we played and even what we played—and he didn’t want us to go performing anything too new and radical that would alienate our previous audience. I could tell that all I was to him was another money-generating scheme. But not only was I physically unable to argue with him, I also knew that I was in no position to have any say in what I did—I’d signed the contract, after all.

  And so the tour was a tiring one. He worked us hard, with constant shows and interviews every spare minute—by the end of it there wasn’t a single corner of America that hadn’t heard of us. And this was good, I wouldn’t have minded at all, if I’d had any say in the proceedings. Even the set list he controlled, retaining much of our old music and even consigning some of our newer songs to the musical scrapheap, striking them even from the album. One song in particular, he hated—“Paradigm Shift”, the title song of the album:

  Paradigm Shift (Fausts’ lament)

  Take away these chains so I can be free

  We ignored the prophecy

  I misread the terms to my soul

  We were just a sacrifice

  It drew us in and swallowed us whole

  Now pistons grind

  In the machine

  The teeth of cogs

  They click and whir

  The springs uncoil

  To claim their spoils

  Like those before us

  We never learn

  So take away these chains so I can be free

  Now I have all I desired

  Now I see that nothing was real

  Soon to be consumed by the fire

  Soon to pay my part of the deal

  Now rivets buckle

  And levers scream

  I made a bargain

  I got my dream

  But with it too

  Came something new

  A paradigm

  A new world view

  So take away these chains so I can be free…

  His control was a shame because, although I loved to perform, I liked to do so on my own terms. Nowadays, I truly did sing what I felt, and I was only at my best when my heart was fully in it. Of course, I often felt guilty and ungrateful for not being happy, even though I’d been handed my dream on a plate. But nothing ever turned out how you expected it to be—I was beginning to realise that now. Sometimes I wondered if I could just escape somehow, just run away—but what would I do then? As long as I was a Singer, Endoplasmic-Reticulum owned me. I owed him and would never be free until my debt was repaid. Besides, the call of fame and fortune was just a little too strong for me to even consider turning away from it now. So if I couldn’t escape, I’d just have to assert myself—I was a star now, worshipped across the whole world, I was far more important than he would ever be. He couldn’t control me—I was Numb Prospero, for God’s sake!

  Besides, I had the rest of the band to think of. What would they do if I jeopardised our chance at success? As it was, none of them really seemed to mind the new setup. The twins were oblivious, as usual, lost in their own little world, which was becoming more and more unreal as their fame increased.

  Reese had concerns of his own to worry about. Something seemed to be eating away at him. He was even quieter than usual and, although he never missed a show, he was more frequently ill—he was sick all the time, and he tried to hide it but I could tell. It was strange, as he’d never suffered from nerves or anything like that before. What really worried me was that he hardly ever ate cakes anymore. Instead, to fill the time, he threw himself hedonistically into the rock and roll lifestyle, a champion of every form of excess. He was fast on the track to self-destruction, and I couldn’t help thinking he was trying desperately to distract himself from something. But I didn’t have time to worry about that right now.

  All in all, we were in a pretty dire state. You knew things were getting bad when you had to get the twins to give an interview—but we were desperate. Obviously, I couldn’t do it, and Reese was ill and had had to give so many interviews himself he’d descended into a state of traumatised silence due to a surfeit of unaccustomed dialogue. As a result, since I couldn’t speak, Reese wouldn’t eat and Richard never seemed to sleep anymore, only Bazooka was in a fit state to talk the slightest sense to anyone. Even so, the interview was… unusual, to say the least.

  The man from the magazine cam into our hotel room and introduced himself almost reverentially. Richard, jumpy with unnatural energy, considered it apt to launch himself onto the interviewer’s knee and giggle hyperactively. Lying supine on the floor, Bazooka attempted to stare daggers at his twin. However, having the attention span of a small duckling, his glazed gaze soon slid away and was presently distracted by a sparkly object a few inches behind the interviewer’s head.

  With one twin in slow motion, and the other on fast forward, the poor man looked understandably disconcerted. I could tell this didn’t bode well, but didn’t have the means or the energy to intervene. And so the interview proper started:

  INTERVIEWER: Can I just say what an honour it is to speak to you today.

  RICHARD: Heeheehee!

  INTERVIEWER: Er… so, how are you finding America?

  BAZOOKA: It’s really fun… today they let us have some ice cream, and it was just like normal ice cream but… better… and it had maple syrup on it… and waffles…

  RICHARD: And then they let us go to the park! And there was a sand pit! But I’m scared of sand.

  INTERVIEWER: Er… right, good, well—are your American fans any different from the ones you’re used to in England?

  RICHARD:… and there was a duck! Oh, er—no, they’re not that different except that they wear different kinds of hats.

  INTERVIEWER: I see. Now, your second album, Paradigm Shift, is coming out soon. In what ways does it differ from you previous album?

  BAZOOKA: I don’t know, Alex writes the songs.

  RICHARD: Ooh! Ooh! I know! It’s—um—more fun, because we get to use more instruments and stuff and play them in a different way.

  INTERVIEWER: And what influences do you…

  RICHARD: My shoe’s come undone.

  INTERVIEWER: What?

  RICHARD: My shoelace has come undone. Look!

  INTERVIEWER: Oh yeah—well, anyway, what influences does the…

  RICHARD: Will you help me to tie my shoelaces for me please?

  INTERVIEWER: Er… OK then. There. Now, what are the band’s influences?

  Luckily, in a ma
nner that would later be alleged to “post-modernist naïve charm”, the twins continued to prattle on harmlessly without causing the interviewer too much consternation. It was a close call though, and I vowed never to let such an instance occur again. My head was full of appropriate answers that would have really impressed the press with our sensitivity and depth of thought. But I supposed I’d just have to put that into my songs instead.

  Naturally, they’d been clamouring for written interviews with me as soon as I’d been let out. Everyone seemed to want to know what it was like to be a Singer. But of course, under Portobello Junkshop it was strict company policy not to divulge anything to the press—none of the Singers were allowed interviews under any circumstances. There were hundreds of things I could have told them about what it was like to be a Singer—the frustration at not being able to communicate the simplest of things, of being casually ignored in conversations and being unable to assert myself, of knowing how to resolve the most idiotic of arguments but being incapable of intervening. The inconvenience of having to scribble everything down onto a notebook round my neck, the resignation and sense of defeat when I realised it was all pointless, the eventual retreat into complete silence, the relinquishment of communication. The terrifying, inescapable feeling of being trapped inside my own head. I could have told them how strange it felt to be hooked to a machine, to feel its mechanisms working within me, and the agonising pain it took to sing a single note. I could have tried to explain the utter joy of hearing my voice ringing out across a huge