still in the clinic, right out of his head, they said on the phone. So that left five plus Belle; you couldn’t count the groupies who came and went to order like the bottles of champagne in the ice buckets.
‘Shuddup and have a drink,’ slurred Rab, the keyboard player, still guzzling beer, his boozed eyes sliding back to the giant screen on the wall. ‘Gedda look at this.’
But contrary to tradition Curt declined the drink and only Belle bothered to notice, and the tired look he had, like a pair of frameless shades round his gimlet eyes.
Continuing with the video, they came to the hilarious part where Jacy fell off the stage to the joy of the crowd and the guys carried on without him, Deek stepping forward and taking his place at the microphone, plugging in his own guitar. The pace of the thing took off from that moment. The very ground of the Superbowl began to shake.
Something was wrong. Curt wasn’t bothering to watch. He concentrated on his ash instead, rolling it round the glass ashtray, prodding it till it broke. You could tell where you were in the film because of the screaming punters. ‘You behaved like an arsehole last night, Jacy. You could’ve scuppered the whole darn thing.’
‘Get lost, Curt.’ And Jacy, his sleek black hair pulled back into a pony tail, reached out a lazy hand to pat the kid asleep on the floor below him. He moved like a diffident prince. On his stomach were balanced french fries and a tub of coleslaw. Belle stayed in the background; with Jacy it was a choice between having something or nothing. She had no desire to be pissed or high like the others. While they were touring the States Belle made sure to pay for herself, sometimes earning thousands of dollars for a day’s work, just posing for photographs. She sometimes acted as social worker to the runaways, the waifs and strays and under-age kids who prised themselves into their idols’ beds. Some were upset, broken-hearted to find themselves on the pavement in the morning along with the trash; some even tearfully begged her for reasons.
She sipped a small glass of cognac and watched, her blue eyes passing over those in the room. She wished she could care less for him, wished she could simply dismiss Jacy from her mind and get on with her own life. Her friends called her crazy. But she was used to living like this by now, all the upheavals, physical and emotional. If she’d left him he wouldn’t have cared.
‘You could’ve got yourself killed. Torn to pieces by the mob. What is it you want, boy, immortality?’
Jacy was dangerously tired as usual. Belle was scared for him. He lived in another world these days, he thought he was invincible and that his fame and fortune would last for ever no matter what he did. But recently his outlandish behaviour was causing all sorts of problems. He wasn’t even amusing although he believed that he was, making an ass of himself on talk shows, pretending to drop off to sleep and last time pissing at the camera. People were getting cheesed off with it. He’d made it, for Christsake, he didn’t need to do that kind of shit any more. People were saying he’d lost it. Even the real, dedicated fans, Belle sensed a change in their passion; it had sour edges about it now like cream beginning to turn. The group’s last al
bum never made it past six in the charts, unheard of for Sugarshack and Jacy just laughed when he discovered Deek had been tempted by an offer from Elektra to do an informal session at the studios as lead singer. Jacy’s name didn’t feature. Rumours had it they’d been advised to dump him.
He would not discuss his work with anyone, he refused adamantly to do so. The press had called him a genius and he’d taken that to heart years ago. Nobody tells a genius what to do. Jacy was immensely powerful and recklessly arrogant. Composer and lead singer, yeah, Jacy was up there flashing in all the bright lights with the gods.
Like lottery winners and film stars Jacy had
‘Shuddup and have a drink,’ slurred Rab, the keyboard player, still guzzling beer, his boozed eyes sliding back to the giant screen on the wall. ‘Gedda look at this.’
But contrary to tradition Curt declined the drink and only Belle bothered to notice, and the tired look he had, like a pair of frameless shades round his gimlet eyes.
Continuing with the video, they came to the hilarious part where Jacy fell off the stage to the joy of the crowd and the guys carried on without him, Deek stepping forward and taking his place at the microphone, plugging in his own guitar. The pace of the thing took off from that moment. The very ground of the Superbowl began to shake.
Something was wrong. Curt wasn’t bothering to watch. He concentrated on his ash instead, rolling it round the glass ashtray, prodding it till it broke. You could tell where you were in the film because of the screaming punters. ‘You behaved like an arsehole last night, Jacy. You could’ve scuppered the whole darn thing.’
‘Get lost, Curt.’ And Jacy, his sleek black hair pulled back into a pony tail, reached out a lazy hand to pat the kid asleep on the floor below him. He moved like a diffident prince. On his stomach were balanced french fries and a tub of coleslaw. Belle stayed in the background; with Jacy it was a choice between having something or nothing. She had no desire to be pissed or high like the others. While they were touring the States Belle made sure to pay for herself, sometimes earning thousands of dollars for a day’s work, just posing for photographs. She sometimes acted as social worker to the runaways, the waifs and strays and under-age kids who prised themselves into their idols’ beds. Some were upset, broken-hearted to find themselves on the pavement in the morning along with the trash; some even tearfully begged her for reasons.
She sipped a small glass of cognac and watched, her blue eyes passing over those in the room. She wished she could care less for him, wished she could simply dismiss Jacy from her mind and get on with her own life. Her friends called her crazy. But she was used to living like this by now, all the upheavals, physical and emotional. If she’d left him he wouldn’t have cared.
‘You could’ve got yourself killed. Torn to pieces by the mob. What is it you want, boy, immortality?’
Jacy was dangerously tired as usual. Belle was scared for him. He lived in another world these days, he thought he was invincible and that his fame and fortune would last for ever no matter what he did. But recently his outlandish behaviour was causing all sorts of problems. He wasn’t even amusing although he believed that he was, making an ass of himself on talk shows, pretending to drop off to sleep and last time pissing at the camera. People were getting cheesed off with it. He’d made it, for Christsake, he didn’t need to do that kind of shit any more. People were saying he’d lost it. Even the real, dedicated fans, Belle sensed a change in their passion; it had sour edges about it now like cream beginning to turn. The group’s last al
bum never made it past six in the charts, unheard of for Sugarshack and Jacy just laughed when he discovered Deek had been tempted by an offer from Elektra to do an informal session at the studios as lead singer. Jacy’s name didn’t feature. Rumours had it they’d been advised to dump him.
He would not discuss his work with anyone, he refused adamantly to do so. The press had called him a genius and he’d taken that to heart years ago. Nobody tells a genius what to do. Jacy was immensely powerful and recklessly arrogant. Composer and lead singer, yeah, Jacy was up there flashing in all the bright lights with the gods.
Like lottery winners and film stars Jacy had
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