Get Into The Light: Chapter Four(revised) - The Essence of Creativity is Not Thinking Too Hard

When are you coming back? What’s the plan? Think about the future. Your exams. Your exams! Just finish your exams PLEASE! But then one day, a different message – Dad’s coming over RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I pictured Dad riding into town on his Triumph motorcycle. Roaring up the street, parking up, trying not to get distracted by the line of Harley’s lined up in a row outside the Hell’s Angels’ house, running straight into Scarecrow lady- her scream terrifying and Dad desperately buzzing on the door, trying to get inside and haul himself up the stairs to safety. His hands shaking. But he didn’t know where I lived. He’d never been to Amsterdam. He could ride up and down all day and never find me. Part of this made me sad. Perhaps I wanted him to find me. But no I didn’t want him to find me.

And I needed something up my sleeve - just in case he actually showed up.

‘Aaargh it’s stinging my eyes, it smells horrible.’
Lynette was vigorously rubbing two packets of black Henna onto my head. I sat in front of the mirror.
‘If I don’t rub it in properly it’ll go patchy.’
Pete looked up from his crossword- he had a way of looking at you like you were something he’d just plucked out of his belly button. Why was he looking at me anyway? Lynette was wearing high-waisted knickers, suspenders and a pointy bra. She was a supremely distracting presence.
‘How good is your Dad’s eyesight?’ she said.
‘Well he’ll be wearing a crash helmet and driving about sixty miles an hour.’
‘So why are we dyeing your hair then?’
‘It’s just a precaution. Just in case. Anyway I feel like I need a change.’
‘You look rather pale,’ Pete said smaning, bringing the newspaper up so it hid his face.
I sipped my coffee. I had to remind myself that Pete had suffered lots of the self same experiences Carl had. The difference was, Carl had emerged a nicer person.
‘Do you think I should dye my hair?’ Lynette said in Pete’s direction.
Pete rustled the newspaper.
‘He used to love my hair,’ she said rubbing my scalp more violently.
I’d liked being blonde. Now I was going to end up a black-haired clam with a Spugeon nose.
‘He loved my hair and he loved my ass but not anymore,’ she said, she danced around the chair and then tied a plastic bag around the whole mess and sighed.
‘Do you like the way I’m dancing?’
‘Are you talking to me or him?’
‘You. He’s not listening. He’s gone into his own little world.’
‘You’re a good dancer yes.’
‘I wish he would say the same thing.’
‘Ask him.’
‘She’s a good dancer. So what?’ Pete shouted over the top of his newspaper.
‘I could take my clothes off right now and he wouldn’t even care.’
‘I thought you had already,’ I said.
Lynette ripped off the plastic glove and marched into the kitchen. Pete folded the newspaper and left it on the table. He reached under the bed for his Slash from Guns & Roses Cowboy boots. He leant back and pulled the first boot on and then the other. It was difficult to leave in a rush when you dressed like a rock star. You needed slip ons if you wanted to exit quickly in a huff. He picked his leather jacket from the chair. The door slammed. Lynette came back in holding a silver teapot.
‘Mushroom tea?’
‘I’m okay thanks.’
‘So he’s gone.’
‘Does he always storm off like that?’
‘Yes. At least once a week. He sits in the café round the corner. He thinks I don’t know. He wants me to think that he’s with another woman. But I’ve cycled past. I’ve seen him.’
‘Maybe you two need to talk.’
‘Men don’t like talking. You’ll learn that soon enough.’
‘Carl likes talking.’
‘He’s just pretending. It’ll wear off eventually.’
Lynette looked at the bag on my head.
‘That stuff needs to come off in ten minutes. We should have put more cotton wool round the top of the bag. I guess it’ll wear off after a couple of days.’
‘What do you mean?’

There are some things that don’t rinse off the skin. Henna is one of these things. That was why it only cost three quid and was sold in the market. It was all a learning curve. This whole part of life was one big learning curve. Unfortunately I had to now live with the consequences unless I wanted to shave it all off and start afresh. At the moment I looked like I was wearing a baseball cap of black gunk that came down to my eyebrows. My hair was embarrassed by the stupidity of my actions. I’d transformed myself into a Gonk and was ready to embrace my new life in the Circus.

‘What have you done?’ Carl said as I came in.
‘Lynette did it.’
‘And you want this person to join the band- you really think she’s got our best interests at heart?’
‘I asked her to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought if Dad turned up then he wouldn’t recognise me anymore.’
‘I really don’t think he’s coming here Lola.’
‘You don’t know. He’s scary. They’ll be worried. Of course he’s coming.’
‘You’re an adult.’
‘Not quite.’
‘Well if you’re not an adult then perhaps you should go home?’
‘What do you mean? Don’t you want me here anymore?’
‘It’s a pretty foolish thing to do. You look completely different.’
‘ I thought you liked Robert Smith.’
‘Your roots are yellow but your forehead’s all black.’
Carl lit a cigarette and walked over to the window. He sat down on the arm of the chair. His pale lady ankles on show.
‘You don’t want me to stay do you?’ I said.
‘Just stop talking please.’
‘Lynette was right.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t like talking either.’
He sat down in front of the computer and slipped his headphones on.

Dad never arrived.

The voicemails stopped. My biking improved. It got warmer. The Hells Angels bought a small, scruffy dog and spent all day throwing chicken bones at its head. I sent my parents a postcard. They didn’t reply. They didn’t have my address. Eventually once I realised they definitely weren’t coming, I gave them the address. They sent me a cheque for fifty quid. I bought a machine so you could make your own cigarettes. When I wasn’t at the studio I was making cigarettes. You simply put the paper case in one end of the contraption and the tobacco down the centre and slid the top across like a card swiper. A perfect cigarette popped out the end. I realised I was smoking to keep myself busy. If there was a glut of them on the table, there was nothing to do. At the studio, things were better. The men kept up the same continual siege of mess. The cleaning was physical and felt like something healthy, even if the fumes from the chemicals weren’t.

One day, I discovered the games console upstairs. Sonic the Hedgehog became a new way to pass time. This hedgehog made satisfying progress in a relatively short amount of time - didn’t sit hunched at the table like an old man rolling fags for a living. So this felt better than real life- grinding my teeth as I reached level seven, eight, the soundtrack the first thing I heard every morning, I didn’t even bother getting off the bike at junctions because I was so keen to get to the studio, get cleaning and then pick up where I’d left off, except Charles took over the console and it meant I had to start each day afresh. Most of the time I didn’t even hear the terrible din downstairs anymore. And when Carl came up, I couldn’t hear what he said either because I’d got the game turned up really loud-hadn’t realised it was dark and time to go home now. In the future this would be my career. But cleaning had to be fitted in around the game. So I buffed the stairs, emptied the bins and stood on tiptoes to watch Lenny Kravitz clamber into a taxi (now and then we got well known musicians but I was pretty sure they peed in plant pots just the same).

My yellow roots grew through so I looked like a sunflower with black petals.

But sometimes, some days, the noise downstairs was impossible to ignore. It was so fierce. And there were arguments too. It wasn’t uncommon to walk into the studio and see Eddie holding a pen up to Charles’ jittery eye. That day the noise was different. It was so loud that the people from the ground floor studio were coming up the stairs to see what it was. The room was pure man creativity. It made the pee everywhere worthwhile.
‘Hakke hakke hakke,’ Eddie chanted pogoing up and down.
Carl was bent over the mixing desk like a man trying to hold down a tent in a force ten gale.
‘Vocal please,’ he shouted.
‘Hakke hakke hakke,’ Eddie continued, this time adding a couple of air guitar moves before collapsing into a chair.
‘Have we got a sample vocal?’ Carl said over the din.
He sounded very excited. It was difficult to tell if the music was good because it was turned up so loud that your instinct was to run from the room crying.
‘It’s happening right now!’
‘This track will set the dancefloor on fire!’
I’d actually bothered to tear myself away from my special video game /consolation for having no life therapy and no one had noticed I was even here. Eddie was lying exhausted on the floor. His eyes glued shut. I had to step over him. He would sleep through this anyway. Eventually Carl looked up and sniffed the air. There was a female in the room.
‘Everything okay?’ he said.
‘I came down to see what the noise was.’
‘Sounds good doesn’t it?’ Carl said.
‘Yes I guess it does.’
Carl cast his eyes over the mixing desk. I’d become familiar with this Carl. This Carl didn’t look at me when he was working. This was Headphones Carl. When he put them on, he became a different person. It was a bit like Pete behaved all the time. At least I was lucky in that respect.
‘It’s missing something,’ Carl said.
‘Could it be a bit more quiet?’ I said.
‘Are you mad?’ Eddie said.
‘It’s not very melodic.’
‘Said the cleaner. Well thanks cleaner. Perhaps you could go and tell that to the toilet?’
‘Hey- come on’ Carl said, ‘Lola is only saying what we’ve all been saying for the last two hours. It needs a good voice. More than just the sample. Have we got anything we can use?’
Eddie sat up. He opened his eyes. He had a piece of crunchy eye muesli stuck to his cheek.
‘Sasha could do it.’
‘She’s a pain,’ Eddie said, his jaw grinding, ‘I don’t want her coming here again.’
‘Didn’t you invite her to take a bath with you?’ Charles said.
‘No. She just made that up.’
‘She said you showed her your bathroom.’
‘That’s why I don’t want to work with her again. She’s unprofessional. Spreading rumours everywhere.’
Eddie lit a cigarette.
‘Can I have a bath tonight?’ Charles said.
‘Shut up about the bath. Only I am allowed in the bathroom. You know that already.’
‘What about Dimitri?’ Eddie said.
‘Terrible ego. Can’t stand to be in the same room as him.’
‘Or Georgie?’
‘She’s moved to Enschede.’

And part of me thought – here is destiny. The moment you always read about in magazines or the endless MTV music documentaries – So I was right in the studio at that time and they needed a vocalist and I got in the booth and immediately this voice came out, I never even knew it was there and of course that was just the start of my musical career. I knew something had to happen because my life was pretty stagnant at the time. I rolled cigarettes for fun! I thought a computer game was the same as actually living. Imagine.

Eddie and Charles turned and looked at me.
‘Can you fetch us some beers from the shop?’
A bird chirped. The bird signalled a mistake. There was fantasy and there was reality. Birds were good at pointing this out when it was getting light and your head was aching already.
‘Lola could try and sing something,’ Charles said.
‘I can’t sing.’
‘Everyone can sing,’ Eddie said.
‘Not everyone can sing,’ Carl said.
‘Charles is right,’ I said nodding, ‘People can open their mouths and sounds can come out but that sound isn’t always what people want to hear.’
When it had been pure fantasy, there had been no question of failing - it was always the same in fantasies- you didn’t visualise what would really happen if the dream came true – one minute, stepping out on the catwalk, camera bulbs flashing, perpetual adoration and then the next running from the marquee with piss running out your pants.
‘To be honest, we could put so much effect on there that you won’t even recognise yourself,’ Carl said.
‘Thanks Carl, maybe I can actually sing. You knows?’
Carl smiled and nodded.
‘Maybe you can.’

And there was something inside, call it the Circus Gonk, the new black-haired crazy, that shouted- THIS IS WHAT I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT! YOUR LIFE BEGINS RIGHT NOW! YOU NEED TO SEIZE THIS MOMENT. IT’S THE DIFFERNCE BETWEEN BEING A SUCCESS AND SPONGING UP PEE ALL YOUR LIFE. Then the Gonk knocked down an old lady and disappeared down an alley to get more tear shaped tattoos on its face.

And if I’d had time, I would have stopped the Gonk. I would have pulled him to one side and I would have asked him one question - Have you ever experienced something that was as good as you dreamt it would be?

‘Cut Cut STOP!’
Charles’s face was the colour you went just before you exploded.
‘START AGAIN!’
He took a draw on his cigarette. He had a lot of nervous, scary energy today- his eyes bulging, never standing still, leaking coconut energy all over the place. Fifty minutes had passed since I’d entered the booth. I hadn’t made a sound. The documentary that was playing in my head had been paused and the narrator was looking through his notes to see what was supposed to happen when the heroine couldn’t actually do the thing she’d been lined up to do all along.
‘Lets go from the top.’
Carl winked through the tiny gap between the curtain and the studio glass. I would have been happier with my little cigarette machine poised between my fingers. It was so much more comfortable being a coward. Humans weren’t designed to stand in front of a microphone and make a big noise. I didn’t even like raising my voice.
‘I can’t work with complete silence Lola. You either sing or you don’t,’ Eddie said. ‘You either stay in that booth and make a noise or go to the snack bar and buy me a bag of chips.’.
‘Hey ease off a bit,’ Carl said touching Eddie’s arm.
‘Who’s idea was this? We don’t need to waste even more time. It’s ten in the evening. I could be having a bath. I could be sitting on a terrace drinking a nice beer.’
‘Who’s idea was it?’ Charles said.
‘It was your idea,’ I said into the microphone.
‘That’s it! Make some noise. Finally she makes a sound!’

The track whirred into action - first some distant strings, then the pitter patter of a beat, building to a crescendo, a blast of saxophone and my cue to start. This time I made a noise. Even in my own headphones it sounded like I was very faraway, somewhere in the past, somewhere in London, maybe sitting my exams, maybe chewing on the end of a pencil as I deliberated on what I was going to do next – I wanted to tell that person to stay in London, not to come here, not stand in this booth with three men staring, all the weight of expectation weighing down on one person. Stay where you are- be a coward!
‘Louder!’ Eddie shouted through the headphones. He was a coconut-shaped bully that one. I whispered. The kind of noise you’d make if you were trying to encourage a cat to rest on your lap a while.
‘STOP!’ Eddie roared.
He jumped out of his chair and the door flew open.
‘This song needs something sexy- I need to get a hard on. You’re not actually making any noise at all. Do you know that?’
Carl appeared.
‘This has nothing to do with sex. Don’t worry Lola. You just need to turn the volume up. We can’t hear anything in there. Is it because you’re nervous?’
‘No the music is so loud. That’s why you can’t hear me.’
‘But it’s not loud in your earphones is it?’
‘No but it’s loud in the studio.’
‘We’ve got it turned right down.’
‘So you can only hear what I’m saying?’
‘Yes that’s right,’ Carl said.
‘Oh no, that’s not good,’ I said, ‘Can you turn the music up a little?’

The documentary wouldn’t be as impressive as the original idea – Yes I went into the studio and then I got this big chance and I couldn’t make any noise because I was too embarrassed so I didn’t. And that was it really. Someone else came in and did the singing instead. They did really well. THE END.

So I didn’t sing. I spoke instead. I forgot about Eddie, Charles. I forgot about Headphones Carl. I closed my eyes, put on a posh voice and forgot all my South London ways. The words weren’t right but when I emerged out of the booth, it sounded good. And it sounded absolutely nothing like my normal voice.
‘It’s amazing what you can do with a few tricks up your sleeve,’ Charles said.
‘But you need to write proper lyrics,’ Carl said, ‘You can do it better than any of us. English is your first language.’
‘It’s hard to be original,’ Eddie said.
‘That’s true,’ Charles said.
‘But this sounds original already,’ Carl said.
‘It makes me feel horny,’ Eddie said.

I sat staring at a blank sheet of paper, my hands resting on Eddie’s typewriter- a typewriter that had once belonged to Eddie’s mother who’d been a poet and now me, this was my creative tool, my own mixing desk and I’d never vacuum it because it was precious. In a moment, I would set a new standard in Dutch pop music and cast every, other lyricist straight into the canal. What was I going to write about? Rolling cigarettes? The benefits of Mr Sheen versus Flash? Or having hair like Joey Ramone? I pulled out the desk drawer. A load of junk. I needed inspiration. A rich bank of life experience or an object that could help me along, perhaps a pressed flower or a photograph - something moving- a love letter written hundreds of years ago with a rich insight. An insight so insightful that I’d pound away at the typewriter and produce lyrics of such a high standard my parents wouldn’t care that I’d run off to Amsterdam and was doing a job my own Grandma would have turned down in the war. It was hard to be original. Everyone said it. I found a packet of condoms, a tin of liquorice drops, a hair wax that smelt distinctly like coconut oil and a plastic bag with small white pills inside. An hour later and my hands were a whirring blur in front of my eyes. The beast of inspiration had taken hold of my soul. I was typing like my life depended on it. And it did no harm that I’d found a rhyming dictionary on the shelf by the desk. Why had I never noticed it before? Would David Bowie use a rhyming dictionary? Was it cheating? Something told me that I shouldn’t mention it to anyone, that it probably wasn’t allowed and you had to sit and ponder for hours- not cheat. But what rhymes with ‘senses’? Well I’ll tell you what does- it’s ‘fences’ and yes I would have thought of that if I hadn’t had the dictionary but it speeded things up and speed was of the essence right now. Like Carl said- when you were in the flow you just had to keep going. Soon the ashtray overflowed with fags made by my own fair dainty hands- but not for long. Soon I’d smoke proper branded cigarettes like everyone else. Soon I’d make a fortune all because I had these little pills which made my eyelids stick to the bottom of my eyebrows and the precious rhyming dictionary.

Carl was in the kitchen making coffee. I couldn’t wait for him. It was paramount that I showed my work straight away.
‘Look at these,’ I said, thrusting the sheet into Charles’ hand- paper covered in thumb prints, blobs of Tippex and a new type of female creative power that this studio had yet to witness. I heard the collective groan as all the masculinity limped from the room.
Charles read for a bit and nodded.
‘In dance music we’re hardly Shakespeare most of the time but these aren’t bad at all.’
‘I felt so inspired,’ I said.
I thought about all the things I’d wanted to do and had never tried. Was it really this easy to try? Carl came in carrying a pot of coffee and some biscuits on a plate. I ran my tongue along my front teeth. There was something great about this new confidence. There was a silence whilst he read over Charles’ shoulder.
‘You said you had no ideas.’
‘I guess the music just inspired me’ I said.
My eye twitched a little.
‘Well I think we all deserve a beer,’ Carl said, ‘ Forget the coffee.’

‘Don’t steal my speed again Lola,’ Charles said once he’d left.
He took the paper and sellotaped it to the wall of the studio.

* * *

The men were doing important work in the cave. The hours were punishing. No distinction between night or day. It would take a lot of time to get everything right. And it didn’t matter that every time I walked into the studio, it sounded exactly the same as when I’d left three hours earlier. There was a strange excitement building up inside like I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t sleep, was going through some sort of dramatic growth spurt. But when I got home it was lonely. I had to share. I needed a woman to share so I cycled to visit Lynette.
‘You’ve actually recorded your own song!’ Lynette squealed squeezing my arm.
‘Not really- it’s all their music. They’re the talented ones. I haven’t actually finished yet. They’re spending hours messing around with it.’
‘I knew you had it in you. It’s the hair. It’s the black hair! It’s turned you into Patti Smith. I wish had the balls to really belt it out.’
‘You can barely hear me speaking on it. It’s not singing. It’s not proper singing at all.’
Lynette gazed into the middle distance, a dreamy expression on her face.
‘I’m never going to be famous,’ she said, ‘I’m 27 already. You’re going to leave Amsterdam and you’ll go off and be famous and I’ll be stuck here,’ she gestured at Pete who was lying on the bed, watching Oprah. He looked strangely incongruous with his snakeskin trousers and cut off black T-shirt. He looked like he’d just been dumped straight from the tour bus onto Lynette’s mauve spotty duvet. He was clutching a mug with a picture of a pug dog on the front. If you’re going to do the whole rock thing, you need the supporting props- the Jack Daniels, overflowing ashtray, red, velvet cushions - to really help the story along. Or you just look a bit silly.
‘Why don’t you let Lynette join your new musical enterprise? She has so much untapped potential,’ he said setting the mug down and stretching his arms behind his head.
‘I guess you could do something in the band,’ I said sitting down the chair next to the dressing table.
I only really said this to get on Pete’s nerves – I had no idea what kind of role Lynette might play. We weren’t even a proper band yet. We were three blokes who worked in a studio and a girl who whispered into a duster. But maybe he was right. We needed more of a feminine influence to balance things out.
‘WOW! That would be amazing!’ Lynette shouted clambering on the bed and jumping up and down.
Pete continued watching TV
‘I could make really cool stage outfits. I’ve already got this material in the cupboard,’ she jumped off the bed, lit a cigarette and crouched down beside the wardrobe which was overflowing with moth-eaten fake furs, gingham tablecloths, green velvet, all her magpie finds from Waterlooplein market, ‘Look!’ she held up a shimmery piece of fabric that looked like a hologram.
‘You’ll make people nauseous,’ Pete said.
‘It might be a bit OTT,’ I said.
‘There is no such thing. You need glamour. You don’t pay money to see some librarian sitting reading a book.’
‘You pay to see talent,’ Pete said.
‘Lola’s got talent.’
‘You haven’t even heard the song yet,’ I said.
‘I don’t have to,’ she said wrapping the fabric around her bust and tying it up in a bow behind her back, ‘I could tell you had talent, the first day I met you.’
Pete changed the channel and a tightly- permed fake - tanned cadaver appeared on the screen. This was a German show where the public were encouraged to put their heads inside alligators mouths or walk on a tight rope over the Grand Canyon. A man was grimacing as he lowered his hand into a tank full of piranhas. A trumpet sounded.
‘This calls for a celebration’ Lynette said, flopping on the bed next to Pete and pulling a tartan purse out from her handbag that lay on the side table.
‘I think I’ll pass thanks,’ I said.
She clicked the purse open and peered inside. There was a cornucopia of different substances in there but the pills I’d taken at the studio had left me feeling edgy.
‘Do you fancy something?’ she said to Pete.
‘Jesus Lynette, it’s four in the afternoon. I thought you had a headache. We’re not even going out tonight!’ Pete said.
‘I should go,’ I said, ‘Carl’ll be back in a couple of hours and I said I’d cook something nice.’
‘Like potatoes,’ Pete said.
‘She doesn’t just cook potatoes,’ Lynette said, taking a small pinch of brown mushrooms from a plastic sachet and popping them onto her tongue. She took a sip of water and leant back on the pillow.
‘Let’s watch a movie,’ she said, ‘Let’s watch something with Dan Ackroyd in it. I love him.’

Pete saw me to the door. He was strange like that. He peppered his comments with nothing but cynicism yet liked to keep some of the old fashioned codes of hospitality in check- always offered a drink - always saw you to the door. A bit like Eddie- difficult to fathom- was I losing something in translation?
‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he said, ‘Music never works out. And when it does, things quickly turn sour. In the end the people you thought were your friends, turn out to be your enemies.’
I unlocked the bike and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark and I had no lights on the bike. I would have to push most of the way or risk getting flattened by the rush hour of crazed cyclists.
‘Well bye Pete, see you soon.’
He shut the door and I shakily stood up on the heels, pushing hard as I tried to traverse the cobbles. What did he know? There were plenty of people who made it in the music business. What about those MTV documentaries and the serendipitous encounters- the pieces of the puzzle that fell into place just like that?
What about the cleaner who was addicted to Sonic the Hedgehog one minute and was suddenly propelled into the limelight?
Hadn’t he heard that story yet?