35
April 1995
Alex took another belt from his bottle of Fukucho sake and lurched out into the late-night Tokyo traffic. The Hondas and Nissans swerved, tyres screeching, horns blaring, but Alex just roared back at them, holding up his clawed hands like bear paws.‘Hello, Tokyo!’ he bellowed, their headlights blurring into the endless neon. Reaching the far pavement, he tipped his head back and spun around, gazing up at the towering skyscrapers above him and reflecting that he couldn’t remember having more fun. It was as if someone had created Tokyo as a personal neon-lit playground just for Alex Doyle. Everything about the place was quirky, unreal or upside down. Stumbling over a sign advertising ‘Octopus Balls’, he bumped into a suited businessman who bowed rapidly and scurried away. He had been warned that the Japanese thought all Westerners were insane, so he guessed a six-foot-two long-haired Westerner in biker boots was going to be terrifying.
‘Gomennasai!’ he shouted after the retreating figure. ‘Gomennasfucking- ai!’
Alex had certainly had plenty of need for both of the two Japanese phrases he’d learnt on Year Zero’s short tour of the country: ‘Gomennasai’ for ‘sorry’ and ‘arigatou’ for ‘thank you’. The thank yous had begun the moment Year Zero had stepped off the plane and been mobbed by obsessive – but polite – fans, many of whom had brought gifts: teddy bears embroidered with the band’s logo, sweets in hand-made boxes, even T-shirts and shoes. Gift-bearing, camera-waving fans seemed to be everywhere: at the hotel, at the club, in the restaurants, often waiting for them in lifts or toilets. Luckily Jez was only too pleased to bathe in adulation wherever he found it, often inviting five or six girls back to his room for what he called a ‘tea party’. They often saw tearful girls fleeing down the corridors; presumably he wasn’t serving cup cakes.
Alex was much more interested in visiting temples and markets, soaking up the weird atmosphere of the Far East he’d read about as a teenager, but it quickly became apparent that playing the tourist just wasn’t possible. Six months ago, the band had shot a TV commercial for Fiju beer which had meant he was recognised everywhere he went. Besides which, the band had a punishing schedule: six shows in six different cities over six nights, squeezing in appearances on TV, radio interviews and in-store acoustic gigs. Year Zero were genuinely Big in Japan: a number-one album and single plus sold-out arena shows. It was the same in Sweden, France and Germany, but in the UK, the band had, in record industry parlance, ‘failed to break out’. Yes, the Long March album had been a hit, but then Blur and Oasis had come along with Park Life and Definitely Maybe and completely stolen their thunder. In fact, Pulp, Supergrass, Elastica, even the Boo Radleys were on Top of the Pops more than Year Zero. It was the most exciting period for British music in decades – Britpop, they were calling it – and Year Zero were sitting in the second divison, facing relegation.
Alex finished the last of the sake and dropped the empty bottle into a rubbish bin with a clang. Nothing was going to dampen his mood tonight. Ducking into a doorway, he pulled out his bag of coke and, using the corner of his hotel room key, scooped up a generous pile and snorted it.
As he left his hidey-hole, he spotted a flashing sign reading ‘Rock Club’ just down the street. Outside, there was a queue of teenagers wearing black leather and studded belts. Pushing his way to the front of the queue, he slapped a five-thousand-yen note on the counter. A huge bouncer in a black vest stepped out in front of him, but a girl jumped up and began jabbering in Japanese. The only words Alex could make out were ‘Alex san’, and ‘Fiju beer’. The man reluctantly moved aside and Alex plunged inside.
‘Gomennasai,’ he said, elbowing his way to the bar. He pulled out another note and waved it in the air like a distress flare. ‘Oi, mate!’ he called to the barman. ‘Sake over here, mate.’
‘’Scuse, Alex san.’
Alex turned to see the girl from the front of the club standing next to him. She was pretty, with big almond-shaped eyes thickly lined in black and a Cleopatra-style bob. She also had a studded dog collar around her neck. ‘May I help?’
‘Just trying to get served, darling.’ Alex smiled, continuing to wave his money.
‘With respect, Alex san, he will not serve you,’ said the girl.
‘Oh really?’ he said, looking at her with interest. ‘Why not?’
‘Because in Japan, waving money is very rude. Also, the word “mate” in Japanese means “wait!” or “stop!”. It is very confusing for him.’
‘Oh, bugger. Can you do it for me? Get yourself a drink too. And say sorry to him for me, will you?’
She bowed and went to speak to the barman, returning with a bottle of sake and two beers.
‘I am Maiko,’ she said, bowing. ‘I study English at college and I love Year Zero very much.’
‘Well, you’re a lifesaver, Maiko,’ he said, slumping into a booth and sinking half the beer in one.
‘Why you drink so much, Alex san?’
‘Because I should be in Osaka.’
He thought back to that morning when he’d woken up feeling unwell after a bender the night before. He’d started the day with a line of cocaine anyway, which had made his nose start to bleed. Worse than his poor health was the realisation that he had long passed the point where he could survive without either a wrap or a bottle. Three hours later, he’d had to leave Tokyo for Osaka with the rest of the band. On the train he’d found himself paranoid, shaking and insular. He just didn’t want to be around his band mates any longer, so when they had arrived at Osaka Arena, he had hung back, then got a taxi to the station and the bullet train back to Tokyo.
‘I should be on stage right now,’ he said sadly, the bravado replaced by guilt. ‘I’ve fucked up, Maiko. I’ve let them all down.’
‘It is sad if you fail others, Alex san,’ said Maiko seriously. ‘But it is tragedy if you fail yourself.’
He blinked at her. She had hit the nail on the head. The drink and drugs were just masking his unhappiness. Deep down he hated what he was doing. He had set out wanting to make music, not just to be a rock star. He wanted to write songs as singular and affecting as all those bands he had listened to in his room at Danehurst, but instead he had cobbled together something he thought would appeal to everyone when it hadn’t even appealed to him.
‘I think that calls for a drink,’ he said, splashing sake into two cups, then knocking both of them back.
‘Hey, Alex san!’ said Maiko, cocking her head. ‘It is your song!’
Alex grabbed her hand.‘Come on,’ he replied.‘Let’s have a dance.’
He woke up to the smell of noodles. Turning his head painfully, he saw a black plastic bowl sitting on a low table beside the bed. He didn’t recognise the bowl, or the bed for that matter. In fact, h
e didn’t recognise any of it. For a moment he felt scared, flustered, searching the room and his memories for a clue. Except he couldn’t remember anything about the night before.