ThinkThankThunk

I hated the Cow Palace—a big concrete box built for livestock shows and basketball games, not music, so of course the acoustics were horrible. Sonic mud.

The Chron sent me there to do a profile on ThinkThankThunk, in town on their first North American tour. I was in a night-black mood. Not only did I hate the Cow Palace, but I also hated synthesizer pop in general, and I really hated ThinkThankThunk’s big hit single, the theme song from the latest James Bond flick. Even before I’d settled into my seat, I hated the huge “T3” logo that loomed over the stage; “Nuremburg,” I noted in my little black book.

I hardly remember anything about the show itself beyond the deadening thud-thud-thud of the robotic dance beat that propelled every song. The band (hardly a “band”) consisted of a couple of weedy little Brits, both named Nigel, prancing around in black leotards and striking poses amid banks of synthesizers and black boxes.

At one point near what I prayed would be the end, I dropped my trusty flask and was groping around the floor for it when suddenly I was blasted out of my seat by explosive booms and blinding flashes of light; terrified, I looked up to see fireballs surging out of the pyro boxes behind the stage, timed to the opening chords of that stupid James Bond song. The crowd responded with a deafening, ecstatic shriek of recognition as one of the Nigels dramatically seized a microphone and screamed, “ThunderPussy!”

This turned out to be the finale. The crowd bayed for an encore, but the houselights came on and the show was over. I just wanted to flee. Instead, I made my way backstage through a maze of dark corridors that eventually led to a windowless, dimly lit vestibule reeking of disinfectant and decorated with torn posters of past Cow Palace events—the Ice Capades, the Harlem Globetrotters, a Russian circus featuring bear acts, and even an honest-to-God rodeo, with horses and cowboys and, of course, cows.

The door to the band’s dressing room was guarded by a PR flak with perfect hair. He introduced himself as Duncan and congratulated me for having an “exclusive,” then pointed to a metal folding chair and told me I’d have to wait to see “the artists” at a “propitious moment.” From behind the door I could hear low guffaws and high-pitched whinnies.

I sat and reviewed my notes from the show as well as the press kit, which I hadn’t bothered to glance at earlier. A few minutes later, a guy in a black leather cap, black leather jacket, black leather pants, and black leather motorcycle boots shuffled into this anteroom with a black leather dispatch bag slung over one shoulder. He gave me a quick look and asked, “Are you the—”

Before I could answer, Duncan looked up and said to him, “You’re the man from the . . . agency?”

Leather Man snickered and said, “Uh, yeah. I guess you could say that.” Then he went up to Duncan and whispered something to him, upon which he was admitted to the dressing room. I heard whoops and giggles from inside before the door closed again.

Let me say right here that, by this point in my career as a music journalist, I was a seasoned pro — professionalism was my byword. Normally, I did my utmost to show up sober, on time, and well prepared. I was courteous and obliging. I stuck to my allotted word-counts and never missed a deadline. I’d even splurged on a fine little black notebook that would subtly convey my seriousness, my professionalism, when I did interviews.

After nearly an hour, the propitious moment suddenly arrived. Duncan disappeared into the dressing room and re-emerged with Leather Man, who averted his face as he stepped past me on his way out. Duncan then said, “Mr. Reed, please excuse the . . . inexcusable delay,” and with that I was ushered into the dressing room.

I entered smiling. Professionalism, professionalism . . .

The dressing room was as too-small as the hall upstairs was too-huge. By the light of several bare bulbs arrayed around a mirror, I saw that there were five people present: Duncan, who grandly announced me before exiting; a beefy Brit I presumed to be Malcolm Dribbs, ThinkThankThunk’s manager; a silent, glowering fellow whom Dribbs introduced as “our artistic director and one of your countrymen, Mr. Hedstrom”; and of course Nigel M and Nigel P themselves, now wearing absurdly oversized designer civvies but still sporting ghoulish white makeup and black lipstick and mascara, all of it alarmingly smeared.

Dribbs, consulting a little black book of his own, smiled at me momentarily from an armchair and said, “So you’re Mr. Reed, from the, what is it, the Chronograph . . .”

“The San Francisco Chronometer,” I said, extending my hand, which he ignored.

“Oh God, let’s get this over with,” he said from his armchair, not to me but to the Nigels, seated on little stools near the mirror. “At least tomorrow we’ll be in Los Angeles.” He pronounced it: “Lo-san-jel-eez.”

I nodded and turned first to the nearest Nigel. “So you’re Nigel . . . M?” I began, hoping I had the right one. “It’s a pleasure to—”

He, too, declined to shake my hand. “I’m Nigel P,” he said irritably. He then turned to Dribbs. “Do we have to do this now? I’m tired. I am so bloody sick of these things. Isn’t it the other Nigel’s turn? I hate San Francisco—it’s freezing here.” He said the city’s name in that slightly off, British way: “San-fran-cisco”.

Dribbs said sharply, “Nigel. You’ll apologize to the man. Now.”

“‘You’ll apologize to the man,’” said Nigel P in sullen mockery. “All right, then,” he said, and glared at me defiantly. “I am so veddy, veddy, teddibly sorry. Regardless of your . . . attire.”

Nigel M snorted.

“Nigel,” said Dribbs. “That’s enough.”

Nigel P groaned dramatically. “Right. Over the top, then, lads.” And then to me: “Ask away, my good man.”

Professionalism, professionalism, I kept telling myself. Just get the story.

I cleared my throat and launched into my standard opening gambit. “I always like to ask musicians about their first music lessons, or—”

Nigel P cut me off, rolling his eyes. “Just ask about how I first met the other Nigel,” he said. “That’s what they all ask. Righty-oh, then. I was in arts college in Birmingham, a first year. And the other Nigel was a second year, and we met at this drinks party, and he said that he wanted to be in a band, and I said I wanted to be in a band, and we both wanted to be huge, and the rest is pretty much history—which you can read in the bloody press kit.” He looked at Dribbs, smirked, and added, “Oh, and we really-really-really love America, and I’m a Gemini and the other Nigel is a Libra, and our favorite color is black. And colour is spelt c-o-l-o-u-r. And—”

In the midst of this speech, Dribbs had laboriously risen to his feet, and now seized Nigel P’s arm and hissed at him: “Nigel.”

Nigel M snorted, and then produced a bottle that I recognized as Pimm’s No. 2—vile stuff. He said melodiously, “Mr. Reed, would you care for a touch of Pimm’s?”

“That’s my Pimm’s,” interjected Nigel P. “That’s the last bottle, and you knew it was mine. You knew. Rotter.”

“Nitwit,” replied Nigel M.

“Wally,” countered Nigel P.

“Tosser.”

“Muggins.”

This might have gone on for the rest of the night, but Dribbs seized the moment. “Gentlemen,” he said. “We are guests in our journalist friend’s country.” He looked at me and said, “Mr. Reed, I hope you will excuse the artists’ behaviour. They sometimes get a bit . . . silly after performing before large audiences. Even when the audiences aren’t quite as large as was promised by the proprietors of the venue. Promised in writing. Oblivious of their legal obligations.” His face had grown hard and he leveled his eyes for a moment at the artistic director, who sat impassively. Then he turned back to me and said with a sudden warm smile, “The lads are just . . . having you on a bit.”

Nigel M snickered. Nigel P smirked and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

“Perhaps, Mr. Reed,” Dribbs continued, “you’d care to ask the artists about their latest record album.” He was glaring malevolently at the two Nigels.

I took the cue. “So,” I said, addressing either or neither or both of the Nigels, “what can you tell me about the album?”

Nigel M gathered himself majestically and said, “We think it’s . . . rahtha like . . . Pimm’s!” He ceremoniously handed me a paper cup, filled to the brim. “But we haven’t any oranges. My deepest apologies.”

Smile, smile! I commanded myself, taking the cup. Laugh, laugh! I managed to force a little chuckle.

“Very well then,” Nigel M went on, “for the sake of our . . . conviviality, I shall propose a toast—shan’t I, Nigel P?” He winked a big, stagy wink at the other Nigel, who rose from his stool and stood beside me.

“Gentlemen!” intoned Nigel M, raising his cup. “The Queen!”

“The Queen,” I answered gamely, and took a small sip of the nasty stuff in my cup.

“No, no, no,” said Nigel M. “You must take a proper draught, lest you offend Her Majesty’s subjects, of whom there are three in this very room. This very wretched little room. Again, then: Gentlemen, the Queen!” He slurped up a big mouthful and pointed at his fully engorged cheeks, mumbling, “Like so.”

Anything for a story. I did likewise.

Just then, Nigel P sang out “The Queen!” and thumped me hard on the back, causing me to spew Pimm’s all over Nigel M, who instantly responded in kind, spraying Pimm’s in my face, up and down my shirt, on my pants and my shoes.

“Nigel!” roared Dribbs at either or both of them, but for the moment he’d completely lost control of his artists, who were both merrily spitting Pimm’s No. 2 at me and at each other in between fits of hysterical giggling.

“The Queen!”

“The Queen!”

Nigel M grabbed the cup from my hand, tipped the remaining contents into his mouth, and made a big show of pressing his index fingers into his cheeks to force a stream aimed at my face before Dribbs yanked him away.

“You’re hurting him! You’re hurting him!” cried Nigel P from behind me, just before snatching away my notebook.

“A hostage!” he announced.

I spun around to see Nigel P dancing maniacally and flourishing the notebook over his head. “Hostage!” he screeched. “We have a hostage situation!”

“Nigel!” Dribbs released Nigel M and lunged for Nigel P, who darted out of the way and tossed the notebook to Nigel M, who plucked it out of the air, opened it, and peered inside.

“Nigel,” said Dribbs in a low, measured voice. A fat man unused to such exertions, he was breathing hard. “You’ll return our friend’s property to him at once.”

Nigel M sighed, snapped the book shut, and presented it to me with two hands, bowing like a failed Japanese prime minister offering his resignation to the emperor. “Sir,” he said. “Your property.”

I mumbled “Thanks” and peeled the notebook from his hands, sticky with Pimm’s No. 2.

“And now, Nigel—both Nigels,” Dribbs said in the same low voice, “you will apologize to the gentleman.”

“Sir,” said Nigel M, bowing again. “My sincere apologies.” He choked back a snort of laughter.

“Very well, then,” said Dribbs, who turned and stared hard at the other Nigel. “And you, Nigel P?”

Nigel P smirked, then said, “Righty-oh. Certainly. Soitenly, as you Yanks say. I’m ever so sorry. Whatever. We were just having you on a bit, mate. To show you how much we really-really like you. And respect you, too, for the brilliant things you’ll write about us. Ah-men.” He turned and said, “Are we done now, Mr. Dribbs? Isn’t it time for that leather bloke to come back?”

Dribbs, expressionless, glared at him for a moment and then took my elbow and escorted me out of the room, back into the dismal little antechamber. Duncan was gone. “The lads,” Dribbs was saying, “—and that’s what they are, just lads—are very . . . tired, as I’m sure you understand. The tour across your wonderful country has been . . . arduous. And we do so hope that you will overlook their late-night . . . high jinks, and consider them for their . . . artistry.”

Throughout this little speech he kept glancing back at the dressing room door. I heard the clattering of a typewriter. Soon the door opened. Mr. Hedstrom emerged, gave Dribbs a bright red manila folder, and disappeared. The door shut again.

Clapping me on the shoulder, Dribbs smiled warmly and handed me the folder, saying, “I recognize that your interview this evening has not been particularly . . . productive. Therefore Mr. Hedstrom has prepared some additional . . . press material to enable your . . . journalistic enterprise.” He took hold of my right hand in both of his hands and shook it once, definitively, as though to seal an agreement. “This bit of tomfoolery tonight,” he murmured into my ear, “it simply didn’t happen. The lads have the deepest respect for your . . . professional consideration.” He released my hand, and as he slipped back into the dressing room he turned, regarding me up and down, and said, “Now you can purchase something . . . stylish.” He smiled conspiratorially and disappeared into the dressing room, pulling the door tightly shut behind him.

In the dim light I opened the folder, emblazoned with the “T3” logo. Inside there was what looked like a photocopied five- or ten-page manuscript entitled “The Future of Music: ThinkThankThunk!” Newly typed below this were the words “By E. Ben Reade”—my name, misspelled. And paperclipped to the manuscript was a check, made out to cash, for the unimaginable sum of $20,000—as much money as I’d made the entire previous year. I counted the zeroes three times to make sure: yes, $20,000. I looked down at my clothes—standard-issue, post-hippie, California casual.

The rest of the night is an irretrievable blur. At one point I was on my hands and knees in front of St. Anne’s Church on Judah Street, frantically poking under the main door with the straightened-out coat hanger that served as my car’s radio antenna; I was desperate to retrieve the check and the hastily scrawled note (“FOR THE POOR”) that I’d stuffed under the door an hour or so earlier on my way home from the Cow Palace. No, I was telling myself, I can’t throw away two years’ rent . . . I just can’t . . . what was I thinking? . . .

And then, empty-handed, I must have gone home to write my profile of ThinkThankThunk.