The reformation of Spandau Ballet

The reformation of Spandau Ballet (a short story about nothing)

Gary Kemp stood across the room from his brother, Martin Kemp. They stared at each other through half closed eyes, the simmering tension barely contained by the presence of the charismatic Tony Hadley. Hadley, for his own part, stood off to the side, not looking at anyone in particular. Steve Norman, the self-confessed eye-candy of the group, polished his saxophone, whilst whistling the tune to Musclebound. The drummer, John Keeble, was currently on the toilet, and had been for at least 15 minutes. This is what happened when he was allowed to take a book with him. The book in question this time was “My Life So Far”, an autobiography by Jane Fonda. Keeble also had the full collection of Jane Fonda’s exercise videos, though lately he hadn’t been able to find the time to use them for their intended, or consequential, use.

Martin Kemp, the bass player come actor, spoke first. “‘The man with the suit and the case, knew that he was there on the case.’ What the fuck does that even mean? Couldn’t you find a word that rhymed with case, other than case?” The words had been thrown at Gary Kemp, the guitarist and song writer come actor. For a moment, Gary Kemp continued to stare at his brother, but said nothing. Tony Hadley, the lead singer, come pathetic celebrity reality television attention seeker, looked from one to the other. It was just like the old days, thought Hadley. Martin Kemp, jealous of his brother’s position in the band as song writer and guitarist while he was just the bass player. Gary Kemp, jealous of all the attention that his brother got from the groupies and Smash Hits Magazine, while he just had an oddly shaped face. ‘The more things change, something, something, something’, thought Hadley, unable to finish a sentence without Gary Kemp writing it for him.

Suddenly, saxophonist and hip swinger, come older saxophonist and hip swinger, Steve Norman, spoke, which was unexpected since he had taken a vow of silence in 1997, and had generally stuck to it. “Enough” he screamed, and with that he exited the room, hips swinging violently, saxophone hanging from his shoulder like a large and bent rifle, the kind used during the Napoleonic Wars. Martin Kemp, Gary Kemp and Tony Hadley looked at each other for a few seconds before they all burst out laughing simultaneously. Steve Norman was the joke of the group, known to all of the group but Steve Norman. He couldn’t actually play any musical instruments, even though he thought he was the world’s foremost saxophonist. The studio bosses used to bring in a session saxophonist during recording, after the group were done, to complete the necessary parts. During concerts, the group would surreptitiously stuff tissues into Norman’s saxophone before they went on, and there would be a real saxophonist standing offstage whilst they were playing. It worked in the 80s because no one really looked beyond the haircuts, and Steve Norman had one of the best ones going around. It became more difficult during the 90s, when people started to become more concerned with the musical abilities of performers, and this was one of the main reasons why the band’s fortunes had declined, unbeknownst to Steve Norman, of course.

The other reason for the band’s decline was the current elephant in the room. Soon the laughter that followed Steve Norman’s exit subsided, and all that was left was the icy silence that had preceded it. Once again, it was Martin Kemp who broke it. “‘I’ve got a ticket to the world, but now I’ve come back again. Why do I find it hard to write the next line, oh I want the truth to be said …‘ You’re off travelling the world and you can’t work out why you find it hard to write the next line? Heellloooo! Did you ever think of just sitting down and writing knucklehead? Perhaps if you hadn’t been jet setting all the time you’d have been able to write more!”

Tony Hadley sighed and shook his head, for the umpteenth time that year. He didn’t have the heart to explain to Martin Kemp that the song was not actually based on Gary Kemp’s life. Martin Kemp had always been a bit thick, but more so since he had become a full-time actor. Still, his inability to separate fact from fiction did not denigrate from the correctness of his position visa vi Gary Kemp’s lyrics. They were truly awful and nonsensical. That didn’t matter in the 80s, where you had songs about chameleons, wild boys and heads on doors. No one really listened to the lyrics then because everyone was young and beautiful. Now it was a different story. None of them were young and none could be described as beautiful anymore, though Martin Kemp retained a certain, rugged charm. If Spandau Ballet was to reform and start producing music again, the critics would be waiting with bated pens to attack Gary Kemp’s lyrics. This time they had to make sense.

“I mean, what the hell was ‘Through the Barricades’ supposed to be about?” Martin Kemp continued. “‘And now I know what they’re saying, In the music of the parade, We made our love on wasteland, And through the barricades.‘ Not. One. Single. Word. Makes. Sense.” Gary Kemp continued to stare at his brother for a few minutes, before eventually the truth of the accusations hit home. His lyrics really were rubbish. And it wasn’t as if he could blame drugs and alcohol. His biggest vice was the occasional Cherry Advokat, and the once monthly lite beer. Plus his asthma inhaler. “Okay. I get it. My songs were shit. I mean, the tunes, they were great. And in the 80s, the tune was everything. No one listened to the lyrics. Look at Utravox, with Vienna. But it’s not the 80s. And were not young men anymore. Were in our mid 30’s …” “Early 50s” interjected Tony Hadley. “Okay, early 50s. The point is that we can’t rely on our looks anymore. If we want to make a comeback, we need to rely on our music. And since neither of you guys can write music. Since Martin, you’re so dumb you can barely write. And Tony, since your so busy stuffing your face and appearing on reality TV, it’s up to me to write the songs. So this time the lyrics will make sense.”

Martin Kemp and Tony Hadley looked at each other, then turned back to Gary Kemp. “Are you sure you can do this”, they said in unison, followed by “Jinx, personal magic jinx”. Martin Kemp continued alone. “It’s gonna be tough changing the way you write. You’re used to finding rhyming words and then throwing them holus bolus into sentences. Now you think you can write lyrics that make sense?”

Gary Kemp looked at his brother and then at Tony Hadley. He remained silent for a moment, and then began to sing: “When you’re alone, and the world is your bone, just pick up the phone, and talk to me on the phone.” “Oh FUCK!” screamed Martin Kemp and Tony Hadley in unison, followed by “Jinx, personal magic jinx”. A grin broke out across Gary Kemp’s face. “Just kidding guys. I’ve got something you’re gonna love. Are you ready?” Tony Hadley and Martin Kemp looked at each other and then both looked back at Gary Kemp. They both nodded, Kemp first, followed by Hadley, not willing to do anything in unison lest they curse this reunion.

But before Gary Kemp could begin his song, the door to the studio flung open. “Not so fast” said a voice full of doom and middle-aged angst. Hadley, Kemp and the other Kemp turned towards the door, but none could make out the owner of the voice because John Keeble hadn’t changed the lightbulb above the door. Each of the peered into the murkiness. “Who is that?” spoke Gary Kemp, trepidation in his voice. “It is I, Morrisey, your arch-enemy Gary Kemp!” Gary Kemp felt his bowels loosen and his sphincter tighten, a convenient combination. Morrisey continued. “For years, I have waited for this moment when you would try to relaunch your career and your puerile, so-called, song writing skills. I have waited for the moment when you would try to reinfect the world with your particular brand of pop music. I have waited and waited and waited, while I kept myself busy writing songs about angst and loss and acne, things that are important for teenagers but that, really, aren’t important for a middle-aged man. And do you know why? Because of this moment. Because I knew that one day you would try to make a come back, and I would have to be there to stop you.” At that moment, Morrisey pulled out a Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm Revolver, his ‘massive mother fucker of a gun’ as he liked to call it. He lifted the huge weapon and pointed the barrel to a spot between Gary Kemp’s close-set eyes. “Any last words?” Morrisey asked of his rival.

For a moment, Gary Kemp couldn’t speak, panic setting in. Then a feeling of calm descended on him. He knew what he had to do. He had to sing, and not just any song. He needed to sing a song that would soothe the world’s grumpiest man, Morrisey. If he could do that, he could take on the world again.

Gary Kemp opened his mouth and began to sing. “Why did you …” BOOM! Gary Kemp’s head disintegrated as the hollow point bullet entered his right eye and exited via a massive hole in the back of his head. Morrisey moved the gun towards Martin Kemp. “Run now Kemp” he ordered. “Go back to acting. Never pick up a musical instrument again.” Kemp began to move slowly before quickening his pace, breaking into a run as he made it to the door. He wouldn’t stop running until he reached Coronation Street.

Morrisey lowered the revolver. “You can go too Hadley. I have no beef with you. Just make sure you stay away from Martin Kemp. I don’t want to see any mention of a Spandau Ballet reformation.” Hadley began to speak, but then thought better of it. He walked to the door, looked back once at the headless body of Gary Kemp, once at Morrisey, and without further delay, departed from the room.

Morrisey looked down at the fallen body of Gary Kemp. It brought him no joy to do this. In fact nothing brought him joy. Nothing ever had, and nothing ever would. He was a grumpy bastard, and he was only getting grumpier with age. He pushed the revolver barrel first into the waistband of his pants, and walked through the door, without a single backward glance.

A few minutes after Morrisey had left, the sound of a toilet flushing could be heard towards the back of the building. John Keeble emerged, a copy of Jane Fonda’s “My Life So Far” tucked under his arm. At the sight of the headless Gary Kemp, John Keeble almost vomited, but somehow managed to avoid doing so. For a moment the scene made no sense to him. ‘What had happened here?’ he thought to himself. Then he realised that the how and why of Kemp being killed was not important. There was only one thing that mattered. His right hand formed a fist, and he pumped it in the air. At the same time, he exclaimed, “Yes! Finally, I’ll be the fourth most popular member of Spandau Ballet!”

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