ONE

Bob Wokki had never liked touring for any considerable length of time,
so when the bands bus accidentally went over the cliff it kinda
reinforced his attitude that it was best to get back to the studio sooner
or later.

A bus crash is not something to make your day, plus a large amount of
good quality cocaine was lost in the accident.

Bobs attitude to drugs had always been somewhat ambivalent. His

band mate James Haanderpaal snorted coke like no tomorrow but Bob
had by contrast always had a rather clinical and detached attitude to
mind-altering substances. The irony was that a large part of the
motivation for making their latest album Golden had been to pay off
the numerous debts that were incurred as a result of the uncontrolled
(and expensive) drug habits of the other band members. During the
recording of the album and the following tour to promote it, however,
more free drugs had been in plentiful supply which only served to
reinforce the very bad habits Bob was trying to reign in within the band.

It had also been, naturally, a factor in the accident itself.

The driver, a Jamaican dude who went inexplicably by the nickname

Ludo had been winding them along a narrow pass through the
mountains in Switzerland when a sports car careering the other way
swept round the bend ahead. The good quality ganja Ludo usually
smoked was one thing but cocaine was a different matter and, not
being especially accustomed to the stuff, his reaction time was a fair bit
more delayed than usual. Ludo overreacted and the bus was sent over
the edge before anyone could so much as emit a loud expletive. Luckily
the accident had happened at a point where the bus came to an abrupt
halt before plummeting too far; around a hundred feet below the edge
a large clump of thick brush had arrested the vehicle before it had a
chance to continue on its inevitably fatal journey to the bottom of the
mountain. By the time the bus came to an abrupt and lurching stop,
Bob and one other band member were unconscious but the others had
been more fortunate and escaped with little more than cuts and
bruises.

As a result of the accident Bob suffered a significant head injury which

would in turn come to accentuate the more extreme aspects of his
already considerably larger than life personality. He was a grumpy old
man by his thirtieth birthday; he knew what he liked and what he didnt
and he had very little patience for stupidity and mediocrity. It was true
that he could also be very charming and kind and romantic when the
mood took him, but once he decided something or someone was not
worth his attention it was more or less consigned to the waste
management portion of his mind and there was very little that would
convince him to give them or it a second chance. This single minded
almost tunnel-visioned personality trait was both his greatest strength
and greatest weakness for, though it allowed him to work with total
dedication and focus on projects for far longer than most, it also meant
that he tended to dismiss some things a little too readily that might in
the end turn out to be useful and interesting to him.

Shit. remarked James dazedly after the dust had settled. Predictably
hed escaped with only a cut finger and not much else. Despite being
by far the most reckless member of the group he never seemed to
suffer any significant consequences for his behaviour.

Fred Drawner, the bands drummer, gave a hacking cough as a mixture

of dust and blood mingled in his mouth after a considerable time had
passed in stunned silence. He had a sprained ankle and a cut lip, but for
a rock and roll drummer that was nothing. Most them of course die
horrible and bizarrely inexplicable deaths.

Er Is Bob OK? he asked a little pointlessly.

Bob had been thrown up against the side window and presently
resembled a ragdoll that had been thrown into a tumble dryer.

James looked over and squinted through the floating debris. Probably
not. he concluded with what might have seemed to an outside
observer as heartless indifference. To be fair though they had all just
narrowly avoided a date with The Reaper. It doesnt tend to put you in
a very animated and talkative frame of mind.

There was also the issue of the current precarious position of the bus.
Sooner or later gravity looked like it might win and the thing would end
up hurtling to a final end far below.

Ultimately, though, the driver of the sports car was able to get a rescue
team out, the wreckage was lifted out, and nobody met their demise
that fateful spring afternoon. But things would never be the same for
Bob. Although hed survived, the injuries hed sustained would keep
him in a coma for the next two months. The common perception of a
coma is someone being asleep for years and then waking up one day
and, wide-eyed, stepping back into the world. The reality, as Bob
discovered, is that the actual comatose condition tends to last only a
relatively short time before the really hard task of physical and mental
recovery begins. Had it not lasted only two short months, Bob in all
likelihood would have joined the ranks of those rock stars who lived
fast and died young.

And so it was that for the next thirty years or so Bob would be on a very
gradual path to recovery. His father Jefferson and his old friend Rex
Ryder took charge of his care. Arranging for him to be looked after at a
private hospital with round the clock attention was the easy part; as it
turned out Golden proved to be the bands breakthrough commercial
success and the royalties from it meant money wasnt an issue. The
difficult part would be getting Bob back to as full a recovery as possible,
and, even more challenging, keeping the music and general press from
prying into his condition.

As always with such things, after enough time elapsed the world moved
on and, though Bob was remembered by his loyal cult following for his
earlier work, the rest of humanity promptly forgot about him. His father
passed away during that time, and his sons grew into men. The point at
which Bob would be finally able to return to the outside world and be
more or less properly aware of it would only come in the mid-2010s.
Luckily, the late 80s onward had turned out to be pretty much a write-
off musically anyway, so Bob would discover he hadnt really missed all
that much during his absence.
 TWO

Bobs recovery was, like most post-coma patients, drawn out and full
of stops and starts.

He learned many new skills in the time he spent at the Saint Lucille
Convalescent Home.

One was how to wee into small cups without missing. This is an
extremely important skill and invariably pleases nurses and doctors no
end. Another was to surrender any vestige of self-consciousness. Bob
came to experience first-hand what it really meant to be helpless and
totally reliant on others. Initially the one surviving relative was his
father, and other than that, despite having a lot of friends and well-
wishers it was those medical staff charged with his care that he was
most forced to turn to in this his hour of greatest need. The first few
years passed with him being only vaguely aware of his surroundings and
barely able to communicate. Initially his prognosis had been fairly good;
the doctors assessed that he had a decent chance of recovery given
enough time. When he emerged from the full coma and was able to
move his hands and understand basic words and such the hope was
that he would continue to make steady progress. In the end though,
the recovery turned out to be painstakingly slow. Over three decades
would pass before Bob could really be considered ready to make a
return to normal life. In that time music of course changed completely
(especially the industry itself and what it considered marketable).

As Bob saw it, one moment hed been a world recognised star and
critically acclaimed artist, a recognised trailblazer of his generation, and
the next he was asking for help to go to the toilet or being turned on
his side to get more comfortable or getting an erection at the most
inopportune moment (thankfully that part of him still worked fine).
Fortunately, he was blessed with a typically British black sense of
humour which stood him in good stead in dealing with his predicament.
It only served to reinforce his world-weary, darkly ironic view of life,
but he was a survivor nonetheless. Instinctively he felt that he wasnt
quite finished making a contribution just yet, even though there were
times along his arduous recovery he wanted to give up. What precisely
that contribution might be only time would tell.

It turned out that the brain damage hed received was primarily to the
part of his brain dealing with short term memory. He would discover he
was largely able to recall events that occurred prior and up to his
accident but that trying to remember anything from that point onward
was a constant challenge. Ideas for new music and such would occur to
him at periodic intervals (as indeed they had in the past) but then hed
promptly forget them before he had a chance to record them properly.
Still - hed never been particularly great at remembering details like
where he put the keys to his Rolls Royce Phantom, so in that sense
things had stayed fairly much the same.

James, Fred and the others visited him regularly enough, found him
reasonably cognisant and alert, but also eerily detached from his
surroundings as if hed decided that actually, being here and not doing
all that much was really not so bad and rather preferable to engaging
with the outside world. In truth part of their motivation for visiting was
a pressing need to figure out what to do about certain mounting
financial and contractual problems the band were facing, and hoping
he might be able to figure out a way out of the mess. Bob had always
been the only one among them with a semblance of business acumen,
and without his guidance James had made some highly questionable
decisions that had placed the band into a thorny legal bind that would
prove hard to escape from. Part of the issue was the deals that had
been made with the recording companies. The band were contracted
to make two more records for their old label, which did not like their
newer material and did not consider it marketable. James had signed
the band up to a newer more progressive label before fully severing the
recording obligations with the old one, which effectively meant they
couldnt record for either. The other part of the issue was the excessive
spending habits of the band members, especially James who had been
fighting an expensive cocaine addiction for most of the 70s and 80s.
James had sullenly and ruefully related these issues to Bob the last time
hed paid him a visit.

Just make the two albums. Give them what they want. advised Bob.
If they want some hits give them some hits.

James looked dubious.

But they want us to do another album like Golden. You know I cant
make that kind of stuff without you Bob.

Well maybe the songs wont have quite the edge or depth, but
youre capable of writing some catchy pop.

James had indeed penned a handful of the bands high charting tunes.
Slum Jazz had sat for a month atop the British charts in the mid 70s;
it had been James tune and his individual musical concept even though
Bob had helped write the lyrics. But those had been different days. The
energy and momentum were behind them. With Bob gone, James
didnt feel confident enough to be as fearlessly creative as he had back
then.

But in the end Bob had not been forthcoming with any further advice.
Hed too preoccupied with what theyd be putting on for dinner that
evening.

Jesus I could do with a good Thai green curry.

So Fred had offered to go and get him one. As the drummer, he was not
responsible for making any important decisions which was just as well
as he was fairly dim witted.

I have some new stuff. James had said after Bob had got his meal and
was happily devouring it. Ill leave it with you to have a listen. I dont
think theyre gonna like it though. Sunrise are idiots.

Before the accident Bob had had a lot more patience for these sorts of
things. Now, he found himself unable to give a damn about very much
at all. It wasnt as if he was depressed; true it sucked being here in a
way but he also found it strangely comforting. It was almost as if, after
the breakneck career theyd negotiated during the late 60s and 70s,
being here was allowing him a moment to take a breath for once in his
life and smell the roses.

OK. Leave it with me. Ill take a listen. Talk to Rex about the contractual
stuff. I think he knows some decent legal people. said Bob airily.

James had the look of an acolyte who had consulted an Oracle and been
given a vaguely unsatisfying response. Even after all this time he was
not really accustomed to not having Bob around to make the sound and
sensible decisions.

To briefly digress. Bob Wokki and the Hallucinations had formed in late
1969. Bob was 20 and James was 19 at the time. Bob was studying at
the Ivy Conservatory, a prestigious music school that focused mainly on
classical music, and James was a high school friend who was studying
advanced alcohol consumption at the University of Drunk. This was not
to say James was an unintelligent talentless moron. Well, he could
certainly be a moron at times, albeit unwittingly. But he was an
instinctual rather than a studious and dedicated musician. His mother
had been a blues singer and hed grown up listening to a lot of classic
records, and it was those factors that had primarily formed him
musically. Bobs father had brought his own very different musical
influences. Jefferson OShea (for that was Bobs real name) was a
professional jazz pianist who dabbled in the emerging rock and popular
music scene, an eclectic who liked to slum it artistically from time to
time. But despite being very talented hed never been able to translate
it into any serious financial reward. Bob had therefore grown up in a
much more cultured environment than James, one that valued
formality and theory. This blend of do it yourself rock and roll
sensibility and more highbrow jazz and classical influences was a
central aspect of the wide appeal of the Hallucinations music. They
were able to appeal to both straight ahead rockers and to those seeking
a subtler and more complex musical experience.
Bob and James first band would be called rather peculiarly The
Doctors. The members were Peter Jones, Jon Curtis and Samual L
Smith. Curtis and Smith remained with the band to this day, but Jones
quit the band iearly on for personal reasons. He was in turn replaced by
a school friend of Curtis and Smith, Fred Drawner. They were spotted
playing at the Lychee Club, a rhythm and blues venue, by a record
executive who liked their sound. He was especially keen on Bob. Bob
just had one of those looks that interests people. He was like a cross
between a mad scientist, a philosophy lecturer and a male model and
his stage persona and look were already quite distinctive even at that
early stage. There was an air of grand theatre about him and with his
glittering suits, androgynous natural (although slightly haunted and
fragile) good looks he captured the attention immediately. There was
also a clear air of comicality and absurdity in his delivery and indeed in
the bands songs which, although not fully developed at that early
point, hinted at what was to come.

The Hallucinations would go on to produce a string of acclaimed albums

over the next thirteen years. They would range confidently over blues,
jazz, classical, folk, and rock and Bobs eccentric satirical style would
capture the imagination of the public at every turn. As the decade wore
on, Bob became less theatrical and more grittily realistic in his
songwriting and stage manner. The Hallucinations turned toward more
straight ahead rock but always with their trademark caustic wit and
sarcasm and irony. And as if somehow just naturally sensing the change
in the public mood, the change in direction made them even bigger
stars and crowd pullers.

Unfortunately, as is often the way in the industry, it also meant more

distractions and temptations, at least for the other band members. Bob
became a little less joyful and impishly amusing in his lyrics and
songwriting, and the darker angrier aspect of his psyche came to the
fore. The collapse of his marriage and a range of other past demons
began to manifest themselves. Ironically it was these very things that
made the songs relevant as the tide of taste changed, but at the cost of
Bob feeling more and more isolated from the rest of the band and in a
murkier and less healthy mental state. So it was that when the accident
occurred, the band had already been drifting apart, and there was a
good chance they would have collapsed under the internal weight of
their own contradictions had time been allowed to run its full course.
They had lumbered on, but without Bob at the helm their mojo was
gone. Not knowing when to call it a day, they were now among those
acts often laughed at from a distance as an example of old men foolishly
trying to play a young persons game. They were in truth really only
continuing for the money and not much else. The joy of making music
for its own sake had long since deserted them.

But Bob, well that was another matter. You cannot keep a man like Bob
Wokki down for too long. Despite all this time away, the spark was still
there, even if remote and buried deep within. The lines on his brow had
grown a little more furrowed, there was a deeper more wistful look in
his piercing grey blue eyes, but the rest the essential spirit of the man
- remained essentially unaltered. As he prepared to leave the confines
of the recovery ward and face the outside world again, he looked like a
spaceman that had emerged from a lengthy period of cryogenic
freezing. Anyone who knew him sensed that Bob was not done quite
yet with making a mark on things. They might not know when, but they
somehow knew he was going to do something remarkable as long as
there was still breathe in his body. It was not so much a question of was
Bob ready for the new world as was the new world ready for Bob.

But it wouldnt be easy. He had left the popular music scene at a time
when things were still vibrant, when there was still a spirit of
experimentation and risk taking. Sure the 80s would turn out to be a
hedonistic and, some might say, mindlessly materialistic decade, but
beneath all that there was still a sense that being weird and crazy and
daring to fuck with the rules was cool and was what it was all about.
Thirty years later, the scene could not have been more different. Bob
was now about to emerge into a world in which popular music, like
everything else, had been commodified, packaged, and sucked dry of
its creative impulses. He would come to see what had happened to the
world in his absence and he would not like what he saw. Not one little
bit.
 THREE

In the end they told Bob he was well enough to leave. His
physiotherapist was pleased with his progress, and the amount of
physical agony he had managed to put Bob through on the path to
recovery.

Bob felt ok. But there was that vague sense again of not being sure he
really wanted to go back to the world. The snippets he had been
hearing and seeing (mainly on TV) over the many years he had been
away were hinting to him that the world had changed drastically, and
not for the better. In the last few years he had been struggling to
navigate the internet for a start; at first the whole idea utterly
bewildered him and made his head throb, but gradually he did see its
potential. For one thing, the music that was being put out through
other channels was so revolting and mind numbingly stupid to his
sensibilities that any alternative method of accessing good material
was worth a try.

Bob had always, despite his natural tendency to regard other artists
with deep suspicion, been very open to new musical and creative ideas,
especially ones coming from the less obvious places and the less
obvious people. And this new interweb thing looked very good for that
sort of stuff. You could find virtually anything if you looked hard
enough. There were lots of people putting their own material online.
One of his favourite sites was Rhythm Nation (a bit of a dumb name
he thought but charmingly nave and cute in its way) where anyone
could put their music and get it (hopefully) heard. One artist he liked
listed his influences:

old blues especially the delta blues guys like Growlin Joe Prince
and Eddie The Preacher Miller. Newer stuff : Wokki and the
Hallcuinations up to the early 70s records, especially when they
brought the funk. But HATE that poppy stuff they did like Golden. I
hear Bob is still a vegetable and aint never coming back out of his
stupor. Still what a musical mind. I hope he comes back some day and
makes up for that crap and makes another REAL record.

Bob, at this, could not help but have a smile and a chuckle. As they say
a bad reaction is a lot better than no reaction at all. He made a mental
note to contact the guy sometime. He liked his attitude. As for his music
well, Jack Jeffers of the Tumbling Bricks would be proud. It was
suitably obsessed with African American music and delta blues, but for
anyone outside that clique it offered very very little.

That was the thing. Bob had thought about this question long and hard
over the years. Do you go commercial and mainstream deliberately to
sell records, or do you stay true to some rigid, hardened purist notion
of what music ought to be. For some kinds of music to grow and
develop, he had decided, one must be prepared to use and embrace
some of the techniques of pop and mass market appeal. He was open
to almost anything if it fit what he was trying to do at the time. Perhaps
that was why Jeffers, who was notorious for dismissing any music that
wasnt suitably reverent of the ancient masters, had once said of him
that: Wokki is all show and posturing man. I mean yeah they did
make some good records. But really its all about him and his image.
That aint real rock and roll.

Well, he was probably right. What I did wasnt maybe real rock and roll
after all. I can live with that. But maybe thats why I knew when to call
it a day when he didnt.

Hang on, that decision was kinda made for me when our bus went over
that cliff all those years ago wasnt it?

But Id have probably quit sooner or later. Done something different. I

was already finding it hard to feel the love after that record. We had
had a cult following before then, but after Golden it was a whole other
story. We were huge suddenly. And for once I had to really deal with the
fucking annoying musical press in a way Id never had to before. And
the grotesqueness of the music industry. In a way it was probably a
good thing I had that accident and got out before things got really bad.
Bob had never liked fame and attention. Not in that way. The stage was
one thing. You could connect with the audience that way. That was the
sort of attention he craved, even though he was, essentially, an
introvert. That was how he dealt with it, that was how he worked
through it. But the kind of exposure that Golden gave them was
another story. The album went top of the chart on both sides of the
Atlantic, and stayed there for two solid years. Bobs accident only made
it sell more copies. Dying is a great way for a rock star to boost a flagging
career, but nearly dying is almost just as good.

But now, he sensed, it was about to start all over again. Once he
stepped out that door and back into the grinding machine again, they
would be there with their mindless annoying questions.

Maybe. Maybe not. It had been a long time after all.

And so the day had come. The staff all seemed sad to see him go. Zoltan
the brilliant painter who came here six years ago after a suicide
attempt went wrong (hed leaped off a bridge into the water far below
but miraculously survived) and who was deeply attracted to Bob but
had virtually no idea about his music or cared much about it. Bob might,
at another time, have reciprocated. He was definitely bisexual. Lord
knows hed been there and done that in his day like most other things.
And Zoltan was cute in that puppy dog, sensitive artistic genius kind of
way. But Bob, for the last twenty five years, hadnt really been switched
on sexually at all. It wasnt as if the functions werent working. He just
wasnt really interested these days. So the main way he and Zoltan had
bonded was by playing endless games of ping pong and chess. He had
held the guy as he sobbed. Listened for endless hours as he poured his
heart out to him. Zoltan did 99% of the talking and he listened. And it
somehow worked for them both. And Zoltan knew instinctively not to
push the other stuff. Bob had become something of a father figure to
the kid.

Ill be in touch. He told him.

Zoltan looked crestfallen. Something told him Bob wouldnt ever come
back. Not because Bob was deliberately cruel or cold. That wasnt Bob.
But because Bob was Bob. You couldnt rely on someone like Bob. For
anything. That had always been how it was. It was why Genevieve had
walked out on him all those years ago. It was why he wasnt sure his
two sons would really want to keep in touch with him after all this time.
Maybe Zoltan had been a kind of surrogate for his own lost feelings as
a father. Perhaps hed been using him in a way to atone for

Oh god. Lets not go over that right now he told himself.

They gave him a card and everyone signed it. They all knew about his
past but really, to them it wasnt that important. None of them really
was familiar with his work. They knew he was famous but hed been
there so long that hed just become a patient and little else. An
eccentric one admittedly. Bob refused to wear the gowns they gave
him. James had arranged some alternatives for him over the years. So
hed go everywhere in that modified Kimono of his, the one with the
glittering blue silver trim. Or his brown felt beret, the one hed owned
for nearly thirty years. Put an orchid in his coat. Do impersonations of
his favourite characters and sketches from The Silly Show. Very very
occasionally even take out his old guitar and noodle around on it. Or on
the piano. People would stop and pause to listen, as people usually do
when someone starts playing music. But Bobs tastes at this point were
somewhat tending toward the more abstract and disjointed, and
despite their mild fascination for what he was doing, theyd sooner or
later move on with a puzzled half smile.

That was Bob. Weird. A bit scary. But essentially harmless.

It was generally understood that Bobs talents were, whilst very real
and undiluted, something that belonged primarily to a bygone era and
time. The kind of thing one looked at as a quaint throwback to a long
forgotten point in history. People do like that sort of thing, but only for
its very strangeness and otherness, not necessarily because they really
like it for itself or wish to understand it.
And so it was that Bob took his first steps back into the world that
pleasant, sunny mildly cool autumn day. Of course he felt strange.
Doctor Robert had told him it would take time before he could expect
to adjust and fit back into things again.

The MRI looks good. Hed said. And then proceeded to elaborate on
the medical jargon. His anterior rear hypomaculus, which was
responsible for yada yada, was largely and yeah whatever.

Oh thats good.

Well yes. All the indicators are good. As you know already there was
some damage done to your short term memory capacity. Also the
mood swings which youre already familiar with. Thats just part and
parcel of this sort of recovery. The main thing will be the psychological
adjustments youll need to make.

He was hinting at the fact that Bob was going to find 2017 a lot different
to 1982. It was a no-brainer to pardon the pun.

Bob still had that feeling that maybe just staying here wasnt such a bad
idea. But the part of him that from time to time just wanted to try
something different had come to the fore, and that was probably why
hed decided in the end to get back to some semblance of his old life.
And there was a nagging feeling in him that had been growing for the
last few years as well. As hed observed more and more about what
was happening in the outside world, a tiny part of his mind started to
say to him that maybe it was time he tried to do what he could to shake
things up a little. In whatever way he could. It just looked like maybe,
just maybe, the world might be ready to embrace someone like him
again. Not necessarily willingly. Hed probably have to hold a gun to its
head first.

Bob stepped out into the bright sunlight, and winced at it briefly. There
was a sudden commotion, as a couple hundred cameras flashed and a
rude reporter stuck a microphone under his nose.
Bob! Its good to see you back on the outside after all these years. Are
you planning to get the band back together or will you be taking a break
first?

Bob! Rumours are that the Hallucinations are deep in contractual

debt. Will you be touring again soon?

Bob! Can we expect more songs like Pumpkinhead and Absurd

Question on your next album?

Bob looked at the assembled throng, and gave a bemused smile.

Oh. All of that. He said in typically nonchalant bemused fashion.

Another question came from a young reporter from his left.

Bob. After all these years, will we get to find out who the real Bob
Wokki is behind the stage persona?

The first three questions had been the sort he was accustomed to and
were, though fairly inane and vacant minded, essentially harmless. The
last one though was one of the reasons he was still thinking perhaps it
might have been better if he stayed in hospital.
 FOUR

In the weeks that followed Bob did his best to lay low and avoid
attention. He retreated to a seaside villa owned by his old friend and
collaborator, Rex Ryder.

Theyd worked on three albums together in the mid-70s during a

relatively fallow period for the Hallucinations. It had been a low ebb for
the band and for Bob in a number of ways. Creative differences, James
erratic drug induced behaviour, and the hedonistic environment of LA
ultimately ground Bob down to a point he felt he had to get out. Bobs
own drug use had started to spiral out of control as well. At first it had
started as something he used primarily in a controlled way to help with
his creativity. Cocaine was not his drug of choice; he used it sure, it was
flowing freely all over the place at the time, but it somehow didnt
agree with him and it sure didnt help him work. Since the late 60s, LSD
had been the one drug Bob turned to time and again. But at that time,
in that environment, the drug had started to take a serious toll on his
psyche. The paranoia had begun to get out of control. Genevieve took
the kids for the first of a number of times before finally leaving him for
good. He was convinced he was being stalked by a group of tiny invisible
blue demons he called Jitterbugs he had no idea why he called them
that but they were as vivid as anything hed ever experienced. He was
fully convinced they wanted to kill him and open up his skull and probe
his brain. Matters came to a head when he found himself one morning
half naked in a public park with blood all over his face and bruise and
scrape marks all over his body and absolutely no memory of what had
transpired in the previous 24 hours.

The band members were no help either. None of them could remember
a damn thing themselves.

But LSD could, when taken in a tightly controlled way, help open and
expand his mind. He would find himself returning to it regularly over
the coming years, even as he struggled to beat the addiction, an
addiction that was primarily psychological and emotional as opposed
to physical.

And then, Rex had called him up one day, and they did lunch and got
interrupted a number of times by fans who recognised him despite his
alarmingly dishevelled appearance and bizarre dress. He was in a
spangled green poncho and platform boots. Hed only worn that stage
costume twice in his career. At the time, the band werent massively
huge in the US, but they had an ardent cult following and even in late
1970s LA a guy wearing a spangled green poncho and platform boots
did stand out a little.

Um Bob, maybe we should get outta here for a while. You know. Work
on something. Youve looked a lot better. The change might do you
good. Rex had said with his customary directness.

And Rex proceeded to elaborate on some ideas he was working on,

some of which were with Bob firmly in mind. Rex was a veteran of the
late 60s and had been in a band called The Big Sleep which had not
lasted long, had achieved very little commercial success, but which had
been enormously influential. He was, by his own admission, not even a
musician. He could play a range of instruments very very primitively,
and that was it. His main talent was composition, taking sounds he
heard and moulding them into an interesting new whole. Hed known
Bob since their days at the Conservatory; even back then Rex was way
off on a limb musically, working on this and that esoteric project that
nobody else could remotely understand. His work defied
categorisation. But he was a genius, probably the one real genius Bob
knew. And more importantly at that point in his life, he was relatively
unsaddled by personal and narcotic issues, and represented a level
headed and stabilising force.

That was Rex. Hed never had even the remotest interest in the rock
and roll scene. He was a music nerds nerd.

Whu- where? asked Bob, sipping a frozen daiquiri. It was 9 in the

morning.
Prague.

Prague. Bob pondered that. There had been an uprising there years
earlier, a revolution. Theyd overthrown the hated dictator Nikolai
Somethingorotherov. The Russians had sent the tanks in and crushed it
but the new incoming Russian premier decided to pull out eventually
and leave them to their own devices. In the ensuing power vacuum, a
provisional government had arisen that was very liberal and
democratically minded. It was like an island of artistic and creative
freedom in a sea of oppressive state control.

Bob hated politics. It made his head hurt. All he knew was he hated
censorship of any kind, and the idea of going somewhere totally new
did hold a certain attraction at this point.

Lots of expats there now. People flooding in from all over. said Rex.

And so in a spirit of adventure off theyd gone. And then, a month after
they arrived, the place flared up again and a counter revolutionary
force retook control of the city. The Americans intervened and retook
a large chunk of it. They were told it was probably best they went back
home. But by then the two of them had rather fallen in love with the
city and its sad and morose people, and they decided to stay and at
least finish the album theyd been working on. After releasing Walls
Inside Your Head late in the spring, they felt energised and decided to
work on another one. Bob hadnt touched the hard drugs for over a
year with the exception of alcohol; he was probably drinking more
heavily than before but then on the other hand damage to his liver was
a whole lot better than the corrosion of his very soul that had been
occurring in LA. In seven breakneck months they produced Electric
Emotions. The album, while yielding no actual chart hits, was critically
lauded and Bob found himself reenergised and in a far better place
mentally than before.

The making of these two albums was pivotal in Bobs development and
musical career in a multitude of ways, but one of the most important
was that they grounded and refocused him at a time when he was going
off the rails. Rex and he returned to London toward at the end of the
decade and cut a final album, Maps, which cemented their work
together and summed up the period. From that point on, Bobs music
became harder edged, grittier, angrier, and less abstract. This period
allowed him to survive at a time when his older material was going out
of vogue. The making of Golden came somewhat out of the blue, his
first album with the Hallucinations after a productive period away.

***

Rex broke the bad news about the state of the bands affairs over an
ouzo and soda as they sat on the balcony overlooking the calm blue
water of his Riviera retreat.

Things are totally fucked. He said.

Oh. Said Bob.

Yeah. Look at this.

Rex showed Bob a series of account statements, demands for debt

repayments, court orders and the like which made him feel decidedly
queasy. And he told him that while the band had plenty coming in from
royalties, due to poor past management he Bob was getting far less
than he ought to be.

The really shitty thing is you cant record for anyone because there are
numerous legal claims on you.

It turned out also that James had been taking financial advice for years
from a very shady guy named Rafael Van Vart, who had mysteriously
vanished with a whole load of their money.

All sorts of questionable investments which all adds up to this

without Golden, youd be broke.

As you well know, I made that album for a bit of a laugh. It was sposed
to be a pisstake. I wasnt expecting it to sell that well really. said Bob
as if his mainstream breakthrough had been something of a
disappointment to him.

People dont as a rule get irony. offered Rex helpfully.

Bob had pondered this a number of times since. Maybe, he suspected,

he had subconsciously wanted to make a hit record. It seemed to be
one of those classic cases where the success of a venture was in reverse
proportion to the effort expended on it. Bob was one of those rock stars
who can write catchy hits with about the same degree of effort as it
takes most people to blink. And because it came so easily to him and
represented everything he found annoying about the music industry,
he held it in contempt and rarely could bring himself to do it. The only
way he could actually bring himself to knowingly write something
purely for the purpose of commercial appeal was to wrap it up in a sort
of ironic self-contempt. The financial side of things never entered his
head when he wrote anything. That came later, and even then his main
concern had always been to keep a degree of control over his work
rather than make a massive amount of money out of it. This whimsical,
laconic, laissez-faire attitude had allowed Bob Wokki to lead a charmed
career up to his untimely accident.

But now, the landscape looked a lot different. For one, the dogs
breakfast his fellow band members had made of things in his absence
meant he would have to face for the first time in his career the grimy
realities of personal finance. Until now his instinctive approach to his
work, coupled with a sound ability to keep a degree of control over his
catalogue and output, had meant that he hadnt really needed to deal
with cash flow problems. Additionally, because of his lengthy absence,
he wasnt as assured about his ability to write music that people would
actually want to listen to. Even he couldnt just waltz in from 1982 and
nail the current zeitgeist just like that.

I know some people good legal people who might be able to help
you and the lads out of the mess. Of course they dont come cheap. But
you know false economy and all that. said Rex.
Bob had another drink to help assuage the anxiety. He didnt need all
this right now to be honest. But there was no use running away from it;
it had to be fixed up, and quick smart too.

These numerous debts are crippling you. To his credit James made
sure you always got the best care. I think he didnt want to burden you
with this stuff. And given that a large amount of the bad decision
making was his he was probably a bit embarrassed.

Cant make another album huh? I had a few ideas too for new
material. So after all that where do I stand overall? Do I have any
money left or not? asked Bob fatalistically.

Rex looked dubious. Hard to say. Its such a thorny mess. Itll take a
while to sort it all out. My gut feeling is you are just above water mainly
cos of the royalties still coming in from Golden. But debt has a way of
strangling you in the end. Best we get this dealt with quickly. You should
have told me about this earlier you know.

Bob had been in regular contact with Rex all through his recovery, but
had not wanted to burden his old friend with such matters. But James
had been hinting at the sorry state of things the last few times hed
visited. And it wasnt as if he and the other guys werent bringing
anything in without him. Despite the relative lack of critical success of
the post-Bob Hallucination records, theyd sold pretty well. James was
a first class songwriter. The songs were still good. They just lacked that
special quirky magic Bob brought to the table. No. Sales were fine. It
was the debt that was killing them. James total lack of understanding
of anything to do with business and money, coupled with a nave and
trusting personality, meant that whatever they made just ended up
going down the toilet.

Hmm. So, we sort out the contractual stuff, and then we look at me
making some new material and maybe touring again. said Bob, as if
pondering aloud whether he could really do all this again after all these
years out of the business.
Rex nodded. The sooner the better.

Bob thought a little more on it.

I dont think I can work with the band again. Not for a while at least.
Too stressful.

He looked at Rex hopefully. It would be great to work with the mad

bastard genius again after all this time. Rex could see the way he was
thinking.

Us? Hmm. Yeah thatd be fun. Let me finish some stuff Im doing first.
But Bob a couple points to make about that plan. Firstly, our albums
never sold especially brilliantly. I mean they were great fun to make and
Id love to do something again like that with you. But I think you need
to do something bigger. Golden brought you to a worldwide audience.
It was just the start of something big for you, and then the accident
happened. You know me. I dont work like that. I dont have that kind
of mass appeal never will have. And course Im happy with that,
wouldnt want it any other way. But you need to connect on a larger
scale. Which brings me to point number two. Look at the sorry state of
the music industry right now. The world needs artists like you more
than ever. What we need to do is find someone out there who is doing
interesting stuff right now, taking risks, experimenting fearlessly. In
short, we need to find you a new, younger, hungrier musical partner.

Bob listened to Rexs speech, delivered with all the stirring passion of
Henry the Fifth at Agincourt. He still didnt feel like he could do very
much. Everything was still so distant, so far in his past. Could he do it
again? Did he still have what it took? After all this time, could he make
an impact on things through his work in a world that appeared to have
stuck its head up its bottom?
 FIVE

When Lucas Wilde heard that the great rock and roll icon Bob Wokki
had emerged back into the world after three decades of conspicuous
absence, he knew he had to get an interview with him.

Wilde had worked for most of his career at The Rock Exchange, a
British-based rock and pop music magazine. The Exchange was known
from the 90s onward for having a certain degree of antipathy and
scepticism toward the more grandiose and abstract acts of rock, and a
bias toward more politically direct and succinct forms of musical
expression. Bob belonged to an older era which they largely dismissed
as music your dad listens to. But whereas most of his contemporaries
were regarded with little empathy at all, Bobs music and image were
held with a certain degree of residual respect. There were a couple of
factors in this more nuanced assessment. The first was that Bobs late
1970s work had tended away from the more excessive and bizarre
features of his earlier output in favour of a more stripped down, leaner,
and harder edged sound. Whilst not really belonging to the prevailing
trend of the times (Bobs music never really had quite fit the times it
was either ahead of it or a large step somewhere to the side), it was
sufficiently in keeping with the mood to escape the harsher critiques
levelled at some of the other established acts. Secondly, Bobs lyrics
and general stage style had always contained a large amount of self-
deprecation, irony, and black humour. This quasi postmodern attitude
(or so it was usually categorised Bob didnt like that term himself very
much and more on that later) was considered very hip by the younger
generation of music journalists, and Lucas Wilde was probably one of
the more infamous exponents of this particular form of music criticism.

Wilde had never decided whether he loved or hated Bobs music. Part
of him wanted to put his steel capped boot through The Hallucinations
entire catalogue, piss on it, and use it as garden fertiliser. The other part
of him admired the way Bob just seemed to go along his merry way
doing whatever he wanted without any due regard for what the fuck
was happening in the world around him. He sensed that although Bob
was not the angry political animal he himself was, that he was coming
at his rage for a conformist and idiotically conservative world from a
completely different angle, and that Bobs take on it was vitally
important to support, preserve, and understand.

Hed always wanted to interview him and had never had a chance to.
Maybe now would be his best chance, when the poor bastard had just
emerged from hibernation and would perhaps not have the energy to
resist.

***

Gray Shannen was Bobs long time agent. After Bob had the accident,
hed continued promoting The Hallucinations for a couple albums
before it all got a bit much even for him, and hed moved on to other
pastures.

But he always had a soft spot for old Bob, and now that he was back he
was happy to represent him again. Maybe, just maybe, Bob had
another hit album like Golden in him. Not that he was thinking about
the money he could make. Nahhhhhhhh. Never that.

Lucas Wilde from the Rock Exchange wants to interview you. he told
Bob over the phone.

Bob was still in seclusion and staying with Rex. Right at this moment he
was sipping a margarita on a beach near Nice, and reflecting on how
thirty years had not diminished the enjoyment he got from perving on
gorgeous beach babes young enough to be his daughters. Daughters
hed had late in life at that.

Youre a dirty old man he told himself. You should be ashamed of

yourself. Hmm is that blonde over there over 18?
That thought lasted approximately one microsecond. Bob never really
did do shame. There was a switch in his brain that automatically shut
that sort of thing down automatically and replaced it with that feels
right keep doing that or I am Bob Wokki therefore I am.

Who? he asked. The name did ring slightly familiar. As for the
Exchange he knew enough about them to be a bit puzzled as to why
theyd want to interview him. Theyd taken an axe to Golden critically
and announced to the world that Bob was officially in the company of
small amphibians from the late Mesozoic era.

Hes a bit of a git, but a well-regarded music journalist all the same.
Never have liked his face to be honest. But you know it might be a
good idea for you to do the interview. We really need to get you some
exposure again.

I dunno man. Im not sure I want to get back into the business
anyway. said Bob dubiously.

Look Bob, I know youre still recovering and thinking things over.
Stands to reason after all this time away from stuff. But whats the harm
of doing an interview here or there? You dont have to promise a new
album or anything. Just let them know youre alive and well and that
Bob Wokki is back in the realm of the living. said Gray, trying to be
encouraging but sounding faintly patronising despite his own best
intentions.

Hmmm. OK. Tell him next week is good for me. Maybe Friday.

Great. Ill let him know. said Gray.

Bob told him hed be back in London by then. He needed to catch up

with his younger son Adam who was coming back over from the US to
see him. He hadnt seen him in over two years.

Just a word of warning, said Gray pointedly. He can be something of

an asshole from what I hear. Dont let him get under your skin.
Bob almost laughed at that. He was a master of controlling interviews
and using them for his own purposes. It would be fun to test out his
skills with a worthy adversary once more.

And so it was that Lucas Wilde scored the interview opportunity of his
dreams. A simple call to his former agent is all it had taken. Timing is
everything, he reflected. If he knew anything it was the good
journalists instinct for getting to the big story by the shortest and most
efficient route. Seems nobody had had his idea of calling his former
longtime agent; they were all too busy trying to figure out where Bob
had got to (hed managed to leave London and get to Rexs place
without anyone being the wiser). The fact that Bob had rehired Gray
Shannen pretty much immediately was as much a surprise to him as it
would have been to anyone else. All he had done that nobody else had
was to follow the most obvious trail of all rather than overthink things.
Wilde had worked as a rock journalist and reporter for nearly thirty
years. It was his lifeblood. He lived and breathed the music business,
had learned how rock stars operated and what made them tick in spite
of their seeming unpredictability and whimsicality. But if there was one
character that he had not yet really fathomed it was Wokki. There was
so much imagery, fantasy, mystery and illusion about The Silver Sage,
as he was known. Wokki was one of those artists who had the knack for
imbuing everything they did with a kind of quirky delicious otherness.
It was much much more than music. Part of Wilde rebelled against the
whole thing as pretentious posturing, but if he was honest there was a
big part of him that was fascinated and intrigued by it. In these feelings
about Bobs work, he was far from alone.
 SIX

The interview ended up taking place at a Turkish coffee house in the

East End. It looked shabby and grimy on the surface but the coffee was
first rate. One of those few remaining places where smoke hung thick
in the air (possibly not entirely according to the current council bylaws),
and elderly men from far off exotic lands chatted animatedly and
passionately.

Lucas Wilde had a mental image of how Wokki would look in person.
Despite his lengthy isolation he would look like a wizard, his shock of
lengthy white blonde greying hair flowing erratically, his piercing blue
eyes fixed on the infinite. His removal from society would only
compound his otherworldly aura. He would probably not appear as he
had during the Dreams and Light tour, the world tour to promote
Golden; a kind of cross between a Wall Street banker and a male escort.
The image had at that time changed almost jarringly from highly
eccentric and sexually subversive to a kind of parody of masculine
solidity. Wokki had that sort of look that he could pull off either if he so
chose. But now, surely, he would return to his more socially remote
style. After all, hed been away for so long how could he help it?

What Wilde found instead was a man who looked maybe in his late
forties at first glance, wearing a non-descript olive green coat, a rolled
cigarette in his left hand, reading a newspaper with a kind of
incredulous and slightly irritated expression. The hair was that
unmistakable blonde almost bleached in colour, but it clearly was not
the result of salon styling. He looked more like an older surfer dude,
albeit one whose locks benefitted from a natural tendency to just hang
in the right way without any attention or effort whatsoever.

Wilde did note two interesting details as he got closer to the table Bob
was sitting at, slouched slightly like a naughty private school boy.

Firstly, he was reading the Guardian. Secondly, despite the fairly

normal and everyday appearance, Bob wore a gold Rolex watch, the
only concession to style.
As he neared the table, Bob glanced up at him over the wire rimmed
glasses he was wearing, giving him the look of an associate professor of
Jazz composition. Lucas rarely got nervous at interviews anymore, but
this was Bob fucking Wokki. It might have been a different story if he
was an out and out fan of the mans work, but the fact is that he
remained largely indifferent to much of it, partly, if he were to admit it,
out of ignorance. If he had been into Bobs music in a serious way, he
would at least have felt he was on home turf and that the only thing to
guard against was sycophantism. Not that that was a feature of his
interviewing style in general but still, confronted with ones artistic
heroes it is always something one should guard against he felt. No. The
truth was that Wilde felt that Wokki represented something he wanted
desperately to understand whilst being simultaneously annoyed and
irritated by it.

He was a little surprised too at how normal the man seemed in spite of
his lengthy period away from the world. As he looked up, Bob gestured
to the chair across from him with an almost weary resignation. There
was no hostility in his manner, nor was there any overt attempt at
friendliness or social nicety. It was more like a man who, seeing
someone half intelligent he might be able to casually share ideas with
for a short while, invites him into his world with the expectation they
will never cross paths again but, for that moment, assuages his
boredom and ennui.

Lucas Wilde, in that instant, realised that Wokki was a man that needed
a reason to continue living.

This was not the suicidal state of a man adrift in life and upstream
without the proverbial paddle. Wokki was not the suicidal type, Wilde
could sense that in an instant. It was more the look of a man who is
ready for whatever life presents him with next, but who, at that
juncture in his existence, is puzzled as to which path to take, or indeed
is unaware of what paths actually are there for him to select in the first
place.
Wilde, with his instinct for understanding people and their motivations
- especially a bona fide star of Wokkis ilk somehow knew right there
and then that this interview would be almost as much about he, Wokki,
beginning his journey back into living again as it would be about he,
Wilde, learning about his subject. In a typical interview, the star
musician knows or at least pretends to know what theyre going to do
next. But in this case, the subject was entirely open to any reasonable
suggestions. This was an unfamiliar and unique situation for Wilde.

Dyou drink Turkish coffee? asked Wokki with mild airy politeness.

Willing to give anything a go. I think Ive tried it once before and found
it somewhat bitter and hard to swallow. He paused as he sat down,
contemplating whether to add his next thought. A little like your music
really.

Wilde had hesitated before commencing with a snarky remark like this
for two reasons. Normally hed start any interview like that. But on this
occasion the thought did cross his mind that maybe Wokki was a little
vulnerable just now given hed just come back to the land of the living.
Secondly, he did not want to piss him off that much that hed storm out
of the interview before it even begun.

But Wilde was a fairly good judge of men (maybe not women) and his
instincts were right in Wokkis case. Yes, the man was vulnerable, but
the last thing he needed was condescension or an insult to his intellect.
As for storming out of the interview, Wokki looked so helplessly
unfocused that even if hed wanted to, the inertia of staying put was
probably at this moment a whole lot easier.

Wokki gave a weakly amused half smile, as if he was remembering what

it was like to find something funny again after all this time.

Hehe he chuckled, and puffed his cigarette briefly, squinting at the

paper a final time before folding it neatly in half with a slow studied
deliberation before placing it with equal neatness onto the gnarled
wooden surface before him.
Sorry. said Wilde almost shocking himself because he had never ever
said sorry to an interview subject before ever, and he had ripped a fair
few of the more pretentious ones a new one on many an occasion
during his career.

No youre not.

No. admitted Wilde. Im not.

The exchange was only about thirty seconds old and already Wilde
knew that this guy would give as good as he got.

What did you listen to of mine first then? inquired Bob. Well should
I say what was the only thing you listened to of mine before you er,
decided it wasnt your cup of Turkish coffee.

Ah well. I didnt say I stopped after I found it bitter and hard to

swallow. noted Wilde cheerfully. I mean you are Bob Wokki. So I did
keep at it to see what all the fuss was about.

Ah. And what was your conclusion at the end of your er

investigation of my stuff?

I concluded that you are a fearless motherfucker that doesnt give a

flying DNA strand about what people think of your work, at least not
while youre actually working on it, but that you use your considerable
talents largely to demonstrate how smart you are and how dumb the
rest of the world is by comparison. Theres a certain smugness in most
of what you do. Youre always aiming for a select few who will get
what youre doing. Its smart alright but for a working class geezer like
me at least working class in how I grew up its the sort of thing we
had a revolution in popular music for in the first place. Not so much
pretentious as just what working class kids hate about college kids
and intellectualism, especially the fact that the one refuge for them was
here and then you come along with your literary references, your subtle
chord progressions and your jazz chops and you piss all over their turf.
Wilde said all this with a kind of half smile, as Wokki listened with the
same look of growing half amusement and a twinkle in his eye. He had
already recognised that this was the best way to get an artist like Wokki
to talk freely, that the guy whatever his faults had a powerful sense
of humour.

I looked into some of your reviews and writing. said Bob.

Really? said Wilde feeling in spite of himself a little flattered. Damn

it, he told himself. You want his good opinion since when did you care
about that?

I like a lot of it, its interesting. Sure beats the usual pedestrian rubbish
music journalists usually write.

It was Wildes turn to half smile.

Thanks I think. But Im waiting for the but.

Well its very partisan. Very political. You were in the International
Workers Party right?

Mmm yup. But I was an anarchist and well communists and

anarchists have an eternally uneasy relationship.

Ive always wished I had strong political convictions myself. said

Wokki somewhat wistfully, as if discussing a plan to settle in the
Bahamas in retirement.

There was an awkward moment of silence.

You have? Tell me about that. said Wilde, feeling more and more like
a psychiatrist than a rock journalist. Again there was that sense that,
although Wokki was not unhappy per se, he could do with some help
in lifting him out of his general turpitude.

Its a lot like religious conviction. said Bob. I mean I dont mean to
imply theyre the same thing but the effect is similar all the same. You
simplify what is a complex thing down to something you can manage,
and you act on that basis. And I see the parallels in music too.
Sometimes its good to strip things down to their simplest elements and
work with those.

Wilde guessed at the unsaid part of Wokkis point: namely that

sometimes it was better to not reduce things, to face the full complexity
of life and human experience in all its difficulty and confusedness. In
principle he did not dispute this position but to him this was a fine point
and one best left to others to debate. Rock music at its best
represented a means of sticking it to The Man and the System, and that
always came first and foremost.

You did that more on your late 70s albums I think. said Wilde.
Serious Faces for one. I think you were getting back to more rootsy
influences on that one right?

It certainly came across that way. To be honest, it was a time in my

career I dont remember especially well. The drugs were screwing
everyone up back then, I was no exception. But subconsciously yeah I
think I was in that kind of frame of mind.

Bob had a fond dreamy expression on his face as he spoke. Up closer,

Wilde could see the lines in his face that gave his true age away. Wokki
had an eternally youthful look to him, but Wilde knew his actual age to
be 63. He could pass for ten to fifteen years younger at first glance but
the years had made their mark upon him all the same. Curiously, Wilde
got the impression that the lions share of it had been before the
accident ever occurred. If anything, the accident and the coma had
been a respite from it. It was almost as though Wokki had needed an
escape route at the point in his career or be in danger of implosion
artistically and mentally. Sometimes physical wounds are a lot easier to
bear than emotional ones.

At the time of your accident, the world was a pretty screwed up place.
But surely youve noticed that in your absence things have got a whole
lot weirder right? I mean even a relatively apolitical animal like
yourself would have to admit some seriously deranged shit is going on.
Wokki sighed. When hasnt it? The fascists are always waiting in the
wings. But youre wrong Im not apolitical.

In truth Wilde already sensed Bob was far from apolitical. Once again
he was forced to back down a little. But that was the dynamic of their
interaction thus far, and Wokki seemed happy enough with it.

A lot of your work is subversive in its way for sure, even I can see that.
But dont you think sometimes a more direct approach is needed?

Wilde tried the Turkish coffee. Maybe, he pondered, if he stuck with it

he might start to develop a taste for the stuff. Wokki was on his next
cigarette. He himself had gone cold turkey for four years but still missed
it. Someone like Wokki would never die of lung cancer. It was either a
ripe old age and natural causes or getting run over by a bus. He had
already dodged the latter kind of fate once, so his prospects for the
future were looking promising.

The truth is, Ive been trying to deal with pretty much the same things
as you have in my own way ever since I started writing songs. And yeah,
I take your point about the class aspect of things. You probably know
enough about my background, how I grew up. We had the cultural
capital without the funds to maintain the lifestyle. Typical fate of the
modern middle class. Were all on the way downward in socioeconomic
terms. Thats how the fucking system works right? As for the way things
are looking now well yeah I have been following what I could these last
few years with a growing sense of disgust and alarm like any decent
human being would. A direct approach? People have to know exactly
what it is theyre fighting for before they start.

Wokki shrugged. Again that half smile, a mixture of ironic and helpless.

Ingrid Bland won by a landslide. said Wilde with a bitterness he

hadnt quite wanted to so openly display. Britain has closed its borders
to outsiders completely. Sure is a long way away from the world as you
left it all those years ago. Hard to see how that will help generate an
environment of creative freedom and experimentation.
Wokki shook his head. Ive been reading about all that. It was only
around three or four years back that I really started to read newspapers
and follow events again. I just wasnt in the right state before that to
engage.

What are your thoughts about it?

Bob had to admit he was indeed concerned in a way he hadnt ever felt
about political developments before. There was indeed something
different about the modern political landscape.

Its fantasy. Its why the people loved my music so much. It appeals to
their sense of adventure. Its god awful and terrible what shes saying
and doing, no argument. But shes just appealing to peoples desire for
belonging, for a simpler time.

Wilde raised his brows. He could sense Bob was not being absolutely
open about his true impressions on all this. Ingrid Bland was a young,
energetic ex-lawyer that had turned to politics and whose right wing,
nationalist populism was appealing to large swathes of the country and
indeed the world. Mixed in with the rhetoric though was a savvy
understanding of the internet with all its power to influence minds.

Might be time for you to consider making a new album eh? suggested
Wilde. Throw a spanner or two into the works.

Bob finished his cigarette and stubbed it out calmly.

I have to think of something to say first. he remarked. Call me old

fashioned, but its the only way I know how to work.