The Island of Kevin Quickfingers MP3
Read by Tony Bell
Although the Caribbean Sea was calm, I still managed to spend most of my journey to the Island lying sick on the floor of my cabin. All thanks to fear and nervous excitement. I still couldn’t quite believe that someone like me, who never won anything, had triumphed in the most important competition I had ever entered.
I’d lost friends since winning, obviously. Other bitter members of the fan club couldn’t quite accept that I was the one worthy enough to travel half-way round the world and conduct an interview with the great man himself – Kevin “Quickfingers” Smoothby. Guitarist with the band Galadriel Overdrive. Only the greatest, most mind-expanding and musically proficient progressive rock band ever to record a track capturing the history of the steam engine via the medium of a fifteen-minute guitar solo.
No-one had been granted an audience with the great guitarist in years – not just in terms of getting the man to agree to it, but also when it came to actually physically getting to the Island. Its legal status was disputed by all its neighbours, and obviously there was the ongoing war. But a true fan is a brave fan, and with the help of the competition organisers, I found a small boat of mercenaries willing to take me there.
As we approached the Island, I saw a couple standing on the beach to welcome me. Thanks to all the posters covering my bedroom wall, I recognised Kevin Smoothby immediately. Obviously he looked a lot older and paunchier than he had in his seventies heyday, but it was definitely him. Next to him, holding his guitar-playing hand – a hand that had once been insured for six million dollars - was the most beautiful woman in a red bikini I had ever seen in actual real life.
He saluted me as I leapt from the boat and splashed my way to meet them on the beach. “Welcome pilgrim,” he grinned expensively at me. Ms Red Bikini next to him just sighed and looked bored.
On the boat, I had rehearsed over and over in my mind what I would say when I finally met the man. How much of an inspiration he was, how the mid-seventies albums released by Galadriel Overdrive were so challenging and out-there they made Pink Floyd sound like One Direction. I’d even prepared some nice things to say about his solo albums, which, I’ll be honest, every fan knows deep down to be utter shite. But when I tried to speak I was so excited that all that came out was “I… I … er … uh.”
The guitarist smiled reassuringly – he had clearly dealt with fans like me dozens of times before. “You must be shaken up by your journey here…” he began before pausing awkwardly. Ms Red Bikini whispered my name loudly into his ear, barely bothering to conceal what she was doing. “Ah yes, Michael. Of course it is. Well, I’m so glad you can join me here, Martin. You must have many questions to ask me on behalf of my millions of fans.”
As he spoke I noticed that behind him, a discreet distance away, stood a small band of well-armed, long-bearded roadies. “But before any interview, I have a treat for you: you’re going to be the first non-Islander to hear a couple of brand new songs I’ve written.”
I wanted to thank him for this incredible honour, but all that came out was "I ... er ... the ... wow!"
“Darling,” the guitarist commanded Ms Red Bikini without actually looking towards her, “Please fetch my acoustic guitar and tell the guys they can stand down. Matthew here was extensively security vetted after winning the competition so there’s nothing to fear.”
I know that I should have listened as he went on to explain what his new songs were about; fandom would have wanted to know every word. But I could not take my eyes off Ms Red Bikini as she walked towards a particularly long-bearded guitar tech who I assumed was in charge. After a brief, agitated conversation the men slunk away.
Then something happened that I did not expect. The moment the last of the security roadies had left, Ms Red Bikini picked up a guitar and began walking towards Kevin. Before I could say anything, though, she raised the guitar above her head and brought it crashing down on his head.
The guitarist collapsed unconscious to the floor. I was so surprised I couldn’t move for the three seconds it required for Ms Red Bikini to knock me out too.
OK – at this stage of the story I should probably take a step back and explain a bit more about the situation. Just in case anyone reading this is so musically illiterate they don’t know the full story about the band Galadriel Overdrive and the greatest unfinished concept album of all time.
It started in the late seventies, when they were undoubtedly the biggest band on the planet. They’d scored a big hit with their 1978 album Cthulhu Voodoo Priestess and then smashed records globally in seventy-nine with the triply vinyl epic Bagpuss’s Voyage into the Astral Subconscious.
Such critical and commercial success brings its own problems, however, and the band met up in 1980 facing the two biggest. Firstly, they needed a new mind-blowing concept for their next album that was even more awesome than any that had come before. And secondly they had a vast amount of money coming in that needed hiding from the Inland Revenue.
And so it was that at this meeting someone from the band had an amazing idea. Who it was remains disputed to this day, as each member claims it was they who proposed that the band buy themselves their own Caribbean island. But whoever it was, the rest of the band readily agreed and their vast fortune was put to work locating and then purchasing their own tropical paradise. They then relocated there, with an extensive entourage of studio engineers, lawyers, groupies, wives, ex-wives, flunkies, junkies, drug dealers, crystal healers and a performing elephant they’d won from Bryan Ferry in a game of croquet.
Once they felt settled, they declared their new home a sovereign and independent republic while simultaneously announcing a plan to record a quadruple concept album called The Island. This musical odyssey would explore the band’s journey to build their own Utopia. A new society inspired by the works of Thomas More, Plato, Aleister Crowley, JRR Tolkien and the taking of a vast amount of drugs.
It was not long, though, before things started to go wrong. Celebrities and bohemians travelled to the island in droves only to find the band at war over the direction the Island should take, both politically and musically. Rupert Gossmere, the bassist, sought to recreate a fifties English idyll, complete with pre-decimal currency and his own extensive steam train network. Meanwhile Pep Savage, the drummer, started building a treehouse village in the island’s southern jungle with a small devoted cult of admirers.
The final straw, though, was the rupture between the band’s two founders and childhood friends: the great guitarist himself, and lead singer Diggory St.Nicholas. The latter was increasingly influenced by his gamine French girlfriend, who revealed herself to be a committed Maoist, while Kevin Quickfingers had discovered the works of Ayn Rand.
Within days the two weren’t talking. Within a week they refused to share a studio. The antagonism spread to the other band members, and by the end of the year they had each retreated to their own corner of the island. Statements were issued by all members of the band that it was the others that had destroyed the dream that once was Galadriel Overdrive. They then, in turn, declared their own independent and sovereign mini-Republics and upcoming solo albums.
The situation never improved. In ‘89 the drummer disappeared into his jungle and has never been seen since. Those who have gone to find Pep Savage and his cult ventured into his corner of the island never to return. Although sometimes their heads did.
Disputes between the other three members grew, until by ‘92 all parties were arming their hard-core fans and record company interns and sending them to fight unending skirmishes over the disputed borders of the mini Republics, to establish exactly who it was who remained truest to the Galadriel Overdrive legacy.
When I woke up I recognised immediately that I was in the region of the island run by the Diggory St Nicholas’s quasi-Maoist personality cult. A heavily-retouched image of the singer stared down at me from every wall. My head still throbbing, I became aware of a voice shouting in the room next door.
“You two idiots have to sort this out!” a man was growling, “Don’t you realise albums just don’t sell any more? Kids today just stream all their stuff. This whole island, all these wars, you aren’t earning enough to keep it going!”
There was a jolt when I realised who this was: Barry Turkington. The ‘Drive’s infamous ex-manager, who’d resigned and fled the Island the moment the first shots had been fired.
“Why do you think I hired that ex-Mossad agent to work undercover as Kevin’s girlfriend and bring you two together like this? You guys need to get back on the road. That’s where the money is. Rupert’s on board – he’s going through his eleventh divorce and had to sell his last bass just to take on a lawyer. We just need you to sign.”
“What about the Pep?” I heard Kevin ask.
“Who gives a fuck about the drummer? He’s just a drummer. Throw a drumstick into the primate enclosure at London Zoo and chances are you’ll hit something more than capable of doing his job.”
My heart sank when I heard this. How could the band reform without all the original members?
“Listen, retro tours are big bucks these days,” Turkington continued, “I’m pretty sure I can get you on the bill with two ex-members of Kraftwerk and T’Pau. I’ve even pulled a few strings and, without promising anything, there might be a four minute slot on a Saturday night light entertainment show if you’re willing to edit your songs down a bit.”
I did not care how bad my head felt; this was wrong. New members, edited songs … it was all a complete betrayal of everything the band had stood for. But as I listened on, to my horror it seemed that both the guitarist and singer, staring poverty in the face, were willing to surrender their principles.
“Now I arranged this fanboy wanker to come to this Island, and you’re going to give him the scoop that you guys are back together and back on the road. Once this hits the internet, the new improved Galadriel Maximum Overdrive will be all anyone will talk about.”
I’d heard enough. I wasn’t going to be party to any of this. While they carried on trashing the legacy of the greatest progressive rock band in history, I slipped out of the building and disappeared into the night.
It’s still early days in our fight. It was tricky at first, but as news of the possible reunion eventually broke, I discovered that there were ever more of us on the Island willing to fight for the band and preserve its true spirit. Even though that has meant going to war with the actual band. We don’t quite have our own mini-Republic, with borders. We refuse to recognise any of that. But we have a dream. An ideal. A cause we are willing to die for. A few of us have even started composing our own anthem for the whole island to fight under. It’s still unfinished, but it’s currently twenty-seven minutes long and counting.
(c) Alan Graham, 2016
Alan Graham studied "Creative Writing" and "Economics" at UEA and is still unsure which discipline relies on make-believe the most. He currently lives and works in London.
Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons, Tony Bell (right) has performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company, Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio and voiceover artist.
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