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She did that shoulder thing again, not offended, nor moved. Just impressed. “You’re either gonna make him or break him, love.”
“I’ve never met a man yet I haven’t broken.”
She gave me a look up and down. “Such a waste. Well. I guess we have ourselves a deal.”
I took that to mean she’d try to say the word a little less often, but her fondness for the term would not wane. Not when spitting it out at will obviously helped her deal with the stress of managing Albie Hart, whose predilections she obviously found very alien.
Didn’t we all…
ChapterOne
Present Day
There is nothing quite like a sweaty, testosterone-fuelled, heaving rock concert full of people who’ve left their morals, scruples and worries behind to fully vacate for a few hours. There’s specifically nothing quite like a Flawless concert with Albie Hart at the helm, bad boy incarnate. Leather trousers that may as well have been painted on, shirtless in tonight’s sweaty surroundings… all that glistening body hair, his abs rippling as he yells into the mike at a pitch so high, even Prince might have struggled to mimic him. Then the tattoo on his back… a Celtic cross covering those delicate muscles… his shoulder blades to die for. Rock god indeed, with an unquestionable talent and singing voice that’s so unique. A wild animal with an untameable spirit. I’ve learnt in the two years since agreeing to help Sharon manage him that there is truly no managing him, nor curtailing him. There’s only putting out fires, spinning it to the press, paying people off… and the rest.
Being that they’re the headline act of the Woodsies Stage at Glasto and it’s Saturday night, boy was Albie nervous before he went on. I never ask what it is he takes before gigs but earlier, his voice was even huskier and he had a lot of white powder around his nose. We all know he takes stuff but most of the time he’s careful to hide that he does; tonight, not so much.
I’m stood in the wings of this tented stage famous for its previous namesakes and its reputation as the one where people truly lose themselves. Protected from the elements by the tented roof, what goes on in this tent stays in this tent. I can see some of the technical guys on the other side of the backstage with binoculars. There are too many ladies in the throngs to count, sitting on the shoulders of their boyfriends or girlfriends, tops spinning above their heads as they rock out topless. It would be just as difficult to find a person in here without eyeliner streaking down their cheeks as it would be to find a single person who doesn’t think Albie’s a rock god.
Which he is.
He’s just not a nice human being outside of all that.
I have a great view of him on his knees, eyes shut but face raised to the roof as he screams a line into the mike that literally has some women in here orgasming. I’ve seen him on stage sometimes with a full erection, everyone’s eyes glued to his crotch let alone his lyrics and charisma. Tonight, he’s being well-behaved but the nights when he’s really not thinking, like the times when he’s performing in a more intimate venue let’s say, it’s become routine that he’ll have one of the crowd come on stage and suck him just behind a curtain while the audience scream for him to continue on with the show—all while they almost bear witness.
He is the only one out there who can get away with treating his fans like utter shit and still have them in the palm of his hand.
I used to think it was the hair. They say hair is the mark of a man’s power and virility, right?
It’s not just the hair. It’s the fact his voice has been compared to the likes of Prince, Freddie Mercury and Axl Rose in its range and versatility. He’s one of the few straight men in the world who can sing like that (and so disarmingly, naturally handsome). Albie never wears makeup or does much besides slick back his hair with water. That’s another thing: every week when he visits his hairdresser in Chelsea (someone called Gina), she sucks him off too.
I gave up ages ago on trying to tot up his regular fucks and sucks (as Sharon rather affectionately likes to call them). His life is utter chaos and nobody but him really knows what goes on behind closed doors (or curtains). Or why it goes on.
We never see any of his family, or his real friends—if he even has any.
The rest of the band all despise him but let him get on with it. He’ll go away to Ibiza for months at a time and say he’s not writing anything new, but then he’ll come back with three albums’ worth of stuff. Thus, the recording, touring and everything else that entails reignites at his command. Nobody has any real control except him and he knows it. Everyone dotes on his every word, even us, and we know what he’s really like.
The concert reaches the end of the set list and the bassist Marguerite storms off stage with her instrument, rolling her eyes as she does.
“I thought it went well,” I mutter.
“Oh, he won’t be done yet,” she grouses.
She storms past me in her red latex catsuit with those enormous breasts of hers displayed to maximum effect. Marguerite knows she’s only arm candy but that’s never bothered her; it’s that he’s always trying to stick his tongue down her throat on stage for the crowd to go wild over.
(I hasten to add the BBC rarely shows full coverage of a Flawless show on TV. Another thing we have to contend with when it comes to contract breach.)
Albie staggers towards us and the groupies he has travel with us everywhere swarm around him, singing his praises, snogging him if he requests it. I once walked in on him having an orgy with three or four of them. It wasn’t as if it wasn’t hot to see him splayed naked, with several women trying to please him, but he didn’t see me that night and I caught sight of how un-into-it he actually seemed when people weren’t looking.
“What did you think, Mirabelle?” he asks, looking right at me.
My arms are already folded because I knew he would ask. “Same as always. Electrifying!”
I plaster on a fake smile which I know doesn’t satisfy him. He shrugs off needing my approval and not getting it. I will never approve, not when he goes out there and is not himself.
Many a time while on tour, I’ve caught him tuning up his guitar in private and then singing sad lullabies to himself. There’s more in there and he knows I know it.
The drummer and lead guitar float by, both covered in twice as much sweat as Albie, even though he moves around the stage more than anyone. They both give me a relieved look as if to say, “Got through another one.”
