Jamie Lenman: ‘Fizzy Blood / Pretty Please’ [Review]
Fiction
The first time I saw her, I was stunned. She is very angular, especially her face. A perfectly diagonal fringe, razor sharp forty-five-degree edge over diamonds of stark white eye shadow. Precisely defined cheekbones flanking thin, horizontal lips. Black lipstick. A mathematically immaculate kind of beauty – the type that in more primitive times might have been hailed as proof of the existence of some deity or other.
Returning to an impoverished sense of my own body I noticed my heart adopting a metronomic rhythm in response. Blood vessels thumped against my brain, trying to draw my attention. Finally, I remembered to breathe. The air felt new, as if I had never really breathed before. I drank it into my lungs as my eyes unlocked. A few quick blinks, and I was back in the room.
I chase women for the same reason a bank robber yearns for that one big job, the same reason a stockbroker’s self-worth hinges on a good day’s trading. It’s all about validation – the chance to prove one’s masculinity. Eyes on the prize at all times. And the chase is a job that’s never done. You can’t leave, and you certainly don’t retire. Believe me, I’ve tried.
That night, my validation was seated on mint green velvet. The steel supports of the bar stool framing folded, professional legs, coated in hose, disappearing under a black cocktail dress, cascading elegantly into simple matching peep-toe pumps.
I don’t remember what we talked about. When the chase is on, all I’m thinking about is strategy. My lips move on their own, reciting lines learnt off by heart long ago. Some might call this shallow, manipulative even – but before I forgot those words, before they sank so deep into my core that they only come out when my mind is elsewhere, I do remember that I believed them.
What I say, night after night, to painted, made-up face after painted, made-up face, is the truth. Or, at least, it was. Once. Sometimes I think about what constitutes truth for me these days, whether or not those once sacred words would still ring the same way to me now. But the only time this happens is when I’m looking out for those trustworthy telltale signs. A finger twisting a ringlet of hair. A deeply engaged stare, as if the world around us has just melted away. Involuntary smiles during a break in the conversation. And if my attention is diverted for even a fraction of a second, the game’s up. Failure. Move on. Next.
That night, I was successful. I was on course for validation. Mission accomplished. Or so I thought. We spent several hours in the bar. In the cab, it was on. I’m not going into details. Use your imagination. A gentleman never tells those kinds of secrets.
The next morning, I awoke on cream sheets criss-crossed by thin beams of golden sunlight. The air was tinted gold, like you see in the movies. Luxurious. I felt like a king. Then I realised.
I was alone.
The room was unfamiliar – art deco wallpaper, white carpet, a gilded mirror over a massive vanity table – but it was all too neat. I never remember the words from the night before, but the morning after you can always tell what happened. Or, in this case, didn’t. The place was spotless, pristinely tidy. The bedsheets were still tucked under the mattress. None of the usual messy by-products of the raw, animal passion that marked my moments of triumph.
But still, I was here. And she wasn’t. I had to know why, but a bitter, disappointed voice in my head told me I shouldn’t stick around to find out. Although the voice was unfamiliar, I trusted it.
I left a note on the desk, stared at it through the perfectly flat surface of the gold-framed mirror, and left. I didn’t remember the words from the night before, but I remembered what I had written. It was easy. Just one word. Why?
I left my address below my question. I didn’t expect a response. I trudged down wet pavements, past a jazz trio playing a ballad composed in the name of some lost love. For the first time in forever, I thought I knew how they felt – all three players with eyes closed, fingers and limbs making all the movements necessary to express a deep-seated torment without the need for words. I’m not like them. I don’t have notes in my soul – just a bunch of forgotten, enchanted words. But as I stood there, leftover precipitation dripping from a street light onto my hat, I felt a kind of kinship with the three men before me. I made eye contact with the sax player, nodded, and dropped my remaining cash into the puddle at the bottom of the open guitar case.
As the coins and notes fell, something stuck in my throat.
The case’s lining.
Mint velvet.
That night, and the five nights after that, I was on fire. I had to get her out of my head. Success breeds confidence. Believe me, I know. I channelled everything I had into those nights, gambled and won, over and over and over again. Unstoppable. I was more than a king. I felt like more than mere royalty. I felt like a god.
The final morning. I awoke to pure familiarity – bare mattress, black silk sheets and books on the floor, the flawless skin of the latest girl’s back, pale tan lines and a waterfall of soft brown hair. Curls. I remembered how she twirled them the night before. I sat up, stretched, and shuffled on numb legs to the kitchen. Leant on the countertop with a coffee. Cast my eyes over my reality. I liked what I saw. Everything in its right place.
Deep in my head, a brain cell twitched. Alarm. Agitation.
I squinted at the front door. Something was amiss.
A single envelope lay on the doormat. Nothing special about it – it was plain white, a standard-issue stamp in the corner. Nothing special at all, but my blood still fizzed in anticipation as I reached for my letter opener. The hungry saliva elicited by memories of last night dried up, shrank back under my suddenly parched tongue. I chewed my lip, fingertips pinching the textured paper, pulling it free. The envelope floated to the floor, drifted under my breakfast table. The coffee had slopped over the edge of the mug. It would stain, but I didn’t care.
I sat down hard on the pine chair, the backs of my legs registering the impact through a hazy, numb bodily fog. I barely noticed. I stared transfixed at the folded paper. One sheet. Paper from the same pad I had left my question upon. I raked my teeth over my lips, uncertain, hearing stirring sounds beyond the cracked-open door of my bedroom.
I scrunched my eyes closed as my hands shook, clumsily unfolding her letter. A thin wet film blurred my vision as I forced my eyes to open again. I squinted. Still blurry. I reached back for my reading glasses. Thought about the rain hitting the brim of my hat. Black cocktail dress. Strategy. Jazz. Notes. The cool green of that barstool’s upholstery.
I slipped the cold, hard arms of the glasses over my ears. Felt them clamp tightly against my skull. Raised her letter to eye level.
For the first time in years, I had spoken my mind. And now, so did she.
You didn’t say the magic word.
x
Opinion
If you live in the South East of England and haven’t heard of Jamie Lenman, then you should hang your head in shame. No supper for you. To cut a long rant short, this guy was the frontman for Reuben – a trio of local heroes who were idolised by an entire generation of music fans around these parts. Reuben split about half a decade ago, and this is the first major release from an uncharacteristically quiet Lenman since that time. So now you know. This video is a bit of a big deal.
In about a month’s time, on November 4th, Jamie Lenman’s debut solo album will be released through Xtra Mile Recordings; a double album, no less, split (as the video below is) between hectic rock-based madness and smooth, sophisticated jazz. There are many things I could say about this video – it’s one of the most schizophrenic audiovisual extravaganzas I’ve ever laid eyes on, like Jeckyll and Hyde in reverse, and crams Lenman’s most laudable idiosyncrasies into five flawless minutes – but to be honest, what I want more than anything is for you to just get stuck in. So go ahead. Enough words.
Keep up to date with Jamie Lenman at: https://www.facebook.com/jamielenman
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