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Thom/Beck	By : VinylTap Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Radiohead Views: 2950 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Beck or any of the members of Radiohead. This story is a work of fiction, and I make no money or profit from it.

Chapter List
- 37
- 38
- 39
Chris had got to the venue about two hours prior to admission, he waited on the low concrete wall by the front parking lot, the weather surprisingly mild for April in Boston. The breeze was light and cold, he pulled at the zipper for his jacket, all the way to the neck, lame to see a show by yourself. He’d swallowed his pride despite it; he’d try until fate acknowledged the inevitable meeting that needed to happen between him and Thom.
He could envision it already, I went to your show in Sheffield, then it was canceled! But unlike everyone else, I actually flew all the way here…! And Thom would be touched by Chris’ loyalty, clearly keen that here was a fellow intellectual, then Chris would tell him about how he played guitar and had played in bands with friends since his teens, and Thom would be impressed, and invite him to play on stage together…
There gradually paced in others, groups of young people, girls with their boyfriends, folks who made him feel the wretchedness of having come alone. He always knew he were special, though. He wasn’t like them. Everyone with American accents, they didn’t even know he was actually from the UK…! And a musician, and an intellectual, too.
Chris wasn’t like all these sheep; he appreciated Radiohead the way they were meant to be appreciated. He really understood.
It was dark out by the time the entrance was staffed, men and women in fluorescent vests, flashlights, unhooking the chains that blocked the road before, everyone out by the wall had begun to meander toward them. They went through your bags for cameras and tape recorders, and things you might throw around and hurt other folks. They took your tickets and gave you neon wristbands, Chris’ heart pounded, this was finally it…!
He didn’t head to the food area, he went straight for the seating, if you were in the pit you had to get there soon as you could to could score a spot up by the stage. Then you’d sit there and wait, not moving as not to lose your place, listening to the music they had playing, watching how most of the stadium was still largely deserted, a lot of people didn’t go in till the main act went on.
Look at them all. Busy chattering with all their sheep friends, like this concert wasn’t a pivotal moment in life. Like they may well be seeing anyone else, or doing anything, period, unappreciative of just what it was they were going to behold. They don’t even know I’m English! And neither did the band… Chris could understand Thom so well…
He remained sat with his back to the stage, this was brilliant because sometimes at venues there was this devastating space between the stage and the pit, which defied the whole point of having a pit in the first place! His heart raced just to think of it: he’d really got there early enough and really had got a place right at the front. Maybe Thom would reach out to take his hand… at last there would come Chris’ moment to shine; he mused philosophically on how in a sense it were somehow a test, and he’d persevered despite all he’d endured…
Backstage, the band was in wonderful spirits. Thom’s good mood was infectious, by the time Ed had joined the others, they all had been slinging jokes with each other, witty and quick, fantastic form for a show. Spontaneously motivated after a long period of exhaustion and strain.
At rehearsal Jonny and Thom played like the garage band they never had together, confident despite first-hand experience with what could go wrong, attentive to every nuance in pace and rhythm, their full potential to complement each other manifested brilliant and clear.
They were easy to get on with. They were easy to play along to, Thom led the band as genuine frontman.
Let’s put on a show…!
It was chilly out by the time they’d made their way up the stairwell backstage, already night, strobes illuminating from far off and glimmering through the blinding intensity of stage lights, blue and yellow and green. Because of the lights, you never really could see the audience from up at the stage, it boosted your courage, you felt like no one was watching and you could relax.
You could hear plain and clear, though, the chatter went quickly to shouts and whistles as people’s attention diverted to the fact that there was the band, pacing toward their instruments like it were any old thing.
Chris felt his jaw go slack, his hands go numb, pulse too loud in his ears; Thom Yorke was a real human being. He could see plainly, his skin went electric, his throat had gone dry. He knew this moment had waited to come. Only yards away. You wouldn’t know just from pictures and videos, but in person Thom was very boyish and cute. His cheeks still soft with what looked like adolescence, even with stubble; very close up, you could see he sort of had freckles just on his nose.
Chris knew he was meant to be there. This trip was bloody worth it. This night was meant to be.
Thom grinned elvishly, convening with Jonny while choosing which guitar to use for the first bit, the audience you couldn’t see went nuts. By the last show they’d done, all this had become routine, but he’d appreciated it tonight, he smiled out at the lights, washed over with unearthly blue, shielding with one hand in attempt to see.
Colin leaned over, hand on Thom’s shoulder, exchanging knowing words everyone saw but no one could hear, Thom absently tuned his guitar. He’d not even tuned it that tight when a string suddenly snapped, not even the high E.
“Balls,” Thom muttered, immediately bringing his finger to his mouth, it hurt pretty bad. They weren’t even new strings…
“Oh—” Jonny said with concern, he leaned close to Thom, “Best use a different one, mate,” already a stagehand was trotting toward them to take his guitar to restring.
Thom pulled it off and then handed over, murmuring thanks, he’d have liked to use that one for Planet Telex, but his strat would have to do…
His finger still hurt, but it was all right; he was already on to his strat, this time tuning extra attentively, no strings broke. The crowd cheered as he’d put the strat on, they’d cheer at anything he did, Thom remained mindful of really wanting to be kind to his fans.
His saying hello into the mic had really undone them; Thom smiled, unable to see a thing, Chris laughed with the others and clapped spontaneously, he totally knew how it was when your strings broke, haha! He could really relate…!
Thom convened with Coz and with Phil, Jonny watched with attention as Thom counted under his breath, Jonny's hand mid-air and awaiting the cue to start.
The lights flickered green-white, there issued Jonny's critical first notes, resplendent with charge, trembling impact that drowned out the cries and the cheers— Jonny’s preamble for Thom.
The rest of the band joined in after that, Thom included, instrumentals that preceded the words. Chris gripped the angular edge of the stage, unaware how big he were smiling, there came Thom’s voice,
You can force it but it will not come
Listening on cassette was the mere shadow of this. Thom’s hand on the fretboard, his mouth just at the mic, eyes closed, slender legs bouncing, voice fluid and bold. He carried encompassing force that went beyond function and time, you felt the full effect without understanding what it was that swept you over.
The cheers hadn’t died even halfway into the song. There were hands reaching out, stretching, palms open, you could smell weed you weren’t allowed to have from somewhere nearby, the kids in the pit bathed in light.
What a show.
Several songs in, Thom still hadn’t got back his tele, he would really have liked to use it; he’d gone through a number of songs he’d meant for his start, but it messed up the order, and the tech was nowhere nearby. Mildly annoyed, Thom went into Just, really hoping to have his tele for Fake Plastic Trees. It had begun to get annoying, he gazed into the wings at the conclusion of Bones, wondering if he’d have to go out there, himself, and actually ask.
It was around then that, entirely unexpectedly, something flew out from the audience and hit him bullseye in the face, then collapsed gracelessly off his shoulder to his feet, and he wasn’t certain what exactly it was till he’d reached down to pick it up carefully, forefinger and thumb, and it was a fucking bra.
He couldn’t even hear the cheers; now this he wasn’t used to.
Thom flushed, uncertain if he were insulted or angry, he couldn’t help feeling like if he’d not done something wrong, he wouldn’t have somehow given impression that something like this were okay. It was tremendously cheapening, and he wasn’t even certain how.
Momentarily stunned, he gingerly lifted the thing like it offended him personally, and tossed it aside without a word.
“Right, then…” he mumbled, fighting himself back into form. Ed snickered behind one hand, the cheeky fuck, and Thom glared at him murderously.
“At least it’s not knickers,” Coz said, and Thom had concluded his entire band was comprised of cocks, he forced an irritated smile and went into Fake Plastic without prior warning, still on his strat.
Jonny glanced in confusion, Thom gave no warning before starting the song, how was the band meant to know which one— Jon joined in time, the others just as surprised, something like this wasn’t cool.
“The fuck is wrong with you,” Colin muttered while inching closer to Thom, and Thom didn’t respond, he looked out at the audience, still forcing a grin.
Still no tele.
The fans shouted about how they loved him, Thom fought to remind himself to be kind, be gentle, be nice, how he came across mattered to them…
Even the bint who had no shame about smacking his face with her fucking underwear, like he were a fucking laundry basket.
He stepped away from the band who’d then recognized he were beyond the point of amicably speaking, closer to the mic, going into How Can You Be Sure without prior warning, as well, by now the rest of the band had grown annoyed. Jon quickly accommodated, Phil rapidly joining in, Ed glared bloody murder; but Thom stared intensely into the lights.
He was beautiful in that moment, everyone who wasn’t in Radiohead thought, illuminated just at the edge of the stage, bathed in vivid, gleaming yellow. He’d been halfway through the song when there suddenly came something latching hard at his ankle, and Thom’s voice wavered with a gasp, his gaze shot down, aware suddenly he’d stepped so close to the edge that those fans reaching farthest had successfully got him in their grip.
There came the scratchy sound of strings stopping mid-note, Thom paused, hopping back with bewilderment. Behind him, the band went on a bit longer before the sound decayed discordant to a hollow silence. Thom had not even seen the tech finally waltzing onto the stage with his fucking guitar, the bloody moshers were still at him, grabbing even when he thought he’d stepped out of reach.
“Fucking hell, stop that…!” he shouted, feeling the weight of his anger come to surface, the tech tapped him annoyingly and Thom pulled the tele from him, before the tech could even help him take off his strat; the tech tried for it, the hands still on Thom’s ankle, the moshers cheering at what they’d live to tell for decades to come.
“Isn’t there any bloody security for shit like this,” Thom muttered, “This is just, what in— you don’t do this...!”
Someone had nearly climbed partway out from the pit, and Thom lashed with the tele, missing the mosher and getting Chris Martin smack in the arm.
Chris recoiled in shock, uncertain what happened; he’d had his arm out, but hadn’t actually managed to touch Thom, though he’d have very much liked to; he was stunned by the gesture, uncertain what to make of it but aware more than ever he wasn’t like everyone else.
He hadn’t touched Thom; Thom had touched him. With his tele. But him only. It was very much in anger, but anger was passion as well.
Whatever had lain dormant in Chris up till then had glittered alive in a moment of unprecedented clarity; he was meant to do just this. He was meant to follow in Thom’s footsteps, he’d not known absolute truth until then.
He remained transfixed, vaguely aware of the now dulling pain in his arm, watching dreamlike as Thom went on shouting, with careful attempts on part of Jonny and Ed to cool him down.
Even while the show had ended successfully, Thom had paced off vastly annoyed, livid inside and deaf to any words from his bandmates. He strode clear backstage down the hallway, eyes glaring fire, heart fast, this was the bloody last straw.
“Thom, that was—” Coz started, but Thom picked up his pace, he’d made straight for the bathroom, and nearly spit fire at the office worker who approached him on his journey there.
“Not now, I can’t,” Thom said, and the worker seemed stunned, pausing, lips parted, one hand cupping a phone receiver. “I—” he mumbled, visibly unprepared for wrath directed personally at him on part of Thom Yorke.
“Should— I tell them you can’t answer—” he said, “it’s a phone call from someone called Tim Greaves—”
Thom paused mid-stride, eyes lit with annoyance. He forced a cheers and took the receiver, he pointed sharply at the air to emphasize points he still hadn’t made. “This is the last straw, Tim…!” he muttered, “I can’t take this, you’ve fucked with me long enough, you want me back at the hospital?”
Tim had begun to say something, but Thom cut him off, knuckles white from the death grip he had on the receiver. “There’s no bloody security! No one held all these people off, they fucking clawed me all over, it’s a fucking circus! That’s it, I don’t care, cut the tour short, I don’t care, I—”
Greaves had tried speaking again, but it was no good.
“—I don’t care! I don’t care about anything, I don’t care…! There’s a limit to how much I can take, really, just cancel the tour, bloody let me go home, I want to go home…!”
He was actually tearful, stomach muscles sore from his outburst, voice hoarse from shouting. Breathless with the after-effect of exertion he’d not realized he’d made. At his sides, Ed and Jonny stared stunned.
There came a long silence.
“Thom—” Greaves’ voice finally came, tentative, like he were afraid, like he wasn’t certain if this time he’d be permitted to speak. “Thom— I’ve got someone on the line who wants to talk to you—”
Only then had it dawned slowly on Thom it was around four AM UK time, not really a normal hour for Greaves to be calling.
“Thom?” Greaves asked, “I’ve got Michael Stipe on the line, he’s interested in having you open for their tour—”
Whatever Thom might have said next never came; he fell completely silent, receiver idle in hand. He stared blindly forth, eyes wide, the words not really having registered.
Jonny gazed with concern, he murmured softly, “Mate, you all right?”
He could make out very vaguely an American voice from the receiver still in Thom’s hand.
“Hello? Is this Thom Yorke?”
(On to Chapter 39)

Song: Planet Telex by Radiohead (The Bends 1995)
- 37
- 38
- 39
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Thom/Beck