'Disintegration of a Shooting Star'

*

Jon Kopek and I must have begun our separate careers at more or less the same time. I first met him when I was starting out as a reporter working for the tongue twistingly named ‘Essex Express’. He had just released his first album and had a single doing modestly well in the charts. He was playing a residency at ‘The Triangle’ - a pub disco in Chadwell Heath – supported by a backing band called ‘The Wages of Sin’.

I interviewed him for the purposes of a ‘local boy makes good’ kind of article. We hit it off quite well and struck up a casual friendship.

On stage, all attention was focused on his Medusa type head. His unruly hair writhing like a nest of black snakes. His piercing grey eyes threatening to turn you to stone. But really he was a very quiet and sensitive person. Softly spoken. He presented his songs with a gentle charm, playing deceptively simple melodies on an acoustic guitar.

“My love is like a neutron bomb; the buildings stand, but you are gone.”

Those were the opening lines from the title track of his album ‘Bomb Doubt’. A disturbing song, which equated the devastated landscape following a nuclear holocaust with the inner desolation caused by a broken love affair. Rather an extreme image, I suppose. But he had the ability – or the charisma, perhaps – to project it as a potent and emotive one.

I remember him once saying, when we were both the worse for drink, that it was his intention to act as a mirror: To confront people with a stark and shocking representation of their own lives. Little did I guess then what his words would turn out to mean in practice.

*

Shortly afterwards, he left on a promotional tour of the country. The line up of his band changed and he released a new album; ‘The Man Without a Face’. His lyrical preoccupations remained as unsettling as ever, only now the music evoked a matching bleakness.

Eventually, he returned to play a gig at the Ilford Palais and he sent me a couple of free tickets. The concert was a sell out and the hall was packed.

Kopek wandered onto stage like a man in a dream. He seemed oblivious to what was going on. He strummed almost absently on an electric guitar, providing a subtly background rhythm upon which the rest of the band layered waves of grey noise. He mumbled and slurred the words of the songs, so that his voice merely merged with the overall sound.

It’s a cliché, I know, but the atmosphere was truly electric. The gloomy, intense mood became increasingly oppressive. The vibe was one of suppressed violence. I could feel the tension building to an unbearable pitch – and Kopek appeared to be deliberately encouraging it with his attitude of detachment.

At last, inevitably, a fight broke out in the audience. The music droned on incredibly as a mad soundtrack. I saw a broken bottle come flying out of the crowd. It remained poised for a moment in the spotlights, then struck Kopek a glancing blow on the side of the head.

He seemed unhurt and oblivious – until the blood suddenly fell down his face like a red curtain. He staggered back, his hand jerking convulsively across the strings of his guitar. A chilling sequence of bizarre chords rang out. He collapsed on top of the amps. A deafening feedback screech filled the air, like the wailing of a banshee.

In the chaos that followed, my shirt was all but ripped from my back and I was lucky to escape the venue with only a few minor scratches and bruises.

The next day, I tried to see Kopek but was repeatedly told he was accepting absolutely no visitors. I later learned that his face had been left badly disfigured and that he was neurotically self conscious about it. However, I did manage to speak to him on the phone, briefly. But it was a conversation mainly composed of awkward silences.

His voice sounded strained. “What can I do,” he demanded. “Now that the mirror’s been shattered?”

Before I could frame a reply, he had hung up on me.

*

In due course, another album came onto the market: ‘Nadir’. There was no promotion, no supporting tour; so it was bought merely by a faithful few like myself.

It was disappointing. The songs were sketchy. In fact, not much more than demo versions. There was no sense of emotional involvement with the subject matter. He seemed to have become a dispassionate observer of events rather than a participant in them.

The photo on the album cover revealed a distinct change in his appearance, too. He now bore an amazing resemblance to an old 1930s movie star, with his long curly hair dangling down over one eye and concealing that whole side of his face.

Meanwhile, my own career had taken an upward swing and I had become a fairly regular contributor of articles to the ‘New Music Review’. My latest project was to write a satirical piece on the European Song Festival. Not as easy as it had at first sounded, because – although the event was such a sitting target – there were very few original angles of attack remaining.

I installed myself before the TV with a plentiful supply of Southern Comfort and a blank notepad that stared up at me in defiance. A number of countries came and went and the irritatingly chirpy Euro-beat left me uninspired. Great Britain’s entry came in the shape of ‘Love is Forever’ by ‘Larry and the Lemmings’. A sickly sweet ballad sung in what you might call a hairy chested falsetto. In despair, I poured myself another drink and hoped for oblivion.

Suddenly, I was almost thrown out of my chair by a berserk explosion of noise. The lead guitarist of the ‘Lemmings’ had launched into a blistering, maniacal solo. He ran forwards and literally kicked ‘Larry’ off the edge of the stage. His eye glittering with an insane light that I knew only too well, he snarled into the microphone: “If love is forever – tomorrow the world ends!”

He then proceeded to assault everyone’s ears and set their teeth on edge with a grinding heavy metal riff, before some outraged TV producer blanked the screen.

I couldn’t help laughing out loud in sheer amazement. Kopek had chosen to make his comeback in a most startling way. It was a two fingered salute at the Establishment. Exactly what I had been vainly seeking to achieve through my intended article.

*

There was a furore, of course. Kopek fled to America, despite becoming something of a folk hero overnight. At the height of the frenzy, as a masterful commercial stroke, his latest album was unleashed on the world; ‘The Disintegration of a Shooting Star’. A rock autobiography and a classic of its kind. Each track was of exactly three minutes duration. Diamond hard. Coldly crafted pieces of pop parody.

To my great excitement, I was commissioned to fly out and report on Kopek’s tour of the States. I soon found myself a part of his phantastic entourage, roaming from City to City like a travelling Circus.

It was only after enduring six hellish weeks of that eternal freak show that I was finally able to see him on his own. In one of his increasingly frequent tantrums, he had ordered everyone out of his hotel suite and virtually issued a summons for me to appear in his presence.

When I arrived, he was absently flicking the TV from channel to channel and shooting at the people on the screen with a child’s dart gun. He told me that I was his only friend, which immediately took me back to the days when we used to get drunk together. He spent a good quarter of an hour apologising to me and then gave a rambling account, full of self pity, of what he had been through after his injury.

Although his hair was now neatly trimmed, he still kept his scars hidden by wearing a shirt with an extravagantly high collar and turning his profile away from me.

A confused philosophical treatise was what I had to suffer next:

“A mirror reflects only the surface image,” he said. “I’ve realised that it’s my function to provoke people into seeing deeper, into looking more critically, more analytically, with X-ray eyes…”

For no apparent reason, his mood suddenly changed and he began an attack on journalists in general and me in particular. He suggested that I would betray his confidence in me for the sake of an ‘exclusive’.

There was a bitter emotional scene and a number of threats were exchanged in the heat of the moment – and I ended up taking the next plane back to London.

*

After handing in my assignment, I decided I needed a holiday and promptly disappeared for a few months. Ostensibly, I was visiting Jamaica to research into the influences of Reggae music. A transparent ruse to spend most of my time under a more herbal influence.

On my eventual return, I encountered Kopek’s new image – like a crash victim hitting the windscreen of his car. It was, as you can gather, a severe shock. His hair had been cropped so that it resembled a skull cap. The jagged gash running from his ear to the side of his mouth was no longer concealed. Rather, it was flaunted; outlined garishly with fluorescent make up.

This vision appeared everywhere imaginable. The media were saturated with all things Kopek. Tracks from his new album ‘New Erotic’ filled the streets with a jarring, asexual ambience. For that was the image: A sexless un-man, advocating the ultimate act of rebellion.

I saw him on a kaleidoscope of TV chat shows, dressed only in a flesh coloured body stocking. Sitting erect and expressionless, his voice quietly modulated, he resembled an android.

“We should rebel at the genetic level,” he said. “Oppose the dictatorship of our chromosomes.”

As when I had first met him, I was conscious of the ludicrous nature of what he was saying. And yet, through the charismatic force of his personality, he was able to make it all sound so very persuasive and alluring.

*

He swept across Europe at the head of what seemed to be an invading army of zombies from outer space. His influence on the Western world, through its youth, was incredible. Every country appeared to possess a sub culture of Kopek clones, even down to the scarred features. In most cases, these were merely painted on – but there was increasing evidence of ritualistic self mutilation.

The tour reached its climax at the Imperial Hall in Wembley. The scenes there were nightmarish and surreal. I had never before felt such naked fear at a concert. The crowd was in a frenzy before the show had even begun.

The stage itself replicated the prevailing spirit of the times. Its chaotic maze of lights and twisted metal structures formed a collapsing neon city in miniature.

Kopek had already released a new album, ‘Vermin Robes’, with a new conceptual guise. He was the Fallen Angel, the Messiah Seduced. He appeared on stage wearing tatters; unshaven and his hair in straggly rats tails.

The whole concert was an expression of his contempt. He spat the words out in a hateful growl, slaughtering the melodies of the songs with cruel, insensitive arrangements. Teasing the audience by picking up a guitar, then refusing to play it. Instead, smashing it in some perverse way.

And then it happened. Throughout the show, Kopek had been engaged in a mock running battle with his lead guitarist; the two of them stalking each other through scenarios of urban decay and disintegration. At last, they came face to face atop a high, skeletal tower. Kopek was supposed to have snatched his guitar from him and finally blasted out a long awaited killer solo. Instead, he seemed to lose his balance and plunged sickeningly down onto the stage.

From the press enclosure, I had a very clear view of his broken body. I could see the blood running from his mouth. I was sure I could see a knife handle protruding from his chest.

*

Somehow, he managed to survive. I sent him my best wishes but made no attempt to visit him during his slow recovery, my pride still foolishly being at stake.

I learned that he was paying for his demented lead guitarist to receive the best possible psychiatric treatment; Kopek considering himself responsible for causing and encouraging his insanity.

In the meantime, I had been taken on by the ‘New Music Review’ as a full time member of their permanent staff.

The months passed… Then, one day, someone came to visit me unannounced at my desk. That someone was a bearded stranger in a dark, conservative business suit, who peered at me nervously over the top of a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He presented me with an album prettily entitled ‘Eurape’. His face adorned the cover, lank hair parted in the style of a neo Hitler.

Of course, it was Kopek.

He was anxious to re-establish our friendship and explained that, when we had last met, he had been strung out on Heroin, as I had probably realised.

Actually, I hadn’t. But I decided not to admit that fact.

He continued by stating that he was now prepared to make amends by granting me a real ‘exclusive’. He wanted me to be the one to announce his retirement. It was his intention, in future, to take only a behind the scenes rôle in the rock music menagerie.

“I thought I was only extending my ideas to their natural conclusion, but I took it all too far,” he admitted. “People know full well their lives are full of crap and they don’t want their noses rubbed in it.”

I disagreed with him, pointing out that he was now even more infamous and popular than ever before.

“’Eurape’ will end that,” he promised. “It was recorded in just one day with the help of some session musicians in a small studio in Amsterdam. Its sole purpose was to fulfil my contract with Leggrin Records. I am now a free man.”

*

Despite his being out of the public eye, Kopek’s success continued unabated. His talents as a record producer and songwriter were much in demand and his name appeared amongst the credits on a number of highly commercial albums. Soon, he was able to set up his own independent record company, which gave him the elbow room for some controversial experimentation. Increasingly, he became involved in the development of sophisticated computer controlled synthetic music, much of which was featured on film soundtracks.

His most ambitious project was the construction of a multimedia Arts Complex in his home town of Romford. The huge central dome was an acoustically perfect concert arena. It was surrounded by a variety of studios, stocked with the latest equipment, which could be rented by local artists and creative groups for a nominal fee.

He gained control of an ailing publishing company and against all the odds managed to bring his brand of culture to the masses, whilst also making a profit. In a similar way, he gave the British film industry a much needed financial shot in the arm.

His face again became a prominent household feature when he was persuaded to appear regularly on TV and rapidly built up a whole new reputation for himself as a media personality.

Over the course of the years, he gradually relaxed and assumed the most beguiling of all his poses; that of being ‘himself’. His hair started to turn prematurely grey. He shaved off his beard to reveal that his scar had faded to an almost invisibly faint white line. His eyes were soft and kindly, with only an occasional spark of devilment to betray that he was not the comfortable ‘uncle’ figure he appeared to be.

To everyone’s surprise, he released a stunning new album with the title ‘Pushing&Pushing’. A joyous, foot tapping, positive celebration of life, with an incredibly wide appeal. He was the sole performer; his virtuoso guitar work and vocals backed by a battery of machines.

“The teenage rebels who were once my fans have grown up now,” he confided in me. “Thye are young adults with 2.4 children and a mortgage. So I have had to adapt to the new pattern of their lives in order to regain their favour.”

*

After my bid for an editorial position with the N.M.R. failed, Kopek offered me a job within his own expanding empire, which I eagerly accepted. We therefore became closely allied in the setting up of his comeback tour – and I was surprised to discover just how much he had come to rely on computers. My function mainly involved the implementation of their directives. I was there merely to provide a final subtle touch of humanity.

Even Kopek had adopted a similarly passive role; to the extent that his revolutionary album ‘Grey’ – hailed as a work of genius – was for the most part composed and even played by machines.

When he took to performing live again, he fronted an enormous array of synthesisers and networked computers that operated themselves completely automatically. Kopek was the only man on stage; the music being manufactured on the spot and structured to complement his guitar playing.

Seeing the wild excitement his shows generated at every venue, I was able to partially understand his apparently masochistic desire to return to fame. Especially since he was now in complete control of the situation.

He returned to Romford to play the final night of his British tour like a conquering hero… Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say: like a guided missile homing in on its target…

The whole event was expertly paced so that the audience reached a feverish, hysterical peak on the very last note of the last song. Screaming incoherently, Kopek leapt high into the air, then brought his hand chopping down onto his guitar. The strings broke. Blood sprang from his fingers. An impossibly high pitched electronic howl shattered the air. It rose in volume and intensity, swiftly became unbearable, then rose higher still; passing the limits of human hearing into the realms of the ultrasonic.

Kopek watched in morbid fascination as the audience collapsed before him in the wake of an expanding sonic shockwave. Those nearest to the loudspeakers were jerking convulsively as if undergoing an epileptic fit, blood oozing from their ears. The dome became progressively darker as the light fittings fragmented.

From my vantage point at the outer edge of the dome, I saw no more as I too crumpled up in agony and lost consciousness.

*

I woke up the next morning with a colossal headache to find myself in a private room in a hospital somewhere out in the Essex countryside. I was lucky in that I had suffered no permanent damage. After a couple of days, my ears had stopped ringing and I was no longer seeing double. As soon as I was able, I discharged myself and returned to the scene of the disaster.

The Complex had been closed and boarded up as a matter of public safety since there had been serious structural weakening. All of its windows and those of a number of surrounding buildings were broken.

I made a flying visit to the Kopek Organisation’s central offices in order to discover the full extent of the situation, then sought out the man himself.

In keeping with his normal routine, he was rehearsing in his private studios. I watched him running through a new number from his next projected album ‘Strangers’ as if nothing untoward had happened. He snubbed my presence and carried on to the song’s conclusion.

At the end, he stood staring vacantly into space.

I had just tensed myself to shout at him in anger, when he abruptly disappeared before my very eyes. Startled, I wondered for a moment whether I was suffering from a relapse of my optic distortion. Then, I heard Kopek’s voice behind me.

I turned to confront him.

“This is the ultimate step,” he informed me. “I have at last managed to separate the image from the reality.”

He went on to explain that the Kopek I had been watching had in fact been the product of laser holography. An entirely artificial three dimensional projection. After replacing the need for support musicians, he had now produced the technology needed to replace himself.

I was unimpressed. I reminded him that he had probably succeeded in alienating his entire audience, in any case.

He smiled.

“I think you’ll be proven wrong,” he threatened. “According to my computers, my popularity will have actually risen to an unprecedented high. You see, I appeal directly to the unconscious mind, to the death wish inside us all. I have become the Antichrist. Mankind will be led into the new millennium by a sinister, modern day Pied Piper dancing across their TV screens.”

“If that’s the programme for Kopek the Rock Star, then what about you – the real you?” I demanded. “What the hell do you have in mind for yourself?”

He smiled again. His face dissolved into a maze of wrinkles and he looked extremely ancient.

“Well, first I’ve got to arrange for all injured parties to be generously compensated. These days, there is a high price on martyrdom. After that, well…” He shrugged. “Who knows? Did you catch the lyrics of the song my facsimile was performing? ‘My reflection reaches out and pulls me to the mirror… Even after all this time, I am still a stranger…’”

“You’re a madman!” I accused him.

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But soon, everyone will be sharing the same madness, so who will know the difference?”

His eyes became fixed on mine and one again I was made aware of the sheer, overwhelming power of his character. I realised then, I was lost. The whole world was his: The world of imagination.

*