Sensation: A Novel-In-Progress
It actually seemed like a very promising idea at the time of its conception. However, both young Brits facilitated a heady project that would catapult them from relative obscurity and endless, soul-sucking ennui. Who could have imagined in their wildest dreams, that the rather bizarre combination of an English professor and a young fellow bouncing from one dead end job to another, always searching for that ONE profession from which he could gather even one modicum of self-worth would quite probably be their ticket to superstardom. So instead of the constant ridicule (“Hey, sod off, fricken’ fruit”, (“Hey, we know you don’t like girls!”) and perhaps worst of all, (“You do know that you perverts are all going to hell. Did you know that and if so, why the hell doesn’t scare the living daylights out of you?”) There are scores to add to this sordid roster and those who know firsthand didn’t need to be apprised.
These constant battering slurs had taken their toll on both young men, beginning as soon as they were able to comprehend the meanings of derogatory slurs and heart-piercing hate-spewing. There had to be a way out of this fiery hell. Didn’t there? Or would the sole fragment of happiness and self-esteem Finn Treat Beatty and then unknown pal Malcolm Anderson Johns be forever out of range? Could these two British lads, who were devastatingly aware of their homosexuality at a very young age, manage to not only soften the sharp-as-steel stigma against God’s Big Mistakes, but actually transcend those barbed wire fences of repression? There was a frightening and abnormally cruel method the so-called “straight” or “heterosexual” faction employed to unleash unimaginable forms of what could only be described as endless, unrelenting torture.
They were deemed dirty degenerates and slurs like that are as rock-solid as the stigma against the mentally ill. Like gay, lesbian, transgendered, bi-sexual people, those with organic psychosis such as Schizophrenia, Bi-Polar Disorder (Once given the nasty term Manic Depressive Disorder, severe anxiety, suicidal despair and the poor souls whose legitimate suffering comingled with extreme but powerful news reports such as that 1980 near-assassination of then President Ronald Reagan by a gunman who, it was shortly discovered, was a young 25-year-old victim of Paranoid Schizophrenia who fancied himself to be unbalanced Travis Bickle, a fictional taxi driver starring a young and impressively gifted Robert Deniro and his pursuit of a child prostitute, equally gifted actress Jodie Foster in an effort to get her off the streets and back to a home that, by the sounds of it, was worse than selling her nubile body to grown men.
Her pimp, Harvey Keitel, sporting a camouflaging long wig, is stalked and ultimately killed by the now completely deranged taxi driver. Without getting too far into the events of this explosive 1976 gem, it’s not so hard to make the sickening comparison between baby hooker Iris and Travis Bickle the rescuer. So the mentally ill John Hinckley, Jr., who had managed to delude himself into believing that the now eighteen-year-old Foster was taking courses at Yale University and when “John” kept calling her repetitively, he became ever more convinced that President Reagan was Jodie’s “pimp” and he, the fed up vigilante had as his mission of sorts, to kill the “presidential pimp.”
Malcolm was a short, stocky lad with sad eyes, what is now termed “bitching rest face” which translated into having one’s mouth take a downward motion when just, well, at rest. Cute without being pretty (which had often worked in his favour as he did his best to sift and maneuver throughout high school halls and shopping malls, the Mecca for all teenagers.) One huge requirement: You couldn’t be, in any way, shape or form, “different.” Liking Star Trek (the original series, which can on American television from 1966-69) and eschewing another US import, a dismally acted piece of wasted celluloid, Mod Squad.
Nerds were given the “back of the bus” curse, unlike now, when they are all the rage. But back in the hellish jungle of adolescence, where teen suicide was prevalent (but kept hush-hush of course) the carnage was alarmingly high. Even worse, the adult faction had no idea where their children were, nor whether or not they were still in one piece for that matter. It wasn’t that they didn’t love their sons and daughters, they simply had no time to spend raising them. In reality, these children’s acid-laced brains were being saturated with noxious mind-alternating drugs-for-the-so-called-enlightened-but-in-actuality-were-just –psychedelics-for-self-delusion.
It wouldn’t end well. Not Mommy’s and Daddy’s fault at all, really. Society at large, that is, the ones pulling the strings of thousands upon thousands of malleable brains that could and were conditioned what to like, love, hate and revile. No-one was safe from the Post WW2 malaise. That wearing down of personal freedom and a smothering ennui which came tied up in a tidy, expression-squelching phenomenon: Suburbia and all that came with it. If blame was to be found, there were so many poisoning factors that counting them became futile. And at the top, the epoch of the quintessential Putrid Root: The homosexual and all he, she or it stood for. It was a convoluted logic, but one seemingly impossible to penetrate.
But these are completely different stories and as such, will be kept separate. This novel concerns those two ambitious young men, 28-year-old Finn Trent Beatty and 24-year-old Malcolm Johns who took a shaky chance and made it. This was much to their utter dismay, however. Their lives held some similar ties to the tragic tale of Kurt Cobain and his band, the ironically named Nirvana, but they are actually polar opposites. The East Enders, a name Finn and Malcolm “borrowed” from a British TV series. Not a bad idea. Because not everyone was familiar that such a program existed, particularly in America.
The two music oriented young men were, at first glance, weren’t much to look at. Finn had a wild curly mop of blond hair, those over-sized spectacles that were being sported everywhere in the late 1970’s and 1980’s and created an uncomfortable dent on the bridge of the nose. But that was what style dictated, as it always did and, seemingly always would as the world made its monotonous forward spinning with a sole purpose of making certain that everyone and everything was “kept in line” so to speak. And perish the thought of any deviating from its prison of conformity. Thus, for budding celebrities Finn Beatty and Malcolm Johns, the stage was set for ultimate disaster. Here then, is how it all played out.
“So Finn, you know you are just as sick and tired of these mind-numbing jobs we’ve been grasping in a pathetic headlock , so don’t stand there and tell me any different.” Malcolm, or as he was known to his close friends, Malcontent, was the more outgoing and advantageous than his shy, reticent newly-acquired chum with a stubborn streak that Fin referred to as three miles of bad road. A negative influence at the ultra-pious St. Agnes Secondary Catholic School in Seville, a mere grease spot so insignificant that if one was to blink for a fraction of a second, he’d have completely missed it. A scant four miles from the ocean, but still too far away for any of the refreshing salt-water breeze to penetrate any schoolboy or schoolgirls’ parched nostrils. It was a dead end to rival any other in the United Kingdom.
Finn’s world as he knew it was far less oppressive than Malcolm’s and as such, he had no burning desire to pull up stakes and strike out on what could either be a dizzyingly successful music career or, a failure of such epic proportions that it might just end in the worst kind of tragedy possible. But then again, Finn had been the target of enough ridicule and homophobic bashing that he decided to hear his new friend’s “pie in the sky” future full of musical success that only his heroes, David Bowie and The New York Dolls were privy to. Who were he and Malcontent anyhow? Egotistic chest-thumpers or eager to please youngsters poised on the brink of an adventure that just might pan out? “Wot the hell, Malc. Let’s just go for it!”
The first order of business, as it were, was to come up with a demo that stood out from the onslaught of 1980’s “Synth Pop” ( a rather demeaning title that, for better or for worse, encapsulated the tail end of the now-defiled Disco dance tracks that ABBA, those ubiquitous Bee Gees, three of four rockers who’d garnered a respectable following with 1968 hook-laden, fresh voiced delivery when songs like I Started A Joke, Holiday, I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You, Words and Massachusetts. These were terrifically crafted masterpieces and brothers Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb were on the precipice of legitimate fame and fortune.
But these golden boys from the Isle Of Man ultimately committed career suicide and raised the Bee Gees voices an octave above normal and they became the perpetrators of.........DISCO and the Saturday Night Fever abomination. Former fans ran away in screaming droves and new ones eagerly took their places. This entire sacrilege is but an ironic twist in the annals of rock and roll and those who hadn’t had the displeasure of experiencing it firsthand will never fully grasp the incredible shock and betrayal. How could Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb go from I Started A Joke to You Should Be Dancin’ Yeah? Please.
But somehow, Finn and Malcolm managed to forge a brilliant bridge between antiquated “geezer pleaser” shlock that wouldn’t, in a million years or more, ever be considered remotely cool, particularly with the youngsters of that era. Kids were a savvy lot—--their parents were idiots for the most part and as un-hip as any generation before them. It was if they already knew that they’d be a relatively small voice sandwiched forever between the aforementioned Baby Boomers, the children born following the end of WW2 and the present youthful voices with three monikers: Echo Boomers, the progeny of the baby boom, Millennial and the most unimaginative and bland Gen Y. Why indeed.
So these muted captives, saddled with a nickname that proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, the much ballyhooed Generation X appeared doomed to relinquish their futures and would forever be banned from ever achieving the “American dream.” (It always puzzled me how a troubled but devastatingly alluring country with too much power and money like the United States Of America could ever be remotely connected with anything vaguely representing a “dream”, but I had long made it a promise to myself that I wouldn’t look too deeply into it). But before the damning dawn of reality had a chance to sink in, boys and girls were content with their acid-washed jeans, denim vests and clamoring en masse to sold-out Romantic-era chic all wrapped up and tied with a bow—bands like Duran Duran, U2, Bon Jovi and Van Halen. The phrase, “Hair bands” encapsulated lean, rock-hard male bodies clad in black leather pants and huge perms that gave the impression that they had just stuck their hands in powerful electric outlets. Yes, I’m looking at you, Cheap Trick. (Sarcasm is one of my major food groups, as if I needed to tell you.)
The East Enders came along to forge a mighty bridge between the bitter irony of the Hair Band phenomenon and something that, when cooked up with the intriguing ingredients of hot looks and an undisputed intelligence, with positively mind-boggling and delicious good looks. Enter Finn and Malcolm. Nobody could have predicted such an avalanche of teen adulation that took off like a rocket into the Milky Way. Least 0f All The East Enders.
The first order of business was to put together a hook-friendly song with lyrics that, upon first or even fifth listening would uncover more and powerful devastating irony---that of being a teenager in what could best be described as dangerous and uncharted waters.
“How about this, Malc,” Finn remarked, seemingly out of the blue, “We take that demo we concocted yesterday, clean up the language a bit and just roll with it.”
“Roll with it? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Finn, you can be so exasperating at times.”
Malcolm sighed with exaggerated annoyance. “Okay, if you want to be difficult about this, then we’ll leave our unimaginable words sans any hint of profanity and we’ll eventually acquire the dubious distinction of being hideously boring as all get out.”
Given the casual atmosphere surrounding what was soon to become an unstoppable train, it’s a miracle the East Enders were able to create a completely new and exciting sound, but they managed somehow.
Neither of them really expected to get anywhere with their offbeat mannerisms and carefully camouflaged homosexuality and quite frankly, there was a small nagging sense of doubt that if they did achieve chart success and the ever-fleeting fame, it may just cost them far more than they would be able to pay. But they bit the bullet and burst on the music scene with a bittersweet homage to a waning sense of privacy and a burgeoning Big Brother atmosphere of personal oppression. And that was how “Ode To A Life Best Left In the Past.”
Finn recalled the moment he first heard the debut single by a “Brand new synth pop sensation! Ode To A Life Best Left In the Past by the soon-to-be-on top-of-the-pop world, 28-year-old Finn Beatty and 24-year-old Malcolm Johns, The East Enders!” on the radio beside his bed in a tiny bed and breakfast hotel. “OMiGod! We did it!!” Finn leapt to his feet and immediately tripped over the bed sheets in his haste to ring up Malcolm. However, it wasn’t necessary, as his “partner in crime” was banging madly on the door.
Both young men were completely discombobulated and jumped up and down hugging one another. Then, like a smack in the face with a wet blanket, the reality sunk in: There was no turning back now. The golden genie had been sprung from its crusted bottle and there was no stuffing it back in.
Finn wasted no time and as he brewed tea for Malcolm and himself, he perused the Daily News and was shocked at what the record company, RCA had used to illustrate the The East Enders’ cassette cover: A candid photo they’d not been aware had been captured on film showing Finn bending down to pet a small Cocker Spaniel and Malcolm leaning against a red phone booth, seemingly talking rapidly and breathlessly. But that wasn’t the problem. It was the caption beneath: Hey girls! Meet your brand new pop idols, The East Enders! If you’re patient, you’ll be able to reach out and touch them!”
“WTF?!” Malcolm felt as though he’d been sucker punched. Finn, we’ve just been born as a—a teenage wet dream!”
Finn felt his face grow numb and his tongue dry out. “But we haven’t even performed this single yet and already we’re in the gossip rags?! How is this happening???”
It was the beginning of the most hair-raising roller coaster ride of their lives. Even on day one, they had been given new identities and personalities. Oh sure, fame did have a number of perks that were difficult to deny: Partying with music idols David Bowie, Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes and Roxy Music’s Bryan Ferry , a golden opportunity for hunkering down in a posh music studio to create an entire album based upon the wildly successful debut single. It wasn’t as easy as they’d imagined it would be. In fact, as the weeks stretched into endless months, interrupted frequently by reporters, photograph after photograph: Finn and Malcolm gazing sensuously at the camera, Finn’s blond curls glistening with manufactured sweat (courtesy of an ever-present squirt bottle), Malcolm deadpanned and glassy-eyed (There was no need to manufacture that) Finn holding awkwardly an obviously distressed Calico cat----Finn’s passionate disdain for the feline of the species hadn‘t as yet been disclosed, although it wouldn’t be very long coming. Remember the old “My Hates and Loves” twaddle that provided the fodder for the likes of Tiger Beat and 16 Magazine, both American teen publications? It gives me pause to cringe at the mere thought of the travesty.
Fortunately for their growing sense of loss of control of their private lives, both Finn and Malcolm were finally given the adult respect and recognition they’d craved since That First Day Of World Domination (well, that’s a bit verbose, even for the likes of me. So never mind.) They graced the Mirror and Melody Maker, both UK publications that deftly described The East Enders as “creators of synth pop for the big girls and boys—aka more than lip-glossed kisses on photos of the boys adorning teenage girls craving a welcome respite from The Reflexexexexex and White Wedding. “Oh goody! I got a photo taken with that hunky Finn. No, the tall, skinny boy who somehow manages to look like a Botticelli angel. You know: The British version of Michael Stipe.”
How devastatingly accurate this casual comparison would turn out to be. Utterly and painfully accurate. But so far, the future looked bright.
These constant battering slurs had taken their toll on both young men, beginning as soon as they were able to comprehend the meanings of derogatory slurs and heart-piercing hate-spewing. There had to be a way out of this fiery hell. Didn’t there? Or would the sole fragment of happiness and self-esteem Finn Treat Beatty and then unknown pal Malcolm Anderson Johns be forever out of range? Could these two British lads, who were devastatingly aware of their homosexuality at a very young age, manage to not only soften the sharp-as-steel stigma against God’s Big Mistakes, but actually transcend those barbed wire fences of repression? There was a frightening and abnormally cruel method the so-called “straight” or “heterosexual” faction employed to unleash unimaginable forms of what could only be described as endless, unrelenting torture.
They were deemed dirty degenerates and slurs like that are as rock-solid as the stigma against the mentally ill. Like gay, lesbian, transgendered, bi-sexual people, those with organic psychosis such as Schizophrenia, Bi-Polar Disorder (Once given the nasty term Manic Depressive Disorder, severe anxiety, suicidal despair and the poor souls whose legitimate suffering comingled with extreme but powerful news reports such as that 1980 near-assassination of then President Ronald Reagan by a gunman who, it was shortly discovered, was a young 25-year-old victim of Paranoid Schizophrenia who fancied himself to be unbalanced Travis Bickle, a fictional taxi driver starring a young and impressively gifted Robert Deniro and his pursuit of a child prostitute, equally gifted actress Jodie Foster in an effort to get her off the streets and back to a home that, by the sounds of it, was worse than selling her nubile body to grown men.
Her pimp, Harvey Keitel, sporting a camouflaging long wig, is stalked and ultimately killed by the now completely deranged taxi driver. Without getting too far into the events of this explosive 1976 gem, it’s not so hard to make the sickening comparison between baby hooker Iris and Travis Bickle the rescuer. So the mentally ill John Hinckley, Jr., who had managed to delude himself into believing that the now eighteen-year-old Foster was taking courses at Yale University and when “John” kept calling her repetitively, he became ever more convinced that President Reagan was Jodie’s “pimp” and he, the fed up vigilante had as his mission of sorts, to kill the “presidential pimp.”
Malcolm was a short, stocky lad with sad eyes, what is now termed “bitching rest face” which translated into having one’s mouth take a downward motion when just, well, at rest. Cute without being pretty (which had often worked in his favour as he did his best to sift and maneuver throughout high school halls and shopping malls, the Mecca for all teenagers.) One huge requirement: You couldn’t be, in any way, shape or form, “different.” Liking Star Trek (the original series, which can on American television from 1966-69) and eschewing another US import, a dismally acted piece of wasted celluloid, Mod Squad.
Nerds were given the “back of the bus” curse, unlike now, when they are all the rage. But back in the hellish jungle of adolescence, where teen suicide was prevalent (but kept hush-hush of course) the carnage was alarmingly high. Even worse, the adult faction had no idea where their children were, nor whether or not they were still in one piece for that matter. It wasn’t that they didn’t love their sons and daughters, they simply had no time to spend raising them. In reality, these children’s acid-laced brains were being saturated with noxious mind-alternating drugs-for-the-so-called-enlightened-but-in-actuality-were-just –psychedelics-for-self-delusion.
It wouldn’t end well. Not Mommy’s and Daddy’s fault at all, really. Society at large, that is, the ones pulling the strings of thousands upon thousands of malleable brains that could and were conditioned what to like, love, hate and revile. No-one was safe from the Post WW2 malaise. That wearing down of personal freedom and a smothering ennui which came tied up in a tidy, expression-squelching phenomenon: Suburbia and all that came with it. If blame was to be found, there were so many poisoning factors that counting them became futile. And at the top, the epoch of the quintessential Putrid Root: The homosexual and all he, she or it stood for. It was a convoluted logic, but one seemingly impossible to penetrate.
But these are completely different stories and as such, will be kept separate. This novel concerns those two ambitious young men, 28-year-old Finn Trent Beatty and 24-year-old Malcolm Johns who took a shaky chance and made it. This was much to their utter dismay, however. Their lives held some similar ties to the tragic tale of Kurt Cobain and his band, the ironically named Nirvana, but they are actually polar opposites. The East Enders, a name Finn and Malcolm “borrowed” from a British TV series. Not a bad idea. Because not everyone was familiar that such a program existed, particularly in America.
The two music oriented young men were, at first glance, weren’t much to look at. Finn had a wild curly mop of blond hair, those over-sized spectacles that were being sported everywhere in the late 1970’s and 1980’s and created an uncomfortable dent on the bridge of the nose. But that was what style dictated, as it always did and, seemingly always would as the world made its monotonous forward spinning with a sole purpose of making certain that everyone and everything was “kept in line” so to speak. And perish the thought of any deviating from its prison of conformity. Thus, for budding celebrities Finn Beatty and Malcolm Johns, the stage was set for ultimate disaster. Here then, is how it all played out.
“So Finn, you know you are just as sick and tired of these mind-numbing jobs we’ve been grasping in a pathetic headlock , so don’t stand there and tell me any different.” Malcolm, or as he was known to his close friends, Malcontent, was the more outgoing and advantageous than his shy, reticent newly-acquired chum with a stubborn streak that Fin referred to as three miles of bad road. A negative influence at the ultra-pious St. Agnes Secondary Catholic School in Seville, a mere grease spot so insignificant that if one was to blink for a fraction of a second, he’d have completely missed it. A scant four miles from the ocean, but still too far away for any of the refreshing salt-water breeze to penetrate any schoolboy or schoolgirls’ parched nostrils. It was a dead end to rival any other in the United Kingdom.
Finn’s world as he knew it was far less oppressive than Malcolm’s and as such, he had no burning desire to pull up stakes and strike out on what could either be a dizzyingly successful music career or, a failure of such epic proportions that it might just end in the worst kind of tragedy possible. But then again, Finn had been the target of enough ridicule and homophobic bashing that he decided to hear his new friend’s “pie in the sky” future full of musical success that only his heroes, David Bowie and The New York Dolls were privy to. Who were he and Malcontent anyhow? Egotistic chest-thumpers or eager to please youngsters poised on the brink of an adventure that just might pan out? “Wot the hell, Malc. Let’s just go for it!”
The first order of business, as it were, was to come up with a demo that stood out from the onslaught of 1980’s “Synth Pop” ( a rather demeaning title that, for better or for worse, encapsulated the tail end of the now-defiled Disco dance tracks that ABBA, those ubiquitous Bee Gees, three of four rockers who’d garnered a respectable following with 1968 hook-laden, fresh voiced delivery when songs like I Started A Joke, Holiday, I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You, Words and Massachusetts. These were terrifically crafted masterpieces and brothers Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb were on the precipice of legitimate fame and fortune.
But these golden boys from the Isle Of Man ultimately committed career suicide and raised the Bee Gees voices an octave above normal and they became the perpetrators of.........DISCO and the Saturday Night Fever abomination. Former fans ran away in screaming droves and new ones eagerly took their places. This entire sacrilege is but an ironic twist in the annals of rock and roll and those who hadn’t had the displeasure of experiencing it firsthand will never fully grasp the incredible shock and betrayal. How could Barry, Maurice and Robin Gibb go from I Started A Joke to You Should Be Dancin’ Yeah? Please.
But somehow, Finn and Malcolm managed to forge a brilliant bridge between antiquated “geezer pleaser” shlock that wouldn’t, in a million years or more, ever be considered remotely cool, particularly with the youngsters of that era. Kids were a savvy lot—--their parents were idiots for the most part and as un-hip as any generation before them. It was if they already knew that they’d be a relatively small voice sandwiched forever between the aforementioned Baby Boomers, the children born following the end of WW2 and the present youthful voices with three monikers: Echo Boomers, the progeny of the baby boom, Millennial and the most unimaginative and bland Gen Y. Why indeed.
So these muted captives, saddled with a nickname that proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, the much ballyhooed Generation X appeared doomed to relinquish their futures and would forever be banned from ever achieving the “American dream.” (It always puzzled me how a troubled but devastatingly alluring country with too much power and money like the United States Of America could ever be remotely connected with anything vaguely representing a “dream”, but I had long made it a promise to myself that I wouldn’t look too deeply into it). But before the damning dawn of reality had a chance to sink in, boys and girls were content with their acid-washed jeans, denim vests and clamoring en masse to sold-out Romantic-era chic all wrapped up and tied with a bow—bands like Duran Duran, U2, Bon Jovi and Van Halen. The phrase, “Hair bands” encapsulated lean, rock-hard male bodies clad in black leather pants and huge perms that gave the impression that they had just stuck their hands in powerful electric outlets. Yes, I’m looking at you, Cheap Trick. (Sarcasm is one of my major food groups, as if I needed to tell you.)
The East Enders came along to forge a mighty bridge between the bitter irony of the Hair Band phenomenon and something that, when cooked up with the intriguing ingredients of hot looks and an undisputed intelligence, with positively mind-boggling and delicious good looks. Enter Finn and Malcolm. Nobody could have predicted such an avalanche of teen adulation that took off like a rocket into the Milky Way. Least 0f All The East Enders.
The first order of business was to put together a hook-friendly song with lyrics that, upon first or even fifth listening would uncover more and powerful devastating irony---that of being a teenager in what could best be described as dangerous and uncharted waters.
“How about this, Malc,” Finn remarked, seemingly out of the blue, “We take that demo we concocted yesterday, clean up the language a bit and just roll with it.”
“Roll with it? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Finn, you can be so exasperating at times.”
Malcolm sighed with exaggerated annoyance. “Okay, if you want to be difficult about this, then we’ll leave our unimaginable words sans any hint of profanity and we’ll eventually acquire the dubious distinction of being hideously boring as all get out.”
Given the casual atmosphere surrounding what was soon to become an unstoppable train, it’s a miracle the East Enders were able to create a completely new and exciting sound, but they managed somehow.
Neither of them really expected to get anywhere with their offbeat mannerisms and carefully camouflaged homosexuality and quite frankly, there was a small nagging sense of doubt that if they did achieve chart success and the ever-fleeting fame, it may just cost them far more than they would be able to pay. But they bit the bullet and burst on the music scene with a bittersweet homage to a waning sense of privacy and a burgeoning Big Brother atmosphere of personal oppression. And that was how “Ode To A Life Best Left In the Past.”
Finn recalled the moment he first heard the debut single by a “Brand new synth pop sensation! Ode To A Life Best Left In the Past by the soon-to-be-on top-of-the-pop world, 28-year-old Finn Beatty and 24-year-old Malcolm Johns, The East Enders!” on the radio beside his bed in a tiny bed and breakfast hotel. “OMiGod! We did it!!” Finn leapt to his feet and immediately tripped over the bed sheets in his haste to ring up Malcolm. However, it wasn’t necessary, as his “partner in crime” was banging madly on the door.
Both young men were completely discombobulated and jumped up and down hugging one another. Then, like a smack in the face with a wet blanket, the reality sunk in: There was no turning back now. The golden genie had been sprung from its crusted bottle and there was no stuffing it back in.
Finn wasted no time and as he brewed tea for Malcolm and himself, he perused the Daily News and was shocked at what the record company, RCA had used to illustrate the The East Enders’ cassette cover: A candid photo they’d not been aware had been captured on film showing Finn bending down to pet a small Cocker Spaniel and Malcolm leaning against a red phone booth, seemingly talking rapidly and breathlessly. But that wasn’t the problem. It was the caption beneath: Hey girls! Meet your brand new pop idols, The East Enders! If you’re patient, you’ll be able to reach out and touch them!”
“WTF?!” Malcolm felt as though he’d been sucker punched. Finn, we’ve just been born as a—a teenage wet dream!”
Finn felt his face grow numb and his tongue dry out. “But we haven’t even performed this single yet and already we’re in the gossip rags?! How is this happening???”
It was the beginning of the most hair-raising roller coaster ride of their lives. Even on day one, they had been given new identities and personalities. Oh sure, fame did have a number of perks that were difficult to deny: Partying with music idols David Bowie, Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes and Roxy Music’s Bryan Ferry , a golden opportunity for hunkering down in a posh music studio to create an entire album based upon the wildly successful debut single. It wasn’t as easy as they’d imagined it would be. In fact, as the weeks stretched into endless months, interrupted frequently by reporters, photograph after photograph: Finn and Malcolm gazing sensuously at the camera, Finn’s blond curls glistening with manufactured sweat (courtesy of an ever-present squirt bottle), Malcolm deadpanned and glassy-eyed (There was no need to manufacture that) Finn holding awkwardly an obviously distressed Calico cat----Finn’s passionate disdain for the feline of the species hadn‘t as yet been disclosed, although it wouldn’t be very long coming. Remember the old “My Hates and Loves” twaddle that provided the fodder for the likes of Tiger Beat and 16 Magazine, both American teen publications? It gives me pause to cringe at the mere thought of the travesty.
Fortunately for their growing sense of loss of control of their private lives, both Finn and Malcolm were finally given the adult respect and recognition they’d craved since That First Day Of World Domination (well, that’s a bit verbose, even for the likes of me. So never mind.) They graced the Mirror and Melody Maker, both UK publications that deftly described The East Enders as “creators of synth pop for the big girls and boys—aka more than lip-glossed kisses on photos of the boys adorning teenage girls craving a welcome respite from The Reflexexexexex and White Wedding. “Oh goody! I got a photo taken with that hunky Finn. No, the tall, skinny boy who somehow manages to look like a Botticelli angel. You know: The British version of Michael Stipe.”
How devastatingly accurate this casual comparison would turn out to be. Utterly and painfully accurate. But so far, the future looked bright.
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