Instrumental (21 page)

TRACK TWENTY

Bach, ‘Goldberg Variations', Aria da capo

Glenn Gould, Piano

Bach began and ended his Goldberg Variations with the same thirty-two-bar aria. Thirty-two, incidentally, being the total number of variations in the whole work. The piece has come full circle and ends where it started with the first and last thirty-two bars note-for-note identical. But of course as we listen we are in a very different place from where we were sixty minutes before (as long as the pianist has done his or her job correctly). Bach has taken us on a journey that we interpret and experience through our own memories, feelings and conditioning. You will respond differently from the way I do, and vice versa. That is the glory of music, especially music as immortal as this.

IT FELT RIGHT TO END
this book as we began it, with the aria from the Goldbergs. Because that's the thing about music – we hear a piece of music and feel something. We hear the exact same piece of music at a different time and although the music is unchanged, our response is always slightly different.

My own personal ‘Goldberg Variations' began as a 7lb baby screaming my lungs out, and my life so far has consisted of many variations – some of them delightful, some brutal, some hopeful and some soaked through with grief and anger. I lost my childhood but gained a child. I lost a marriage but gained a soulmate. I lost my way but gained a career and a fourth or fifth chance at a life that is second to none.

A few short weeks after proposing to Hattie, we're all sitting in my living room watching my first Channel 4 project, which is where this book started. It is the end of many chapters of my weird little life and the beginning of a new one that I hope will be filled with a little less pain, a little more music, and a lot more kindness.

When I end up performing these variations in the future I'm going to play this final aria slower, calmer, more gently than the opening one because at last, that's where my head is at after experiencing this journey variation by variation.

Thank fuck for that.

Afterword

I'VE NO IDEA IF I'M
going to survive the next few years. I've been in places before where I felt solid, reliable, good, strong and it's all gone to shit. Sadly I am only ever two bad weeks away from a locked ward.

I've no idea if the thoughts in this book about myself and about music are going to flourish and grow and evolve into something long-lasting and worthwhile.

But I have a strong sense that there is some kind of revolution happening, personally and professionally.

The revolution within me has involved re-evaluating everything I thought I knew and being open to ideas that previously seemed alien, false and impossible. It's taken a long time and come with a huge, barely affordable price tag attached to it.

The revolution outside myself, in the industry that I am devoting my life to, is in its infancy. And I am lucky enough to play a small part in fighting alongside a few others who share the same goals of freeing music from the tyranny of the asshole.

You can help by simply listening to it. Maybe sharing it with a friend. Or sharing it with your kids. It's an honourable thing to do. A kind thing.

Music can shine a light into places where nothing else can reach. That great musical genius lunatic Schumann tells us ‘To send light into the darkness of men's hearts – such is the duty of the artist'. I think it's the duty of all of us, no matter what we do to fill our time.

And as long as I'm honouring that, then even if I don't make it I will fall asleep happy.

Acknowledgments

THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE
without whom I know, for sure, I would not be here. They have been part of my life sometimes for a few hours or days, sometimes for many years. Some are threads that have been part of the entire fabric of my existence, either from the beginning or from the middle. My experience is that as I work through my own shit, I focus on my part, where I'm going wrong, where I can improve, where I can grow up, and then there is a ripple effect. So many of my relationships, both old and new, have blossomed and grown into something I could never have imagined a few years ago. The truth is that as I grow, so do my relationships.

I have chosen a job (or perhaps it has chosen me) that involves the scary and risky reality of spending countless hours alone in a small room or on a big stage, focusing, thinking and feeling. Most of these things are not good for someone with a bit of a wonky head and a bunch of weird and wonderful neuroses. It is by turns safe, terrifying, pressurised and restorative. Sometimes, oddly, all at once.

And amongst all of the people I am surrounded by, there is a small, core group that binds me together and continues to keep me safe and feeling whole.

My mum, who has not once turned her back on me, not once failed to be there in any way she can when I've asked her, who continues to support and encourage and love.

My best friend, best man, best everything, Matthew, whose wife has sewn me up, who has driven me back to hospital more than once, liaised with police and doctors, looked after my ex-wife and son, shouldered burdens and responsibilities that no one should have to shoulder and done it without complaint, with grace, with love.

Sir David Tang, who has subsidised, supported, aided and abetted me in my journey in ways that I could never begin to adequately describe while doing him justice. He is the most generous man I know, and one of the most admirable.

Benedict Cumberbatch, enemy of spellcheckers everywhere, who has offered advice, friendship, movies, dinners, premieres, company, dubious fashion advice, time and energy, many times while in the middle of shooting yet another $100 million dollar epic bloody Hollywood movie. When I knew him at school he was little, bookish, a bit nerdy, quiet, softly spoken and kind. He still is, except for the little part. He is a giant amongst men and the most talented actor of his generation.

Billy Shanahan is my long-suffering and patient psychiatrist. When I first met him (the last in a too-long line of doctors) it was clear I could trust him because he knew what I knew – that life is temporary and indescribably fragile and that there are many, many, too fucking many people for whom suicide is a valid way out. He's that rare breed
of doctor who seems to have genuine empathy and understanding, and those two assets are worth a million Xanax.

Derren Brown is, without sounding too creepy, the most genuinely likeable person I have ever met. He has been there for me both personally and professionally for many years now. He is giant of heart, overwhelmingly, frighteningly kind, supportive and absolutely reliable in every way. Should I ever manage to get to a vaguely comparable place in my career to his, I could only ever hope to be a fraction as real and humble as he is. He inspires me more than I can say.

Stephen Fry is not only officiating at our wedding, he is and always has been a staunch supporter of good. He continually sticks his neck out over topics that are uncomfortable, misunderstood, complex and important. He is one of the very few people I know who is exactly the same over a cup of tea at his house as he is in front of the camera talking about manic depression or homosexual injustice. His kindness, advice, support and stupidly big brain have frequently stopped my wobbles from becoming full-on implosions. He is a fucking legend and the only man I would turn for.

My publishers Canongate, with whom I was hit with the threat of legal action of this book in March 2014. Despite doing everything in our power to resolve this amicably, we ended up being forced to go to court in order to fight for the right to publish
Instrumental
. I will always be grateful to Canongate for standing beside me during the fourteen months of aggressive litigation that ensued. It has taken more than anyone could possibly imagine to stay the course, but I am very pleased that the book you have read has not been censored by the British courts in any way..

Denis Blais. You have taken me from being a nobody to being a slightly better known nobody with a bunch of concerts, five albums, TV shows, a tonne of press, a book, DVD, world tours and a happy bank manager. You have done it cautiously, sensibly, carefully and caringly. You have done it when I've pushed, pulled, cried, shouted, screamed and complained. You have not once let me down. You have been responsible for everything that is good in my career and everything that is worthy in my personal life. You are a manager, lawyer,
agent, shrink, nurse, bodyguard, photographer, cinematographer, writer, banker, chef, guide, priest, cleaner, consultant, producer, friend, comrade and surrogate father. On we go, together, playing our part in what we set out to do five years ago.

Jack. My boy. You always have been, always will be, the greatest part of my life. One day perhaps you'll be a dad yourself and then you will understand. Until that day comes I can only swear to you, on everything I hold dear, that there is nothing that could come even close to the love and pride I have for you. You're my little cub, the tiny thing I held and fed and cuddled who has grown and explored and become his own, magnificent person. You will always have me, always have a home to come to, never have to worry about doing something you hate simply to pay the mortgage. I want you to do anything and everything that fulfils you and makes you smile. Be whoever you want, and know that I could not be any prouder of who you are. You, more than anyone else in my life, inspire me the most. You are my absolute joy.

And finally Hattie. It is a truth I have only recently discovered, but I now know that the love of a good woman can rescue a man. And you are so much more than a good woman. You are brave and open and headstrong and vivacious. You have an energy about you that turns my world and my heart upside down and spins it on its axis. For all your delicious quirkiness, there is an all-consuming beauty that radiates from every pore, every cell, in you. And I hope I never, ever get to believe how lucky I am to have you by my side. I want always to feel like I'm falling ever so slightly short and therefore to keep trying harder. I want continually to earn the privilege that is
being your man, to show you that my commitment to you, to us, is my immoveable priority. Because I love you. Oh how I fucking love you.

Once there was a fragile man. And he met a fragile woman. They were lucky enough to realise that two fragiles equalled a strong, and so those two little weirdos got married. Because that is unquestionably, truthfully, honestly and absolutely the right thing to do. And one day they went on to have their own weird little cubs. And fucked them up royally like all parents do.

Appendix

‘Outrage at Jimmy Savile conceals the fact that our culture encourages paedophilia. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about'

Daily Telegraph
Culture Blog, 1 November 2012

WE READ MORE AND
more about the horrors that went on and the now incontestable fact that others knew it was happening, and we get all shouty and indignant. It reveals the irksome, irritating side of Twitter, the tabloid press, self-published blogs and the loud, chatty guy in the pub. The moral high ground. The furious bleating and self-righteousness of the whiter-than-white populace.

The outcry will not do any good at all. How many times since ‘Never again' has it happened again? Using words like ‘molest' and ‘abuse' runs utterly counter to the horror of child rape. As do the prison sentences handed down upon conviction. You can serve longer in prison for saying ‘I'm going to kill you' (maximum sentence 10 years) than you can for having sex with your three-year-old daughter (maximum sentence seven years). Newspapers happily show pictures of fourteen-year-old girls sunbathing and use sexual language to describe them while at the same time appearing indignant and appalled at the crimes of Savile, Glitter et al.

The culture of celebrity has the same shroud of secrecy, power and authority as the Church. Why on earth should we be surprised at sexual abuse going on in those circles? The only thing that surprises me is that people actually seem surprised. In any environment where there is power, there will be an abuse of that power.

For five years I was abused at school, at least one other teacher knew it was happening and even after voicing their concerns to the relevant authorities within the school, nothing was done and the horrors continued.

We read about things like this and we think ‘how awful' and then get on with eating our cornflakes, but no one really wants to look beneath the surface. The physical act of rape is just the beginning – each time it happened I seemed to leave a little bit of myself behind with him until it felt like there was pretty much nothing left of me that was real. And those bits do not seem to come back over time. What goes too often unreported and unexamined and unacknowledged is the legacy that is left with the victim.

I've talked about this a lot. But some of it bears repeating. Until it's heard by as many people as is necessary to work harder to stop it.

Those side-effects I wrote about earlier: Self-harm. Depression. Drug and alcohol abuse. Reparative surgery. OCD. Dissociation. Inability to maintain functional relationships. Marital breakdowns. Being forcefully institutionalised. Hallucinations (auditory and visual). Hypervigilance. PTSD. Sexual shame and confusion. Anorexia and other eating disorders. These are just a few of my symptoms (for want of a better word) of chronic sexual abuse. They have all been a part of my life in the very recent past, some are still with me, and the abuse I went through
was 30 years ago. I am not saying that these things are the inevitable result of my experience; I imagine that some people can go through similar experiences and emerge largely unscathed. What I am saying is that if living life is the equivalent of running a marathon, then sexual abuse in childhood has the net effect of removing one of your legs and adding a backpack of bricks on the starting line.

I don't want to be writing about things like this. I don't want to deal with the inevitable feelings of shame and exposure that will come from it. And I don't want to deal with the accusations of using my back story to flog albums, being full of self-pity, attention-seeking or whatever other madness has already and will no doubt continue being levelled at me. But neither do I want to have to keep quiet, or even worse, feel as if I should keep quiet, when there is so much about our culture (which is in many ways so incredibly evolved) that allows, endorses, encourages and revels in the sexual abuse of children. Paedophilia has acquired a grim, vaguely titillating, car-crash fascination that the press have jumped all over.