On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (18 page)

True to form, Jamie arrived five minutes into visiting hours bearing chocolates, flowers and a puppy-dog look of concern.

“Amanda, what happened? Are you ok?”

Amanda put on the most manipulatively vulnerable face she could muster.

“Oh Jamie, I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be silly. You have nothing to be sorry about. But what happened? It wasn't another one of Filch's schemes was it?”

She didn't know what to say. She was so used to manipulating him, or so she thought, that her instinct was to be pitiable, weak and needy, but now wasn't the time for that. No she had to be tough. She pulled herself up on her bed.

“Jamie. I'm going to have to let you go.”

“What?”

“You've become surplus to our requirements. I'm sorry. I'm
really so sorry, but that's that.”

“What? You're firing me? I don't understand. Why?”

“Jamie my dear, you have qualms, and in this business you can't afford to have qualms.”

“But Amanda . . . we have a history . . . you can't just fire me, I'm your friend.”

“Jamie we're done. Didn't you hear? You're fired, that's it. We're done. Done, done, done!” and she gave him a steely cold look to underline the point. Though the discussion did in fact continue for a further five minutes, with many accusations and recriminations thrown on both sides, nothing further was actually communicated. When Jamie left, he had the look of a man whose heart had been most cruelly broken, and that was, in all likelihood, the case. Amanda just curled up again in the bed, as if nothing at all had happened, and continued flicking through the gossip channels. But something was different. Somewhere inside she knew she was now alone. And that was a good thing, right? No one to hold her back now.

****

The following months continued in similar vein, with numerous ruses, counter-ruses, and cunning little schemes expertly devised by Filch and extravagantly executed by Amanda. There was a staged on-off relationship with WWF wrestler Hell's Hammer; a much publicised arrest for possession of illegally imported Chinese medicines, amongst them a dried tiger's penis and mummified panda paw (Amanda personally found these items to be rather disgusting, but kept them in her bag in the hope that they might be discovered at an opportune moment, as indeed they were); various catfights with other publicity hungry “celebrities”, each of them among Filch's many desperate clients; a carefully contrived impatience with the photographers, ultimately resulting in a number of charges being levelled against her for assault and destruction of property; and many more, too numerous to mention here. Amanda took to wearing thicker, more excessive theatrical
makeup, even whilst in bed, that her features might be clearly defined in the craftiest of long distance shots. Indeed she became so enamoured with “the game” that six months passed before she realised she hadn't sat at her keyboard or sung a single note since her first meeting with Filch. And so, the following Monday, as she sat in the expensive chair, waiting for Filch to get off the phone, she decided to suggest maybe doing a few gigs again. Finally he clamped the receiver down on its base, as if seeking dramatic effect, and swung around on his chair to face Amanda. He had clearly had some kind of operation as his nose was completely covered with an excessively large dressing stained in yellow, red and brown, and his moustache had been trimmed, presumably to attach the dressing, so that only the tips remained giving the appearance of two large hairy moles on either side of his mouth. Amanda gulped quietly to herself and blurted out,

“I've been thinking of putting on a show.”

Filch looked momentarily horrified, before what was left of his face relaxed into a smile, then a grin, and finally erupted into laughter. “Manda, Manda, Manda. You leave the ideas to me.”

“No, I'm serious. I mean, I'm supposed to be a musician, aren't I?”

Filch leant forward across his desk, and gave her his most serious look. “Listen. Sure, when you first came to me you were a musician, and where was that getting you? Your publicity capital was plummeting. Nobody gave a damn. Sure you could have struggled on, playing ever smaller venues until . . . well let's just say it wouldn't have lasted long. Now, today, you're a superstar, one of the most talked about girls in the whole of the US. And, to be frank, it's got fuck all to do with music.”

“But my fans will want to see me play.”

“Take my word for it, your fans are far more interested in what you're wearing, and who you're bitching about than hearing you sing. There are a million perfectly good singers out there, but only a handful of superstars. It would be a huge step backwards.”

“But can't I be a superstar
and
a singer?”

“Hmmmm . . .” Filch leant far back on his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Hmmm” he said again turning his gaze back to her. “Well . . . ok, so here's what we can do: I'll ask around, get you a good slot at some big event, maybe the Central Park Summerstage, or some such. But, and this is important, you have to play the role. Remember, you're a train wreck, and America loves a train wreck. If you go out there and put on a good show all our work will be undone . . . Do you drink? Yes, course you do. So drink a bottle of bourbon before you go on, or fake it if you can. Fall off the stage, swear at the audience, forget your words, lay into the band, whatever, but make it a disaster. Trust me, Manda, if you want to sing it's the only way not to fuck it all up”

“Sure, I can do that.” There was obviously a hint of reservation in her tone as Filch gave her his serious look again.

“You're not having any qualms are you, because...”

“I know, I know. In this business there's no room for qualms.”

It turned out that the Summerstage was entirely booked up, and even Filch, with all of his many contacts and favours owed, was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to find a slot for Amanda at such short notice. But she was not herself without contacts and independently bagged a headlining spot at Chicago's Lollapalooza Festival later that month. Indeed, the promoters were so enthusiastic that not only had they offered her a sizeable fee, but also the use of the house band, which included many of Chicago's top session musicians, a number of whom she had performed with in the past. Amanda was very excited at the prospect. Over the past year she had forgotten how much she loved performing; the glare of the lights, the roar of the fans, oh yes, it felt good to be back on track. And now she was a superstar it could only be better than ever. She had three weeks to get herself back on form, and, despite her promise to Filch, she felt it couldn't hurt to at least do herself justice at the sound-check.

The three weeks passed like no time at all with Amanda uncharacteristically withdrawn from the public eye, she was so absorbed in her practice. Not that that put off the photographers,
who perpetually lurked behind bushes and parked cars with their telephoto lenses aimed not so discretely at her balcony. And it was always a refreshing break for her to indulge in a little faux-naive exhibitionism between songs. Oh yes, things had never been better; she was at the very pinnacle of her career, and it felt so good.

The morning of the show found Amanda swanning around backstage as if the whole great event had been set up just for her. She had flown into Chicago two days earlier to ensure she was fully refreshed and on top form. And, of course, to give the media, and other bands, plenty of opportunity to notice she was there. Naturally the VIP area wasn't quite so luxurious as what she was used to, having been set up in an otherwise public park, but her trailer had been done out nicely with colourful Turkish draperies, and all the many specifications of her rider had been well-catered for: white lilies and black roses, bowls of fresh fruit, a fridge stocked with champagne and orange juice, and an excessively large bowl filled with her favourite European hand-made chocolates. Although, in truth, she had little interest in hiding behind the trailer's closed doors, oh no, she wanted to be seen, to bathe in the glory of her headlining position. And deep within her bag lay the bottle of Jack Daniels Filch had given her with much emphasis at the airport, to lubricate the necessary forthcoming disaster.

She hadn't paid much attention to the array of acts supporting her, and was mildly disappointed to find that a fair number of them were newcomers whom she had barely heard of: the Nifty Spinsters, B-side, Jonah's Whale, Professor Zitch, Bonfire Madigan, Miranda Barker; who were these guys? But then that was the nature of such events. She was, after all, the mast to which they were pinning their colours in the hope of future attention. And why not? Fifteen years ago she had been amongst them herself, desperate to get noticed by hanging onto the coat-tails of various stars of the day, many of whom were now long forgotten, although some had made it through to become today's venerated elder statesmen of the industry, as she knew she would in years to come. Oh yes, today would be a good day.

The sound-check was little more than a walk-on walk-off affair, giving her barely time enough to run through a single chorus, although she did receive a fair few cheers from the many musicians and performers nervously milling around awaiting their own turn. Once she was done she joined the throng to lap up whatever praise was on offer before retiring to her trailer. This was the bit she had always disliked – sitting around, waiting for her moment: hell, she had six hours to kill, and that was if things were running to schedule, which they never were. It was the first time she had done this alone, and she had to admit she did miss Jamie, despite his qualms. She picked at the chocolates, considered doing some yoga, and then decided to take a little nap.

Five hours later she was in full costume and had added an additional layer to her richly caked makeup. She was sat, cross-legged on the plush sheepskin rug provided in her rider, eyeing up the bottle of Jack Daniels. She pulled the cork and took a big gulp, then placed it back on the floor in front of her. As the warmth coursed through her body she considered what she was doing. Certainly Filch had been right about many things: he had after all made her a bigger star than she could have ever managed on her own; hell, she was one of the most talked about singers in the whole of America, maybe even the world. Before it had been about her music, and that had got her pretty far, but now it was about her, and how she loved the attention; but this was a great event to be playing, and it felt wrong to screw it up, whatever Filch thought he knew. And anyway, hadn't she always put on a good show? Wasn't that how she had made her name in the first place? She took another great gulp, only this time in went down the wrong way, resulting in a most undignified coughing fit. Was that a sign? Was the whiskey saying don't do it? She could feel the pride rising in her belly. No! She wouldn't do it. Filch may know about PR, but he had no interest in art. And she was after all an artist! She took the bottle and poured it down the sink. She was going to go out there and do what she had always done: put on the best show she could. She was
Amanda Palmer, singer and songwriter par excellence. She would show them all!

****

The next morning she woke early in her hotel bed and urgently rang room service to enquire if the newspapers had been delivered yet. It was an impatient half an hour before a thick wad of papers arrived at her room which she received with great enthusiasm, tipping the porter a full hundred dollars. But as she hurried through them it quickly became apparent that there was nothing; not a single mention of the festival, and more importantly, not a single mention of her. But then the gig had been late last night. Maybe they just hadn't got anything to press on time. Probably tomorrow. And so she spent a miserable day shopping in the fashionable end of Chicago, trying on dresses, shoes and bags before catching her flight back to New York later that evening.

The following morning's papers had a number of reviews of the festival but to her horror she was barely mentioned. “Miranda Barker Steals the Show” was the headline on page three of the
New York Times
arts pages. The article merely referred to Amanda in passing: “Amanda Palmer gave an adequate performance but there was no sign of the sparkling effervescence and sexy panache she once displayed.” The other papers followed suit with photographs of Miranda Barker, and little if any mention of Amanda. Who the hell was this Miranda Barker character anyway? Amanda tried calling Filch repeatedly, but his secretary claimed he was out, or unavailable. Finally, at around five o'clock that afternoon her phone rang.

“Hello, Miss Palmer. Filch here. I believe you called.”

She hadn't thought through what she was planning to say to him and found herself somewhat tongue-tied, but it seemed that Filch was in no mood for listening anyway and he barely waited for her response before continuing.

“I must say I am very disappointed in you Miss Palmer, and
surprised. I thought we had an understanding. I'd invested a lot of time in you. What were you thinking?”

“I just wanted to put on a good show. That's what I do. Surely it's not so bad. It was just one show.”

“I'm afraid it's too late now Miss Palmer. You're time was already over when you came to me, and as I explained to you at the beginning, I may be able to manipulate these things, but I cannot turn the tide. And without your cooperation . . . You were riding a wave, Miss Palmer, your last wave, and you see, you've fallen off the board. The only thing left to do now is sink, and preferably with some dignity.”

In desperation Amanda continued with the maritime imagery. “But it was just one show . . . Surely I can climb back onto the board? Find something to hang onto? Can't you throw me some oars?”

“Sure I could throw you some oars, but without a boat you would still sink. Even the gulls have stopped circling. You're out of fish and they know it.”