Sulphated Dreams: A Novel of Manchester

By Michael Mackey

Sulphated Dreams is a novel set in Manchester, England in the winter and spring of 1987.

It is the story of Mick Russellton, a music journalist who one night meets two very different woman. Terry, one time Teresa, an outgoing if unemployed actress and Julia, an intriguing photographer. After a fling with Terry Mick starts an affair with Julia which ultimately leads to his downfall, as Julia is the partner of the man who is trying to buy the paper Mick writes for.

There is a epilogue set in Manchester in 1990.

Sulphated Dreams though is more than a romance. It's a description of Manchester before it was Madchester and before regeneration that refers back to the other Manchesters and in some ways the Manchesters that could have been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543906059

Book preview

Thirty-One

Prologue

It was from his Auntie Shelagh Mick Russell acquired his love of music and had first started to realise on the couch of her front room in Gorton all those years ago its strengths, the memories it could hold, the dreams it let him live. Not bad for a seven year old.

The story was quite simple but now confused in his memory, even though it was the starting point of his own existence.

Michael Russellton as he had been then, he was to become Mick and drop the ‘ton’ later, had been unusually in a fight at school, a defensive one. He had fought back bravely though still he had come home crying, looking like what he was a small boy who has just been bullied and who in fighting back and losing feels something big and important has been lost. Somewhere after all this Auntie Shelagh, who was a relative by word not blood, had picked him up, dusted him down given him a fizzy drink and chocolate biscuit.

Come on, she said. I’ll show you what I do when life gets on top of me. She led him by the hand into her front room and put the music on. The she sat next to him, hugged him protectively told him to listen and that the music would make it all better. That was over twenty years ago, longer, but from that point on Mick was never the same.

The years afterwards when he would go round to Auntie Shelagh’s before his mother and his father moved he always tried to find the piece of music that he had heard, the same combination of cadences and stresses that had changed the crying child into the laughing, one his mother picked up when she returned.

Aunty Shelagh’s record collection consisted of Shirley Bassey, the Supremes, Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick, in short everything that Mick grew up listening to and which even now early 1987 he quietly turned to for something more. In them he found a world where for three and a half minutes at least everything was alright. Sometimes it went beyond that and the memory of the song and its associations were more durable than the melody.

Aunty Shelagh, why do you like Shirley Bassey so much? he asked on one occasion between mouthfuls of another type of chocolate biscuit and a fizzy drink.

Because when Shirley sings she puts everything she’s got into it. Everything, Auntie Shelagh had replied. And so it became for Mick. Everything was in the music but not now. That was all a long time ago.

But there was another memory woven into this. One from which Mick had been excluded but which had given him the idea of a different, more exciting way of living. Shirley Bassey was to sing at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester. The same city but a very different part of it. Even more so then.

Aunty Shelagh was to go, without any regard to the cost, and after a short period of discussion between his mother and his father they were to accompany her.

Mick could not remember who had babysat him that night or what had happened in the days after but he could remember the excitement of the anticipation. The dressing up, preening, his mother and Aunty Shelagh sat waiting, in their front room for the taxi down town.

Both of them were dressed as if they really were going out long evening dresses, hair done and his mother’s mink stole, his father was his in a suit with a clean, probably new shirt and tie too. Had he felt jealous of them going out? Mick couldn’t remember. But he caught the excitement that going out for music brought with it.

Mick wondered again what had happened to Aunty Shelagh. When his parents had moved they had lost touch. She had however come to his mother’s funeral, promised to keep in touch and then just disappeared. There might have been Christmas cards but Mick just didn’t know.

What he didn’t want to wonder about though was the life he could have had if Auntie Shirley had not played that piece of music. That other life existed only in the realm of alternatives long gone and ill-fated rather than sulphated dreams.

Chapter One

The Scene Team, all two of them, Mick Russell (Editor) and Simon Keyson, (part time Deputy Editor) had lunch as they usually did in the pub round the corner. Not The Lass O’Gowrie but a more ordinary establishment.  Closer too.

Scene’s office was just round the corner in an old building where the rents were cheap but the facilities limited. Still it allowed them to get a magazine out once a month and as Simon said it was close to The Lass O’Gowrie, The Cornerhouse and The Hacienda, in short the student joys of Whitworth Street.

And as Mick pointed out the upcoming News on Sunday – a comment which reminded Simon to get his application in although it rather conflicted with his plan to be a Channel Four researcher and a recent application to go and work for the marketing department of a big travel company.

By contrast Mick was not bothering – a new newspaper was always risky and one boasting of its left wing views and values rather than discarding them as Britain was seemingly doing, seemed even riskier. He was taking a wait and see approach on that one.

The Manchester Morning Post, which Mick did reviews and features for, might object if he started working for the News on Sunday although the Post didn’t publish on Sunday: but still both were newspapers with lots of journalists: complaints and gossip abounded.

There was plenty to complain about that February lunchtime. The Morning Post was fighting a takeover bid, one being branded hostile, by local businessman David Stanton. Mick could only imagine the silence that had descended on the newsroom as it had been announced.

Yet Whitworth Street was not the centre of the world for Scene’s readers maybe not even for the two other listings magazines, City Life and Debris, the city sort-of supported. Debris was more bohemian than the slight grubby sometimes even grim Whitworth Street and City Life aspired to a bit more, so maybe thought Mick, we are well placed. Muse, the city’s other music magazine, had closed before Christmas. Happy Christmas indeed Mick had thought.

No Scene’s readers tended to live outside of the city, work as opposed to be at either the University or the Poly and were very serious about music which they regarded as theirs. Mick could understand that but at thirty he couldn’t understand why they, like Simon still lived at home.

Can’t afford to move out, said Simon whenever the subject came up. It’s only for a few months, was his other line on the subject. By Mick’s reckoning those few months were close to being up still Simon languished three days a week in the Scene office, writing occasionally and more usually making sure he was on the press list for any event in the city he wanted to attend which was usually most of them.

Friday, the day Simon was not in Mick noticed the quiet. He was glad of Simon’s company even though he had doubts about Simon’s productivity. And he made lunches and after work drinks a bit more interesting.

It was at moments like this, a working lunch in an ordinary city centre Manchester pub, Mick felt if not happy then at least content in a way he knew was just for a few minutes. Still he savoured it. He was of course nostalgic for it the second it passed.

Why? he asked himself. Because the way the sun falls through the windows making people squint, giving the collection of glasses, whether empty full or somewhere in between, in front of them, halos but not rainbows. The feeling of two pints on an empty stomach, a moment you could come back to. Only today Mick wasn’t drinking anything much more than orange juice.

What’s up with you? said Simon between tears off a tuna fish sandwich.

Nothing.

Doesn’t look that way. Another tear. Last night still affecting you?

Yeah just a little, said Mick resignedly.

Wimp, Simon laughed that forced hard staccato laugh of his where he put his face near to yours in one long aggravated `ha’ of triumph, aggression conceit almost.

Charting the conversation back to safer water Mick asked What did Wanda have to say? Wanda was the nickname they had both ascribed to the PR woman from one of the new but relentlessly up and coming record companies. Like so many others she was called Nikki but on hearing how she termed every release of the record company that she worked for as wandaful Simon had christened her Wanda. Mick had only then realised how he had never noticed her odd hard to place accent, mid everywhere but never that handle, the thing by which she could be identified and defined.

Oh, Simon studied his tuna sandwich well as per usual to promote the latest release – ‘its wandaful.’ The last two words mimicked the accent badly thought Mick but he kept it to himself. But also to say that Kurt thought my piece on him was good. Simon turned towards Mick, his eyes closed in a squint something made necessary by the barrier of sunlight falling between them.

The mood had changed. Sunlight like a solid beam between them. Thinking himself wrong footed, almost embarrassed by this Mick glanced away, looked back and smiled, now composed. Well? an inquisitive but ultimately commanding look.

Well, a note of hesitation in Simon’s voice well what I can’t understand is why Kurt one, would see the piece, two, would feel a need to pass a comment on it and three Wanda then pass that comment back to us. After all we are just a small magazine.

Again Mick looked away and looked back an action designed to give Simon an opportunity to take yet another tear off the sandwich. He mistimed it though and caught Simon shaking the crust of the sandwich. Keyson what are you doing to that sandwich?

Eating it.

It looks more like you are savaging it.

Most sensible thing to do with it, said Simon is a pained voice as he put it on the table and pushed it away. Looked at it again he shuddered in a public way and turned to Mick.

So what gem were you thinking of, why should Kurt draw Wanda’s attention to my piece? Wanda was pronounced in such a way as to suggest weariness but also acceptance. Like a joke that had outlived any real use or even humour but which could not yet be discarded.

Kurt was Kurt Drannon, the lead singer of a band called The Lost Angels who Simon had been to London to interview some weeks before. Mick had some doubts about the band, Drannon and Simon’s like of both. He had originally been offered the interview but had hesitated. In the period of deliberation Simon had moved in. Mick relieved at having had a decision made for him had said nothing but prepared for the copy. Eventually he got it. As usual with the pieces Simon really wanted to write, it was delivered on the day of deadline and still not typed. Luckily the writing was readable. It surprised him.

Clear, open, it explored the darkness of the Last Angels and examined with cold sympathy their flirtation with the things of the real world; sex, drugs, disillusionment, celebration of darkness in the heart of man. Coming across that phrase in the piece Mick had temporarily recoiled. Yet he knew it fitted in, it was a summary of the bands approach. When he had been editing it he had looked up at Simon. This is good.

Thank you all part of the service. Nothing more needed to be said.

So why did Kurt draw Wanda’s attention to it. Or visa-versa? Mick looked away musing on the bar and behind it a mysterious kitchen. God I could do with a coffee he thought. But he could feel Simon waiting with that low-key intensity, staring through the sunbeam.

I don’t know, he said shaking his head. I don’t think it’s at all important. Do you?

Well yes and no. Slight pause.

Mick could think of several reasons although he couldn’t be bothered to speak; because Kurt was bored and it was the only magazine PR had to hand or wanted him to read. Or maybe even because Kurt had read it of his own free will. Or simply because Wanda was lying. She would not be the first, or last PR person, to do that.

Then again why did Wanda who as the supplier of free records, photos, press list passes and interviews feel the need to keep on good terms with one small regional magazine? There were two others in Manchester, still, both of which Wanda was probably dealing with as well although……….. Mick switched his mind off that train of thought quickly. Simon really should know that it wasn’t significant; it didn’t matter.

There is no great design, he intoned. Just one of those things.

Damn, said Simon Here ends what could have been a great friendship. I was beginning to think I could see it all `Counsellor to the Jim Morrison of the 1980’s -.

Well you couldn’t exactly be counsellor to The Jim Morrison, now could you?

Oh I don’t know, said Simon. One has remarkably good lines of communication to hitherto untapped sources. The latter part of this was dropped like a confidence through the sunlight.

Seeing it Mick thought it was a striking maybe even beautiful image. He saw it as a picture, a page in a magazine. Not Scene. There was no art in Scene unless it was accidental. But this he could appreciate: A rectangle diagonally bisected by a slab of sunlight and poking into it a face that held much humour and inquiry. He smiled and the head retreated to the other side of the sunlight.

Coffee? said Mick.

Here or in the office?

Here. The office now held no appeal.

Simon glanced at his watch Well yeah okay go on then. He reached for his pocket but was waved down.

Simon had nudged his way into Mick’s life and onto Scene magazine last autumn. Some months after Sophie had gone and weeks after the disastrous holiday to Turkey with Lisa.

Simon brought with him a certain ability and a certain brazenness.

For example he had done an assured review of Mantronix at The Hacienda although this was offset by a review of The Residents also at The Hacienda which was pretentious beyond belief. Mick had binned it and Simon had objected. Being spiked though had only encouraged him.

Simon also needed to be reminded there was more to Manchester, and his life, than The Hacienda and being in Tony Wilson’s good books. Mick having had to point out to him Hugh Masakela at The International was interesting even if the location was unromantic.  Simon talked of going to India one day but somehow walking up Dickenson Road with its assortment of grubby if exotic shops was rather beyond him.

Whatever else he could never see Simon moving out of the comfort of his parents’ house in Didsbury to join the struggling (student) masses in the Hulme Crescents. He had friends there he went to see occasionally and that was enough. For Mick it was more than enough. Having grown up in a terraced house, albeit a largish one, in Gorton there was no way he was doing that. In the eyes of his father living in Withington was bad enough. Hulme really would be the end of the world although on rare occasions he was tempted. Almost.

And occasionally Simon would really annoy him. The best, and to some extent only real example of this was The Festival for the Millions organized just before Christmas for the unemployed at the Free Trade Hall which became a free festival for the white middle classes as had been said from the stage at one point.

Not that Simon had noticed he was busy buttonholing Tony Wilson backstage as The Man Himself later told Mick. As a result Simon missed one of the best sets from A Certain Ratio that Mick had seen and the sheer craziness of Inner Sense Percussion.

For someone looking for the Next Big Thing Simon had missed something different, something happening whilst he talked to Tony- Yesterday’s Man as Mick did not think of him – about a possible Channel Four documentary on Factory. Tony obviously was delighted his life’s work recognized: Mick less so. TW, as he was thought of, wasn’t so much Yesterday’s Man but somehow he like the City and its music was at a hard to define point. And could anyone ever capture the fickleness of Tony Wilson?

A great past even with The Smiths split, no chance of reconciliation there, although Simon was very keen on rumours about reconciliations. Too keen in Mick’s view as he knocked back another one.

So where from here? Easier to be complacent especially around Christmas with a glass in your hand but oh how cold and bleak February 1987 – after an even bleaker January 1987 - had appeared. Part of the problem had been Frankie Goes to Hollywood had started their European tour in G-Mex early in the year. Cue another excellent review from Simon who had tried, valiantly, but failed to make the post show party. Him and a couple of hundred others.

Not helping matters had been the end of Muse, a rival magazine to Scene. That was gone something Mick did not celebrate. A magazine closes and someone somewhere needs a job why not yours?

Standing at the counter going through the motions of ordering, waiting, paying, he watched Simon via the bar mirror. Sat in ‘their’ little alcove legs and arms crossed and yet still managing to sprawl he was alone staring out somewhere. Mick could tell that Simon was daydreaming and he smiled to himself. At moments like this his fragile moments of peace and happiness where with another drink, another coffee you could ward off the world outside Mick was happy in a way that made him happy for an instance within an instant.

That will be eighty pence luv, said the barmaid breaking into his daydream. The emphasis was as usual with Manchester very much on the last words.

Sorry I was miles away, said Mick handing over the change and with hunched shoulders taking the cups. It was a little obvious love. Her face was already facing the other way. Next please. The words sounded like an axe falling.

Chapter Two.

The tape of course was not helping.

It had been a curious gift if that was the word. It had arrived in the first post after Christmas along with some late cards, a returned subscription copy of the magazine and the usual bills, circulars and dross associated with the first day back at work.

Waiting for the kettle to boil he surveyed the padded brown envelope. Bands would usually send in a demo tape, sometimes deliver it themselves, but not in this type of envelope. Usually it was a plain brown envelope with the address biro-ed on and stamps. This was different a padded envelope with a typed sticker giving the address. And it was franked.

The letter inside explained all.

Dear Mick, - it read "Even by my standards of punctuality this is a shocker. (Don’t agree or else that pint I owe you will never happen.)

"It was a real pleasure to have you on the programme and talk about some of the songs that made Manchester what it was. And is.

"This is a copy of both shows and on the B-side I put some tracks about Brighton which is where I am going next. If ever you come down please look me up it would be good to catch up and have that beer I promised you. 

"Yours ever,

Alan."

Alan had been a producer at one of the local radio stations a large, outgoing, permanently nice man. Mocked because of it and a show that veered to the mainstream he had won Mick’s sympathy easily.  Sometimes trendies believed too much in themselves and their own rather exclusive tastes. Sometimes they were just cruel.

Alan’s programme was a music one where people were invited in to talk about the music that was important to them. Mick had been on twice during July and August to talk about the Festival of the Tenth Summer both ahead and after it.

He wished he hadn’t. The Festival of the Tenth Summer had timing which had complicated things no end with Lisa to the point where the already-booked trip to Turkey became the disaster it did, so much so he had been tempted to call Sophie, gone then, but still in some ways with him. It had been either cowardice or an acknowledgement it was really over, despite what he would have liked to think, not to call her. 

Talking about the Festival of the Tenth Summer in the run up to it had been easy. Extra advertising for Scene magazine meant more stories were needed so he had to write, and so pay himself, more. Other papers were also interested in stories on and about the Festival so more work, enough in fact to pay for the still not mentionable trip to Turkey with the still estranged Lisa, and it was exciting to be part of a much bigger thing than the city usually provided in July.

It did though raise the question why can’t we do more here? The problem had been afterwards when that question lay over the city and you realised what you were missing most of the rest of the time.

The Festival had been to commemorate ten years since the Sex Pistols had first played the Lesser Free Trade