Counterfeit

Counterfeit

we’re today’s scrambled creatures locked in tomorrow’s double features David Bowie.

1 The UmR rushes the tunnel: Not busy, yet full enough to compromise space to de-oxygenate air. The temperature is warm, body-heated. Faces are immersed in their particular concerns. Glaze-eyed. Sleepy. I sit fingering my p-C. I sway with the movement of the underground train. Its magnetised drive pushing it on over rails. Five halts to Kings Cross Central. The message came in just after two-thirty local time. Re-forming out of the qWay soup. >french-sector< >transcription needed< >breaking - missing pop-personality located in cheap overnighter Kings Cross< >press-meet - three thirty – txt to Sat< >confirm<. I was sitting in the office, tossing a poly-cup about, eyeing the communal holo-V and thinking of Mila. I confirmed and grabbed my raincoat from the ancient hat-stand; the communal cloakroom. Then stepped over the junk of the office floor. Papers and throw-aways. Into the dark corridor that led to the street x-it. Shadowed and green lighted. The pop-personality located is Ur-M-inence. A favoured media presence, he is a man who mixes music with melodrama, politics with spirituality. He enjoys considerable celebrity courtesy of Global-Net’s Atlantic-16, a music and entertainment service. His current media status is of a different order. Five days ago his lover’s body was discovered dead in the swimming pool of their Thamesestuary complex. A battered body, matted hair, large amounts of sex n-hancers in the blood stream. I am to liase with Daniel. Already at the scene. He is covering the story for a quality e-news service. Daniel, a man with a sardonic turn of phrase. Who

fashions his words in a two step: sarcasm and biting sarcasm. It is not an attribute that endears him to editors. Pressed as they are to keep news in small packages. To iron any irony out. For this is the twenty-first and News is a serious business.

2 I have already done some digging on the case. Perhaps because it interests me. I have got background, pulled articles and postings. I have put together a picture. Ur-M-inence fashions himself on the twentieth rock star David Bowie. That is he re-interprets, steals and generally takes advantage of the original’s work. He treats, digitises, cross-mixes and only thinly disguises the source. Memories are short in the entertainment world. As in the media world. Where any ‘concept’ will do so long as it generates excitement and quick fiscal return. If twentieth rock was the consumer society’s first art-form, small input - maximum impact, at least its initial purveyors had the panache to inform their work with irony and a degree of talent. Ur-M-inence steers close to mid twenty-first principle. Visuals that are soft and short to the point of invisibility. Melodic and harmonic ideas of almost child-like simplicity. It is easy emotionalism; a mix of high sentiment and nostalgia bundled in relentless pr assault, a constant media-feed of personal drama, breakdowns and narco-addiction. The stuff of tragic and escapist intimacies. In appearance Ur-M-inence borrows his source’s mid nineteen-seventies look. He has had his face silicone-sculpted to almost exact replica of the Andrew Kent photographs. (The same Andrew Kent who now flickers thought retrospectives at the Royal Academy). The copper-fringed coiffure, mascara-ed eyes, gaunt cocaine-drawn face and almost angel-thin body. Ur-M-inence is a bitpainting of a painting. A chimera who strides stages. A tiny figure woven by pixels and held aloft on cross beams of tungsten and laser. He is a carrier of mass dreams and evokes a longing deep in the soft resi-Zone’s psyche. A place, where in the dead of night, in empty hours the desire for some power slips free. Where the longing for absolution, for obliteration finds voice. And becomes the nazi-salute all done up in a wig and well-meaning. Thin-White’s media moment was his live claim on Atlantic-16 that his connection to his idol was not a simple one. Such a mundane interpretation of their relationship would not suffice. In a notable holo-V link-up he produced a ‘psychic’ from the renegade state of California: a broad-bodied man with small, pebble-like eyes, dyed hair and goateed chin. Slow-tongued and hypnotic, this spiritual salesman peered out at viewers as though challenging them. He would, he claimed, placed Ur-M-inence in a trance. Our pop-personality recalled his past life as the rock-star. He spoke of his childhood in Bromley, London, his early success, his time in New York and LA and his flight to Berlin. Ur-M-inence babbled trivia talk, repeating nothing that

could not have been sourced in any well filed info-cloud. As if sensing waning interest he then made an incredulous claim. The real David Bowie was murdered by Intelligence services of the former US shortly before recording the Station to Station album. The link-up involving inter-act. the questioning began immediately; a frenzy of speculation. Why? Because David was indeed a star-child. Fallen to earth. He was a superior galactic being. No! David’s DNA was not human in the sense we would understand. It contained alien markers. Yes there were mysterious circumstances surrounding his birth. A strange series of lights were seen over London at 9.30 AM on Jan 08 1947. The air-force was scrambled because of a reported UFO sighting off the Kent coast. Unintelligible signals interfered with normal radio transmission all day. Clarification? The US government’s Project Bluebook had been monitoring David for years. They believed his musical activity was a cover to activate alien cells in preparation for subversion. They killed the connection. (Ur-M-inence claimed this was done by replacing David’s much needed psychotropic drugs with a genetically-coded compound that caused his heart to collapse.) The real David Bowie was replaced with a government agent who proceeded, subtly, to dismantle the rock star’s reputation. Renouncing his past, watering down his music, turning him into an icon of quiet and complacent middle-age. Making him an acceptable figure of the establishment. Irony is a thing of the past. I collate the facts as I move north. It is a short ride. First halt Oxford Circus, then three to Kings Cross Central. I format my initial txt space while recalling the events of the last few days. Hours after the body was found Ur-M-inence was nowhere to be found. The media was pregnant with expectation. Rolling links broke commercial messages and political talk-ins to report possible sightings. An airport, an m-Rail, a man in a crowded subway, a face caught on CC-holo-V in an upmarket nutri-bar. At one stage a darkened PR-status vehicle was followed for seventeen minutes along the M20 artery south. It turned out to be a senior Metropolitan Police figure on her way to the euro-Link. Meanwhile fans gathered outside the personality’s complex to hold a vigil. Tear stained faces crowded screens. Mounds of flowers built quickly. Candles were lit. Then the conspiracy theories began. The same fate had befallen ThinWhite as his mentor. He had been killed because he knew something. He had been rendered and was being interrogated by Intel. There was a possible alien connection. A militant religious group had abducted him. He was being set-up to discredit his charity-work. But there was little mention of the simple facts. A blood stream full of sex n-hancers. A man on the run. Lovers quarrel and in a narco state a fight ensues. Then there is the body. Inert. Heart stopped. Lungs expelling their last air. Eyes glazing over.

3 The press-meet is to be informal. It will be held in front of the overnighter where Thin-White has been located. The Argyle: on a shabby street of the same name running south of the main Euston t-Bahn. I come under a subway, a direct link from the Terminal and find myself facing a Marshal cordon: a ring of jump suited bodies. Laser protection stretches across the street entrance. Above press helicraft hover. I search for a Co-Ordination officer and find one. She is a heavy woman with a furrowed face. Her eyes are Wedgwood blue and she speaks with a German accent. She logs my PiD and puts me on-system. Then she waves me through. I push into the throng, activating my p-C to find Daniel. Homing in on his signal until his back appears. Narrow shouldered in an olive-green cloak and sports cap. Celebrity n-Tellers and Anchors have already set up stall. Faces are bright under tungsten and halogen. Photo-sensitive layers of cosmetic colour, implanted hair pieces, sculpted profiles latch onto the light. Sound checking, image checking, cueing their scripts, they stand before cam, ruffed collars, silk bows, deep blues and olive greens all sharp against their white camises. They are the priests of a data driven religion. They offer succour and support, guidance and revelation. In the background the technicians work quietly. Their security is in the power they wield over ego-driven careers. The caress of a touchpad that skews colour co-ordination, dulls eyes, highlights the imperfections of an aging complexion, making them more powerful than any cardinal of old. Daniel turns to me as I tap his shoulder. There is a flush to his dark skin. Excitement perhaps, satisfaction at seeing a story come good. He holds up his pC. “Read,” he says. I read. Being a registered journalist Daniel has 24 non-fee-paying access to ReuterNet releases. > Ur-M-inence, otherwise known as Barry Parker, 42 yrs old of Southend-onSea Essex, is to be charged in connection with the death of Simon Kieslowski 53, also of Southend-on-Sea Essex. Mr Kieslowski’s body was found dead at Mr Parker’s Thames-Estuary complex on Thursday October 06. Mr Parker was arrested at a central London overnighter by London Metropolitan CID. It is believed Police acted after being contacted by an executive of Atlantic 16 Entertainment Networks<. I raise my eyebrows. “Contacted by an AT-16 executive?” Daniel smiles. His ebony skin creases. His Irish accent sharpening the words.

“Tip off indeed. Was I not right?” I laugh. Bunching my fist and striking him lightly on the shoulder. Thinking of his suspicions all along. “You were. Straight homicide. Or at least an ‘accessory to’. A domestic?” He tips his nose. “No conspiracy, no Intel rendition. Lover’s quarrel pure and simple.” “Come-uppance for pop-personality of the period then.” His mouth tightens. Then he shakes his head sadly. “Don’t go that far. The exec from Atlantic 16 is in there right now. Has been since early this morning I hear. Contacted the Met just an hour ago?” “Conscience case? In the public interest?” “No. I would say the Met informed Atlantic 16. They told them they had strong evidence. DNA, bio-print, whatever. Maybe even a witness. Then they let it run for twenty-four. Let the media handlers bring him in. Exec is formulating the plan of action. Getting the pr in line. In return the Met get to produce a suspect and wrap a case. Good for them. It’s October. Budget reviews are in the offing.” “Cynical,” I say. Daniel shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Then runs his tongue over his teeth. “Look, I’ve seen it before. Circus trial on net-cast. Public inter-act: a judge who sees his media stock rise. Witnesses who can sell their stories. The lure of celebrity. Tears on the stand, mysterious illness, stress, fawning testimony by former lovers. Absolution by celebrity. Even if he gets sent down he’ll do no more than a couple of years. Maybe not even that. There’ll be the prison diary, the suicide attempt, the donations to charity. He might even find God: or reflexology. These types are awfully good at bringing pressure to bear on public reps.” “He claims to be a re-incarnation of the twentieth rock-star David Bowie,” I add.. Daniel puts his arms around his body, as though suddenly becoming cold. He murmurs. “Yea. No doubt Elvis Presley has just risen from the dead. As we speak the multitudes are gathering. His request for tax-exemption on grounds of being a spiritual leader is already filed.” I am about to respond when Daniel touches my arm. “Hey! Here he comes,” he says, lowering his voice, almost in reverence. Maybe he relishes the performance to come. A frail man appears. He is flanked by three men and a women. Two Met Marshals and two plain clothes. Another woman, tall and with a taut complexion stands just behind them. To her rear is a sixth man, small, heavily built with dark, suspicious eyes in a baby face. His hair is long, tied up behind him in a tail. A black satin pea-coat is slung loosely over his shoulder. Daniel leans close and whispers. “The small man is Alain Usmanov, a policy exec at AT-16. The tall thin woman is Marien von-Breitling a celebrity lawyer.”

I nod. A podium has been set up before the overnighter. The building as a shabby white Victorian affair. Above its entrance, a gel-screen runs the live news-feed. At the press-meet watching the press-meet. Watching you watching you. A small dais with an autocue has been placed on the pavement. Before it stands an artillery of pick-up devices, lights and digi-Cams. Journalists wait eagerly, their eyes hungry and expectant. The frail man steps forward. The lawyer comes with him. They are accompanied by a Met-Marshal. Thin-White is about one metre six. There are shadows around his eyes. His mouth is pulled tight and his cheeks puffy despite the sculpting. His hair is not the famous copper-throwback but thinning and charcoal-grey. There is none of the angel-thin elegance of his stage persona. He appears tired and somewhat plain. He looks as though he is about to be fold in on himself. As though he might disappear into the shadows or lose himself in the crowd. The voices rise. They break over the afternoon, rushing the space between interrogator and interrogated. There is a crescendo of questions, of waving arms and frantic eyes. ‘Mr Parker have you been officially charged? Mr Parker how are you feeling? Mr Parker is there any truth in rumours there was illegal cy-using on your personal premises? Mr Parker will you continue with plans for your upcoming Pacific-rim tour? Mr Parker can you comment on reports your contract with Atlantic 16’s is to be terminated? Mr Parker have you anything to say to your fans?’ The frail man staggers as if hit. His body tenses. Then he braces himself. He finds a space a metre in front of him and a desperate gleam lights his eyes. An eerie silence halts the assembled media. He speaks slowly. “Please call me Thin-White.” Then pauses. “I will not be answering any questions today. I have a brief statement. I deny any responsibility in the death of Mr Simon Kieslowski.” Glance to the lawyer. “Mr Kieslowski, Simon, was a dear friend. We were partners for many years. I would have done nothing to harm him. Glance to Mr Usmanov. “It was a wicked act to take the life of such a gentle man. He will be missed. I pledge to do everything within my power to bring the perpetrator of this heinous crime to justice.” A watery film springs into his eyes. He lurches, breathing quickly. Perhaps the gravity of the situation is hitting him. He grasps the edge of the podium as though to steady himself. Then continues. “I ask my fans to think of me. I ask them to be with me, not to lose faith in me. May the Light look after them. Thank you.” He twists his mouth into a somewhat pained smile. The feeds get their closeups, the news-links their photo-grabs. Then his lawyer, raising her hand, indicates the press-meet is over. Haughtily she grasps Thin-White’s arm, firmly turns him and walks him to a waiting Met vehicle.

I turn to Daniel. He is shaking his head. “Think you’ll be able to get all that complex info into manageable French?” I shrug. “I’ll try.” Already the media are packing up and the n-Tellers porting their links. A light autumn rain has started to fall. We cross to the northern side of the Euston t-Bahn. Daniel is already porting his txt for editing. Hitting send, then readjusting his sports cap: a cavalier pose. He turns to me. “Do you think he’s guilty?” I raise my shoulders. “He’s certainly plain.” “Plain?” “I said plain. Not that I expected interesting. Just something more.” “They always are?” “What? Plain?” “Yes. At heart plain. Therefore the pr.” I have pulled my gore-tex doublet tight. The rain is shining the fronts of buildings. Darkening the brickwork of St Pancras. “What were you going to say back there about him being a re-incarnation? “Nothing much. Just that in a way he is a re-incarnation. He has taken a past figure and brought him into the present. He has merged himself with a past creation to become a contemporary creation.” “Wait. I know my history. David Bowie wasn’t a real person. He was some other person being David Bowie.” “That’s true,” I say, beginning to turn for the UmR. “Yet Thin-White is neither of them and he is not himself. He has created a third person. Maybe even a fourth. His currency is artifice. The artifice of nostalgia. He appeals to a past too distant to be interrogated directly. He appeals to a past that has ceased to exist except in digi-Archives, old MVE clips, photo-grabs. In that space, people insert their fantasies. They turn away from the present. Less complex. Less uncertain. They touch what they imagine to be lost innocence.” “But is he guilty of homicide?” Daniel calls out. “Maybe. Maybe not,” I return, stepping away. “But if the charge was counterfeit he wouldn’t have a chance.”

4 I stand on the UmR south to Piccadilly. Busier. The first waves of daylight commuters cramp space. Faces are closed, retreated. Private escapes are being plotted.

Staring up at the in-car messages I think. I sift through the strands of history. The era in which Thin-White’s mentor, David Jones, was born was a time of uneasy and protracted cold-War between two former power blocks; the US and the Soviet Union. There was rapid transformation of social and tax-band relations. It was the beginning of the ‘information’ revolution: a time before belief in democracy became acceptance of oligarchy. For if our lives are not now determined by the dictates of government, the drives of ideology, they are determined by the self-censoring impulse that means we abjure individual conscience in order to merge, to belong. The twenty-first has not brought cohesion. It is a fragmented society. A web of disguised self-interests. Selfinterest without accountability. We have become so nebulous, so easy, so lacking in purpose and individual opinion we have lost definition. We have become surfaces. Personas not people. All shiny in fantasy but angry and discontented in the mirror of self. I leave the UmR. The rain has given way. Tracts of blue flow behind cloud. The sun breathes autumn. It lends a melancholy warmth to things. I walk the short distance to the office, crossing Shaftsbury and onto Regent. I stop before climbing the three levels of stairs. And look back at Eros. Once it was the centre of a city. Now it is an agglomeration of sex and implant parlours. New Mumbai street, formerly Haymarket, spills a shifting mass of drifters and hustlers onto Piccadilly. The private security-patrolled residences rising off re-structured St James sniff their disdain. I think of Thin-White. A middle-aged man behind an image of eternal youth. A sad and frail person standing before the gathered media. Pleading his innocence, asking for his fans not to forget him. As though he would cease to exist if absented from their thoughts. I feel angry. A sudden unfocused anger. Welling up within me. Dark and undefined. Gnawing at my centre. As though I were a fist. Or a small bomb. Leaking poison. Bleeding into the afternoon.

Copyright © Peter Millington October 2007