On Thursday night I'll get to fulfill a lifelong dream by watching the band Television perform live in concert.
To coincide with the show I wrote a short story about the band for the June issue of a local Vancouver magazine. I worked for years at Scratch, an independent label/distributor. Maybe I was more of a music snob than I realized at the time, but the story's based on this vivid dream I had years ago in which I travelled back in time to convince Television not to release their second album, Adventure. Some of the humour seemed pretty FOT-friendly, so I'd like to share it with other Television fans.
I completed the finishing touches on my time machine and took a step back to admire my handiwork. It was the summer of 2005 and I was at the height of my powers. I was feeling pretty groovy. A little proud of myself, I’ve got to admit in hindsight, but mostly groovy.
I was just about to settle on a place in time to celebrate my invention and launch its maiden voyage when I noticed that the record on my hi-fi stereo was skipping. I walked over to the stereo and gently brushed a few specks of dust off the record – a beat-up copy of New York rock band Television’s 1977 classic Marquee Moon. The album had clearly seen better days but it was a definite favourite of mine. I thought about instead putting on Adventure, the band’s second album, but for me that was never anything but a poor substitute for the timeless Marquee Moon.
“Adventure would’ve been a great record for any other band,” I said to myself, “but not Television – not after Marquee Moon.” I placed the needle back on the record and soon found myself locked into Billy Ficca’s pounding drum beat on “Prove It”, a stand-out track from the second side of Marquee Moon about a detective working on a seemingly endless case.
“Why did they even bother to release Adventure anyway?” I asked the empty apartment. If any of my friends had been in earshot, this sort of question would’ve sounded eerily familiar to them by now. At countless parties I had prattled on about Television’s masterful debut album, Marquee Moon, while belittling the group’s follow-up, Adventure, simply for not matching the quality of its predecessor. Even I was getting tired of hearing myself strike up this topic of conversation, yet my mind raced as I suddenly realized what I had to do.
I set the coordinates on the dial to New York in September 1977. I closed my eyes and with the flick of a switch activated the time machine.
I awoke in a dirty bathroom to the faint sound of a bass guitar being played in another room. As I looked up towards the stall door I noticed graffiti on the wall referencing Blondie, the Ramones, and the Talking Heads – all New York rock groups from the 1970s.
“It might just be a coincidence,” I thought, “but then again maybe it worked.” I scrambled to my feet before exiting the stall and walking out the bathroom door.
I was in a long corridor decorated with gold and platinum albums by different bands and artists, mostly from the 1960s and 1970s. A sign on the wall piqued my interest: Record Plant Recording Studio.
“If it didn’t work, at least I’m close!” I shouted excitedly.
A door down the hall opened abruptly. An annoyed looking man with a dark beard emerged and pointed to a red lightbulb above the door.
“Dude, can you keep it down? The band’s about to record in here.” He closed the door and went back inside the studio without waiting for any response from me.
I walked down the hall towards the door to the recording studio. It wasn’t locked, so I let myself in. A clean-cut man with light hair and glasses sat behind a mixing desk. He was too focused on his work to notice me enter the room. The bearded man angrily rose from a stool.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he demanded to know. I stumbled for a moment before deciding on what to tell him that might allow me to stay in the room – at least for a few moments.
“Sorry to bother you, I was just wondering if the band need anything to eat?”
The bearded man seemed disarmed and sat back down at the stool. He pointed to the group jamming behind the glass in front of the mixing desk. “They’re just about to lay down another track but I’ll check with them in a bit. I’ll take a coffee, though,” he instructed.
“Right away,” I mumbled, trailing off as I finally noticed exactly what band was set to record in front of me.
My gaze met the piercing eyes, wavy blond hair, and chiselled features of Tom Verlaine, the group’s singer. He noodled on a guitar while staring intently at me, an unwelcome intruder to his band’s recording session. To his left was Richard Lloyd, the group’s other guitarist, who wore an ambivalent expression beneath a bowl of dark hair. Sitting at Tom’s right was bassist Fred Smith, who was moodily dressed in all black. Behind them all sat drummer Billy Ficca. His mop of dark, curly hair flopped in every direction while he practiced a beat before the recording picked up again.
Here I was looking at the band Television, the heroes responsible for crafting one of my favourite rock albums of all time: Marquee Moon. The only question was, had they even made it yet? I’d programmed the time machine for September 1977, after the record’s release, but I could’ve easily made a mistake. Before I could figure it all out, Tom Verlaine opened the glass door separating the studio from the control room.
“Hey, Terry, can you get him out of here?” he asked the bearded man on the stool, “I want to lay down another track but this guy’s really harshing my vibe.” Tom was obviously referring to me. As Terry rose from the stool to evict me I recognized him at last.
“Wait a minute,” I protested, pointing to Terry, “you’re Terry Ork, Television’s manager.” He nodded in agreement, looking a bit puzzled. I pointed to the members of the band and identified them one by one.
“Fine,” said Tom, unimpressed, “so you know who we are, we still need you to take a walk so we can get back to work.”
Terry placed a hand on my shoulder and politely but firmly started walking me to the door.
“Tell me something, what are you working on, Marquee Moon?” I asked.
“Marquee Moon?” snorted Richard Lloyd, “that’s been out for months. We’re working on our new album, Adventure.” The reason for my visit came flooding back to me.
“Look, you don’t understand,” I started, “this is going to sound crazy but I’m from the future. You need to stop what you’re doing right now. Marquee Moon was brilliant but this new album of yours is going to be mediocre at best.”
“A mediocre Television album?” Billy Ficca laughed, “you must be joking.” I noticed that Tom was starting to look concerned, though, despite my far-fetched story.
“Let him go on,” said Tom, “what can you tell us?” I exhaled in relief and continued.
“This new album is just going to sully your reputation,” I explained, “you’d be better off just breaking up now and living off all that goodwill for Marquee Moon for the rest of your days.”
“So you’re telling me we break up after this album’s done?” asked Tom.
“I’m afraid so,” I told him, “well, that’s not entirely true. You reform and release a comeback record in 1992 and still tour every once in while back in my time.”
“Maybe you’re right,” sighed Tom in defeat, “maybe we should just call it day.” The rest of the band looked completely dismayed, but before I could know with any certainty if my message had gotten through the scene around me started to blur.
“The time machine must be malfunctioning,” I thought. I gradually felt myself being pulled away from 1977 and towards an unknown future. I awoke back in my apartment. The calendar on the wall read July 2005.
“It must’ve worked,” I said to myself. I walked towards the hi-fi to investigate my pile of records on the floor. Sure enough, Marquee Moon was exactly where I’d left it. I couldn’t find my copy of Adventure, though.
“Maybe because it doesn’t exist anymore!” I exclaimed proudly. I pulled out my laptop and searched for information on Television’s discography. There were only two entries:
Marquee Moon (1977)
Television (1992).
My heart pounded. It had actually worked. Somehow I’d actually convinced Television not to release Adventure, although I guess the allure of reuniting in the early 1990s had proven too tempting for them. I guess Marquee Moon couldn’t pay the rent forever.
“Oh well,” I thought, “at least they didn’t ruin their first run by putting out Adventure.” I sank into my couch and drifted back asleep with the satisfaction of a job well done.
It’s ten years later and I’m watching yet another Television reunion concert. Tom Verlaine is ripping through an inspired solo while Billy Ficca is holding down the beat and Fred Smith is grooving on his bass. Richard Lloyd is no longer with the band after being replaced by Jimmy Rip. It’s still Television, though, and hearing them power through Marquee Moon is a sight to behold. As the powerful “Torn Curtain” wraps up Tom approaches the microphone to playfully banter with the crowd, something he’s not usually known for.
“Now this is going to sound crazy,” he begins, “but about 38 years ago we were set to record a follow-up to Marquee Moon that’s never seen the light of day.” My heart began to flutter with dread.
“No way,” I stammered, “no fucking way.”
“I don’t know if we were smoking too much grass back then,” he chuckled, “but the entire band had this fever dream of some weirdo from the future warning us not to release the record. He claimed it was going to destroy our reputation.” The audience was silent with anticipation.
“Well, after 38 years we’ve talked about it and decided that it’s time that you, our fans, finally get to hear these songs,” announced Tom proudly. The crowd roared with approval.
“After all, we’re Television, and Television don’t make no trash!” he proclaimed. The audience was deafening.
“I’m glad you agree,” said Tom, “and with that, we’re pleased to announce our brand new, old record Adventure in Time. This next song’s called ‘Glory in Time’.”
The crowd applauded boisterously as the band launched into “Glory”, the opening track of Television’s second album Adventure, only the lyrics were embarrassingly reworked to incorporate the theme of time travel. I realized that I’d created a monster. Somehow I’d made a mediocre album even worse.
“No, you’ve got to stop this!” I screamed, rushing the stage. The last thing I remember is Tom Verlaine knocking me unconscious with the neck of his guitar while singing the line “when I see the glory, I ain’t gotta worry – ‘bout time.” I’m pretty sure the crowd enjoyed every minute of it.
It’s now two weeks later and I’m at my local record store holding a copy of the new, old Television album Adventure in Time. I can barely stop myself from fainting as my eyes dart over the track listing:
1. Glory in Time
2. Days in Time
3. Foxhole of Time
4. Care with that Time
5. Carried Away by Time
6. The Fire in Time
7. (Time) Ain’t that Nothin’
8. The Dream’s Dream (A Story About Time)
Before I started to panic I realized that as bad as things were this wasn’t a lost cause.
It’s never a lost cause when you’ve got a time machine.
“I’ve got to go back,” I told myself, “and this time I won’t even give them Marquee Moon. Now they’ve made it personal.”
THE END
