You wouldn’t believe the Daniel household existed unless you’d seen it for yourself. On the ground floor oak chests crammed into every corner, dolls, toys, rocking horses pressed against the windows, paintings, prints, posters on the walls, walls thick with layered paint and images, Turkish kelims fighting for space with knotted Persian rugs, cushions everywhere, never-watered plants clinging on to life, books, magazines from the seventies, goldfish in lime green aquaria. One storey up, angelic-looking toddler twins chasing from room to room followed closely by a six-year-old throwing dolls about, phones ringing, the sound of ascendant violins from the father’s study, more oak chests spewing bits of paper and embroidery from their stuffed drawers, a dust crust lying over everything.
We climb to Daniel’s bedroom on the third floor. Bed unmade, smell of skin, magazines in piles fanning out from every horizontal surface, posters of Orbital, snowboarding and computer games on the wall, in the centre of the room a home-made horseshoe consisting in keyboard, four-track and Atari computer.
‘So,’ says Daniel, fitting himself into a chair behind the horseshoe, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear Bedroom.’
Bedroom is Daniel’s first and recently released album, the thing that got him written up in iD. He was sixteen when he made it. In his bedroom. He takes a copy from its jewel box, hands me the CD cover.
‘See that?’ He points to a red smear on the cover. ‘That’s my shit robot I had like when I was six, and that bit’s a piece of wall, hahaha, you’ll probably think it’s crap and yeah, so this is the first track, I like this bit where it goes …’
A resonant boom fills the bedroom. Daniel reaches down for the track skip button.
‘And then this is one, which I think’s shit, really, although Morris likes it, hahaha and listen to this track, “Underwater”, which has this wicked noise I taped in the toilets at school, and here’s …’ Each track in turn a throb, a series of sound pictures. Nothing you’d call a tune, quite. Daniel races through the tracks, two seconds per track, talking at ten to the dozen. He moves along his CD collection, extracting jewel cases, flinging them in the player. ‘So this one’s Wagon Christ,’ pulling them out again. ‘Yeah, listen to this MLO track, it’s really cool,’ casting them aside and moving onto the next. ‘And this bit by the Aphex Twin, wicked, better than some of his other stuff, hahaha, although I like him and this is David Toop who I’m gonna do some work with, but hahaha you’ll probably think it’s crap …’
‘Daniel,’ I say, looking up from the magazine I’m leafing through. ‘Why aren’t there any pictures of supermodels in your bedroom?’
‘I am not gay,’ says Daniel emphatically, his face developing a reddish glow which makes me feel as mean as a scalded dog. ‘Although I’m not saying it would matter if I was, except to my dad.’
‘Who’s Morris?’ I change tack while Daniel fights off his embarrassment, but at this he looks up momentarily, decides it’s a joke and giggles.
‘No, really,’ I pursue, ‘Who is Morris?’
Daniel is stunned. Uncomprehending. Speechless. I don’t know who Morris is? Mixmaster Morris? Morris of the mixdesk? Morris of the music scene? DJ Morris, top bloke Morris? Ambient techno’s own Mixmaster?
‘Not Morris as in dancing, then?’
Daniel ignores the jibe, or maybe just pretends he hasn’t heard it.
‘So,’ he says, blustery once more, ‘you’ll probably be wanting to see this really crap Yamaha keyboard, which my parents bought me for my birthday when I was like a kid, hahaha, and then this is the four-track, and this really cool keyboard, which is a Korg Wavestation and …’
‘Daniel,’ I say, ‘can we go and have some lunch now?’
Lunch turns out to be a benign chaos of toddler demands and counter-demands, mother organizing, au pair sister rushing about, curly haired six-year-old banging her spoon on the table, oven timer going off, kids wanting gravy, no potatoes, or potatoes and no carrots, more carrots, fewer potatoes, more orange juice, less meat. Daniel and his father sit in the midst of it all, unbowed. Phone ringing again, Daniel answering it, shouting through toddler cries:
‘Hahaha, yeah, can I ring you back? Thanks.’
‘Daniel doesn’t like my cooking,’ says the mother.
‘Yes I do,’ says Daniel.
After lunch Daniel makes a bold attempt to play me a few more selections from his CD collection, but I cut him short. I want to know where he made the money to buy his kit, which leads to a safari through Daniel’s magazine collection, featuring articles by … Daniel. Aged twelve he pesters his way to a job writing computer games reviews for Zero magazine, then moves on to a more serious role compiling a tips column in GameZone. At fifteen he’s making a mint.
‘In fact,’ he rallies, ‘I designed some games myself. They’re crap, but I s’pose you’re gonna want to see them, hahaha …’
I emerge from Daniel’s bedroom about two hours later, battered but unbloodied.
Whatever aching tangle or peaceful blue lagoon exists beyond the bloom in Daniel’s eyes he keeps hidden beneath a whirl of talk and action. Nothing of the real Daniel, whatever that may be, is available for public view save for a few minute and unconscious inflexions of his voice and body. Nonetheless, I have a sense that Daniel is about to become an important part of my little project. I request another meeting. ‘What?’ He exudes an air of puppyish hurt. I shake my head by way of reply, faintly bemused. Some small shutter closes over the chink in Daniel’s armoury.
‘I’m DJing at the Big Chill in a couple of weeks. If you want to go on the guest list, you’d better speak to my manager and say you’re from one of the papers, and thank you very much,’ says Daniel, cold as January wind.
I ring the manager and mention I’ve been round to lunch.
‘What a cacophony,’ I remark, in what I hope is an indulgent tone. The manager takes it differently.
‘Well how d’ya think I felt?’ he replies, sounding plaintive. ‘Sitting down to roast lamb and mint sauce with my client’s mum and dad? I’m a rock’n’roll manager for chrissakes.’
MONDAY
Early morning, wind hammering on the windows and the cat curling through my legs to remind me I haven’t yet got round to feeding it.
Thinking about Daniel, or maybe the electronic scene, I e-mail Mac:
>Hey, Mac, do you think it’s possible to make generational statements, or are generations created by the statements made about them?
He mails back:
>What do you have in mind?
I scribble down on a piece of paper all the generational clichés I’ve ever come across. It’s a long list.
>Well, the presumption that 15-25-year-olds have a totally relativist set of morals whereas all us older people are more absolute about things.
You tap out an e-mail message and play it back in your head and Bingo! It becomes the most profound, the most meaningful, the freshest thought you ever had.
>Actually it seems to me that pretty much *everyone* has a relativist set of morals, it’s just that *society’s* morals have traditionally been absolute.
I suppose it’s a silly fantasy of oneness, e-mail. But then again perhaps it’s not a fantasy. Perhaps, maybe. I don’t know yet.
I sit and think blanks for a while, then finish tapping in my note to Mac.
>Maybe