The story of how Apples For Everyone came to exist is more suited to the dustbins of Hollywood scriptwriters than to the annals of music history. The now legendary musical super-group was formed by the survivors of one of the largest traffic collisions in UK motoring history. Their story is one of coincidence, high drama and romance. To protect the identities of the innocent, the guilty, and the as-yet unborn, the names of all the protagonists have been removed from this history.
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At precisely 11.52pm on Saturday the 20th January 2007 a white transit van was parked on the corner of Upper Street. The van was far from spotless; the windscreen wipers had smeared pigeon feathers across the pane. The windows were no cleaner on the inside, a thousand guilty, greasy fingerprints told the shabby story of groupies, defiled at the hands of ruthless road crew members. The girls had been lured to the drivers seat with promises of class-A drugs and backstage passes. However at 11.52pm on Saturday the 20th January 2007 there were no groupies at hand, no road crew members; the van had been loaded and all concerned were sitting on large leatherette sofas in an office above the bar where the band had just played. A desperate man stepped from the shadows. He looked furtively around. The van was his last chance. He had tried every get rich quick scheme in the book; they had only sufficed to make him poorer. He subtly pushed a brick through the drivers door window and gasped as the fug of stale smoke enveloped him. He had wheels. He started the engine like they do in the films by shoving a screwdriver into the ignition. It worked and he drove the van off slowly into the night.
Eighteen minutes earlier in Camden a heavily pregnant woman waddled from her bathroom to her fridge. She needed something.
Actually she needed a lot of things; for one - a husband who, if he couldnt satisfy her sexually, at least would not piss on the seat and floor of the toilet every evening. She would even settle for a guy who, if he did piss on the floor, would at least have the decency to wipe it up with some toilet paper. She wiped her wet feet on a t-shirt of her husbands that was hanging over the radiator. Replacing the t-shirt, smirking, she made her way to the fridge, flicking V-signs at the door of the bedroom where he lay, bald and snoring. She needed something to eat. As she surveyed the contents of the fridge the baby moved, she moved her hands over her swollen stomach. Her belly button, once a small concave in an otherwise flattish stomach had altered its demeanour and now stood out, spoiling the otherwise perfectly smooth skin. Her top rode up, exposing the bump. She loved the bump. She needed something to eat. The fridge held nothing of interest to her; some chocolate milk, some liver pate and a selection of cheeses and cooked meats were not what she had in mind. She craved fruit. Pulling her top back down over the bump she stepped into her slippers and walked to the lift. She drove her car off slowly into the night.
11.43pm, January 20th 2007. The rotund gentleman in the cab of the Tescos delivery lorry allowed his mind to wander. He had been on the road for 14 hours driving a shipment of apples back from Europe. Isnt it funny, he mused, that although 60% of people think of the Granny Smith as a traditionally English apple, they are in fact not grown on these shores. If only people thought a little more about where their food came from perhaps we would be a much gentler race. How he linked the two ideas is still unknown. The man had graduated with a 2nd class philosophy degree some years ago, but finding it to have no practical application to any real world job had taken up a career which suited his secondary interests; listening to the radio and smoking. He was on the home stretch, a few more hours would see his cargo delivered and him tucked safely away in the makeshift sleeping compartment above his cab with a roll-up and a well thumbed copy of Heideggers Being and Time. The road stretched out before him, cats eyes flashing up at him like small reflective circles of glass embedded into tarmac. After a quick comfort break in a lay by with a seasoned old crone he returned to his truck. He drove off slowly into the night.
At 12.07am on Sunday January 21st 2007 the air was thick with expectation. The cold fog of the day had lingered and thickened, shrouding the roads of north London in a dark mystery. The thief hummed along to the radio, he was excited; the van was full of instruments. The man had been down on his luck for several years; he had lost most of his money in a pyramid selling scam involving cat food. He had held on to his banjo as long as he could before he was forced to pawn it for money to eat. There was a banjo in the back of the van. Guitars, a bass, violins, trumpets, keyboards and drums, some instruments the thief had never seen before. The thief had not played music for so long, he prayed he had not forgotten how. As soon as he was far enough from the scene of his crime he would stop and find out. An albatross flew low in the night, circling a junction in Hackney, its lonely cries were ignored by the revellers in the streets below. The albatross was hungry.
The pregnant woman pulled away from the 24-hour garage. In the seat next to her were 4 red apples, a bottle of diet coke, a chicken and stuffing sandwich and a strawberry cornetto. She nodded her head along to the radio as she made her way aimlessly through the streets of northeast London. She was in no hurry to return to her flat. She chewed contentedly on the sandwich as she drove, until her teeth encountered a bit of gristle, it felt like plastic between her molars and she coughed, spitting the part chewed morsel out. It landed between the pedals on the floor. Disgusted the pregnant woman threw the sandwich from the car, it flew in a high arc over some pedestrians crossing the road, reached its zenith above a box junction and started to descend.
The trucker was nearing his destination he sped along the dark road. As he crossed the junction an albatross dived across his path, its mouth open as if trying to catch a discarded sandwich. The albatross never got the sandwich, its open beak twisted into a look of surprise as it impacted with the delivery trucks windscreen. The driver swore as his windscreen exploded in a mess of blood and feathers, unable to see he stamped on the brakes, his wheel clipped the kerb and his trailer turned over spilling thousands of apples out into the night. The thief saw the mess too late. His brakes provided no traction on the apple pulp covered tarmac. The van careered into the underbelly of the Tesco trailer. The pregnant woman was a little luckier her brakes held and she panted as her car came to a halt inches from the cab of the truck.
Others were not so fortunate one crunching impact was followed by another and another and another. Moments later red and orange flames leapt to consume petrol and cheap upholstery. The flames cast madly dancing shadows on the side the overturned lorry and nearby buildings. People raised their arms across their faces to shield themselves form the hellish light as others crawled from the scene. A distant wailing gradually grew more insistent and around the corner careered a fire engine, lights flashing. The firemen hung out of every door, swinging axes above their heads like Norse raiders as the truck screeched to a halt beside the dazed onlookers. Water was cast on the fires and clouds of steam rose to join the fog.
People gathered in the streets, some taking apples and running off laughing into the fog. The thief crawled from the wreckage of his newly acquired van. His cargo had also been strewn across the carriageway; instruments of all sorts littered the pavement. He picked up the banjo and plucked the strings. The thin twang resonated through the wet, heavy air and people turned to look at him. With a metallic clang, a fireman dropped his axe and picked up a guitar. Someone hummed a song, half remembered from childhood. One of the passers by, apple in hand, picked up the drums and started to tap out a jaunty beat on the snare. And the thief started to play a tune...
The truck driver regained consciousness and peered out though the blood covered remains of his windscreen to see about half a dozen people all sitting in the apple covered streets playing music and laughing. The trucker hauled himself through the windscreen and out into the street. Some of the musicians were wearing emergency services uniforms; a policeman slapped deep resonant notes from a bass guitar. The band danced and played their joyful song out into the cold air; each of them knowing that this moment would never be recaptured. The truck driver picked up a guitar and played.
The pregnant woman screamed as the paramedics delivered her baby. The infant was silent. The policeman in attendance started to cry at the tragic waste of a life that had not yet started. An old lady picked an apple out of a bin, she laughed and pointed and danced a jig. The bands music built up in a mocking crescendo as she pulled faces at the mother and the lifeless infant. As the swell of the crescendo reached its loudest point and disappeared to silence the baby opened its eyes and started to scream. This scream was unlike any heard before it was one long, pure continuous note. The band found their pitch and played on, a crazy waltz with the baby and its mother singing love songs to one another.
As the night drew on and the promise of dawn was on the horizon, the bodies of the dead were taken from the scene. The bands number grew and grew, as did the lines of traffic stretching in all directions. At first there was the wild honking of horns and angry shouts, but no one was immune to the magic of the moment and the horns soon took up the beat. The band looked at each other, smiled, and played on. A steady chop, chop, chop rhythm sounded above them as the local news hovered overhead, the drummer answered on a cymbal and the band played on. The reporter gazed at the scene below him incredulously. A glint of brass caught his eye and, with out hesitation, he leapt from the chopper. Hitting the ground, he rolled and came up blowing a trumpet. Residents from the local area, pub goers, journalists and police all picked up instruments, and sang and danced, the burning wrecks of cars providing heat and light for the revellers. Traffic was backed up for miles in each direction but the band played on. They knew this was something special. The numbers grew and the band played on. The fires died, the apples started to rot and the band played on. The sun rose, as it rises every morning, and the band plays on.