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We caught up with the Captain in his beat up apartment on the
outskirts of Rio. The door, a slimy green, isn't locked, but the
handle is so dirty, the journalists' hands quickly find their pockets
and don't feel like getting out. Ziggy the cameraman turns around and
bangs on the door with his boot. A drunk holler is heard from the
room. "The Cap'n ain't yo BITCH! An' tell that to the gits with the
9mm!" The door opens, and a tall, gangling man with some serious five
o'clock shadow and breath reeking of tequila motions us in. "I caahnt
deal with these bloody punks.. Look at tha holes in me windows..." he
says, pointing somewhere else. The windows are indeed holy - or, more
to the point, there is no glass in the frame. "Care foh one?" he says,
swinging a bottle of some yellow-green substance around in our
direction. "Keeps me warm on a night like this" he says, then,
suddenly, and surprisingly precisely, hawks the bottle out the window,
screaming "and take yoh fookin' tequila too!" vaguely in the direction
of the laughter outside. Finally, the man sits down, seasoned hands
steadily pouring him a shotglass of some more greenish liquids.
NM: So, Captain, why this? Rio was much more fun, we'da thought? CB: Ya ponks think I can SWING the rent? Hah, tell that no good mate of mine to send up some dosh, THEN we'll talk. The Captain's face is accidentally in the light of the half-covered lamp. Ziggy gets the shot. The piercing eyes, now clouded with strange fumes of blood in the alcohol, roam, stopping nowhere in particular. CB: So who are YOU anyway... 'thought the New Media was gonna pay a visit, but no, the dogs can' even bloody get their act together, sendin' up some bloke with an NM hat.. oh.. bugger me silly, gennts. NM: Right. So who's the no good mate of yours? Someone we know? CB: You don't think? Sleepwalkah, thatscho. Punk goes an' breaks the band up, say he need room.. need a SOLO project.. Friggin' tyrant, if not more.. Prolly livin' in the studio. Got the public all 'round his little finger. NM: And when was the last time you were in the studio with him? Sorry, these questions are gonna get difficult now. CB: Thaat? (Counts his fingers) Eleventeen months past - maaan, those were the days. Cut a record - we just waltz in and play, man. Noothin' like it in the world. Abbey wanted us. RCA was beggin' for it. And what happens? Slip straight through the fingers. NM: What if we told you that FMA wants to sign you again? This time, no one year contracts, no legalese. CB: Whaa? Lemme grab me bass... The Captain reached behind his chair, but passed out drunk as he was doing so. On the floor below him was a shiny new CD. On the cover, the old familiar emblem. "Boys Suck". We weren't going to try to see if he would remember the conversation, so, playing it safe, the limo driver carried him down and laid him on the back seat to rest and recuperate.
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