When Blaine was born with spina bifida, my ex-wife, Helen, and I went round in a trance, trying to get to grips with having a son who couldn’t be like other boys. We knew it was serious enough to mean he probably wouldn’t walk, but for years we didn’t know how bad it would be. As it is, his leg muscles didn’t develop properly and he doesn’t have much sensation in his lower body. But his upper body and his brain are fine.
Between the ages of 3 and 10, Blaine had five big operations. Sometimes he was in a wheelchair, and sometimes he was lying on a trolley like a skateboard, in plaster up to the armpits, propelling himself around with his arms. But even at that age he was incredibly positive, and that came from him, not his mum and I, though we worked hard to see how we’d get around his problem. We wanted to find out what his gifts were, and make sure nothing got in the way of them.
I’m the middle of three brothers, and my mother died when I was six. We had an authoritarian father who sent us to boarding school, where all three of us were physically and sexually abused. The legacy of that is still with me. I feel as if I’ve had to work out how to be a parent from scratch. I needed someone to say: “We’ve got a book that shows you how to do it. Chapter one is how to take care of yourself: you need to wash every day and change your clothes…” I have to remind myself to do those things. Blaine’s got a fantastic mother, but I feel half-baked most of the time. He and I are mates, really. He can see that I haven’t grown up — I’m still a six-year-old, basically.
What really turned Blaine on was art and music. He used to listen to a lot of my records. I was always playing music, mostly prog rock. From about the age of five he started participating himself. He had natural rhythm and he’d drum on pots and pans. By the age of eight he had his first drum kit, and I gave him Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon that Christmas. Watching him listen to it was like seeing a light go on in his head.
But that year I went bankrupt. I’d had an architectural practice employing 35 people, but the 1990s recession hit me hard. I owed millions to the bank. Blaine, his sister and his mum decamped to the Dordogne — I didn’t want them catching any of the flak. It was incredibly distressing for me, because I realised how much I wanted to be with him. I’d sit in London writing music, and I’d play it to Blaine when I visited them. They moved back three years later, but my marriage to Blaine’s mother didn’t survive.
Blaine lived with his mother until he came to London to go to art school two years ago and moved in with me. But the five of us who are the Mystery Jets had been practising every weekend for two years before that. It was madness — who would have thought it would ever come to anything? Music-industry people would say: “Your music is kind of interesting, but you haven’t got a hope. Look at the pair of you — you’re not exactly prototype rock stars.” And Blaine and I looked at each other and thought: “Yeah, you’re probably right. But we’ll carry on because we enjoy it.”
He’s remarkably sanguine about his disability. His crutches are like props. He’s hyped them up, painted stripes on them so they jump out at you — psychedelic crutches! Some people don’t think he’s disabled, they think it’s put on.
In a way, Blaine is my life. He matters more than anybody. I try not to overpower him, but I’m always there, I’m always thinking of him. Sometimes worrying. If having me in the band was off-putting, I’d have to leave for Blaine’s sake. There’s a feeling between us that’s indelible — we’re rowing the same boat. But that doesn’t mean he won’t say to me one day: “Dad, I want to do this and it doesn’t include you. Is that alright?” I’ll have to say: “Yeah, it’s alright.” It might hurt like hell, but it will be alright. That day hasn’t arrived yet — and I relish the days that we can do this together.
BLAINE: For most adolescents, rebelling is forming a band. That’s what rock’n’roll is — saying: “Screw the City, screw business skills. Everything’s got to be what our parents hate.” But for me
to rebel now would be to study law.
When I was eight and Dad went bankrupt, my mum said she was taking my sister and me to live in France. I thought: “Okay, so I’m going on holiday.” After a little while out there, I asked when we were going back — I still had toys at the house in London. She said we’d sold the house. I broke down in tears.
Dad would come out to see us two or three times a year on his Harley-Davidson. I looked up to him immensely. He arrived once with all these bruises from an accident on the way. He was wearing 501s and they had scrapes all over them — I thought he was Marlon Brando. We would go riding around the countryside on his bike, loudspeakers blaring music. He became more of a hero than a dad. It was amazing for the week that he was there, and then he’d go back to England. I’d be in tears, asking, “Daddy, why are you leaving? Why can’t we all live together?” and he’d tell me he had to keep the money coming in so we could afford to live out there. And I’d say: “You can work out here — be a farmer like all my mates’ dads. They survive!” He’d tell me I didn’t understand. And I didn’t. He was going through hell; he was bankrupt and living out of boxes for about 10 years. But I just thought: “Wow… my dad’s really living the rock’n’roll lifestyle, and I want to be part of it.”
In fact, he took the crash quite badly and got pretty depressed. It had a huge effect on my parents’ relationship. Three years later we moved back to England and I thought we’d live with my dad again, that it was going to be back to London life. But my mum, my sister and I moved to Oxfordshire. I wouldn’t even acknowledge that he had a girlfriend. It almost felt as if he was doing it behind my back. He’d never introduce me to girlfriends. He visited us every Friday, he kissed my mum, and I told myself they were still having a relationship.
I was also having a hard time at school. Being disabled had never bothered me — it was just the way I’d always been. But starting secondary school was tough. It was to do with adolescence, having girls around, becoming image-conscious. Coming back to England I became known as “the French kid”, whereas in France I’d been “the English kid” — I was still an outsider. And everyone else had been getting into Britpop, but I was this 11-year-old obsessed with prog rock. It was so uncool. Kids would say: “You either like Blur or you like Oasis. What do you mean, King Crimson?” And I’d say, “They’re great! They went through a minimalist funk phase in the 1980s, but in the 60s it was acidy, then in the 70s it went a bit mellow, and Bill Bruford came on drums who’d been in Yes…” and they’d say: “What are you talking about?”
I took a tape we’d made to school and played it to people, and they pointed to my dad and laughed: “Oh, you’re in a band with your dad — that’s so sad! My dad’s a banker, my dad earns thousands of pounds a year.” And my dad lived in a warehouse and was scraping for money. I started watching Top of the Pops and reading Smash Hits! I stopped playing the drums and didn’t write songs with my dad for a few years. Chart music was my rebellion. I couldn’t tell my dad because
I didn’t want him to think I had any problems. I regret that, because it was a dark patch. But I came back to music when I was 14 or 15. I’d venture into London, and my dad would take me to a rock gig or a jazz gig. It was our thing.
We’re a great team, the two of us, but having him on tour can be frustrating. It’s a watchful eye over you all the time. It’s a cliché, but being in a young band on tour is about excess — you play a gig and you’re given a box of beer, you get drunk and do silly things. Having Henry there probably means I do fewer silly things than if he wasn’t there. It’s not that he tells me not to, exactly. Say, after a gig we’re going to go out to a club, he’ll say to me: “Blaine, don’t get too wasted.” But it’s more like what a big brother would say. There’d be no Mystery Jets without him, but maybe one day I’ll be touring with another band and I’ll realise how cool it was having my dad on tour with me. When I’m with the band I call him Henry. But do you want to know something really embarrassing? When we’re on our own I still call him Daddy.
