Homecoming

Even the greatest arenas feel like bad hotels when they’re empty. It’s that smell: polish and old food. Daylight finds all the rips, scrapes and dinks. They feel weirdly huge and small at the same time. Dead rooms are a lousy vibe.

I like to be early - before most of the crew, when the only action is around the coffee and the bacon rolls. I have a ritual: say hi to the boys, then jump onto the stage all alone and walk every inch, pacing it out, checking out the sightlines. I practice holding the total, undivided attention of every single paying punter in every seat. It’s pure love, man, my happy place. For a few minutes I’m queen.

If someone screws this bit up – a delayed flight, a traffic jam, or worst of all, the venue, I know it’s going to be a tough gig. Once, back in ‘23, security at Manchester, or maybe the Birmingham Arena refused to believe I was me. It was kind of funny for a few minutes, but then not funny at all. My crew might have put him in hospital if I’d not stepped in. I wonder what he’s doing now, that guy? I bet I’m his big claim to fame. I bet he tells everyone he meets. Moron.

Today it’s all on track. After the stage walk, I head for my dressing room, pushing past the sign by the door, “Miz Rizzz. London: The Homecoming 2026.” It’s going to be a good one.

But gig days are the longest days ever. Imagine twelve hours in your doctor’s waiting room. Strike that. It’s not like the doctor’s waiting room, because you get interrupted like a million times. There’s journos, snappers, soundchecks, costumes, hair and make-up. But more than that, it’s the one time all those people you usually avoid know exactly where the hell to find you - the label guy, the venue safety officer, people with stuff they want you to sign off: album artwork and perfume packaging and Spotify blurb and the rest. People you keep away from for good reasons.

Four’s the worst time. If you’re on stage at eight, it gets more exciting around five – final soundcheck, meet the lighting and sound guys, makeup and all that. But at four, you’ve been there all day, doing nothing, or only the crap you hate doing. And you know you’re still four long hours from showtime. Four is for doubts and demons and ghosts.

You’ve read about all those divas behaving like monsters, right? Throwing phones, getting high or just balling people out? Well, you can be sure it happened sometime around four. Big tip: if you ever get a job backstage, stay away from the talent after three.

So it’s ten past and I’m alone, scrolling the socials, looking for something, anything to make me laugh. All I’m seeing is old faces, some on the up, most on the down. Why would anyone care where SHE’s been partying? He was a talented guy - how come he’s selling off-brand breakfast bars? Jeez what is she wearing? She looks like a zucchini. Ha - might use that. What rhymes with Zucchini? Dip it in tahini? Hot in my bikini?

I’m feeling blue-green. Blue ’cos I’m bored, lonely and a bit sad. Green ’cos something’s not right. I’m achy, spaced, my heart is going crazy – jungle crossed with broken beats. Four o’clock on a gig day.

I sprawl on the daybed and scroll on. Down beyond the cat videos and the sponsored BS, I find an old clip of JB playing some club. That shoulder roll, the lazy way his arm swings up to punch out the beat right before the drop. What’s that sample? Oh yeah: “Keep on Movin’,” Mum’s favourite. Her party piece when I was little.

Funny - I know everything JB wrote. I know everything about him: his mom, his little sis, his scent, how his body feels under my hands, his crib. Our crib. But I don’t know this song. I’m staring now. I’ve got the sound up full and I’m scanning the background for clues. I don’t recognise any of that crew. No Slick Shawne, no DeeDee. The club could be anywhere. He’s looking fit, cool, in control. He’s got the crucifix tat on his right arm – the last one he had done. As we zoom in on him holding the mike, I can see he’s wearing the ring. My ring. Damn this must be one of the last things he ever recorded. How come I never seen it?

Up top it says it was posted by some ordinary on… wait today?

So now I’m thinking about the very last time. Tokyo, June, 5th, 2021, one am. He’s headlined the Budokan. Nailed it. Those guys were eating from his hands, 15,000 Japanese screaming for more. Got me up on stage for the encore – Empire State of Mind. Man we owned it all.

He’s on top of the monitor now, arms up, commanding the place. Damn he looks sharp. Always the same – plain black tee, baggy black pants, never jeans, vintage Rolex, new white kicks. Wait – those look like… whoa are they Alcarazes?

Now I’m feeling cold, icy. I know my shoes. Alcarazes launched in, what Spring 27?

Budokan was going to be the last night of that tour. Backstage we were all flying, man, high as birds on adrenalin, champagne and maybe a taste of something? We rocked the place, man. At half past midnight, the venue had enough. They wanted to shut the place down, us keeping them from their beds. I get it now, but at the time, we weren’t happy. Anyways, DeeDee was kicking off at the dude so I grabbed JB, gave him my best look and whispered, “Let’s go.” We slipped out and headed for the Bentley. I was pissed because BigBoy came too. BigBoy’s job was to keep JB safe but right then it felt like having a stalker. JB was cool, though. Told me to chill.

I’m Googling the shoes now. I knew it - they came out this year. In 21, Alcarez was probably still at school for God’s sake. I go back to the video and rewind it, stop at the bit where he’s on the monitor. They look like Alcarazes to me. I’m zooming in now. I can see the logo. What the…

-0-

We got to the Bentley and JB pulled out the key. I figured he’d give it to BigBoy but he threw it to me. I’ll never know why but I caught it and gave him a grin. I’ve never driven that thing before. Never much of a driver to be honest. I like to party - be looked after by someone else. I inched out of that car park like an old lady. There was a lot of honking - JB laughing. Once I got us onto the freeway, I began to relax. No Diggity on the stereo. Stone cold classic. JB grinned that grin, turned up the volume, opened all the windows and told me to give it some gas. We were singing loud. JB was Dre, “Droppin’ the verse”, and I was Queen Pen, but blonder, whiter. And from Basildon. Warm night air and all that neon, blue, yellow and red, streaking past – it was beautiful.

I remember… or at least I think I remember the sound of metal on metal, that boom, the air in the car whumping like an old-skool 808.

And that’s it. Next thing, Tokyo hospital, sci-fi clean and bright white. Nurses with kind eyes and blank masks. Wires, tubes and beeps.

Time warped for days and seconds and hours and years. Then it was dark outside and BigBoy, stubbly and scarred was there, rucked up in a way-too-small chair by a window.

“Yo girl, you awake?”

How did I feel? I don’t know spaced, I guess. I kind of knew I was in hospital but I didn’t know how I got there. Happy to see BigBoy’s face in a scary place. There were more nurses and later, a doctor, tall for a Japanese guy, slim, serious. Something important to tell me.

JB didn’t make it - it’s a miracle anyone did. His Mum had been over from LA to identify the body while I was still out. Afterwards, I moved back to Essex for the long recovery. Between the physios, the therapists, the doctors and the lawyers, I was propping up all the professional classes my mum had once wanted me to join.

Most of them told me to take it easy, find a new path. No not a path, a journey. They all talked about goddamned journeys all the time, like I was going to get a bus back to Normaltown. Said I shouldn’t put myself in stressful situations. Yoga? Poetry? One even suggested a pottery class - that was a short conversation. So I checked myself out of patienthood and got back to work. Turns out the world loves a redemption story.

BigBoy went back home and cashed out. Last I heard he was kicking back in Tampa, hiding from tourists and boring anyone in the bar who’d listen.

And now, five years later, here’s my dead ex, on stage and looking like nothing ever happened. OK let’s keep this calm, logical. There are only two explanations. The obvious one - it’s a fake: one of them AI specials like the pope moonwalking with Michael Jackson. It’s possible, but why keep all the clothes the same except for the shoes? Plus it’s a new song and that sound definitely ain’t AI. The other explanation? I mean I know he’s dead and all. But what if he isn’t? I never saw a body. But that’s stupid, like saying the world ‘s flat ‘cos I’ve never fallen off it. I was at the remembrance service with the family. Saw the gravestone. Cried the tears.

Three quiet knocks at the door. They can wait. Three more, then another two, a lot harder. A throat clears.

“Excuse me Miz. Rizzz?”

“What?” My voice is tight, far away, angry. I’m all over the place.

“Visitor for you. Says it’s important.”

“Not happening. Not right now.” A pause, a guilty feeling. “Sorry – I’m fine, jus’ need to focus on the show now, you know?”

I’m not fine. Breathing hard, feeling tingly, spinning, unmoored.

“Yes Miz Rizzz, understood.”

I close my eyes tight and focus on my breath like all those expensive therapists told me. Trying to be still while the room tilts and whirls around me. I remember the weirdly tall doctor bending awkwardly from the waist to talk to me, angular and serious: “JB didn’t make it – it’s a miracle anyone did.”

But this girl’s from Basildon. I’ve seen that town centre in all weathers, man. And I don’t believe in no miracles.

-0-

I love the walk from dressing room to stage. It’s a good 150 metres here and as you get closer, the crowd gets louder and louder. The band are already on stage, pumping out the beats and you can feel the buzz. People shout my name and thousands of feet bounce – energy enough to power a city.

At the wing, the stage manager holds me back with a signal and I wait. My heart is going crazy as the band segues into the first few bars of Newtown Girls. He counts down with his fingers. Three. Two. One.

Showtime.

-0-

Ninety minutes later, I’m dancing off the stage to prep for the encore. The crowd drove the band who, I guess, drove me. You always know when a gig is special. This one is heaven.

The band chugs beers and wipes themselves down with whatever they can find before walking back on. Listen to that roar, man. I change out of the glitz and into black jeans, black crop tee, black kicks, plus as many diamonds as my manager could hustle. The music changes as I get back to the edge of the stage and then there it is, those six deep, crunchy piano notes: dun-de-dun-de-dun-dun. No Diggity. I walk on to a blizzard of noise.

London is mine as I strut across the full width of the stage. I’m far stage right, grinning up and pointing at the boys in the cheap seats so it takes me a while to register the change in the crowd.

As I turn back towards the centre of the stage, the noise gets insane and he walks onto the stage picking up the Dre line. Black tee, black jeans, white Alcarazes, vintage Rolex. Not dead then.

I should be angry. Furious. He broke my heart over and over. And for what? Because I smashed up his rental car? Another woman? A change of heart? I should be angry but I’m not. I’m just… mesmerised, staring. Can’t help it, my smile is brighter than the follow-spots shining on me. No I don’t believe in no miracles. But angels?

I am bursting with love as I get close and he turns to me, that grin so white that everything else looks kind of flat, 2-D. He holds his arms wide and the sound starts to fade in my ears. I only hear the beat, heartbeat slow now. I’m smiling my private smile, looking into his eyes and keeping it cool.

Just a few steps away now and I can’t see anything except the shape of him and that dazzle of smile. I hear nothing but a slow, slow beat, see nothing but JB, feel nothing but JB. Slow. Slower. He folds me in his strong arms and I feel only his warmth.

The beat stops. Homecoming.