by DaNeo Duran
‘The gig’s down there,’ she said once they met Camden High Street.
‘Dingwalls. I know it well.’
‘How long since you’ve been?’
‘A while,’ Richard said with a sigh.
Grace didn’t enquire further as he led her to The Hawley Arms.
‘You ready to eat?’ she asked.
‘Pretty much.’
She’d only ever seen the pub from the outside. Inside it seemed friendly enough and asked for a shandy and lager. The barman looked sceptical.
‘It’s okay,’ Richard said, ‘she’s eighteen.’
After they’d selected meals from the menu she asked what the bank had said.
Settled at a table she learned as she’d suspected the business account had hit a low now sales of GMD’s previous signings had inevitably slowed.
But she discovered encouragingly that Richard had far less money when he started GMD. Grace deduced things could be worse as Richard prattled on about his bands of yesteryear.
‘Money,’ Grace said dragging him into the present.
‘If bands don’t stay together they can’t make any,’ he said.
‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn but those last two bands you signed were awful.’
‘Grace, I take your point, but you’re missing the most important one.’
‘Uncle, I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Do you?’
‘That they were the talk of the town.’
‘Exactly they—’
‘And, I get it. They were the talk – but because they were unique not because they wrote appealing songs. You recorded them and a few enthusiasts, hearing something the rest of us couldn’t, bought their records. Plus both bands looked like boxers who’d spent their lives throwing potatoes at each other.’
Richard laughed. ‘They weren’t pretty.’
‘So why sign them?’
‘Because ugly sometimes has its own appeal.’
‘But it’s incredibly limited. Wouldn’t it be better to sign an act that’s quirkily beautiful?’
‘Ah, most beautiful people use it as licence to be poor quality musicians.’
‘Aren’t you listening?’ Grace said bracing a table leg wondering how far she dare push it. ‘The last two bands you signed were ugly and poor musicians.’
Her toes curled in her trainers.
Richard drained his pint glass
Setting it down, he looked at it and nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right. But, they did have something about them.’
’Did have,’ Grace paraphrased. ‘They’ve gone now leaving space for the next band.’ She tried reverse psychology. ‘If The Used Wonz aren’t all gorgeous I won’t let you sign them.’
‘What exactly are we talking about here?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I appreciate you’re a fan of this band—’
‘I never said I was a fan,’ she lied, ‘it’s just that in business you have to speculate to accumulate.’
Richard groaned. ‘I speculated.’
‘I know.’ She stopped and stared. ‘Hold on, what are you saying, that there’s no more GMD? It needs money. It makes it by managing bands and producing records.’
Richard didn’t speak.
Grace said, ‘I’m truly passionate about this job. We need to get back in the game. I’ve been checking bands and demos for months and this is only the third time I’ve found anything worthy of your attention.’
Unbelievably Richard showed a wry smile. He invited her to continue.
‘If even one of The Used Wonz is ugly, imageless, can’t perform or simply doesn’t cut it I won’t mention them again.’
Richard rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re right.’
‘About what?’
‘Most everything. GMD needs money. I’ve been a fool paying you to do menial things never noticing you’ve got the same passion I had twenty-or-so years ago; never noticed I was losing it.’
After they’d eaten Richard put his knife and fork together and took two tenners from his wallet.
‘Take them,’ he said.
‘This was supposed to be my treat.’
‘Getting dressed down by an eighteen year old ain’t no treat; it’s work. And you’re right, we need to get back in the game so what happens next is also work. This,’ he pointed at the plates, ‘is a business expense. The rest of what I’ve given you is overtime.’
‘Thanks Uncle,’ Grace beamed.
They stood to leave.
‘Oh,’ Richard added, ‘best you remember, I am the boss. If these Used Ones don’t blow Dingwall’s roof off you’re right; you won’t mention them again understood?’
Grace expressed her understanding but linked his arm as he led the way to the venue.
When they arrived she asked the lady at the till, ‘How many for The Used Wonz so far?’
The lady looked at the five-bar gates she’d been making. ‘Loads.’
Grace looked at Richard. ‘Good start.’
In the main room her friends having arrived first greeted them along with a hot summery waft of five hundred youthful bodies.
One friend remembering her instructions to make a fuss flirted and loosened Richard’s tie whilst another got a round of drinks.
Soon the first band arrived on the cluttered stage.
Ten minutes after the first band exited Grace held her breath seeing Johnny and Stu position Christine’s keyboards. Though they wore long pullovers and kept their backs to the audience, people in the crowd started shouting to them.
‘That’s them isn’t it?’ one of her friends asked her.
‘Is it?’ Grace said pretending not to notice and shooting silencing looks her way.
‘We need to get to the front,’ she said heading off.
‘D’you fancy getting closer?’ Grace asked Richard.
‘Nah, I can see enough from here.’
‘A bit closer,’ she said taking his left hand. Following her lead the other friend took his right. They managed to get within four rows of the front before the crowd retightened.
* * *
Backstage in the dressing room Mazz’s fingers trembled with nerves.
‘Hold still,’ Christine said supporting her head whilst plying her with plum-coloured lipstick.
The lads pulled their jumpers off.
‘It’s boiling out there,’ Stu said seeing sweat soaking through his black silk shirt.
‘Tell me about it,’ Christine said. ‘How many’s out there?’
‘Never seen it so full.’
‘You alright Mazz?’ Stu asked.
Mazz took his hand. ‘Fine. How old do I look?’
‘At least thirty.’ They hadn’t yet told Grace it’d be another twelve months before she turned eighteen.
‘Ready to look post new romantic?’ Christine asked the lads.
‘Ready,’ Stu said sitting down.
Johnny seemed more reluctant.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll still look manly,’ Christine told him whilst darkening Stu’s eyes.
Soon she went to work on Johnny’s eyes. He breathed her perfume and reopening his eyes looked at her face freshly made up just inches from his. She didn’t comment as she dusted his face.
‘Hmm,’ he said, his gaze tracing her neck and making no secret of his looking down her dress.
She kept working as his hands touched her waist and swept the curve of her hips.
‘Hmm,’ he said again. ‘If we weren’t in the same band …’
He looked in her eyes. Not a flicker as she admired her handiwork. Johnny couldn’t believe he hadn’t got a rise out of her and didn’t breathe another word.
Just when he considered apologising she stood straight and said, ‘Thanks, what a nice complement.’
Needing a subject change Johnny said, ‘Guys, we’re starting with How Can We Be So Happy right?’
‘We are,’ Stu said.
He slapped Stu’s thigh to help shake his lingeri
ng embarrassment having flirted with Christine. ‘It’s a quiet song.’
‘It’s a bold opener,’ Christine said.
‘And people yack all the way through it. This time as we’re playing it I’ll open my arms.’ His arms raised them like Jesus. ‘Keep an eye on me and if I drop my hands – stop playing.’
‘And you think that’ll shut them up?’ Mazz asked.
‘It better.’ Stu slapped the back of one hand into the palm of his other.
‘Do we really want to be trying stunts with Grace’s uncle in the audience?’ Christine asked.
‘Grace said he likes quirkiness.’
‘I don’t know,’ Christine said.
‘Neither do I but let’s do it anyway.’
* * *
Four rows from the front Grace wondered where The Used Wonz had got to when the jukebox faded and from her left four figures emerged.
First she saw the brunette bass player wrapped in a back mini dress teetering on spiky high heels behind the enormous looking bass. She pirouetted locating her guitar lead and received a couple of wolf whistles.
Next came Stu looking sexy with his hedgehog-spiny hair and even some makeup. He took his place behind the drums and unbuttoned his shirt. Half the audience cheered. Somewhere behind her Grace heard shouts of, Tits out Stewie.
More wolf whistles came as, unrecognisable from the record stall frump, Christine crossed the stage in a dress barely covering her bottom. Grace imagined vapour trails of oestrogen dancing in her wake as she waved from her keyboards, turned and wiggled her hips.
Glancing at her uncle, Richard simply stated, ‘Blimey.’
‘Guess the singer must be the ugly one,’ she said a second before the redoubtable Johnny stepped forwards also in makeup but ever godlike.
His guitar slung across broad shoulders remained un-played as he opened his arms.
‘We’re The Used Wonz.’
Half the room cheered as synthy chords, bass guitar notes and cymbals swelled. Grace tried ignoring the incessant chattering until without warning Johnny’s arms flopped to his side.
The music died like a power cut. On stage she saw no movement save Christine’s oscillating jaw chewing gum.
One conversation after another dissipated as people faced forwards. When only a few voices remained someone to Grace’s left shouted for them to shut up.
The band remained frozen in the night’s heat until only the clink of glasses behind the bar remained. Looking to the stage Johnny’s arms rose resurrecting rich synthesised pad sounds swirling back into life.
* * *
On stage Johnny felt like a king. Stepping forwards his lips brushed the mic.
As he sang, ‘I looked out over mountains… ‘ he wanted the moment to last forever feeling his voice reach five hundred never-more-respectful listeners. He kept his eyes closed throughout verse and bridge crescendo until the sound dropped away as rehearsed.
Nothing could be heard but his voice and Christine’s strings.
He sang, ’How can we be so happy, when we have nothing at all.’
Spinning his guitar’s volume knob he set sail the sound he’d never tired of hearing. Against the temptation to float off on a Dave Gilmour-esque cadenza he reigned his playing in for verse2.
* * *
In the audience after the first song, spellbound like everyone else, Grace forgot she’d primed Johnny about Richard’s character until he addressed the room and yet perhaps only Richard.
‘I wrote that song at a time of personal uncertainty,’ Johnny told his audience. ‘I know we all feel uncertain sometimes. Some will feel it right now. But its message is optimistic because even when we think we have nothing every one of us has plenty.’
Christine had dialled up a sharp edged string sound and began a riff familiar to Grace.
Johnny went on. ‘Just know what you are. If you’re a businessman then be a businessman. Take those risks. If you’re a lover or love music then get to the heart of it.’
Hoping Johnny hadn’t been too obvious Grace couldn’t face her uncle.
Stu’s drum rhythm beat aggressively.
Grace swayed with Richard and everyone else in the throng of youths now jumping to the beat.
‘Better than the demo?’ she yelled to Richard.
He nodded fighting for balance.
On stage the bandmates leaned off their mics and chanted, ‘Let’s get to the heart of this right now, you with us, we are go, go, go!’
The audience soon caught on and at the second chorus Johnny signalled the band to stop before the middle-8.
‘On your own,’ he said clapping time. The audience chanted their chorus line with hands over heads clapping with the band.
Grace watched Johnny spin around mouthing to his bandmates. Facing front he thanked the audience as the band ploughed into the middle-8.
Two songs later Johnny harped about multinational companies. ‘D’you ever feel little and invisible? Well we reckon independent companies have better clout than bullying multies. If anyone here has their own independent company then celebrate that.’ Hitting a chord he sang, ‘We are the little ones but we have a voice.’
* * *
On stage Mazz’s nerves had passed the moment they’d silenced the audience. She stepped away from Johnny’s right to groove with Stu who’d whipped his shirt off moments earlier; his marital arts trained body looked impressive.
Johnny had unfastened his shirt. Though she’d seen Stu, she’d never seen Johnny shirtless. At the end of the song the crowd’s females bayed for Johnny’s shirt too.
‘Go on Johnny,’ Mazz said into her mic, ‘let’s see ya.’
‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,’ he said.
She replied, ‘I’ll show you later if you show us now.’
Hooked and overexcited by the repartee Christine thought to attack his blindside.
Leaving her keyboards she snatched his Jack Daniels bottle before whipping the shirt from his shoulders as best she could. The crowd whooped and Mazz appeared assisting her.
Crouching Johnny fought to remind himself the girls meant well as the nightmare of his past surfaced. Screwing his eyes he knew fighting or shouting would seem peevish so being a good sport he capitulated holding his guitar clear as the delicate silk vanished.
As Mazz ran to her corner spinning his shirt overhead Christine saw her mistake in Johnny’s forlorn expression.
Like Stu, Johnny possessed a classic triangle frame to be proud of but facing the audience with her arm around his shoulders she realised why he kept it hidden.
Her fingertips slid into a trench of scar tissue. Tilting her head she saw a foot long gouge along with decade-old cigarette burns and a hand sized patch of matted skin.
She forced herself to meet Johnny’s eyes before pressing a cheek to his.
She kissed him and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ll get you your shirt.’
She made to move but Johnny caught her wrist.
‘It’s okay. Let’s just finish the set.’
Returning to her instruments she guessed the jubilant audience had missed her wrongdoing.
Everything but her anguish seemed normal and at end of the set she watched Johnny thank the audience and crab to the side of the stage retrieving his shirt.
Christine shifted her gear so the final band could then take then stage. But instead of going to the dressing room she headed outside in search of fresh air.
Condensation dripped from the beams as she passed through the venue. She felt men and women’s desiring or envying eyes following her body cooked and supple from baking stage lights; something she didn’t appreciate offstage.
On the street she took deep cooling breaths. She’d always suspected Johnny had suffered but never to the extent that his spoiled body suggested.
Soon she went back inside. The last band had yet to play but the crowd seemed to have diminished creating room to breathe.
Grace collared her en route backstage.
&n
bsp; ‘Christine,’ she said out of her uncle’s earshot. ‘I wondered where you’d gone.’
‘I needed air,’ Christine said fanning her face by way of excuse having forgotten about GMD.
‘Well that gig was brilliant and Richard’s prepared to meet you.’ She made a triumphant gesture with her fists.
‘Where is he?’
Grace led the way to the bar and following introductions Christine observed her uncle’s changing state. She could only guess how many rock stars and moguls he’d have met since the sixties but to her, he seemed as if star-struck.
They went with Richard and Grace to the dressing room to face Johnny and the others.
The craggy uncle then showed his no nonsense side, speaking directly with dry seriousness.
Christine reckoned his deeply lined face must have seen plenty of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s gritty side. He showed little emotion until Grace asked if she could take a bunch more demos.
‘Just for feedback,’ she said soothingly.
* * *
Furnished with cassettes the uncle/niece team left and two hours later the band arrived home. The four gathered in the kitchen and after a short celebratory chat Johnny left for his room.
‘I’m off to bed too,’ Mazz said departing after giving her remaining bandmates a kiss on the cheek.
The moment the kitchen door closed Christine asked Stu, ‘How long have you known about Johnny’s scars.’
‘A couple of years. Discovered them by accident like you did.’
‘I feel awful about it.’
‘He’ll know you meant well but don’t expect him to talk about it,’ he said flicking the kettle on.
When it boiled Christine made teas and the pair bade one another goodnight.
Instead of bed Christine headed to the top floor. Putting two mugs down she straightened her clothes, fluffed her hair and knocked on Johnny’s door.
When called she entered seeing him in bed propped up against pillows with his old Squire beside him.
‘Thanks Darling,’ he said taking a mug.
She smiled.
‘You wouldn’t call me that if you didn’t like me would you?’
‘I do like you and I know why you’re here. I got my shirt back so you don’t have to be sorry.’
Christine didn’t know whether to believe him.
‘You’ve been through hell haven’t you?’
‘It’s all in the past. I’ve never told anyone but the How Can We Be So Happy lyrics are inspired by the train journey that ended the old me and was the start of the guy you know now.’
She touched his arm. ‘I can’t believe I’ve seen you change a hundred shirts in a hundred dressing rooms and never noticed you always turning your scars away.’
