The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Stepping under the power shower’s scalding hot needles, adjusting the temperature slightly, he selected his favourite Black Pepper recharge shower gel. Bowing his head under the showers watering can head, his thoughts turned to the band and when he would contact them. It almost felt like chasing a girl – if he could remember that far back – too soon and you looked too eager. Leave it too long and it and you look like you’re not bothered….

  Chapter 4

  “Sick night! Loved playing live at last and that barmaid had it bad for you bro!” said an exuberant Dominic. The brothers sat across from each other at a small, round, wooden kitchen table. Two cups of brick coloured sweet tea had been dutifully served up by their ever-doting mum.

  Jamie looked up and winked as he idly flicked through his mobile phone internet browser.

  “So then, my two rock stars. How did your first gig go?” she asked, adjusting her brown wavy shoulder length hair within the cerise pink hairband.

  Jamie pushed both hands back through his hair and exhaled noisily. “Went well Mum, sound could have been a bit better and there weren’t many people there.”

  “And a few of them were right dicks. Talking through the songs!” interjected Dominic.

  Turning around and tutting at the colourful language, she asked, “How many songs did you play? You did ‘Salvation’ didn’t you? That’s definitely your best song.”

  “Yes, we played it Mum. Course we did.” Jamie smiled warmly across at his mum as she wiped her wet hands on the back of her snug fitting navy blue jog pants. He loved the way she cared about their music. “Bit of an odd one as well, there were only a dozen or so people there, but this guy said he’d be interested in managing us. He seemed pretty cool, and sounded like he knew what he was talking about. He bought us a beer, so he can’t be all bad.”

  “And Jamie pulled,” laughed Dominic as he gave his brother a playful kick under the table.

  Wiping her hands on to a red gingham checked tea towel, the boys’ Mum became instantly defensive. “Who was he? What did he say? What—”

  Cutting her off with a whoah-whoah-hands-up gesture, Jamie laughed at his mum’s concern. “Don’t worry. We’ve not signed our souls away.”

  “Pun intended,” Dominic snorted.

  “We’re going to chat with Mikee and Dan and meet up with him. Doesn’t do any harm and it’d be good to get a bit of guidance.”

  “Well just be careful, you’re really good boys and I don’t want you getting involved with some…” She struggled for the suitable noun, “…shark.”

  Dominic cackled and started beating out the Jaws theme on the table top, singing out the unmistakable string driven ‘der der der der’ as loud as he could. His table-top percussion causing the tea to splash up and down.

  Blue eyes sparkling and laughing along with his brother’s cinematic comedy turn, Jamie turned to his mum and smiled. “Take no notice. He’s just winding you up. He was alright, and we won’t make any daft decisions.”

  Leaving the two brothers to conduct their gig post-mortem, she kissed them both on the top of their heads. She left the dimly-lit kitchen, feeling proud that someone had spotted her offspring’s obvious talents.

  “Yeah, it went well didn’t it. For a first gig,” Jamie said emphatically, rubbing a finger across a thick brown eyebrow then wiping a trace of sleep from the corner of his eye.

  Agreeing with his brother, Dominic changed tack. “Look at the way that cute barmaid was with you. She couldn’t get enough of you. Now that I could get used to!”

  Smiling at the thought of the lingering kiss he had shared with said barmaid as they had gone halves on a cigarette - huddled in a fire exit at the side of the club - Jamie nodded wholeheartedly.

  “From a serious point of view, Mikee needs a new kit. Which won’t come cheap. He looks ridiculous behind his. It’s like a kid’s set! And we haven’t got time or contacts to sort gigs and shit out.”

  Draining the last dregs of tea from his ‘I heart Manchester’ mug, Dominic agreed with Jamie’s sentiments, adding, “He seemed decent enough. Let’s give him a listen. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Alright Dr Pepper. I’ll text him. We owe him that. I mean he enjoyed the gig and bought us a beer.”

  Grabbing his mobile, Jamie smiled to himself when the SnapChat icon flashed up on the screen –

  U BETTER CALL ME! KATIE xx

  He didn’t even remember giving out his number, but liked the tones of the sweetly succinct message.

  “Right then! What shall I say to him then bro?” Jamie asked out loud but was already mid-message. A slightly calloused thumb – the faintest of indentations left from a plectrum – flew over the phones keypad with a second nature the digital generation seemed blessed with.

  Knowing that the message was almost complete, Dominic still offered up some brotherly advice. “Just keep it short, and tell him we’ll all meet for drink and a chat. All it needs. Yeah.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Done it. I’ve asked him to come and watch us rehearse. He should get to see us playing again and it’ll be good to get another set of ears down.”

  “Your shout J. We know we’re fucking good. And it’ll mean we’re on our toes,” said Dominic

  Offering across an upheld right hand, Jamie clasped his brother’s hand tightly, gloving it with his left. Jamie patted their two adjoined hands. “You’re right! WE ARE FUCKING GOOD…”

  ***

  Stepping out of the bathroom, having ensured that he had fully complied with ‘His Mistress’s Voice’, Johnny stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. The aquamarine coloured towel was tied round his waist. Looking in the mirror, he pushed his wet hair back, looking intently at his reflected hairline, moving his head from side to side and looking at any possible signs of receding. Satisfied that the tide wasn’t going out, Johnny then turned attention to his midriff. Patting his stomach for tell-tale signs of the dreaded middle-aged spread, Johnny pursed his lips and deemed the slight gatherings of fat at his sides as manageable for a man of his age. The self-conducted personal MOT was concluded with a grimace to reveal his teeth; rubbing at his top gum, he made a mental note to himself that a trip to the dentist wouldn’t go amiss.

  Hearing the familiar ‘ping’ announcing that he had received a text message, Johnny finished his vanity routine and padded to the bedroom to retrieve his phone.

  Good meeting you last night. We should meet. 8pm Tuesday. Beehive Studios. You won’t regret it…

  Johnny’s pulse quickened; they’d got in touch with him before he had made a first move – and no shitty text speak either! Grabbing a pair of grey trunk style boxer shorts, a red Lacoste polo T-shirt from the second drawer of the dresser and picking up last night’s jeans, he dressed with a veritable spring in his step, any lingering traces of the previous night excesses evaporating with an all-consuming air of expectation…

  Chapter 5

  “Should have booked today off. Schoolboy error. I’m shagged,” Johnny replied wearily as he tabbed through his email inbox. “I was alright yesterday.”

  “You look how I feel mate. Big birthday weekend?” asked Paul as he busied himself transferring paperwork from one side of his desk to the other with a half-arsed nonchalance. Leaning back in his swivel chair and looking out of their fifth-floor corner office window across the Salford Quays canal basin, Paul stretched his arms out wide and yawned noisily. “’I’m sure it was better than mine mate. DIY hell. Kids running ring rounds me. Couldn’t even find the time, energy or privacy for a quick wank!”

  Scratching at an ear, Johnny said, “Ta for that, mate. I’ll mark that down on my spreadsheet of your masturbatory habits. Hang on.” Making exaggerated stabs at his desktop computer keyboard, he added, “Your weekly average is dropping, with a typical 0.54 wanks per day. A spike seems to occur on a Wednesday evening when you peak with a massive two wanks in three hours.” Nodding studiously, Johnny beamed across at his collea
gue.

  “Funny fucker,” Paul laughed. “I’ll order some breakfast,” he said, perusing the dogeared café menu. “So, tell me more about your weekend then Mr Harrison. Thrill me with some vicarious debauchery!”

  “Yes, all that,” said Johnny, winking back. “We had a good ’un. Out in town. Northern Quarter. Usual places. Saw a great band though,” he added enthusiastically. “I’m going to meet up with them tomorrow.”

  “Bit old to be a groupie, aren’t we?”

  A little more irritably then he intended, he said, “Not like that you dick. I mean I saw a new band that I want to work with.”

  With deserved sarcasm, Paul raised his hands up. “Of course. Why didn’t I realise straight away?”

  “Sorry mate. But you know I’ve always wanted to get back into doing a bit of the showbusiness stuff.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you did some managing stuff in your younger days. But…”

  Cutting him off abruptly, “But nothing! I’m smarter and wiser these days, and I’ve got a few quid behind me as well.”

  Picking up the phone distractedly and starting to dial his breakfast order through, mouthing ‘do you want anything?’ just as the phone was answered. Shaking his head, Johnny pursed his lips in frustration at his colleague’s perceived lack of interest.

  Retrieving the situation neatly, Paul said, “Sorry Mr H, they answered quicker than usual. What were they like? What are they called?”

  Johnny smiled at having caught Paul’s attention. “They’re called Lonely Souls. Cool name. They were bottom of the bill at The Roadhouse. You know it. Bit of a dive but I fucking love it.” Lowering his voice at the dropped expletive and to avoid prying ears.

  “Anyway. They were unbelievable. Sort of a dancey rock psychedelic sound. Bit raw, but the songs were brilliant. A couple of them sounded amazing. They looked good as well. The lead singer’s cool as fuck and the drummer plays like a fucking dream,” he gabbled excitedly.

  “Bloody hell mate, I’ve not seen you this excited since…” Stumbling for an apt analogy, Paul stuttered, “since, well never!” Laughing at his own linguistic ineptitude, Paul asked, “What are you going to do then? Jack your job in and go and hit the road with a rock ’n’ roll band?”

  He put his finger to his lips. “Shhh! I’m going to meet them after work tomorrow at their rehearsal room. See what they’re about and then who knows.”

  Paul nodded in approval. “You are serious!”

  “C’mon. I know you hate this place more than I do. Why wouldn’t I blow it off for something, well y’know, a bit more exciting.”

  “Amen brother Harrison.”

  “If I hear another cock in a shiny suit trot out the ‘work hard, play hard’ bullshit. By which they mean doing a load of shots in an All Bar One whilst ranking the girls in the office in terms of fuckablity!” Johnny hissed.

  “If you bring the matches, I’ll bring the petrol,” Paul said. A little too manically.

  “You know what I mean though?”

  Tapping on his desk excitedly, Paul laughed, “Remember me when they hit the big time and you’re dating a supermodel.”

  “All that,” Johnny smiled back. “First name on the guestlist at any gig. And I’ll make sure there’s a quiet room so you can have a wank in peace.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Mr Harrison,” Paul said, extending his hand over to him, “Deal!” He got up and hungrily rubbed his paunch.

  Just before he made the office door, Johnny shouted after him, “Grab us a bottle of sparkling water.”

  Feigning diligence, Johnny busied himself with the slew of emails that he had amassed, but his focus was unwaveringly on his meeting with Lonely Souls…

  ***

  “What time will yer new mate be here then?” Danny asked as he idly tuned his bass and checked the levels on his Fender amp.

  Jamie frowned in the bass player’s direction, putting extra emphasis on the name. “Johnny said he’d be here about 7ish which gives us an hour to set up and get things sounding nice and tight.”

  Strumming a few minor chords to make sure his guitar sound was just as he liked it, Dominic offered dup a new song that he’d been working on.

  “Not tonight bro, let’s keep it nice and simple for now. Play what we know. Get it right and if things are going well, we can always jam it out towards the end of the session. You know I love it when you bring something new to us.” Smiling warmly at his brother, Jamie knew his placating words would not fall on deaf ears with his brother and two closest friends in the world.

  Mikee finished putting a tartan car rug inside his bass drum to deaden the volume, and lazily struck a cymbal, instantly grabbing it in his paw like right hand. “He seems sound enough, only met him for a minute, but let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

  A heady combination of taskmaster and perfectionist, Jamie removed the packet of Marlboro Lights from his black denim jacket pocket and tossed them to the floor of the rehearsal room. The packet landed perfectly upright against his battered Marshall amp, looking like a dodgy attempt at an album sleeve. “Right, ‘Is What It Is’ needs a bit of work. Let’s run through that and get it right…”

  ***

  Leaving work on the dot of 5.30, Johnny reckoned forty minutes door to door would give him time to grab a quick pint at The Kings Arms – the nearest decent boozer to Beehive Studios – and still be there on time. He felt that was important today. His timekeeping bordered on the shambolic, which was made more pitiful given his penchant for a nice timepiece.

  Checking that he had his ubiquitous packet of chewing gum, he entered the pub past a peeling CAMRA sticker that wafted every time a punter used the door. It was a proper boozer that attracted a mixed but resolutely trouble-free clientele. This masked the fact that the landlord was a miserable twat of the highest order. Ordering a Guinness and a packet of salt & vinegar crisps, Johnny selected a table as far away from any other customers as possible and tried to play out all possible scenarios.

  Did he show his hand about money straight away? Should he exaggerate his experience and contacts? Or confess to being a chancer who wanted out of the rat race? he thought.

  He swore to himself. He’d not felt this nervous in ages. Taking a sizeable gulp to drown the self-doubting butterflies, he exhaled and looked around the bar, hoping that tonight really could be the start of something…

  ***

  The band had played three songs repeatedly – each time noticeably tighter and sharper than the last. Like all great bands, a symbiotic relationship forged a greater than the sum of the parts dynamic. Not that the individual components were too shabby…

  “Let’s go again with ‘Salvation’,” Jamie encouraged. “But let’s nail the middle eight this time. It’s loose when the guitars kick in.”

  As Jamie struck the first chord, there was a sharp double-knock on the studio room door and all four bandmates exchanged glances, willing each other to be the first one to break the silence.

  The door opened ajar, and with the demeanour of a nervous interviewee, Johnny stepped into the band’s inner sanctum.

  Before he could mumble his introductions, Mikee shouted, “HERE’S JOHHHNNNYYYY!”

  As icebreakers go, it was perfect.

  Blinking to acclimatise himself to the starkly light room, Johnny was momentarily lost for words.

  Striving to make the right first impression, he inhaled deeply. “Never fails that one. Always grateful that my mum picked the name. Once I’d seen the film.” Clapping his hands together loudly, he said, “Right then, good to see you again…”

  Nods and mumbled ‘alrights’ were forthcoming before Jamie assumed control. “We’ve just been going over a few tracks. Just to get them right. Sit yourself down over there.” He pointed at an upturned beer crate positioned in the right-hand corner of the room. “You’ll be as far away as possible from Mikee’s kit as well.”

  As if marking his territory, Mikee struck his bass pedal twice and Fight C
lub-nodded in Johnny’s direction.

  Perching on the uncomfortable makeshift chair, Johnny sat upright, leaning against the wall, with his hands on his knees, looking like a footballer posing for a team photograph.

  The band, counted in by three juts of Jamie’s clean-shaven chin, kicked in as one. The sound roaring through the compact white-washed room.

  Feeling a pounding in his chest - part adrenaline, part amplification of the bass drum - Johnny relaxed his pose and leant forward, cupping his chin between the thumb and finger of his right hand. He was certainly right about the drummer who was capable of rocking out, grooving and holding a tight but simple drum pattern down.

  The two brothers who he now was convinced were twins – exchanged vocal harmonies and guitar lines symbiotically. Dominic taking the more liquid lead with Jamie holding down the rhythm parts. The vocals were far better than at the gig and Jamie’s Northern Strummeresque snarl was also capable of a softer, more delicate falsetto when sharing vocals with his brother.

  They are fucking good. No, they are fucking great, thought Johnny. Choking back a dry swallow he rued not having bottle of water with him to quench his thirst and to busy his fidgeting hands.

  Bringing the song to a conclusion, Dominic placed his gold Les Paul into its stand and rolled his shoulders and bobbed his head from side to side loosening up any kinks and knots. Stretching his fingers out and then clasping them behind his head, his attentions turned to Johnny, who was now sat with his legs crossed, one arm folded across his chest and the other stroking the five o’clock shadow on his chin.

  “Well?” he asked succinctly.

  At a loss for superlatives, Johnny blew between his lips, and shrugged his shoulders. Come on, he thought, this is your moment. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t loved what I heard on Saturday. And you sounded even better just then. The sound system did you no favours at the weekend, did it?”