The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Pulling out a roll of twenty-pound notes from the back pocket of his Levis, Jamie waved the money flamboyantly.

  “I’m settling up what we owe and paying up-front for the rest of the month. We’re booked in Tuesday, Thursday and a Sunday afternoon session for the next three months.” He struck a C major on his guitar. “Imagine how fucking tight we’ll be after a couple of months working that hard. New songs, improve on the one’s we’ve got. Man, this is a chance that we didn’t expect to get so early, let’s not pick at it.” Banging out another two noisy chords almost for dramatic effect, he added, “We take this chance and make things happen. Who the fuck else is out there as good as us?” Again, rising to the occasion of a rallying speech, “When was the last time we heard an album that really excited us? The Arctics, which was five years ago and before that…” Pausing for inspiration and struggling for a further example, Jamie rubbed at his chin. “…And before that it was The Libs, and that was fucking ages ago!”

  Wanting to bring the talking to an end and get on with the actual rehearsal, Jamie stamped on an effects pedal with his right foot. “No-one’s got anything to say these days. It’s fuckin’ shite out there, and we can make a difference to people, our songs can matter. Let’s get them out there.”Taking Dominic’s lead, and sensing that the talking was done, Mikee seized the momentum, counted a loud 1-2-3 and hit the opening drum roll to ‘Salvation’. Work was underway…

  Chapter 8

  With the new and welcome distraction of the band, Johnny had a new focus, which in turn had relaxed him, giving him a much breezier worldview. Not quite a Zen calm, but he felt happier than he had in a long while. His mind was a constant whir of thoughts, ideas, scams and flights of fantasy as to how far ‘this thing’ could go.

  He found himself constantly reassuring himself that the songs he had heard, the live set that he had witnessed were that good. In rare moments of self-doubt and anxiety, he questioned himself, and his decision to finance the band.

  Those songs.

  He had only heard them a handful of times.

  But that was enough.

  The moments of doubt were fleeting, and he always went back to the fact that despite not having a musical bone in his body, he had a ‘good pair of ears’. He knew a tune and he felt that he intrinsically knew what people wanted to hear. His opinions on what clogged up the charts and what passed for ‘instant classics’ were dispensed with a vociferous zeal. Much to his long-suffering friends’ frustration.

  It was some two months since he had met the band and their thrice weekly rehearsals were now the well-established norm. Johnny had been footing the bill for the room, and had also shelled out for a drum kit, a new bass speaker - which had gone some way to assuaging any of Danny’s lingering doubts - and a distortion/effects pedal that Dominic had commandeered.

  All ‘expenses’ were discussed beforehand and receipts were always forthcoming. He attended Thursday evenings and every other Sunday afternoons practice sessions. Progress was being made and to his ears, this was a band that had well and truly found its feet. And most importantly, a band that resolutely had its own sound.

  It wouldn’t be too long before they were studio ready.

  And Claire.

  She was the main recipient of his musical scorn. Her music buying these days extended no further than old dance compilations or what was on the supermarket shelves. And much to his snobbish disgust, the Mumford & Sons album seemed to be on constant rotation in her car.

  He’d backpedalled somewhat here – having initially liked a track that had been heavily played on the radio – a painfully executed U-turn had been made when Johnny found out they were ‘poshos’ and even worse when David Cameron had endorsed their virtues.

  “David fucking Cameron said he likes them. The waistcoat wearing banjo bastards!” had been the last tirade he had launched at Claire, who in fairness to her had nonchalanty re-played her favourite track, turned the car stereo up and stated to Johnny, “I’m sure you liked this when you first heard it…”

  Returning home with two supermarket carrier bags – remembering to use the canvas recycling bags seemed to escape him – and resolutely sans CDs, Johnny unlocked the front door and shouted a cheery greeting, “Hello lady, I’m home.”

  Unusually, the TV was not on, there were no lights on and no apparent signs of life. Johnny was sure Claire was home as her car was parked outside. Putting the bags down and hanging his coat on the coat peg by the door, he again called out, “Claire. You home?”

  A barely audible moan emanated from the depths of the sofa. Akin to a newly born animal that was feeling malnourished as its siblings were dominating mealtimes.

  “Hiya Johnny, I’m here,” was the barely audible whimper.

  “You okay? What’s up honey? Had a shit one at work?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Johnny had to strain to hear her.

  The failsafe solution to all Northern ills was then proffered.

  “You want me to stick the kettle on?”

  “Yes please, and two sugars.”

  A Saccharine upgrade from a never to be deviated from none to two. Trouble. Definite trouble.

  Had she lost her job? Someone ill? Fuck. Has someone died? Been diagnosed as terminally ill? Have Coldplay split up? Johnny thought as he weighed up the possibilities.

  Johnny’s mind hurtled through what had necessitated the sugar fix from the foetal figure on the sofa. Still in her work coat and shoes, Claire let out a whimper.

  Just as he turned for the kitchen, his question was answered. The two words uttered by a woman in this distraught state that left no room for ambiguity.

  “I’ve started. I’ve started and…” A huge wracked sob echoed throughout the house.

  Johnny could only muster a sympathetic, “Shit, you okay?”

  This fell way short of the desired compassion.

  Way, way, short.

  “Is that all you can say? I thought I was pregnant for the last three weeks…” The sentence trailed off to a whispered sob as Claire returned to staring at the blank television screen.

  Needing to up the gravitas, Johnny stepped towards the prone figure - which now resembled a hibernating animal.

  “Hey lovely lady, I had no idea. How could I? We hadn’t even said we were trying…”

  This much was true. A mutual acceptance of ‘if it happens, it happens’ had underpinned their view on parenthood. Claire had studied for a law degree in her late 20s and then her career then fast-tracked in her early 30s. Johnny’s throwaway caveat to fatherhood was that any son/daughter and heir would inherit a fantastic record collection.

  A tone of desperation entered his voice. “You should have said something. When did you come off the pill?”

  Clank. The elephant in the room appeared and had blocked off all available exits. ‘That question’ was now resolutely out there…

  Claire’s reddened eyes widened owl-like, and a hint of guilt flickered across her tear-stained face. Gulping more sobs back, a hushed word came from Claire’s lips. “Christmas…”

  Johnny took a step back, searching with his hand for the armchair to deposit himself into so that he could process this skipped pharmaceutical bombshell.

  “We really should have talked about this.” Knowing that this was not the time for an inquisition, he backed off. “When you feel a little less upset, we’ll sit and talk. But I’m sorry you’re so…” His words trailed off limply, laced with inadequacy.

  Wiping the back of her hand across her face, polka-dots of mascara formed underneath her eyes. Claire mustered a half-smile. “Thank you, I’ll be fine, and we will talk but not today, yeah?”

  Standing slowly and concentrating on an imaginary piece of fluff on the cuff of his shirt, Johnny said decisively, “I’ll make that cup of tea for you.”

  Reaching the kitchen and for once deciding against the reflex action of popping music on, he filled the kettle, his mind a whirl after the homecoming events he had b
een party to. There was clearly no moral high ground to be sought here, but it burnt at him that the decision had been made for him rather than the conversation that should have preceded such significant life-decisions.

  Stood over the sink, lost in his thoughts, Johnny inadvertently let the cold tap overfill the kettle, water rushing out over the lip, spraying up the hessian blind, he cursed softly, his mind a maelstrom of emotions.

  This unforeseen development wasn’t going away in a hurry…

  Chapter 9

  Three months passed, and the band had started to crave a break from the confines and routine of the rehearsal room. A meeting had been convened at Jamie’s request.

  A simple text message stating - ‘Let’s talk studios x’

  Johnny couldn’t contain his excitement. He had left them to dictate when they felt they were studio ready. In all honesty, he had felt that they could have gone into the studio and produced more than satisfactory results after a month’s rehearsals. The band were now as symbiotically tight as he could have been hoped for. A revised middle eight had also been added to ‘Salvation’ – it now had drop in tempo, whereby a simple acoustic and piano line underscored the chanted refrain. If this was reproduced as well as it could be when the band hit the studio, then they really would have something special on their hands.

  The thought of a tangible product thrilled him. He could start to test the water and get the tracks out to his industry contacts. This would be the start of his real involvement - as much as his financial input had been hugely beneficial, this was where he would really prove himself to the band.

  He also had a card up his sleeve to play tonight. A mate of his who was a graphic designer had designed several band logos, which like a schoolboy looking to impress with a vital assignment, he had printed off on to high quality paper and inserted into individual plastic wallets. The ‘touch and feel’ quality would work way better than displaying them on his laptop.

  The workday dragged in typical fashion, but with ‘b of the bang’ timing Johnny was at the lift-door on the dot of 5pm. With the logo prints and notes on various studios that he had researched, all was well in the world. Just as he reached the town bound tram stop, his phone pinged the arrival of an incoming text message. Glancing down as he stepped onto the platform – it was from Claire;

  ‘Don’t forget that shopping & can we talk later. Don’t be too late xx’

  Four weeks had passed since her upset and the revelation that contraception was no longer on her agenda. He welcomed the opportunity to talk, but his thoughts were solely based on the immediate future of Lonely Souls for the next couple of hours…

  Firing off a quick conciliatory reply – ‘Hiya all sorted, won’t be too late, and we’ll chat then x’

  The first part of the text bore no relation to the truth, he’d have to pick the shopping up on his way to the rehearsal rooms – turning up with supermarket bags was not the image of the savvy band manager that he was trying to portray.

  Stopping off at a conveniently placed Tesco Express and relying on mental dexterity rather than the concise list that was sitting redundantly on his desk, he grabbed the essential and not so essential items and undertook a flawless self-checkout.

  Arriving at the Kings at the stroke of 6pm, Johnny saw that the band had convened at their usual table and had taken the courtesy of getting him a Guinness in.

  He sat down and took the top off his pint. “Who do I thank for this?” he asked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Danny saluted with a bony index finger, raised his own glass and said, “Cheers Johnny, appreciate all this. It’s made a massive difference having the room paid for ‘n that.”

  Johnny offered a handshake across the table. “Thanks man, you know I want this to work for all of us. But if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  Clearing his throat, and picking up the small zip-up attaché case he had bought along especially, Johnny cleared a space on the table by moving his pint & mobile to the adjacent table.

  “Okay, first things first. I’ve had a mate of mine knock up some logos. There’s about six or seven, I reckon three or four of them are non-starters, the others are decent, two of them are the business. You have a look at them and let me know what you think.” Johnny passed out the plastic wallets containing the artwork. “And be as honest as you like. If you think it’s shit, then tell me it’s fucking shit.”

  Unable to resist the comedic cue, Mikee looked at the design in front of him, and audibly enough for everybody in the pub to hear, and a good few octaves too high for a man of his considerable bulk, “This one is proper fuckin’ shite!”

  Looking over the top of the plastic sleeve, Johnny laughed and wholeheartedly agreed. “Yeah that one’s wank, probably the worst one. You passed the test big fella.” Throwing up a boxer’s stance, Johnny feigned a shadow-boxed punch across the table. Mikee roared with laughter and snapped a punch back, straight between Johnny’s guard. The drummer’s clenched paw stopped millimetres from his chin - Johnny felt that had the punch connected, he would now be horizontal on the pub’s faded parquet floor.

  Both grinning at the good-natured sparring, Jamie and Dominic were nodding in agreement over one design that they had held between them. Passing the wallet over to Johnny, Dominic affirmed their pleasure. “This one’s fuckin’ sick. It’s classic looking and I can’t think of anything else that it looks like.”

  Looking at the design, a smile washed over his face. “Exactly what I thought, this was probably my favourite one too. Danny’s got the other possible runner and rider, but I love this one.”

  The design was done in bold black capitals against a red background, within a broken dotted white box. It looked equally striking, very cool and would lend itself to T-shirts and posters nicely, thought Johnny ambitiously.

  Dan passed back his wallet, and likewise, nodded in agreement. “That one, love it. It’d look proper fuckin’ smart on his bass drum.”

  Looking up from his phone, Mikee banged his phone down loudly. “Too fuckin’ right. I know a lad who works at a signwriters, if you let me have the design, I can get that done no bother. It’ll look sick.”

  Running with the momentum, Johnny reached for a further sheet of paper. “I’ve looked at some local studios, costs, quality, location and that. This is my personal choice - The Bunker. It’s the other side of town, near Fallowfield, off Wilmslow Rd. A big old Victorian terrace that’s had the cellars converted into a top studio space. He lets you use the kitchen and there’s a lounge room that you can chill out in.” Pausing for any dissention, but sensing none, he added, “He’s dead sound, the fella that runs it. Called Dean. Way back when he used to do the sound in The Hacienda.”

  The band nodded sagely at the mention of Manchester’s hallowed dance mecca - even though they would have all been at school when the club was spluttering towards its ignominious closure in the late ’90s. “He’ll work whatever hours that suits you, starting at midday. He doesn’t do mornings. I reckon you do four tracks. You decide which ones. I’m sure we all pretty much know which four they’ll be…”

  Interjecting with a decisive shout, Dan clapped his hands together. “Salvation, Follow the Mantra, This is not Tomorrow and Speaking in Tongues!”

  Looking round the table for instant approval, he said, “Well?”

  Offering up a fist bump, Dominic immediately endorsed the choices. “Too fuckin’ right! They’ll sound fuckin’ sick when we get them down!”

  Assuming control and writing down the song titles, he said, “We all okay with them?”

  “Fine by me,” Jamie agreed, turning to Mikee, “Good for you Kong?”

  Kong was the affectionate nickname that the band had bestowed on their drummer from a very early age. Having comfortably been able to get served at thirteen years old, and shaving every day by fifteen, Mikee had always been preternaturally big for his age. Mikee ‘King Kong’ Long. It was only ever Mikee or Kong. And no-one, repeat no-one, outside of t
he band called him by the latter.

  Beating his chest in true gorilla fashion, and referring to himself in the third person character, which he was prone to, “Kong likes it a lot.”

  “I’ll be picking up the tab for the studio time. It’s five hundred quid a day, and I’ve booked ten days studio time. I know that’s a lot and if you come in under, then no problem. If things are going well, then keep going and put more tracks down, never does any harm.”

  This expenditure added to the practice room costs and replacement gear had the outlay at close to the eight-thousand-pound mark. No small commitment, but Johnny was confident that his investment would pay dividends.

  Scratching his head and frowning, he continued, “Studio time will be completely new to you, it can get tedious, and there’s a lot of sitting around, but patience will pay off. You’ll learn a lot which will stand you in good stead. Dean is a good ’un but he won’t want you fucking about if it’s wasting his time.”

  Dominic picked up where Johnny had tailed off. “We’ll work our arses off, no fucking about, this is serious now, you’ll see.”

  Nodding effusively, Johnny said, “And one last thing. I’ve booked us a gig. You’ve grafted in the rehearsal rooms, and with the studio time coming up, you need a chance to let off some steam and get another gig under your belt.”

  This was met with four very satisfied grins and much backslapping between the band. Jamie spoke first, asking excitedly, “Where and when?”

  “Okay, it’s a student only gig, some end of term thing at Northampton Roadmenders. There’ll be a decent name indie band headlining and we’ll be support. Mate of mine’s son is the Ents Manager, so he did me a favour. It’ll be a packed gig, with a decent soundsystem. And a room full of fit student birds which I’m sure won’t go amiss with you. Only downside is they may want you to have a couple of covers under your belts, just as token crowd pleasers.”

  High-fives and handshakes were exchanged and ‘fuckin’ come on’s’ were uttered.