The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Wrapping things up, and knowing he had a pressing domestic engagement, “So we’ve got artwork sorted, studio time to book and a gig. Email dates that fit in with work and that and I’ll get it confirmed and let you know when the gig is.” Standing up and putting his coat on, and gathering up his shopping, “I’ll leave you to it then, hopefully that little lot will put a spring in your step for rehearsal.”

  Getting up first, Jamie hugged Johnny, patting him vigorously on his back, “You’re a good ’un,” and kissing him on the cheek, whispered into his ear, “We won’t let you down.”

  Leaving the pub in a state of euphoria, Johnny now had to focus on his pending conversation with Claire…

  ***

  Arriving home only ten minutes later than promised, Johnny double checked the shopping bags and digging out his keys, opened the front door. He was greeted by the usual scene of Claire, glasses on, peering at her laptop whilst the TV chattered away unwatched.

  “Hiya lovely, I’ve got all the shopping. You okay?”

  Looking up and sliding her glasses Alice band style to the top of her blonde hair. “I’m fine, bit knackered but better after I had a bath. How was your 5-a-side?”

  Johnny had been cracking on that he had been a regular on the football pitches the past few months to provide the requisite subterfuge whilst he went to see the band.

  “Yeah, it was alright. I’m just going to run a quick bath if that’s okay. I’ll pop tea on and it’ll be ready when I’ve finished my soak.”

  “Alright, use the towel that’s already out and then stick it in the wash basket for me.”

  A 15-minute soak whilst the pasta bake ready-meal took care of itself provided the necessary sanctuary. He’d also prepared himself for the possibility of Claire broaching the ‘baby chat’ tonight. Tread carefully was his maxim, and don’t make promises you can’t fulfil…

  Dressing in his ‘comfies’ – a pair of grey jog pants with the jog being distinctly redundant – and a deeply loved green A & F hoodie, Johnny padded barefoot down the sisal stairs carpet.

  “Alright lovely lady, what do you want to drink with the pasta?”

  “Better after that are we?” Claire asked facetiously.

  “I’ll be disappointed if I’m not called up for the next England squad,” Johnny said.

  Claire rolled her eyes. “I’ll have a glass of that red that’s already open. And it’ll be water for you, being the athlete that you are.”

  Doing the necessary honours with both food and drinks, Johnny returned from the kitchen with a tray balancing Claire’s wine glass precariously.

  “Careful!” she shrieked. “It’ll never come out of the rug if you drop it and they don’t bloody sell that one anymore!”

  Claire’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the Habitat catalogue always amazed him, and sadly she was usually right. ‘Your specialist chosen subject…’

  “Don’t panic, I’ve got it.” Deftly picking the glass up and placing it carefully on the oak table beside the sofa, Johnny placed the tray onto her lap.

  Returning to collect his own tray, he reached for a lone Magners that had been chilling. Sitting on the single armchair adjacent to Claire’s sofa, he let out a contented sigh as he drained a mouthful of the sweet cider.

  “So how was your day then? Usual flim-flam? Another day another dollar and all that…”

  “It was okay, just a lot on my mind,” Claire replied.

  “What like?” he replied half-hesitantly but knowing full well where this was heading.

  “I’ve been looking on the internet.”

  This was never a cheap exercise, he thought.

  “And I think we need to see a doctor about fertility and conception tests. Neither of us are getting any younger.”

  BOOM! It was right out there. Large as life and shrieking for a measured riposte. Shovelling an overloaded forkful of creamy pasta into his mouth, Johnny bought himself 10 or 15 seconds’ thinking time.

  Swallowing with a noisy gulp, and speaking with a calming tone, “That’s quite a step.” He paused. “We haven’t even really discussed if we wanted a family. I’ve never been opposed to it, but you know, it is quite the commitment.” Feeling that this was more than an adequate opening gambit, he returned to the remains of his meal.

  “It is a commitment. But I really think a baby would be good for us. Make us a proper family. And I know we have never really talked about it, but I thought it was something we both wanted…”

  Cute, Johnny thought, very cute. “No, we haven’t talked about it and it has always been a relaxed sort of thing between us.” Changing tack slightly, “Won’t we need loads of tests and that before we looked at IVF?”

  Looking up sheepishly, Claire said, “Well, babe,” taking a mouthful of wine, “I’ve looked at it and we can speak to someone privately anytime. You know the private hospital on the Parkway?”

  Exhaling softly, and reaching for his frosted glass, he said, “Sorry to be so blunt, but I’ve got to ask. How much are we looking at for this?”

  “It’s not cheap and it depends how many sessions you need if we” – with extra emphasis on the we – “decided to go ahead. But you’ve got that money from your dad that you’ve barely touched.”

  Oh, she has it all planned out for us, he thought.

  He had to counter this, placate his partner but not commit to anything just yet. With a thinly-veiled grimace, he said, “Make us an appointment and we’ll see what they have got to say, I can’t say more than that for now.”

  A lovingly satisfied smile instantly light up Claire’s face. “Ah thanks babe, I knew you’d agree with me.”

  Collecting up the two trays, Johnny headed for the kitchen, more than sideswiped by the speed of how things were proceeding.

  Putting the bowls into the empty dishwasher, he thought, a baby. A baby and the band…

  Chapter 10

  The enthusiasm for the band’s first road trip had been palpable since he had confirmed it.

  June 21st. Northampton Roadmenders supporting Shed Seven. As second outings go, this was a very decent gig. A £200 fee which wouldn’t touch the sides in terms of expenses. But this wasn’t about the money. This was all about a ‘proper gig’ and seeing how they responded to a sizeable crowd. And, Johnny had cynically thought, an opportunity to see how they behaved ‘on the road’.

  Blue skies and sunshine were a not-oft treat for the good folk of Manchester – even in June – and this had further invigorated Johnny as he stepped into his car, picking up Jamie and Dominic on the way to Mikee’s step-dad’s salvage yard. Pulling away from the kerb as the car stereo parped the ‘beep beep yeah’ coda to The Beatles’ ode to the automobile. Johnny smiled a this-is-going-to-be-a-good-day smile.

  Having volunteered to hire a splitter van, Johnny’s offer had been firmly rebutted by Mikee who insisted that he’d sort them out with the ‘a sick set of wheels’.

  Jamie and Dominic were sat kerbside on their respective amps, guitar cases propped up in front of them, their poses perfectly mimicking each other – if rock ’n’ roll did bookends. Stood by the side of them and seemingly admonishing a stiff lecture was a very attractive brunette. As Johnny pulled up alongside them, he nodded appreciatively to himself.

  Good first impression, he thought to himself as he offered an overly sweaty palm. “Hiya, I’m Johnny. Johnny Harrison. I’m sure the lads have mentioned me. Glowingly.” He looked over at the twins who were already heading to the rear of his car. “You must be their mum. I mean Mrs Thorne.” Wiping his hand down the front of his pale blue Fred Perry polo shirt, Johnny mustered up his best smile. “You must be really proud of them. They’re great lads.”

  “Hello Johnny. Yes, I am and yes, they are. I’m Cally. Lovely to meet you.”

  With the buzz of traffic noise, Johnny had to listen carefully as she was very softly spoken. Her words very precise but oh so quiet, with a pleasing, almost melodic tone to them. At 5ft 7ish, slim, almost doleful blue eyes and a s
oft wave of shoulder length brunette hair, it was clear where the twins had inherited their good looks from.

  The twins had already opened the back of the car and were starting to load their gear. “You should see the wheels Mikee’s sorted for us. Well wicked,” Dominic said, as he tucked his Fender case in the boot.

  There was a lull in the flow of traffic, and the delicate traces of ‘Michelle’ could be heard through the car’s open window.

  Cally smiled a perfect white toothed smile, and putting a hand up to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun. “Which one’s your favourite?”

  Feeling himself frown at the question, Johnny stammered, “Err, I’ve never thought about them like that. I err, I have had more to do with Jamie, but th—”

  Punching Johnny lightly on the arm, she said, “I meant which Beatle!”

  Screwing his face in embarrassment, Johnny deadpanned, “I knew that.”

  “I love The Beatles sooooo much!” Clasping her hands together and looking skywards, she sighed heavily, “I could listen to nothing but. Okay, I’ll try again. What’s your favourite album? And who is your favourite Beatle?”

  “Favourite album is The White Album, but I do love Rubber Soul.” Nodding towards his car, “And favourite Beatle? I can’t choose. I love them all. I’m sitting on the fence on that one…”

  Smiling that beatific smile again, she said, “Okay, any album would have done and favourite Beatle? Only picking out George individually is the right answer. He was beautiful. And with your surname you should have known that…”

  Laughing at this Beatles based introduction, Johnny said, charmingly, “Lovely to meet you at last.” Glancing down, he didn’t see a wedding ring. The brothers had only ever talked about their mother, with no reference at all to a father figure.

  A black cat walked haughtily along a small brick garden wall, and catching it in her peripheral vision, Cally turned around to stroke it. Looking back to Johnny, she fingered a small gold locket between her index finger and thumb. “I’ve heard all about you as well, Mr Harrison. You’ve been so good with the boys. Future of rock ’n’ roll!”

  “Ha, they certainly are!”

  “Now you better get on your way, and I know I don’t have to say this, but look after them. They’re my boys and I love them dearly…”

  Johnny gave his best placating nod.

  The car boot slammed shut and both boys appeared beside their mum. Jamie was dressed in cut off jog pants, a faded black MC5 T-shirt and his ubiquitous white Converse, Dominic in Nike hi-top trainers, off-white jog pants and a plain navy blue long sleeved T-shirt. They shuffled embarrassingly, “Aww Mum, give us a break. We’ll be fine!”

  “I know you will.” Putting a hand on their shoulders, she kissed them both warmly on the cheek. “I’m not worried, just enjoy yourselves and text me how the gig goes.”

  Waving them off with a two-handed flourish, despite the shadow casting sunshine, she gave an involuntary shiver and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Turning to the brothers, Johnny said, “Your mum seems very cool.”

  “She’s the best,” Jamie replied protectively, nodding his head. “I can’t wait for her to see us play live…”

  ***

  Arriving at the salvage yard, Mikee and Danny were stood beside two large crates of Stella and a bottle of Jack Daniels - which were warming up nicely in the Mancunian sunshine.

  Parking next to an antiquated Portacabin that Johnny assumed was the site office, he locked the car once the twins had unloaded their gear.

  A set of keys sailed in Johnny’s direction and he fumbled them to his chest.

  “All yours Boss!” boomed Mikee, thumbing towards a sepia-coloured RV.

  “Fuck me! Are we cooking meth or going to play a gig!” Johnny laughed as he took in the vehicular behemoth. “Is that thing roadworthy?” asked Johnny as he looked at both the dinner plate sized wing mirrors which were held in place by gaffa tape.

  “Wait until you see how we’ve pimped it!” said Danny, with a snigger.

  Sure enough, the RV had been spray painted with a pretty accurate facsimile of the band logo.

  “Rock ’n’ roll enough for you?” asked Mikee as he loaded on the remainder of the gear.

  “If it gets us there,” smiled Johnny as he pulled himself up to the driver’s seat.

  Chapter 11

  The Roadmenders. Northampton. A curious old venue which despite an ’80s makeover, had still retained the bulk of its Art Deco façade. It had a capacity of just shy of 900 and by all accounts, the evening’s show would be sold out. Almost a hundred-fold increase on their debut gig. A handful of their own songs and a few covers – which remained a closely guarded secret between the band. Warm the crowd up for the main event, the perennially popular Britpop stalwarts, Shed Seven.

  Finding a loading bay door to the rear of the venue, Johnny performed a neat reverse manoeuvre, despite the distractions of his boisterous cargo.

  A venue operative opened the bay doors and the band enthusiastically started to unload their gear. Whistling loudly, Danny offered the blindingly obvious statement, “Fuck me, it’s big. It’s fucking huge.”

  Nudging him slightly harder than intended and almost causing him to drop his precious Marshall amp, Mikee chuckled, “This is small compared to where we are going to end up playing. Get used to it, brother…”

  Johnny smiled to himself; he loved it when he heard the band offering up these little cocksure soundbites to each other. No harm in ambition, and importantly, he believed this himself. Even in the short time he had known them, their progress had been remarkable. New songs seemed to come easily to Jamie and the rest of the band always seemed to have the necessary musical creativity to fill in any composite blanks with their own flourishes. And Dominic’s guitar playing just seemed to get better and better.

  “Right lads. Leave your gear there and wait for your passes. You’re not going anywhere without them.” Pointing at Johnny with an industrially dirty finger, the building manager said, “You must be their manager or gopher or something then?”

  Smirking to himself, Johnny replied, “Yes mate, I’m their manager. Where’s the production office? I’ll toddle off and get everything sorted. Is Ross here? I’m supposed to meet him.”

  “I’ll take you to Ross, but just you. That lot can wait out here for you.”

  He turned to the band, who were visibly amused by the building manager’s lack of customer service skills.

  Belching loudly, Danny reached for another warm beer from the half-demolished second crate, him and Mikee seemingly having polished off a crate and a half over the past three hours. “We’ll be right here and won’t get up to any mischief, honest…”

  The insincerity wasn’t lost on the jobsworth manager, who must have been well versed at this type of boys behaving badly. “I know what you Northerners are like!”

  Sighing at the needless bureaucracy, Johnny raised a ‘parental’ eyebrow towards the band. “Right, you lot,” the latter dripping with unbridled sarcasm, “stay there and don’t do anything naughty or I won’t let you play with your guitars later…”

  Glaring at Johnny after his unsubtle slight, the building manager reached for a sizeable bunch of keys attached to his belt by a red elastic bungee cord and opened a door to the right of the loading bay. “This way and I’ll take you to Ross.” Looking over his shoulder, he tutted at the band as they harmlessly play-fought amongst themselves. Johnny laughed to himself as he walked through the door, turning to see Mikee, bottle of beer between his teeth with Dominic’s and Jamie’s heads under each arm as they struggled in vain to free themselves.

  A quick walk down the white-washed breeze block lined corridor and Johnny was shown the door to the Ents Managers production office, whereby he was introduced to Ross.

  Ross McRae was small, skinny with a shaved cue-ball head. He was on his landline phone and even sat down, seemed to twitch excessively. Putting his free hand up the back of his well-worn
1989 Pixies tour shirt, he scratched frantically at an itchy shoulder blade. A quick mental calculation would place Ross at about two years old when said tour would have been in full white noise effect.

  Finishing his call with an abrupt ‘laters’, Ross extended a friendly hand towards Johnny. “You must be Mr Harrison, my dad told me that you two go back a fair while.”

  “Yeah, we do, he’s one of the good guys, and I owe him a drink for sorting this with you.”

  “Save your money Mr Harrison, he’s a health nut these days. Hasn’t touched a drop in years. he’s more bothered about running marathons.”

  “Easy with the Mr Harrison lark Ross, it’s Johnny. I know I’m your dad’s old mate, but cut the formalities out, you make me feel ancient!”

  “Alright, cheers Johnny, close the door and take a seat. This band of yours any good then?”

  “Yeah, they’re good, Very good. Getting them in the studio soon. This gig is a big deal for them, they’ve never played to such a crowd before, their last gig…” Tailing the sentence off as he realised that Ross didn’t need to know that this was only the band’s second ever gig.

  “Cool, cool. How many passes do you need?” Reaching for a desk drawer, Ross then pulled out a small but very familiar sized parcel. “Want a cheeky livener before we crack on?”

  The two not inconsiderable lines were already racked out before Johnny could politely decline. The open display of cocaine usage certainly explained the twitchy behaviour. He was clearly trying to impress on Johnny that he was far more than just his dad’s little boy. When in Rome, Johnny thought.

  “It’s only a rare treat this gear man, I barely touch it,” said Ross unconvincingly.

  “Same as me, birthdays and special occasions only. And today is a very special occasion, eh? Full house tonight and a venue full of thirsty students.”

  “Cool, cool” – which seemed to be Ross’s default coda – “Here are the passes, five all you need then?”