The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he said, “Okay, would you like another drink?”

  Tossing her head back and laughing, Grace said, “Dominic! Don’t think I’m going to fuck you now!”

  “I err, I wasn’t.”

  “Good,” said Grace, “and don’t go forgetting your visit from the Ghost of Christmas future.”

  ***

  “I’m glad you could make it. Really good to see you,” said Johnny, straightening the lapel on his purchased-that-day coat. Nip out for Secret Santa, and spend £300 quid in Covent Garden.

  “Thank you,” said Amanda coyly, looking sensational in a pair of wet look leggings, tourniquet tight fitted sleeveless red shirt and black peep-toe high heels. “And you too. Nice jacket by the way. You’re a bit of dandy on the side aren’t you,” she teased.

  “I like my clothes. Nothing wrong with that,” he countered.

  “I just want to get one thing straight whilst the night is still young,” she said, sucking at her straw through bee stung lips.

  He frowned slightly. “Go on,” said Johnny.

  “I’m not your London booty call. I’ve loved seeing you, but I don’t work like that,” said Amanda, shaking her glass indicating that a refill was required.

  “Well. What can I say? That’s me told. I have to say that I don’t think of you like that.”

  “I just wanted to make it clear. No offence, Mr Manager.”

  “None taken.”

  “I’m not expecting undying commitment and swearing long-lasting fidelity, but I have principles.”

  “Principles are good,” nodded Johnny. “I was about to say the same.”

  Amanda laughed warmly. “What does the manager of the music sensation of the year do with himself at Christmas?”

  “Err. I’ve not really thought much past Christmas dinner with my mum. Then a load of cocaine, strong spirits and a smattering of self-loathing sat in my counting house looking at my riches. Something clichéd like that I suppose.”

  “Well, Mr Manager. My mum and dad have a small cottage in the Cotswolds that they aren’t using this year. They’re going somewhere sunnier.”

  “And?” asked Johnny.

  “You could spend a few days with me after Christmas. I can get particularly lonely and horny at that time of year.”

  Taking no more than a few seconds to make his mind up, he said, “I like the sound of that. Err. Yes please.”

  “Good. That’s settled. I’m not going to fuck you tonight. But you get yourself down after Christmas,” said Amanda, with a look that could seduce clergy, “and well, that’ll be a different matter…”

  ***

  As the aftershow started to peter out, Dominic and Johnny found themselves at the bar, nursing tumblers of JD.

  “Cheers. What a fuckin’ year,” said Johnny, lifting his glass to Dominic’s.

  “You can say that again man!” said Dominic, knocking back the rest of his oaky spirit.

  “Not like you to be, err, without company,” said Johnny, glancing round the room for any stray females that may have escaped Dominic’s clutches.

  “Night off. That Secret Santa stuff made me think I’d better be good for a few days,” he said, laughing at his own little joke and the earlier encounter with Grace.

  “Won’t do you any harm,” smiled Johnny.

  “What about you? Thought you’d be off with Amanda. Proper fit!” said Dominic, nodding his approval.

  Amanda was now chatting with her friend Suzzie, the band’s press officer, and they were warding off the advances of two highly inebriated admirers.

  “Not tonight. And yes, she is.” Booze and bravado getting the better of him. “She tastes of Parma Violets. That fit.”

  Frowning at the obscure reference, Dominic asked “Why not?”

  “Long story Dom. Anyhow. I’m done. I’m heading back to the hotel.”

  “For a wank?”

  “Possibly,” replied Johnny matter-of-factly. Leaning into Dominic, he said, “I did think I’d be guaranteed tonight, but I suppose nothing in life is,” with a slight sigh.

  “I’ll join you,” said Dominic, with a yawn.

  “I’m not that type of boy! And imagine if the press found out!” laughed Johnny.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t tell…” said Dom with a camp pout.

  ***

  Safely ensconced in Lara’s Primrose Hill apartment, Lara flopped down on the exquisitely padded sofa as Jamie paced agitatedly up and down, the floorboards creaking their resistance at each turn.

  “Jamie! It’s me that ended up on my ass. Chill the fuck out!” Lara implored.

  Finally joining her on the sofa, he lifted Lara’s bare leg up, inspecting the damage to her right knee.

  “That looks sore,” said Jamie. “Sure you’re okay?”

  “It’s okay. Fetch some antiseptic from the bathroom to clean it up,” said Lara with a slight wince as she tentatively touched at the cut.

  Returning with a bottle of TCP and a ball of cotton wool, Jamie delicately dabbed at the cut, cleaning a few stray pieces of dirt and grit away.

  “That was horrendous. They’re like fuckin’ hungry animals fighting for food!” Jamie said, still shaking his head in disbelief at the scene he had just been central too.

  With a shake of her head, Lara looked at the now clean and sterile cut and nodded in approval at Jamie’s bedside manner.

  “I’m used to it but that doesn’t mean I hate it any less.” She looked ruefully at her discarded shoes. “And look at them! Motherfuckers,” she spat.

  “Just forget about them. It’s just me and you now,” said Jamie as he lazily stroked her bare leg.

  Running a hand through Jamie’s brown hair and then letting it slide down to his cheek, she replied, “I will. I can cope though.”

  “I know.”

  “Want a smoke?” asked Lara, sitting upright.

  “Yeah. Cool,” he replied.

  “I mean a real smoke. Too help forget about all the bad things.”

  Jamie looked slightly puzzled as Lara stood up and went into her bedroom, returning with a small ornately carved wooden box.

  Sitting back down, she opened the box, revealing a small baggie containing rusty brown powder and a plastic tube that was scorched with a sticky residue at one end.

  An alarmed look passed across Jamie’s face and he looked across at Lara and frowned.

  “It’s okay. Honestly. It’s just smoking. It just relaxes you. Makes you so chilled,” said Lara, inspecting the contents of the baggie closely.

  “Really?” said Jamie. Fascinated, he watched Lara slowly finger the drugs paraphernalia. “But. I heard you get addicted straight away.”

  “Not true. Just don’t do it all the time.”

  Taking a small piece of aluminium foil, and placing it on the coffee table in front of her, Lara measured out a small quantity of the brown powder. Blowing through the plastic tube and wiping it on her thigh, Lara handed the silver foil carefully to Jamie.

  “Hold this,” she asked, and then produced a lighter from the wooden box. Holding the lighter under the foil, Lara started to heat up the tiny crystals, which responded by crackling and popping, turning into a thick viscous liquid at the flames touch. Putting the plastic tube to her mouth, Lara inhaled the thick cloying smoke, breathing deeply and closing her eyes with a contented sigh.

  Opening her now glassy eyes, Lara took the foil from Jamie and handed him the tube. “Your turn…”

  Chapter 48

  “And the winner of the Barclaycard Brit award for the breakthrough British artist is…” The rotund presenter opened the gold envelope, wringing out as much drama as possible and announced in his cloying syrupy tones, “BEN HOWARD!”

  A non-descript figure ambled on to the stage and made an anodyne speech akin to a trainee accountant accepting his graduation certificate.

  The camera panned to the losing nominees’ tables and the etiquette of polite applause and fixed grins was adhered to
.

  Mostly.

  Leaning back in his chair, Dominic proceeded to make wanker signs, whilst mouthing ‘who?’ at the camera. Mikee and Dan had ‘the finger’ raised. Even Jamie was shaking his head disappointedly.

  And then they headed backstage to ready themselves for their live performance. Street Baby Fury was pacing the hospitality area reciting his rhyme over and over to himself whilst studiously ignoring all and sundry.

  “I said he’d never remember it all,” said Dominic under his breath to Jamie.

  As the band took to the stage, Fury flashed a peace sign and scooped up his mic. The premise was that he would bound on to the stage unannounced.

  Striking the open chords, the band were on incandescent form as they tried to bring some life to the beige proceedings.

  Slowing the tempo awaiting Fury’s arrival, Dan and Mikee picked up the hip-hop beat and the rapper pinballed onto the stage. Black hoodie pulled up, shades hanging on for dear life and a red scarf round his neck.

  Jamie afforded himself a small smile at the rapper’s reverential nod to his band. That or he’d picked a side in the perennial LA gang wars…

  “Yo Yo Yo. We be here with Lonely Souls for the Brits ’13. Yeah it’s me Street Baby Fury!”

  Now pacing the lip of the stage, Fury continued, nodding rhythmically to the driving beats.

  Delivering exactly what he promised, the rhythm section provided him with the requisite beats for him to drop his lyrical bombs over proceedings.

  As Fury signalled the end of his rap by holding up his jewel-encrusted peace sign, the band tore into the song’s snarling outro. Dom stamped on his effect pedal and a corrosive guitar line rasped through the arena.

  “WE’RE LONELY SOULS. SORRY TO HAVE WOKEN YOU UP!” shouted Jamie. And with that the band left the stage with the audience screaming their appreciation at the sonic assault they had just witnessed.

  “Boys! That was amazing,” the high-street pretty backstage anchor presenter said faux-breathlessly. Thrusting a mic in Jamie’s direction, she said, “Did you know about Street Baby Fury? You all looked surprised when he crashed the stage.”

  “We knew nothing about it,” deadpanned Jamie, rolling his eyes as the camera panned across to him.

  “It certainly raised the roof!” she carried on obliviously, giddily adding, “And he wore a red scarf just like you, Jamie!”

  “Yeah. That. Or he just wanted to wind the Cripps in the audience up.”

  Looking slightly confused, she pointed the mic in Dominic’s direction. “Hey Dom! Not too disappointed about losing out to Ben Howard were you. WE LOVE HIM!”

  Big mistake. A cardinal error had just been committed. On live TV.

  With a rub of his nose, Dom grabbed the mic from the hapless presenter and faced the camera.

  “Who the fuck is he? My window cleaner’s more rock ’n’ roll then him! Bet he’s back in his hotel havin’ a cocoa and a bedtime story read to him.”

  Dominic continued unabated. “And don’t start me off on ‘Best British band’.” His voice dripping in sarcasm. “Banjos, waistcoats and tweed trousers? Fuck off! We’ll be back for that next year Marcus, you twat. If we can be arsed showing up.”

  Looking dumbstruck at the tirade, the presenter made an unsuccessful grab for the microphone.

  “And one more thing, STREET BABY FURY! How fuckin’ good was that! Anytime brother, an absolute pleasure! I’m off for a beer now and to give anyone wearing Tweed a slap. Who’s with me?”

  Having invited the carnage with her vacuous questions – the naïve presenter now stood looking more than a little shell-shocked.

  Johnny grinned to himself. Bang. There were the tabloid titbits rights there. Picking up a complimentary glass of champagne, Johnny raised the glass flute to the band. “Loving your work lads. How about we do one to America for a few weeks and let all this hoo-ha die down?”

  “Yeah, I could go that,” Mikee said with a smirk

  “America?” Jamie said. “D’yer think they’ll be ready for us?”

  Chapter 49

  Have you had your jabs, D-Mo?” asked Dominic, as they sat in the international departure lounge at Manchester Airport awaiting their flight to be called. Shades were donned, and beers being polished off with admirable gusto given their early flight time.

  March 2013. A typically bleak Mancunian Tuesday morning saw the band prepare for a thirty-three date US tour support slot for Universal Gleam – ‘the new Pearl Jam’, a five-piece band from New York State.

  First stop. Austin, Texas, to attend the prestigious SXSW music festival and conference. A headlining club gig for the band and a five-minute slot for Johnny at an industry ‘round robin’ style discussion about the future of the music industry and prospects for new bands.

  “You don’t need jabs for America. D’yer?” said Danny, looking at Johnny for guidance.

  Giving him a quick shake of the head, Johnny again checked the passports and work visas that he had secured for the band. Fortunately, Danny and Mikee’s little altercation with the law hadn’t prevented the obtaining of said documents.

  A flight to Chicago O’Hare Airport and then an internal flight on to Texas would see the band airborne for some of twelve hours. The Devil makes work for idle hands to do…

  Or not. Much to Johnny’s relief, the flight was event free, aside from some exuberant flirting with the flights attendants – securing them extra complimentary booze and pictures on the steps of the plane when they touched down in Chicago.

  The connecting flight dragged, but at 9pm local time, they arrived at their hotel. And a round of drinks was suggested as a ‘nightcap’. Which led to another. And another. And so on.

  ***

  Johnny looked in the mirror and blinked at his reflection. Worst. Idea. Ever. Why he had listened to Mikee and Danny of all people was beyond him.

  ‘Drink through the jetlag’. Jesus Christ, he thought. The notes for the five-minute speech he was fifteen minutes away from delivering looked like a blur of random words on the page. Any coherence and structure to his thoughts were now scrambled in a haze of weak American beer and strong American spirits. And Bolivian cocaine. Which had been procured as easily as the booze.

  Seeking the solace of a toilet cubicle, he sat down and put his pounding head between his shaking hands. Okay, get a grip. It’s five minutes. 300 seconds. How hard can that be?

  The premise of the speeches was along the lines of ‘speed-dating’. An hour had been allocated for the ten delegates to give their talk on the future of the music industry.

  With a little bit of planning and a lot less of a hangover, this would have been a straightforward exercise. “Fuck’s sake,” Johnny chastised himself for the umpteenth time that morning.

  Having taken advantage of his porcelain perch, he felt slightly better although his stomach still growled and lurched.

  A line, he thought. That’ll sort me right out. Mikee had left a wrap with him when he had disappeared with Danny at some unearthly hour of the morning. A quick glance at his Rolex established that this was a mere four hours ago.

  Popping the toilet seat down, he placed the glossy wrap on the toilet cistern. Taking out his hotel key card, Johnny carefully racked out a rail of coke. Not to too big as to render him manic – the image of Spud’s chaotic job interview in Trainspotting sprang to mind – but enough to give him a sufficient bump to pull off the impending public speaking.

  A neat two-inch white bullet sat in front of him. Breakfast in narcotic form. No milk or sugar required. Beats the Ready Brek glow hands down. Set you up for the rest of the day. Or at least until the next nutritious serving…

  Leaving the air-conditioned cool of the toilet, Johnny headed to the delegates’ holding area.

  “Good Morning! I’m Brad,” said a preternaturally young looking bespectacled conference employee. His overly enthusiastic demeanour in stark contrast to Johnny’s.

  Glancing down at Johnny’s lanyard, he said, “Great to me
et you Johnny. If you could go over and see Josh over there, he’ll fit you with a radio mic.”

  “Thank you, err, Brad,” Johnny said. He felt the cold drop of the cocaine at the back of his already raw throat.

  “And don’t look so worried,” added Brad. “Five minutes. It’ll fly by,” he said with a camp flourish of his clipboard.

  Heading over to Josh, Johnny rubbed at his nose and felt his stomach somersault once again.

  “Hey Josh. I’m Johnny. Johnny Harrison. I believe you are the man to see about the mic things.”

  “Hey Johnny. Let me see. Yup. Got you. Ready for this. You’re first on. Set the bar and then sit back and watch the others,” Josh said, as he started to fix the radio mic to the lapel of Johnny’s red Fred Perry polo shirt.

  “First!” grunted Johnny. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me?”

  “Don’t sweat it. Be over before you know it!” Josh said with a reassuring pat on Johnny’s shoulder.

  “Hmm, yeah. No sweat,” grumbled Johnny.

  “Five minutes and you’re on. First on and last here. Nothing like cutting it fine!” said Josh with a last-minute adjustment to the mic. “Go and wait over there, by the blue curtain and Liza will tell you when you’re on.”

  “Thanks man,” Johnny said, his inner narrative screaming at him to bolt for the sanctuary of his hotel room.

  Walking determinedly over to Liza, he started to measure his breathing, the jolts of cocaine spiking his already racing adrenaline.

  “Hi. Liza?”

  “Yes. Hey,” she looked over the top of her preppy style glasses at his dangling lanyard, “Johnny Harrison. It’s nice to meet you. How are you enjoying your SXSW so far?”

  “I’ll start enjoying it when this is over,” he grimaced.

  “Oh please! Don’t worry. Everything will be super! Your band are brilliant by the way! Love the album,” Liza said, checking something off her clipboard.

  Gulping back a cup of water from a nearby cooler, Johnny was now officially shitting himself.