The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

“One minute and you are on,” Liza said gesturing Johnny to the front of the line of other delegates who reeked of sleep, shower gel and composure.

  “Good luck man. Rather you than me going first, “said Kris, a friendly looking African-American, with a neat set of mini-dreads.

  “Err, thanks,” Johnny said, wiping a serviette across his sweat beaded brow.

  “You okay?” asked Kris, a look of genuine concern on his voice.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I’m fine. A shit and a line sorted me out before!”

  As if hearing an instant echo, Johnny heard his words instantly relayed to him.

  Both he and Kris froze. The radio mic. Somebody had flipped the radio mic on. The nausea in his stomach bubbled and threatened to manifest itself.

  Shaking his head frantically and signalling with his eyes at Liza, Johnny pushed the palms of his hands into his pulsing temples.

  Liza mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ and then gestured for him to take the stage.

  Stepping out into the conference room and facing the three hundred equally amused and bemused delegates, Johnny took a deep breath and applying the adage that ‘things could only get better’ proceeded to tear up his notes…

  “Well. That wasn’t the start I had in mind,” he said with a pause as a handful of delegates finished laughing at his misfortune.

  “Before you ask. I did wash my hands. And yes, who’d have thought it. Good quality cocaine at a music convention!”

  Laughter rose from the room, some of it a little shocked at Johnny’s candidness.

  “I had got this all prepared but after that start,” he smiled with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

  Glancing to the side of the stage, and then looking down at the mic attached to his collar. “Is thing on now?” he deadpanned.

  More laughter. Right. Fucking go for it, he thought.

  “Everybody here is here for one reason and one reason alone. We all love music. We all care about the future of the music industry. We all want to be here next year and the year after that etc.”

  Taking a deep breath, Johnny felt he was on a roll.

  “Looking around the room, I see we are all people of a comparable generation. We grew up with our favourite bands. Our favourite albums. We invested time, money and love into these bands. They were our lives in a lot of cases. We owned vinyl, cassettes, CDs. But we owned something. We had something to show for our devotion.”

  Pulling out his mobile phone and waving it animatedly over his head, he said, “But today’s music buying generation. They can have the whole of their music collection on this!”

  Tucking his phone back into his jeans pocket, he continued.

  “Download this. YouTube that. Stream this. You don’t have to spend a penny to listen to music anymore. We all have bands and albums we love. I grew up loving The Stone Roses.”

  A few cheers erupted round the room.

  “Thank you. You have excellent taste. Mine’s a pint,” said Johnny, raising his cup of water. “I’ve loved and played that album for two decades or so and it still fuckin’ excites me every time. Every time I play it. After all this time, it still feels special.”

  A few wolf whistles were forthcoming as he continued his impassioned speech.

  “And my point? My point is that it’s down to us to ensure that music doesn’t become ultimately disposable. We must make sure that there is music for people to love. To want to love. To want to treasure for ever. We need to find the next generations Roses. Clash. Amy Winehouse. Nirvana. Beastie Boys. Blondie. The next generations need us to find and nurture these bands. Because without us the tree will wither and die. And songs will just be another MP3 file in the latest gizmo. We must keep looking. There are bands out there. I found one that were so damn good you just had to believe in them. It proves that they are out there.”

  Pausing and looking around the room, Johnny took a breath and afforded himself a smile.

  “The music industry needs to be investing in bands that people will invest in. Let’s give them something to love. Not just download and forget about the next day. I don’t want to think of people in twenty years not having a body of albums, of music, of bands that they have loved for all that time. Give them the bands. Give them the songs. And don’t go for the quick fix. It’s in the industries hands.”

  Finishing the last of his water off, Johnny breathed in deeply.

  “I’m going to finish now. But. Ladies and gentlemen. Keep the faith. KEEP THE FUCKIN’ FAITH! And let’s find these future great artistes and give the next generations their bands to love and cherish.”

  As the room broke out into a generous bout of applause, Johnny clapped back and nodded his head appreciatively. With a wave, he exited the stage with a relieved, “I told you it’d get better!”

  ***

  “I hear you had an eventful time at your conference thing,” said Jamie as they boarded the metal tube that would be their home for the next six weeks.

  Nursing a gargantuan hangover, Johnny blinked at the fierce early morning sunshine. “Think I just about pulled it off. Can’t see them inviting me back, mind,” he snorted. “Remind me never ever to listen to these two,” pointing in Danny and Mikee’s direction, “ever again!”

  “I wish I’d seen it,” laughed Danny, “a shit and a line! I’m all over YouTube later.”

  “Do let me know if you find it,” said Johnny, finally finding his own sunglasses, “I can’t wait to relive that moment over and over…”

  “That’s everything loaded. Next stop Houston,” said Mikee as he closed the storage compartment with an unsympathetic slam.

  300 kilometres. A veritable nip to the corner shops in terms of a US tour. Johnny sought sanctuary at the front of the bus, necking heavy-duty painkillers and chilled water.

  The back of the bus was unnaturally quiet, he thought, having earlier heard Dominic win the shout for shotgun on the DVD player.

  After 90 minutes of clear highway, feeling rehydrated and enlivened, Johnny shouted up a suggestion that they make a stop.

  “Yup. Good for me,” Mikee shouted.

  “McDonald’s please,” Danny said, “I haven’t had one yet.”

  Standing in the coach’s aisle and leaning on the headrests of the seats aside him, Johnny rolled his eyes. “We’ve not been here 24 hours yet. I’m sure you’ll survive, D-Mo. How about a genuine American diner?”

  “He’ll be after a scotch egg,” Jamie said, looking rock star cool in a Slipknot T-shirt, faded jeans and some newly acquired Ray-Ban Aviators.

  “I don’t fancy getting off. Grab a burger for me,” Danny said, with a concerned frown. He’d been dismayed at the excess of wide open spaces – having expected nothing but malls and neon lighting.

  Dom and Mikee started cackling at Danny’s newly discovered agoraphobia.

  “I daren’t ask! I really fucking shouldn’t. But what have you told him?” said Johnny, stifling a grin.

  Striking up the duelling banjos theme, and making accompanying porcus squeals, they now had tears of laughter rolling down their pasty Northern faces.

  Jamie held up the box of the DVD that they had been watching – Deliverance.

  “Oh. Good choice lads. You know that it’s a documentary?” Johnny said, as he struggled to maintain a straight face.

  “They told me that the middle of America is like that!” said a clearly aggrieved Danny.

  “Middle America,” corrected Dom.

  “Middle America. Whatever,” Danny snapped. “I’m not getting off in one of them quiet little towns. McDonald’s means there’s normal people live there. No McDonald’s and you lot can bring me something. And I’ll stay on here,” he said with an emphatic folding of his arms.

  “Less than two hours,” said Johnny, somewhat bewildered. “We’ve been on the go for a couple of hours and you lot have convinced him that he is going to get hillbilly fucked if he isn’t within 20 feet of the Golden Arches.” Clapping his hands slowly, he said, “’Fucking hell. That�
�s good even for you lot.”

  Looking up at Johnny, having expected a little more sympathy, he said, “But it’s based on a true story!”

  “Right. Danny. If we pull up anywhere that has a toothless inbred tuning a banjo, I promise that we won’t stop. Deal?” Johnny said.

  “I s’pose,” mumbled Danny.

  “And what films have we got lined up next then? Silence of the Lambs? The Evil Dead? Independence Day?” Johnny said, with a last disbelieving shake of his head. “There’s a decent diner ahead. My shout.”

  ***

  “It’s brilliant being out here,” Jamie said, leaning against the thick wooden bar top and idly flicking a beer mat end over end. “Nobody knows us. We’ve been here a few days and even after the gigs, I’m not getting any mither.”

  Sipping on his Lite beer, pulling a disdainful face, Johnny leant back on his stool. “That still matters?”

  “It does, yeah. There’s never a minute when I’m out now. People looking and always wanting to chat. I know how bad that sounds, but it gets on top.”

  “Comes with the territory J. Never going to go away. Especially these days, when everybody can be a journo with their camera phones and Twitter and that.”

  “I don’t want that. Never have.”

  Ordering two more beers, Johnny raised an eyebrow.

  “If you mean Lara by that, then that was never part of the plan.” Then sipping from his fresh beer, “Not that there was a plan!”

  “You can’t always get what you want after a top ten album. If you’ll allow me to paraphrase,” said Johnny, grinning at his own joke. “Like it or not, you are now public property. They buy your records, go to your gigs.”

  “And I like it here without the hassle,” Jamie said emphatically.

  “You’re not telling me that you’re going to move to LA and become a recluse?”

  “Don’t be soft.”

  “And you and Lara? I take it you’re hooking up at some point now you’re in the big country.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure we will. I haven’t seen her since before Christmas, but y’know.”

  Pulling on his drink and looking at the label in disgust, Johnny nodded at Jamie. “You two make me laugh.”

  “Who? Me and Lara,” said Jamie defensively.

  “No!” He raised an apologetic hand. “You and Dominic. You want to be all Howard Hughes to his Great Gatsby.”

  “Nice touch. You’re not as daft as you look!” laughed Jamie. “Remind me to tell D-Mo and Mikee that one,” said Jamie with a knowing wink.

  “I dunno Jamie. Next album is going to be huge. The stuff you’ve demoed sounds amazing. Next level. And that means more of the shit you don’t like. Eye of the storm, baby!”

  “Maybe I will then. Grow a massive beard and sit around writing songs and only appear to play them.”

  “Only one problem there.”

  Jamie looked across at him, slightly puzzled.

  Grabbing Jamie’s cheeks between his index finger and thumb and squeezing them together, Johnny said, “Look at yer little baby face! It’d take you ten years to grow a beard.”

  “You’re just jealous of my youthful good looks,” laughed Jamie as he threw a toy punch towards Johnny’s unshaven jaw.

  “Another drink? Or do you want to head back?”

  “Why not? The gig’s not for another couple of hours. And the motel is crap. Colorado is beautiful, but I’ll go full diva if there’s cockroaches trying to share my bed in the next motel.”

  Chapter 50

  “I’m not saying that all American people are fat. Just that your fat people are fatter than ours,” said Danny, realising the monumental hole that he was digging for himself.

  “Just because you’re a little skinny dude doesn’t mean that you can criticise the larger gentleman,” said the increasingly irate and sizeable local.

  “I didn’t mean… Look, I didn’t mean you. Alright mate?”

  “Alright mate?” repeated the antagonistic American.

  “Yeah. Alright mate? Means are you okay?”

  “Look he didn’t mean any harm,” Dominic said, playing the unlikely role of peacemaker.

  “Where the fuck’s Mikee?” Danny hissed.

  “Gone back to the motel for a kip. We should head back.”

  “Hey guys,” Danny said, proud of the local vernacular he felt he had seamlessly dropped into, “we’ve got to shoot.”

  “And that’s supposed to be funny is it?” asked antagonistic American’s cousin. His irony free T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan ‘I’LL LAPDANCE FOR BEER’ strained at his midriff.

  “I’ve no idea what you mean?” Dominic said, then hurriedly finishing off his drink.

  “You not get the news back in England?” he replied aggressively.

  “I honestly haven’t a fuckin’ clue what you’re on about,” Dominic said, now distinctly sensing trouble.

  “The school shootings. You think that shit’s funny?”

  “As if he fuckin’ meant it like that! You dick!” Dominic said incredulously.

  And that was all it took. Antagonistic American threw a powerful haymaker in Danny’s direction, knocking him backwards off his stool and smashing one lens of his shades.

  Leaping back off his own barstool, Dominic ducked just as a punch whipped past his jaw. The bartender who had been intently listening to the conversation descend from idle bar chat to fully-fledged bar-brawl had now picked up a conveniently placed baseball bat and was pointing it in Danny’s direction.

  Having picked himself up off the floor, he was now wielding a beer bottle by the neck in the direction of his advancing and considerably larger adversary.

  “Fuck off you fat cunt or I’ll fuckin’ smash this in yer face!” yelled Danny.

  “Put the bottle down buddy,” said the bartender, the bat hanging loosely by his side - full of kinetic danger.

  The strident opening chords of Metallica’s anthem ‘Enter Sandman’ belching out of the jukebox did nothing but increase the escalating tempo of intent that was wasping around the bar.

  “I’ll put it down if he backs off,” shouted Danny, jabbing the bottle in front of him.

  “Back the fuck off Brad,” demanded the bartender in a desperate attempt to placate matters.

  “C’mon Nicky! The skinny English fuck called me fat. He’s getting what’s coming to him!”

  And with that not particularly thinly veiled threat, he again swung a meaty punch at Danny.

  Who nimbly stepped aside and cracked the base of the bottle firmly across his assailant’s exposed jowl.

  Fortunately, the bottle didn’t break. Unlike the bartender’s patience.

  “PUT THE BOTTLE DOWN OR YOU’LL BE SAYING HELLO TO MATILDA!” The bat was now held at shoulder height as Nicky assumed a perfect batter’s stance.

  Dropping the bottle with a smash, Danny raised his hands in a classic ‘it’s a fair cop’ pose.

  Peeling off a twenty dollar note, Dominic threw it in the direction of the bar, and tried to step towards the door.

  “Not so fast. I think that the local sheriff needs to sort this little mess out,” Nicky said. The bat now held in an ‘uncocked’ position.

  “We have to get off. We’ve got a gig in about an hour,” Dominic said hopefully.

  Shouting through to the kitchen, Nicky said the words they least wanted to hear. “Call the cops.”

  The attending police officers quickly ascertained that it was only Danny who had been physically involved in the altercation and he was swiftly cuffed and carried away, leaving Dominic to make like Hermes on a bad news day and hotfoot it back to the venue and inform the band they were now one incarcerated bass player short.

  ***

  “Fuck’s sake,” Johnny said, relieved that the beers he had been consuming bore little malice in terms of their alcoholic strength.

  “It wasn’t our fault!” said Dom, remarkably sheepishly.

  “I’m not the one that needs to decide that though, am
I,” Johnny said, as he paced up and down outside of the venue.

  “We’re gonna have to cancel aren’t we,” Jamie said, rubbing at his temple. “What the fuck were yer thinking, bro?” he asked, half annoyed, half sympathetically.

  “We were just havin’ a laugh and these two fat fucks took it the wrong way,” said Dominic with a rueful shake of his head.

  “I suppose I best get down to the police station. I’ll ring the label and get the address of a lawyer whilst I’m on my way. You lot stay here and keep out of trouble,” Johnny said snappishly.

  ***

  “Daniel Martin. He’s English. He would have been brought in about an hour ago. Bit of an altercation in a bar.”

  Slowly perusing the roll call of cell dwellers, the female duty sergeant pursed her lips and nodded. “Martin. Daniel Martin. He is in a holding cell following his arrest, sir. Can I ask who you are?”

  “Err, yes. I’m Johnny Harrison.”

  “And are you his lawyer?” She looked Johnny up and down.

  “No. I’m err, I’m the manager of his band. They have a show in less than an hour.”

  “Mr Martin will be detained overnight and be in court in the morning.”

  Taking a deep breath and straightening out his T-shirt, Johnny said, “See, that’s the problem. We have a show. Tonight. Is there no way that we can arrange for bail?” Remembering an oft-used piece of jargon from Claire’s beloved US detective shows, Johnny played his best amateur lawyer card. “He doesn’t present any flight risk. None whatsoever.”

  Quietly pleased with his turn of phrase, the wind was soon sucked from his sails.

  “Really, sir? So, you’re a qualified lawyer as well as the manager of a rock band, are you?”

  “No. No I’m not. Obviously.” Steeling himself for his next move, Johnny lowered his voice. “I’m just trying to get our boy out and back in time for the show. We might not be able to get a lawyer out until the morning.”

  “That isn’t my problem, sir,” the duty Sergeant said disinterestedly.

  “Okay. Is there some local charity or police benevolent fund we can donate to? Would that make a difference?”