Debaser

by Max Frick

nodded, and again leaning into the microphone said:

  ‘Aye, sure. No problem. Aye.’

  Before giving Kris a confident thumbs up.

  The first take (there were nineteen in all) didn’t even make it past the intro.

  No sooner had the music reached his headphones than Tony was filled with it body and soul. It was curling his lip, pulling back his shoulders and widening his stance when suddenly it stopped. Already lost in its familiar rumblings and janglings he’d forgotten all about Kris’s countdown and completely missed his cue. Behind the glass Kris gave a mystified shrug.

  Take two:

  On this one Tony came in on time, but as soon as he did so, Jeremy, who had been allowed to remain in the booth with him, and who was until now crouching quietly off to one side, sprang up, and, possibly trying to get a close up of Tony’s reverberating larynx, once again practically shoved the camera halfway down his throat.

  ‘For fuck sake, man!’ shrugged Tony. ‘I thought he was supposed to be a fuckin fly on the wall.’

  Take three:

  Jeremy, as best he could in a room of this size, now kept his distance, but his very presence in it was a distraction to Tony. And it didn’t help that he flitted here, there and everywhere around it filming him from every possible angle: one minute he’d be standing right there in front of him, camera pointing directly at his face, and the next he’d be conspicuous by his absence, lurking somewhere behind him. Or he’d hover around filming him from one side before crouching along between the microphone and the glass to pop up and film him from the other. Such movements couldn’t but catch Tony’s eye. His concentration inevitably waned and they hadn’t got far before he lost his place and the lyrics trailed off to a murmur.

  ‘One more time from the top,’ drawled Kris.

  Takes four and five:

  See above.

  ‘You better get him fuckin out of here!’

  For take six Jeremy was removed and thereafter had to content himself filming the remainder of the video from the other side of the glass, over Kris’s shoulder. But still things did not go smoothly and Tony began to lose patience.

  As far as he was concerned he was doing nothing wrong, but nevertheless he was accused of everything from coming in too early or too late, to singing too high, or too low, or too fast, or too slow, or flat. He was told at one point to curb his enthusiasm because apparently it carried him too far from the microphone, so that his singing became echoey and distant, but on other takes his performance would be too wooden for Kris’s liking because he was trying his hardest to stand still. But more often than not the music would be stopped for no apparent reason whatsoever – Kris, safely behind that glass, simultaneously shaking his head and wafting his bony hand in a cutting gesture to and fro across his throat so that his fingernails were practically grazing that big Adam’s apple of his – and they’d have to start again from the beginning.

  ‘One more time from the top.’

  ‘One more time from the top.’

  ‘One more time from the top.’

  Finally, though, On take eighteen, they somehow managed to make it right to the end, and Tony, soaked with sweat and breathing heavily after giving it his absolute all, was glowering over the microphone at Kris in anticipation of his judgement, defying him, daring him, almost willing him to find fault with that one. The remainder of the music played out in his ears and was at last replaced by silence, save for the rising and falling of his own now bated breath. Kris looked thoughtful, rolling himself another cigarette, and all in good time his voice came sounding through the headphones:

  ‘Nah,’ it droned. ‘I’m just not feeling it. Lets try it one more time from the top.’

  And that's when Tony lost his temper.

  But even then it’s not as if anything was damaged beyond repair. He knew before he even threw it that the light metal of the music stand was never going to trouble the thick glass of the partition. And the microphone was easily enough fixed again.

  Kris lit his cigarette and shook out the match, before saying evenly:

  ‘Now, that’s exactly the kind of passion I’m looking for. If we can bottle that, son, we’ve got a hit on our hands. So, whenever you’re ready...’

  The nineteenth take was a wrap and three days later Tony was called back in to hear, and see, the finished product.

  Only to find that his worst fears had indeed been realised.

  12

  ‘Anarchy In The UK.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Anarchy In The UK,’ repeated Tony. ‘That was my first record.’

  ‘Eh, right,’ said Billy. ‘Em…good for you.’

  Tony chapped the door.

  Dooly, alerted by the familiar noise, filled the stairwell with excited barking.

  ‘Dooly!’ snapped Billy. ‘It’s not your door. Your on the outside.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked a wary, disembodied voice from the inside.

  ‘HOWF! HOWFHOWF! HOWF!’

  ‘Who?’ said the voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Tony.

  ‘Drako?’ said the voice, spirited now. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Aye, it’s me. Open the door.’

  ‘Was that you barkin?’

  ‘Just open the fuckin door, will you?’

  A key turned in the mortise lock and the deadbolt retracted. Higher up the flush bolt was drawn back. Higher still the knob was turned twice on the Yale. And finally the safety chain was unhooked from its catch. The door was pulled to and the spirit endowed with actual bodily form - a startlingly naked, wiry form scarcely able to contain it.

  At once a rangy arm shot out to vigorously shake hands.

  ‘Drako, man! How’s it goin? How’s it goin? And Billy, as well! How you doin, mate? Good to see you! And who’s your lady friend, eh? Hello big stranger. Christ almighty, quite literally every man and his dog turnin up at my door this weekend. Come in, boys. Come in. I’ll catch my fuckin death standin here!’

  Tony, sticking close to the doorjamb as he passed into the hallway, dubiously eyed Pabs’s unkempt hair and whatnot.

  ‘Em,’ he said, ‘did we wake you up, mate?’

  ‘Not a chance, mate! Not a chance! I’ve been up for about three days now! I’m goin for the new world record. Totally fuckin racin, man! Medication’s what you need, right enough, eh? Marathon man, man, that’s me. I keep waitin to hit the wall but there’s no sign of it so far. Not even any wind resistance. I’m just cruisin through thin air at a hell of a pace! Breathin a wee bit heavily, mind, and sweatin a fair deal but that’s to be expected, eh? Come in, Billy, man. Come in. make yourself at home.’

  Billy was pulled over the threshold by Dooly.

  ‘All right, Peter?’ he said.

  ‘I’m tip top, Billy boy! Absolutely tip top! Never better, man, in fact! Call me Pabs, will you? We don’t stand on ceremony in these parts. Truth to tell, mate, so good do I feel, that I’m even a wee bit scared to go out sometimes in case a bus or a fuckin lorry puts an end to me. I’ve never known a feeling like it in all my livelong days. Two for a tenner, eh? Ha ha!’

  ‘Ecstasy, is it?’

  ‘Oh, aye, man! Oh, aye! And then some! A wee bit of this, a wee bit of that, a wee bit of everything, in fact. Och, in real life I’m only fair to middlin, but I’m hardly ever there, know what I mean? I’ll leave you to bolt that door behind you, eh? I’ll catch my fuckin death standin here!’

  And he darted spryly up the hall.

  Seemingly enlivened by the thrill of the new, Dooly came straining through the living room door, eagerly dragging Billy behind him.

  ‘Well, hello again, big man!’ gushed Pabs, crouching to greet him. ‘And what’s your name, eh? What’s your name?’

  ‘Careful, there,’ said Tony. ‘He’s as randy as fuck. He tried to shag a poodle earlier. Billy had a stonner watchin.’

  ‘He doesn’t bite, Billy, does he? Probably swallows you whole, eh? I didn’t even know you had a dog, man. Dalmatian, right? Big, tho
ugh.’

  ‘He’s a Great Dane,’ said Billy. ‘But he’s not mine. He’s my ma’s. I’m just watchin him for the weekend.’

  Tony walked around the couch to the window.

  ‘It’s a bit fuckin dark in here, is it not?’ he said. ‘You’re missin a lovely day out there, Pabs, mate. Look.’

  He drew open – one one way, the other the other – the curtains, and sunlight brightened the room in two stages.

  ‘Ah, Jesus, Drako!’ said Pabs, squinting. ‘What you doin, man? I’ve not seen daylight for ages. Suddenly I feel very, you know, vulnerable. A wee bit, em, over exposed, eh?’

  ‘Well maybe,’ said Tony, ‘if you went and put some fuckin clothes on, you might feel, you know, a wee bit, em, less exposed, eh?’

  Pabs stood tall.

  ‘Aw, what’s the matter, Drako? Does my nakedness embarrass you? Does seein me in the way God intended make you feel a wee bit uncomfortable? It’s all nature’s bounty, mate. Nothin to be ashamed of.’

  ‘It’s nature’s fun-size bounty I’m lookin at, mate,’ said Tony. ‘Not exactly anythin to be proud of either.’

  He sat himself down on the couch, scanning the table in front of him, lifting up magazines and looking underneath.

  ‘Mind if I do the damage, man?’ he asked.

  Crouching again, Pabs was being bowled arse over heel by Dooly’s ebullient clambering.

  ‘No, man... Whoa! Jesus! No, go right ahead. I thought you’d never... Ah ha ha! Whoa! Not there, big man! Not there! I Thought you’d never ask. My hands are somebody else’s the now. Numb, you know? Can’t seem to… Ah ha ha! Tickly! I Can’t seem to get to grips with the intricacies, eh? Christ, Billy, he’s a wee bit