Sacred Wind: Book 1

by Andy Coffey

  Chapter 11 – Metal and Curry

  As Aiden walked into the pub he was greeted by the sight of one of the biggest drum kits he’d ever seen; two huge bass drums, eight concert toms, a huge floor tom, a very deep, steel snare drum, at least ten cymbals of varying sizes, and the obligatory peddle-operated hi-hat cymbals. A couple of side-lights on the wall shone down, highlighting the polished chrome fittings, in stark contrast to the gloss black finish of the drums themselves.

  Maurice was behind the bar, watching the band set up and cleaning glasses. ‘Would you like a drink, Aiden?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’d better take this lot up to my room,’ he said, pointing at the large bag of clothes he’d purchased from Mr Kneepatcher.

  Room 11 was pretty much as Aiden had pictured it in his mind. It was scrupulously clean with two very neatly made single beds, both with little bedside tables and accompanying lamps. There was a writing desk and chair by the window, and a large, oak wardrobe stood ominously in the far corner next to the television. The adjoining bathroom was bright and immaculate, plus it even had a little cupboard stocked with toiletries, including a new toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Aiden was quite surprised to see a television, and he made a mental note to ask Cracky more about the history of this reality after they’d had their conversation tomorrow. As there didn’t appear to be a remote control, he simply pressed the ‘On’ button.

  ‘Good day, you’re watching the Blacktie News channel,’ a man dressed in a dark suit with a flamboyant cravat said. ‘Welcome to the news at six. Today, our glorious leader, the revered, ennobled, handsome, clever, artistic, charming, well-endowed and virile Baron Blacktie announced that all entries for The Cestrian Music Tournament 1987 have been received and that the tournament will take place this Wednesday at the Grand Gateway Theatre, Chester. On this year’s judging panel will be none other than Colin Mowsel, the Head of Dee Records. As this year celebrates the tournament’s 100th anniversary, Mr Mowsel has kindly agreed that the winner will receive a one-album international recording deal. As usual, the entries have been wide and varied, covering the entire spectrum of musical styles… apart from heavy rock and metal, which, of course, the Baron has banned. In other news, a local hair salon had its flatulence license revoked after being reported for exceeding its allocated number of farts per hour. The owners of the salon blamed the events on the accidental inclusion of Bishop’s Bowel Bubbler cheese in the selection of hors d’oeuvres being offered to customers. Also, a local man stands accused of the heinous crime of cheese sniffing without consent. Witnesses say that whilst in the “Pandemonium of Cheese” outlet store, he blatantly sniffed cheese already purchased by Mr Douglas Crumbly-Texture. An angry mob gave chase and eventually cornered the man, who was then handed over to the authorities. If found guilty, he will be sentenced to the maximum penalty of extreme forced teeth flossing and fifteen years of community service…’

  Aiden shook his head and switched off the television, and then the floor began to rumble. ‘Can I have a bit more bass in the monitors,’ Agnar shouted to Oldfart, who was manning the mixing desk situated at the back of the room.

  ‘Okay, try that,’ Oldfart said, twisting one of the little knobs on the desk. Smid played a few notes and Agnar gave Oldfart the thumbs up.

  As Aiden wandered up to the bar, drawn to the sound check like a moth to a flame, the front door of the pub was flung open and the huge Viking he’d seen on the ship earlier in the day walked in, with a guitar case and a ridiculously shiny helmet.

  ‘May Odin bless your wind!’ Olaf the Berserker shouted, followed by a loud fart.

  ‘May Odin bless your wind!’ the other members of Sacred Wind shouted back, responding with farts of their own.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Olaf? Assuming you are Olaf,’ Smid said, shielding his eyes. ‘I can’t really make out your face because of the glare coming off your helmet.’

  ‘Well, you know what Ophelia’s like,’ Olaf said. ‘She wants me to look my best so she just kept on rubbing!’

  ‘Was that after she’d finished shining your helmet?’ Grundi said, laughing.

  ‘Very funny, Grundi,’ Olaf said, with a grin. ‘And I know that I’ve gotten out of carrying any gear in, but I’ll make sure do plenty of humping after the show.’

  ‘We can imagine,’ said Smid.

  ‘Is Roisin coming to the gig with Ophelia later on?’ Agnar asked.

  ‘She is,’ Olaf replied, ‘but you’re not going after her again, are you? I fear you’ll have no luck there, my friend.’

  Agnar looked slightly crestfallen and gave his snare drum a good whack. ‘We’ve already had this conversation,’ Grundi said to Olaf.

  Olaf took his guitar out of its case and plugged it into his amplifier, which was sat on top of two large speaker cabinets. He checked the tuning and then walked up to the microphone, perched high on its stand in front of him. ‘One, two, one, two,’ he said, checking that it was actually switched on. ‘Right, shall we have a run through “Metal and Curry”?’

  ‘Why not,’ Agnar replied, counting them in. ‘One, two, three… ’

  The first thing that struck Aiden was how good they were. If truth be told he was expecting a bit of a train crash. However, they were all more than competent musicians and Olaf’s voice was superb.

  ‘Hello there, Aiden,’ Oldfart shouted, as Aiden joined him behind the mixing desk. ‘Glad you could make it. What do you think?’

  As Aiden listened closely to the band’s sound, it quickly became obvious that he could radically improve it. Oldfart’s experience at mixing appeared to involve pushing the little slider controls for the levels to create a balance, but didn’t extend to tweaking the equalisation and other knobs on the mixing desk to enhance the sound. Not wishing to be rude, but itching to make the changes he knew would make a drastic improvement, he decided to combine diplomacy with fact.

  ‘Pretty impressive, I have to say, but the bass guitar sounds a little muddy.’

  ‘You sound like you have some experience here, my friend.’ Oldfart said.

  ‘It’s a hobby of mine, actually,’ Aiden replied.

  Oldfart could see that Aiden was like a dog waiting patiently to be told he could now have the bone being held in his master’s hand. ‘To be honest, this isn’t really my area of expertise. So, if you wish, I’m quite happy to let you take the console, so to speak. Our last mixing engineer had a bad experience at his bank, I’m afraid, and we’ve not been able to find a replacement.’

  ‘Was he overdrawn by any chance?’ Aiden asked.

  ‘Sadly, yes,’ Oldfart answered, ‘it may take some time for his ears to recover.’

  Aiden went at the knobs on the desk like a man on a mission, tweaking and twiddling away. He gave the bass more punch and tone, gave the drums more crack and sparkle, gave the guitars a much more defined and powerful sound, and stopped Olaf sounding like he was singing through a sock.

  ‘That’s incredible,’ Oldfart said. ‘I’ve never heard them sound as good as that before. You, my young friend, are a genius.’

  The band stopped playing and Oldfart waved them over. ‘This is Mr Aiden Peersey,’ he said, introducing Aiden to the band, ‘and, if he has nothing better to do this evening, I think we should ask him to mix the sound for us. It’s powerful enough to stir Odin’s bowels, trust me.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Aiden said. It seemed like the natural thing to do.

  Agnar gave Aiden a friendly smack on the back, which nearly pushed most of his internal organs through his rib cage. ‘Well done, my scruffy-haired friend! This place is going to be rocking tonight!’