Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

we stop moving.’ Ben struggled unsteadily to his feet, almost falling over the vacubot. ‘The floor’s moving,’ he slurred.

  ‘That’s because we’re on a boat,’ said Vid.

  ‘Yes, well, when we stop…’ he swayed. ‘When we stop moving… you’ll see.’ He took a few paces, then turned and looked back at Nutter. ‘Coming?’

  Nutter nodded and rose to his feet almost as unsteadily as Ben. He leaned on the edge of the table for support, then the room fell silent, except for the whining of the vacubot who had been caught under the falling table. All eyes were on Nutter.

  ‘S-sorry,’ he said quietly. He lifted the table to free the bot, then staggered off in the direction of the exit.

  Vid watched the pair leave with a critical eye. ‘Just us musicians, then,’ he said.

  Riff sighed. ‘Just leave it, will you. You’re both as bad as each other.’

  The room was fairly empty now: most of the passengers had retired for the night and the band was working their way through the kind of slow, drawn-out number that sounded like it was written for a smoke-filled room. The robots moved away from the remains of their table and took a seat closer to the band. Riff caught the eye of the trumpeter as he finished his solo and lowered his instrument.

  ‘Good gig,’ he said. ‘You been playing here long?’

  ‘Six months,’ said the trumpeter. ‘This is our last trip.’

  The bass player looked at his companion oddly. ‘What are you talking to those tinheads for?’

  ‘Only being civil, man.’ He looked back to the robots. ‘You into the music, then?’

  ‘We dabble,’ said Vid.

  The bassist shook his head disdainfully, put down his instrument and strode off. Vid rose and approached the stage. Quietly, he picked up the human’s bass and swung the strap over his head. The trumpeter watched with quiet interest as the robot picked out the same figure the human had been playing only moments before.

  ‘That’s pretty good.’

  ‘Like I say… we dabble.’ Vid began to improvise around the part, adding complex riffs and slapped phrases. The robot drummer, who had been watching the proceedings with quiet resignation, now switched from brushes to sticks and joined in with a strident beat.

  The trumpeter looked to Riff. ‘You play? Or do you dabble like you’re friend?’

  ‘Oh I play,’ said Riff. ‘You got a guitar?’

  The trumpeter motioned to a rack of them. ‘Knock yourself out.’

  Riff picked out a semi-hollow electric. ‘That’s not the kind of thing we play,’ he said. He began to work a series of lingering melodic hooks around Vid’s bass. The trumpeter looked at Keys, who shrugged and took up a place behind the recently vacated piano.

  ‘You guys in a band?’ said the trumpeter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Riff. ‘The drummer and the singer were the ones who just left.’

  ‘They were part of it?’

  ‘They’re better when they’re sober.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same about my band.’ The trumpeter grinned and looked toward where his colleagues were sloping their way out of the bar. ‘You play any jazz?’

  Riff picked out a string of exotic sounding chords, Keys adding a syncopated piano line between them.

  The trumpeter nodded approvingly. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s stop jabbering and start communicating.’ He put the trumpet to his lips and the room was filled with music.

  Antipathy between musicians in different genres is not, unfortunately, uncommon. Few rock bands elevate themselves to a level where classical musicians consider them more than ‘mere entertainers’, and even fewer jazz musicians endear themselves to those who like to play ‘something with a tune.’

  And, in a way, it is something of a shame. Because music is about ideas, and when you bring those ideas together – try to see what blends and what clashes – something interesting happens. The critics have a word for this something – they call it fusion. Purists on both sides of the divide, however, are want to call it ‘that bloody racket.’

  That’s not to say that fusion can’t break into the mainstream. Darius Steinbeck, a traditional rock player from Capella, has often been cited as the ultimate fusion musician. His early career was of little note: as part of a traditional four-piece rock band he was just one amongst many - Capella having something of a surfeit of such acts. Most were content to carve out a small following and do whatever it took to milk them of money for the rest of their careers.

  Steinbeck, however, was not prepared to be ‘just another musician’. He was even less prepared to go back to his former job as a bank clerk. The music bug had bitten him well and truly, and he was determined to do whatever it took to make his name.

  In an attempt to do something truly unique, therefore, Steinbeck turned to the idea of fusion. Not content with the usual blends of rock and jazz or rock and ethnic music, he decided to go one step beyond, producing a unique blend of hard rock, classical symphony and traditional religious songs from Omicron II.

  Although the material itself was well realised and put Steinbeck’s career on Capella into overdrive, the hard line religious government of Omicron saw the fusion as an act of pure evil and damned the musician’s soul to the red level of Hell. So as not to make this an empty threat, they also hired a contract killer to ensure his entry into the said level of Hell wouldn’t be too long in coming.

  Steinbeck, having broken all sales records for Capellan music history, now proceeded to break all records for the longest musical tour of all time, not only touring to the very edges of the known universe, but also travelling beyond them to ‘open up new markets’.

  33

  Blood and Oil’s known universe was rather a deal smaller. So it was not unnatural that, two days out from it, they were finding the going slightly more relaxed. The threat of their pursuer seemed to retreat with the passing of the waves, the band secure in the knowledge that he was unlikely to be under contract to the government of Omicron II. It was, it seemed, a chance to relax.

  Keys and Riff found their relaxation with the ship’s band, exchanging ideas, jamming, and passing their time in technical discussions about the merits of suspended chords, passing tones and dropped sheet music.

  Vid, not quite in his element in such an advanced musical environment, opted instead to wander abroad26, scanning the horizon for a hint of their destination; the mysterious Fadora.

  Ben also declined to spend time with the other musicians. That is he would have declined if they had offered, or rather that he felt inclined to decline if they now offered because they hadn’t previously. His annoyance brooked little in consolation and less in understanding. He chose to pass his time with Nutter. The robot’s thick skin and drummer’s intellect prevented him from similar feelings of being aggrieved, but having not been invited either it hadn’t occurred to him to spend his time otherwise.

  Of Tony, the band saw little – they could only assume that he was spending time in his luxury suite on the upper deck.

  The rail of the ship was placed slightly above chest height, formed of a silky metal that was either intended to reduce drag or to prevent drunk young romantics from climbing out onto the bowsprit to pretend they were flying. Vid tried to lean on the rail moodily, but his grip slipped and he resulted merely in banging his head.

  Drifting up from below decks came the sound of the jazz combo, their steady beat marking the time like a metronome with ideas above its station. The robot sighed wistfully and looked over his shoulder, where he was surprised to find Keys hovering behind him.

  ‘You bored?’ Vid asked his friend.

  ‘Just fancied some air. You?’

  Vid shrugged. ‘Out of my depth,’ he said. ‘I guess I’m not really a musician.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? I don’t understand half the stuff you guys talk about.’

  ‘Yes…’ Keys paused to think. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard of Makar?’


  ‘Of course I have. He’s only the most successful musician of all time.’

  ‘Right. And you know he couldn’t read music?’

  Vid’s face expressed a frown. ‘Couldn’t he?’

  ‘Not a note. But it didn’t stop him, did it?’

  ‘No, but how…?’

  Keys floated round to stand at the rail beside his friend. ‘Some musicians are like Riff,’ he said. ‘Technical geniuses who use their knowledge to elevate themselves above the masses. Others… others are like Makar – they get their music from here.’ He patted his chest cavity.

  Vid’s frown deepened. ‘That’s your hard disc, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keys, ‘but only literally.’

  The robots fell silent, both watching the sea as it undulated gently a few hundred feet below them. A woman strode past them, arm in arm with an escort-bot. The word ‘Engaged’ was blinking on the robot’s bow-tie as he passed, apparently deep in conversation with his partner.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever get back?’ said Vid eventually.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is home, though, isn’t it.’

  Keys shrugged. ‘I’m sure we’ll get there eventually,’ he said. ‘In a way.’

  Vid looked at him. ‘In a way?’

  ‘Well, we’ll get there physically… Mentally, though, we’ll just be visiting. When you’ve seen the world and all it has to offer you never can go home again.’

  ‘What does the world have to offer?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Keys. ‘I guess that’s what we have to find out.’

  Vid stared out to sea considering this. A question formed in his mind and he turned, but Keys had gone. Clearly, the draw of the music was too strong. Vid smiled, his mood dissipated with the sea mist. The beat from below was catchier now – or he was hearing it differently. He rolled along the gangway, swaying gently in time to the music, patterns of light playing across his face.

  Across the ship, a narrow ramp led up to the next deck. Vid paused to allow a man in a wheelchair roll sedately past, then proceeded up. At the top he caught a glimpse through the open door of the upper class bar. The opulence of the marble tables and gold-rimmed seats drew the eye like an attractive cartoonist.

  Vid stared in vague wonderment until a man in a crisp red suit shimmered into his view. ‘Do you have a first class ticket, sir?’ the man enquired.

  It took Vid a moment to collect his thoughts enough to admit that he didn’t. The man’s face melted from obsequience to distaste with practiced fluidity. ‘Then I suggest you vacate the area,’ he said, adding a half-muttered tin man as the robot complied. Vid rolled on along the deck, another brief glance through the window aborted by the angry stare from the uniformed flunky.

  He sighed and rolled on, playing back the luxurious scene in his RAM’s eye. After several yards he stopped, his calm expression melting more eloquently than any doorman’s. His brief glance had taken in a wide array of characters – military types with more medals than the first Olympian to discover an undetectable steroid, stern muscular types with suits so sharp they could cut diamond… and looking slightly out of place among them, a man in a familiar suede suit.

  His sunny disposition evaporated, Vid rolled back down the ramp to the lower deck and hurried off in search of his companions.

  34

  There is something of the raw inspiration in foreign shores. Whether it is the sight, the sound or even the smell is unknown, but history is replete with men whose first encounter inspired them to explore, to take in the people, the heritage, the cultural riches - to soak up all the country had to offer and then to steal as much of it as they could carry.

  In more enlightened times, this theft has become rather better natured. Most civilizations do not have the collective equivalent of intellectual property and so it is not generally frowned upon to allow artists to indulge themselves in making like a magpie with the unique rhythms and tones of other lands27. To reflect and glorify another’s culture is seen not as theft or exploitation but as the greatest of compliments.

  Unless, that is, you are a manager. Captain Brain Damage, once one of the music world’s most successful entrepreneurs, understood the draw of the exotic well. He would cruise the small villages looking – as he put it – for talent. After this got him into trouble in a less permissive society he rephrased it as looking for music talent, but the sentence was short and didn’t end his career.

  What Damage was seeking was that holy grail of music: an act who were talented enough to have made their mark on their local stage, but who had absolutely no idea of their worth in the world at large. After signing them up to a sufficiently binding and crippling contract, Damage would relocate his finds to another country and wait for nature to take its course. The effect was invariably rapid and highly lucrative. Damage himself, writing in his autobiography A Ghetto Full of Goys described it as cultural exchange and said it was no robbery.

  And perhaps it wasn’t, but the controversial manager’s career was not to last the distance. His discovery of ‘Howling Mad’ McPherson, a small-town country singer, seemed at first to be just another chance at a quick buck. McPherson’s songs followed the normal themes of one-night stands, loves lost and hopes betrayed, but his distinct ethnic slant lent them a poignancy more heart-wrenching and - crucially - more bankable than any which Damage had previously encountered.

  After convincing the singer to sign up to the usual ten/ninety contract, Damage set him on a continental tour. Unfortunately for Damage, taking McPherson away from the small town proved to be even more inspirational than he could ever have imagined: life in the big city brought out the monster within his soul. He drank like a fish, partied like a member of the Sirian Peanut Troupe and screwed like a branch of a popular DIY store; activities that led to damage claims, paternity suits and breach of promise claims on a scale that was truly ground-breaking.

  Throughout those few years, McPherson’s songs became profound, carving out new musical territory and scoring great critical acclaim. Unfortunately, so heart-rending did they become, the suicide rate amongst the listeners brought the record sales crashing at the very moment that compensation claims threatened to render artist and manager destitute. Damage was so distraught, he was driven to imitate the fans and take his own life.

  Ironically, the singer’s tribute to his manager’s suicide would ultimately lead to his biggest-selling record, providing enough money that both he and Damage could have cleared all outstanding debts and retired to their own private archipelagos. It was never to be: McPherson’s greatest hit turned out also to be his last when the subject of his earlier song Crazy Lady turned up in his hotel room with an axe to grind.

  It was the stuff of awe and apprehension that preoccupied three robots and a human as they made their way through the streets of Fadora. The city was a long way from home in more senses than the purely geographical: its grand boulevards, striking statues and stone porticos spoke of a noble past when men had done great deeds and spent a great of money commemorating them.

  The backstreets told another story. Behind the façade was the ignoble present. No bin-bots swept here. The only thing that moved the litter was the movement of rats. The first sign of life the band encountered as they entered the grimy warren Tony had assured them led to their digs was a large example of the rodent population. The second was an only slightly larger robot, azure fire arcing across its opened claw as it pursued its prey – undoubtedly from where it had dared cross to the above-stairs world.

  The people in these dingy streets seemed also somewhat rat-like. They scurried along the streets furtively as they went about their business. Some of them stood suspiciously on street corners, their long coats and smokers almost marking them out as some subclass of back-dweller.

  Riff led the way through the maze of rickety buildings, treading a path as far as he could from the natives. As he led them round the corner he paused. The band drew up behind him.
r />   ‘Something wrong?’ Vid peered past Keys shoulder.

  Riff appeared to be listening. ‘Back,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Onto the pavement.’

  No sooner had the band complied than a car hurtled around the corner, leaning dangerously to one side. The vehicle was one of the new, gravimagnetic models, which used the same principles as Keys to float above the ground, and the driver seemed unused to the difference in handling at high speeds.

  The car smashed into a lamppost, shearing it in two, then as its engine died it loss flotation and dropped heavily to the ground. The band watched as a man climbed out, looked around him nervously, and then fled along the street. They were about to step out onto the street once more when a police motorbike flashed past them, flashing blue lights cutting through the murk like sonar through the deep ocean.

  ‘I wish Tony could have dropped us off at the hotel before running his errands,’ said Ben, looking from side to side as they continued on.

  ‘Not fond of the place?’ said Vid.

  ‘Not really.’ Ben toyed with the chain he was wearing round his neck. ‘Why? Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it,’ said Vid sarcastically. ‘Really makes you feel alive.’

  ‘Save it for later,’ said Riff. ‘We want to stay alive.’

  They took a right turn and made their way down an alley where more of the rat-catcher robots scurried past them.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many rat-catchers before,’ said Keys, watching the tiny robots as they swarmed past.

  ‘It’s probably an indication of the number of rats,’ said Vid.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Riff. ‘They might just have gone native.’

  ‘Gone native?’ Ben asked.

  ‘A fault in some of the earlier models. They took to hanging around with the rats rather than hunting them. Caused almost as much trouble.’

  ‘How?’ Ben watched a straggler as it hurried after its fellows. He didn’t like the look of its electrocution field, but it was hard to imagine it would actually attack a human.

  ‘The designers reckoned they’d worked out that their jobs were in danger if they ever succeeded in exterminating the rats, so they cultivated enough of them to keep themselves in business but not enough to make them look inefficient.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘By the looks of it, they all came to Fadora.’

  He picked up the straggler and turned it over. ‘Made in Ezra,’ he said. ‘It must have come by ship.’ He placed the struggling robot back on the ground. The tiny metal creature attempted to electrocute his ankle for the insult. Then, finding this had little effect on Riff’s insulated skin he turned and continued on his way.

  ‘I hope our hotel’s not round here anywhere,’ said Ben. ‘It doesn’t look like a very nice place.’

  ‘It’s where Tony said to go,’ said Riff. ‘Unless the place gets noticeably better or we’re lost, I’d guess it’s not going to be a five star hotel.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Vid muttered.

  ‘I just wish he hadn’t taken Nutter with him,’ said Ben. ‘Some of these people are frightening.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be any use,’ said Riff, ‘you know robots can’t attack humans.’

  ‘I know. I’d still feel better, though.’

  A rasping noise prompted the group to look back. Behind them stood a dark, heavyset robot whose bulk would even have dwarfed Nutter. Its face was angular, like the face on a pharaoh’s tomb and tapered to a stubby chin. From the top of its head streamed a mass of cables, consistent in gauge but varying wildly in colour. The impression it gave was this was a robot attempt at a hairstyle.

  ‘You from outta town?’ the robot asked.

  ‘What gave us away?’ said Vid.

  ‘You clean boy,’ the robot replied.

  ‘Perhaps I just shower a lot.’

  ‘That don’t help none here. That’s why we as dirty as hell. Me… I’s really a bright white robot.’

  ‘Pull the other one it’s got speakers on. What do you want, anyway?’

  The robot bent forward slightly surreptitiously. ‘What you got?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The robot pointed to Ben. ‘That necklace the flesh-sack’s wearing, that worth anything?’

  Vid’s face registered sudden concern. He turned to Ben. ‘He wants your chain,’ he said.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to give it to him?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think he really wants it.’

  ‘So. It was a present from my mother.’

  ‘A present from me mother,’ the dark robot put on a squeaky voice as if in poor imitation. ‘Now ain’t that sweet.’ The voice hardened suddenly. ‘Give it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Give it to me or I have to to break your arms – you know what I mean?’

  ‘You can’t do that, you’re a robot.’

  ‘You think so? And where did you get that idea?’

  Vid stepped in between Ben and the dark robot. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of the laws of robotics,’ he said. ‘They’re built into all robots.’

  ‘Really? Well fancy that.’

  ‘Are you saying they aren’t?’

  The robot shrugged. ‘Customs vary,’ he said. ‘We don’t have no laws round here.’

  ‘No?’ said Ben. ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Guidelines. And you gonna have to learn to live by my guidelines if you don’t wanna die by them. Now, since you’re new you can give me that necklace and I won’t break your arm – this time.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Ben.

  ‘I never kid. If you was local, I wouldn’t even ask.’

  ‘That’s to encourage tourism, is it?’ said Vid.

  ‘No point killing tourists. You wouldn’t come back.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that, anyway.’ Vid turned to Ben. ‘I think you’re going to have it to give him your chain.’

  Ben removed the object in question reluctantly and passed it over. The dark robot slipped it into a hidden compartment somewhere around its person. ‘Where you all heading, anyway?’ he asked congenially.

  ‘The Inferno,’ said Vid.

  ‘Why did you tell him that?’ said Ben. ‘He knows where we’re going to be now.’

  Both Vid and the dark robot ignored him. The dark robot eyed Vid with surprise. ‘You’re a band?’

  ‘Some of it, yes,’ said Vid. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Cos that’s where they start all the bands round here at The Inferno.’ The robot nodded thoughtfully. ‘I just hope you not too keen on that clean livin’ boy – The Inferno ain’t no luxury pad.’ With that, the robot left them, taking Ben’s chain from its compartment and swinging it around as he went.

  ‘Well I definitely don’t like Fadora,’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m not too thrilled at the prospect of our accommodation either,’ said Vid. ‘It sounds like we’re going to be crying out for the days when we slept in the van.’

  The alley opened out onto another street, this one lit by flickering neon signs and the occasional streetlamp. Here the people were a little less hurried: scantily-clad women leaned on lampposts and pouted at the passing traffic; men stopped and conversed with them, some leaving with the woman in question, others leaving alone.

  Ben gaped openly at the vista laid out before him, scarcely noticing the angry looks this was drawing. One of the women grabbed his arm as he passed. She pouted and thrust her ample chest dramatically forward. Ben tried his best not to dribble down her cleavage.

  ‘You looking for a good time?’ the woman asked him.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Ben, his voice shaky.

  ‘If you’re looking for a bad time that comes extra.’

  ‘I’m not really looking for any kind of time,’ said Ben. ‘I guess I’m just looking.’

  ‘Well, go look somewhere else,’ the woman snapped, closing her coat. ‘This ain’t no peep show.’

&nb
sp; Vid, who had been looking up and down the street, tapped the woman on the arm.

  ‘Whadda you want?’ she snapped. ‘I don’t do metal.’

  ‘Sorry to impose on your time,’ said Vid, ‘but we’re looking for The Inferno – it’s supposed to be on this street somewhere.’

  ‘You staying there?’

  ‘Playing there actually.’

  The woman seemed to relax slightly. ‘You’re new here, ain’t you,’ she said. She took a cigarette from somewhere inside her coat – Ben tried not to think of where – and gripped it between her teeth. Vid snapped his fingers, producing a spark that lit the end. After a few long drags, the woman flicked her ash off onto the ground.

  ‘Next alley that way,’ she said. Third door on the left – if you come to a pile of crap, you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘If we haven’t already,’ Ben muttered.

  The woman looked up sharply ‘What was that?’

  ‘He said thanks,’ said Vid.

  The woman grunted and took another drag. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘And do me a favour. Tell Harry that Sheila’s taking off at twelve.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Vid. ‘And if he asks what you’re taking off?’

  The look on Sheila’s face persuaded Vid not to pursue the matter.

  35

  Even with directions, the entrance to The Inferno was hard to find. Obscured by heavy black sacks and assorted cardboard boxes, it looked as if someone was attempting to give it a sort of dingy exclusivity. Had Keys not caught a glimpse of concealed neon sign and investigated, the band probably wouldn’t have stumbled on the nondescript black door. Had he been put off by the lack of a door-handle, he wouldn’t have tried knocking. Had he not knocked, the door wouldn’t have opened. That’s what possibility does.

  As it happened, Keys located, investigated and knocked. After a few minutes, the door opened a few inches, revealing a chain barring their entry. A pair of tired, bloodshot eyes, just visible in the gloom, blinked before scrutinising them suspiciously.

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice rasped.

  ‘We’re the band,’ Keys replied.

  ‘Which band?’

  ‘Blood and Oil.’

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’ The voice answered, but the chain was nonetheless released. The door swung back, revealing a short, balding man in a faded suit. ‘You the band with Tony?’ he asked.

  Keys nodded. ‘Is he here?’

  The man had a brief coughing fit and almost bent double under the force of it. ‘He dropped off your stuff, but he didn’t stick around. He had another robot with him.’

  ‘Nutter,’ said Ben.

  ‘You what?’ the man looked up accusingly.

  ‘He means our drummer,’ Keys explained.

  ‘Drummer?’ the man queried. ‘Looked more like a boxer to me.’

  ‘That’s what he used to be,’ said Ben.

  ‘And he gave it up to drum with you lot?’ The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know – some people don’t know when they’re well off?’ He led the way down a dark, damp corridor and the band followed. Vid, bringing up the rear, closed the door behind him.

  ‘If Tony was coming here anyway, why didn’t he drop us off?’ he asked Riff.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Riff simply. ‘Perhaps he thought we’d like to see the sights.’

  ‘Where do you know Tony from?’ Keys asked the man as he led them past a peeling yellow wall, punctuated by a series of flimsy wooden doors.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ the man asked him, coughing as he spoke.

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Keys.

  ‘Right. Well, everybody knows Tony, he’s…’

  ‘…almost family,’ Keys completed his sentence. ‘Yes, we know, but we don’t know much about his family.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said the man. He descended into silence as if to illustrate the point.

  A few minutes later, the peeling paint gave way to peeling wallpaper and the man pushed open a door. The choice seemed arbitrary - the doors looked the same as each other - but he opened the door with intent rather than disinterest. The room beyond was in total darkness and the band squinted over the man’s shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of detail. The man paused to wheeze, propping himself up on the doorframe, then switched on the light.

  ‘Your room,’ he said simply.

  Room seemed something of an overstatement.

  It was the size of a large closet. Four bunk beds occupied the two walls and were separated by a gap of approximately four feet. At the far end, looking startlingly out of place in such dingy surroundings, the band’s instruments were leaned against the wall, Riff’s guitars shimmering tungsten yellow in the light of the single bare light-bulb that hung from the ceiling. The man looked to the band, clearly expecting a response.

  ‘It’s very compact,’ said Keys, trying not to sound critical.

  ‘You need a lot of space to