Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

can have an off day. For musicians this usually means a tough gig, whether it is the lounge bar in which the band outnumbers the audience or the concert hall in which several of the musicians end up hospitalised. It happens to all bands at some point – particularly if the local line-up of the Sirian Peanut Troupe are playing up after too many banana daiquiris on a quiet night.

  It isn’t always the band’s fault, of course. Sometimes it comes down to the expectations of the audience. When the government of Acubens stepped in to stop a planned festival of gladiatorial combat, hippy rock group Lincoln’s Interplanetary Cruiser were brought in to keep those who had already bought tickets from murdering the organisers28. Unfortunately, the organisers failed to consider that a concert takes a little more market research than a massacre: a crowd that queues up to see unarmed men fighting with lions is unlikely to take kindly to a band whose songs are largely on the theme of brotherly love.

  The band, quickly realising that they’d been booked into the wrong gig, made a hasty exit, leaving the disgruntled spectators to fight amongst themselves. It took five hours and a huge number of fire hoses to bring order.

  Although the gig did no real damage to Lincoln’s future career (apart from persuading them to change their name to Lincoln’s Airhopper to avoid any members of the audience catching up with them) it did considerable damage to a number of the spectators and started a whole new craze in audience participation all-in brawling across the planet.

  Planning a gig for an apathetic audience is distinctly less hazardous. As long as sufficient alcohol is provided, most are content to leave the incumbents of the stage to their own devices. The band can play whatever they like as long as it doesn’t get too distracting. To prevent the band themselves from becoming apathetic, however, it’s generally a good idea to tell them what to expect first.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Vid exclaimed, as another song faded into the background chatter of the room. ‘It’s as if we’re inaudible or something.’

  ‘I thought I heard someone clap earlier,’ said Ben, mopping the sweat from his brow.

  ‘They probably just tried to squash a cockroach.’

  ‘What if we tried something bigger,’ said Keys.

  ‘You mean like a crab?’

  ‘No. I mean like a more up-tempo number. If that other band plays here it might be that’s what the locals are expecting.’

  Vid gave this his consideration. ‘We could rock up She Was Standing Over There.’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a try. Riff?’ Keys looked to Riff. ‘What do you think? Can you give it something?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said. He prodded at the pedal board by his foot and strummed experimentally. The sound resonated a few pint glasses, but nobody looked up. ‘Ready?’ he asked the others.

  ‘As we’ll ever be,’ said Vid.

  Riff looked to Nutter, who nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Riff. ‘One… two… three… four.’

  The sound that emerged from the stage was enough to shake the bar. Riff’s thunderous guitar riffs combined with a pounding piano line from Keys, all underpinned by Vid and Nutter playing in double-time. Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then without opening his eyes he screamed into the microphone as loud as his throat would allow. After the first stanza he relaxed his voice slightly and opened his eyes. To his surprise every head in the room was turned in their direction. The band were playing like machines - which was hardly surprising – but what added to it was the way they were moving in deliberately staccato motions, accentuating the beats of their respective instruments with their bodies. Except that is for Nutter, who seemed just to be shaking. When the song came to an end there was a muted round of applause and then the audience turned back to their drinks.

  Ben ran the back of his hand across his forehead and watched the sweat drip to the floor. ‘What’s the time?’ he croaked.

  ‘Nine,’ said Vid.

  ‘Thank God for that. Shall we go?’

  The old man met them at the door and looked at them impassively. ‘Not bad,’ he told them.

  ‘Not bad?’ said Vid. ‘We worked our chips off.’

  ‘What’s with the audience?’ Ben asked. ‘They didn’t seem to care about what we were singing.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Well they wouldn’t, would they?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They don’t speak your language.’

  ‘Then how are we supposed to entertain them?’ Vid asked irritably. ‘If they aren’t listening to the words, they’re missing half the point of the song.’

  ‘The other bands seem to get on alright.’

  ‘I suppose they speak the language?’

  ‘More or less. Yes. Why? It’s just music, isn’t it?’

  ‘I need some air,’ said Ben and walked out of the room. Feeling more or less the same way, Vid followed.

  The area behind the club was obviously a frequent haunt of the venue’s bands between gigs. Beer bottles lay in untidy piles around the yard - some were lined along the top of the surrounding walls. Ben picked up a stone and hurled it at one of the bottles – he missed.

  Vid held out his hand. ‘Stone,’ he requested. Ben passed him one and, after a moment’s hesitation, the robot skimmed it towards the wall. The spinning stone neatly sliced the neck from one of the bottles, leaving the decapitated stump unmoved from its original location.

  ‘Not bad,’ a voice commented. Vid and Ben turned to see a long-haired youth in a black T-shirt. Vid recognised him as the drummer from the dense alloy band.

  ‘You not playing tonight?’ said Vid.

  ‘No. We had a gig across town, but they cancelled.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it,’ said Ben.

  The drummer shook his head. ‘It happens,’ he said. ‘Probably about half the time, really. We get a gig lined up at a new place, send them a disc of our stuff and then they discover they were already booked up.’

  Ben nodded understandingly. ‘Do they ever get back to you?’

  ‘I don’t know really – I don’t keep track of them.’ He looked at his shoes and scuffed one on the back of his black leather trousers. ‘Was that your first night?’

  ‘First night here, yes.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Nobody told us they wouldn’t understand what we were singing.’

  ‘They probably thought you knew. That’s why we don’t bother writing lyrics.’

  Vid looked at him curiously. ‘But that song you were playing earlier, that had words, didn’t it?’

  The drummer picked up a stone and hurled it at the wall; the remainder of Vid’s bottle tumbled to the ground and smashed. ‘It’s got about three,’ he replied. ‘Dobbs just mumbles and screams and occasionally adds in King of Clubs to make it sound like the song’s got a point.’

  ‘And that goes down alright?’

  ‘If you play it loud enough and dance about a bit, yes.’

  ‘Dance about?’

  ‘It’s not the music that attracts these types. They expect a bit of a show really – something to watch. When we first came here they kept shouting mac shau. We thought they were waiting for a outdoor clothing convention.’

  Ben frowned. ‘If they don’t care about the music, why do they hire bands?’

  ‘Dunno. Guess it’s cos we’re cheap.’ He set up another bottle and threw a couple of stones at it – they all missed. ‘Sod it,’ he said, ‘I’ve gotta go – the lads have found a club we can busk at if we’re there for half past.’

  Ben watched him go before turning to Vid. ‘Dance about?’ he repeated.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Vid. ‘I’m not exactly built to do the two-step.’

  There was an expectant hush. From an audience, this is usually regarded as a good sign; in this instance, however, the source of the expectant hush was the band assembled on the stage for their second performance – the audience were still busy drinking and chatting as if they weren’t there. Ben toyed with his microphone stand, leaning it
experimentally and trying to control it with his foot on the base. After nearly dropping the microphone into someone’s pint, Ben stabbed at the stand with his foot to bring it upright, succeeding in clubbing himself in the face. There was a resounding thud from the speakers and the audience turned, realised what had happened, and laughed energetically.

  ‘Keep that up and we won’t need to worry about the music,’ said Vid.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘No. We’ll have a comedy act.’

  Embarrassed, Ben made a great show of adjusting his microphone and the audience returned to their drinks, assuming that the cabaret was now over. Ben looked over to where Riff was adjusting settings on his pedal.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ he hissed.

  Riff looked at him indignantly, as if he had just asked whether he could play guitar. ‘I’ve been waiting ten minutes for you to finish playing,’ he retorted.

  ‘What are we starting with?’ Vid asked.

  ‘We’ll go with Ten Miles Up,’ said Riff. ‘It’ll give Ben a chance to work out how his microphone is supposed to work before he has to use it.’

  Ben shot Riff a pained glance and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, Riff started playing. The elaborate introduction was probably the most professional piece of guitar-work that had ever graced the stage of The Inferno and even the most apathetic of drinkers couldn’t fail to notice. The audience turned to watch as the guitarist carefully co-ordinated finger movements and pedal control to create a wall of sound, building in complexity it rose in volume. As Riff adjusted his pedal for the verse, Keys, Vid and