Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

Nutter brought their instruments to bear and Ben, still slightly destabilised by Riff’s comment, took a bar or so to settle into the song.

  The audience, believing that the interesting part of the song was now over, turned back to their drinks and their conversations. Ben frowned – he couldn’t really see a way of keeping the audience interested in the number: the erratic, arrhythmic beat didn’t lend itself to dancing and the lyrics required a clearly sung vocal, rather than the screaming of a fast-paced dance number. The audience’s attention was recaptured temporarily when Riff began his solo, but was just as quickly lost during the second verse and the applause at the end, though welcome, seemed lacklustre compared to their reception in earlier gigs. Language appeared to be a barrier that the band’s normal repertoire would be unable to penetrate.

  37

  It is not uncommon for planets divided by language to be similarly divided in music – lifekind being generally reluctant to learn many languages.

  The exception to this is generally amongst the more ‘artsy’ types: here, the use of a language which is not generally understood can give the listener a feeling of superiority that transcends the music itself. People rarely dress up in their finest and spend large sums of money to go and listen to a fat woman wailing in their own tongue.

  Outside the artistic scene, where money is perhaps not too tight to mention but tight enough to consider, broad accessibility is very much the key to success. Bands from countries with small populations may find themselves forced to sing in one of their world’s more prevalent tongues in order to be able to find a market big enough to sustain them.

  This necessity can create a significant bar: whilst people from small countries are often the most likely to put the effort into learning other languages, they may not be so proficient as to be able either to express the intention of their original lyrics or even to pronounce them convincingly. This problem can be overcome by having a more skilled linguist perform the translation so that they can learn the words parrot-fashion without needing to understand them.

  If, that is, such translation is possible. The trouble is that languages differ, and this can create problems with rhyme, rhythm and tone. The band Oogy thought that they had a fool-proof solution for this: poets, they noted, often get by in their own tongue by dropping syllables from words in order to maintain a rhythm and deliberately mispronouncing words in order to force them to rhyme. If it worked in poetry, they reasoned, it could equally work in song.

  And so, in the beginning, it proved. Their early songs were catchy, if quirky, and the foreign band with the odd accents managed to garner a great deal of international success. As the band began to outgrow their cuddly image, however, the difficulty of translation grew with the complexity of their songs. Then, when their country conducted an unpopular war and prompted them to write a protest song, it all fell apart. The poor translation meant that, on the first international gig of their tour, they were standing on a stage smiling and singing ‘the best thing that could happen, is if we all dropped all our bombs’ rather than the slightly less inflammatory ‘the best thing that could happen, is if we all dumped all our bombs’. The misconstrued lyrics were taken to be a call for all-out warfare and Oogy spent several months without playing a single note as they fought a valiant rearguard action against the inevitable press backlash. Fortunately, their abilities to charm the public eventually managed to dampen the flames of the press action and, when the whole affair blew over, they made a comeback with a much safer song. Whizzy-whizzy Dum-Dum was perhaps the band’s greatest hit, succeeding in more countries than any previous song, arguably because it didn’t mean anything in anybody’s language.

  For bands that don’t wish to mangle their songs for international success, the only alternatives are to stay local or to find some other way to draw an audience. Instrumental acts are frequently more successful on the international scene than vocal ones, but these are rarely a success on the live circuit – the romance of the lead singer is somehow lost when they fail to sing. Often it falls to the presentation of the show itself to make the audience forget how little they understand the music and to allow them to be immersed in the atmosphere.

  Ben’s voice was hoarse from screaming; his knees ached from jigging around and, in a moment of adrenalin rush, throwing himself to the floor and sliding across on them. Seeing that their normal set was too lyric-based to sell itself, Riff and Keys had surprised the band by unveiling several embryonic songs they had been developing during their sea voyage. They weren’t finished – they had no lyrics for one thing – but they were energetic and that seemed more important. After initial doubts, Ben was persuaded to scream anything that came to mind: if nobody understood the words, Vid reasoned, it didn’t really matter what they were. They’d even managed to get something of a sing-along going with the last track, although Ben had some concerns about what would happen if the audience ever learned what ‘we’re all a bunch of bastards’ actually meant. For the moment, however, it didn’t matter: the evening had been a success and the gig had ended to rapturous applause.

  Riff adjusted the tuning on his guitar before placing it down on its stand and sitting down heavily on a wooden crate at the back of the stage. ‘Well, that was a long haul,’ he sighed.

  Keys nodded and tapped a few notes at random on his keyboard. ‘Do you think they noticed that we played some of the songs twice?’

  ‘Probably not: they weren’t paying attention the first time.’

  ‘I’m shattered,’ Ben contributed, finding a crate for himself and sinking onto it gratefully.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Vid. ‘What was that you were doing out there? It looked like you were trying to tiptoe with gum on your shoes.’

  ‘I’m not sure – it just sort of seemed right at the time. It kept them watching, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘But were they listening?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I think so. I thought the whole point of a band was that people listen to them. If we got a record contract on the strength of you mucking around on stage, it wouldn’t go down too well on the radio.’

  ‘Are you saying that I lower the tone?’ Tiredness made Ben feel defensive. It seemed that Vid was always needling him about something or other.

  ‘No. I’m just saying that if they weren’t listening to the music, then why would they buy it? You’d be better off selling them a silent movie.’

  ‘What is it with you lately?’ Ben snapped. ‘I didn’t see you doing your light show to attract the crowds. You were quite happy to do that before we got over here.’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem to be the right place for a sophisticated visual display,’ Vid complained. ‘It would be like them serving champagne at the bar.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that you’re too good for this place.’

  ‘No. What I’m saying is that this isn’t the place for something like that. It just isn’t that kind of venue. I mean, you could flash a few coloured lights to attract attention, but that’s about it.’

  ‘So what’s the point? What are you actually doing here if you aren’t trying to draw an audience?’

  ‘Playing bass and that’s more than what you’re doing!’

  ‘Anyone could play that,’ Ben remarked dismissively.

  ‘I haven’t seen you try.’

  ‘Guys,’ Keys intervened, his arms stretched out pleadingly. ‘It’s been a long night, we’ve been travelling for a few days – things are bound to seem better once we’ve had another gig or two.’

  ‘If we’re given the chance,’ Vid replied gloomily.

  ‘What’s up now?’ Keys asked. ‘You’ve been prickly since we got off the ship.’

  ‘Well you’ll never guess who I saw onboard.’

  ‘No, I probably won’t.’ There was a pause. ‘Who?’

  ‘That bloke in the suede jacket. He was in the upper class bar.’

  There was a palpable deepening of the atmosphere. ‘Are you sure?’
said Ben. ‘I mean, could it have been someone else in a suede jacket?’

  ‘He was in the upper class lounge. Who else would wear suede in upper class?’

  ‘Someone rich enough not to give a Sirian Peanut Trouper’s nuts.’

  ‘I think this whole affair’s getting to you,’ said Keys.

  ‘Are you saying I’m paranoid?’ said Vid.

  ‘No. But you were the one nearest the bullet. I mean, it could have been someone else, couldn’t it? How would the guy have known we were on the boat?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something just doesn’t feel right about all this. I mean, I know, deep down, it’s unlikely he’d keep finding us, but… ’

  ‘And Tony bribed him, remember,’ said Ben. ‘I mean, you don’t normally bribe people by instalments.’

  Vid slumped forward slightly. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Good,’ said Riff. ‘Then perhaps if we can get back to the matter in hand. How do we work up the act without selling out?’

  ‘They seemed to like your guitar playing,’ said Keys.

  ‘What?’ said Ben. ‘So we bring him centre stage?’

  ‘No.’ Riff shook his head. ‘I think they related to the proficiency more than the instrument. If we can polish up the rest of our act – add a few harmonies, make it more interesting… You might be onto something there, Keys. And I think, Vid, you should do the light show.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a try. After all, the show’s the thing.’

  The following evening found the bar in almost complete silence. For the moment this was more from curiosity than actual interest, but it was a start. Riff and Vid had spent the best part of the afternoon acquiring props from the club and its surrounding neighbourhood and had utterly transformed the room. An odd assortment of multi-coloured lights hung over the front of the stage, suspended from a bed-rail and each wired to a small servomotor salvaged from electronic rat-catchers that Keys had spent the morning catching. His ability to hover unseen above a rat-hole emitting a rat-like squeak, had proved an irresistible lure, and the electric whip he had borrowed from the prostitute, Sheila, had proved sufficient to deactivate the robots without destroying their delicate internal circuitry. Now, the motors allowed the lights to move in various directions and a series of wires trailed from them to a control box on top of one of his keyboards. Two heavy security lights, taken from a skip outside the nearest police station, were supported on a slightly more solid gantry above the rest and these were moved using motors acquired from the remains of one of the area’s older car wrecks; most of the more saleable parts had already been stripped off by the locals. Now the band stood ready by their instruments, waiting for the right moment to begin. The last man at the bar took his drink to his table, sat down and took a swig and then stared at the stage – he didn’t even bother to wipe the foam from his moustache.

  The moment had arrived.

  With a delicate motion, Keys tripped one of the switches and the stage was suffused in a faint purple light. The barman, taking the hint, turned down the room-lights as Keys began to play a gentle, almost hypnotic melody, rich in timbre and resonance. He played unaccompanied for several minutes, gently bathing the room in sound and then, with a flick of one of his wrists, he brought a beam of blue light down onto Riff. Riff, head bowed in concentration as he absorbed the ambience of the room, played a wailing, meandering guitar and the two played in this way for another minute before Riff muted his guitar and Keys reduced his playing to a basic ambience. There was a pause and then Riff picked out a short, ringing sequence of notes, paused and then played them again. When he played them for the fourth time, Nutter began to beat the drums rapidly, building up in intensity before crowning the rise with a cymbal crash and settling into a steady rock rhythm, Vid joining his bass as the cymbal decayed.

  The tune now settled into a steady instrumental with the lights gently drifting across the band under Keys’ control. Ben kept his eyes on the floor, breathing deeply and waiting for the moment to sing – this was the first time he had heard the song himself and he’d had only one opportunity to practice the lyrics. As Riff had pointed out, if the audience didn’t understand the words then the important thing was to sing them as if he meant them, whatever they were.

  The slight dip in pitch of Vid’s bass after almost ten minutes of heart-wrenching instrumental prompted him and he raised his head and began to sing – not the throaty roar of yesterday’s numbers, but a gentle, soulful lament about a man’s slide into madness. As he reached the hook line, his voice was joined by Keys, Riff and, surprisingly, Vid, united in adding a wordless chorus. As they sang, the stolen security lights swung up in an arc and brought a dazzling light to bear on the audience. When they lowered once more, Ben could see that the audience had passed from mere curiosity to absolute wonderment.

  The moment had been seized.

  For the first five minutes of the set, the barman, who did understand the band’s language, had been poised and ready to bring the lights up as soon as the novelty of the performance had worn off and the customers had addressed their priorities, placing the beer in its rightful place above the music. Inspired though the light show was, it didn’t provide much in the way of illumination and the barman had seen too many suits for damages to risk the obvious disadvantages of serving at a poorly-lit bar with half-drunk customers. As the song progressed, however, it became clear that he was in for a quiet night, drinks-wise. Shrugging resignedly and muttering the time-honoured comment about what young people listened to these days, he gathered the empties from the bar-top and began to fill the irradiator. When Ben began to sing, he was momentarily distracted by the obvious maturity of the lyrics and paused in the act of scraping residue from the inside of a particularly dirty glass (the head from special brew beer often went solid if left for any length of time – this encouraged the drinker to drink his pint before he had to chew it) and listened intently. Perhaps, he considered, returning to his task and closing the door of the irradiator, there was something to be said for modern music. Out of respect for his customers’ entertainment, he decided not to activate the noisy cleaning appliance until after the gig – it wasn’t so that he could hear the show, obviously, but he didn’t want anyone to get upset. He emerged from the bar, sat down on the nearest empty stool and wiped his hands with a towel as he listened.

  Eventually, the final notes were played and Riff gently muted the strings of his guitar as Nutter hammered out the final beats on his ride cymbal. The lights hovered over the stage and, for a moment, there was complete silence - then Keys flicked a switch and dipped the lights, prompting the audience to break out in applause. This was not the quiet, halting applause of the polite, or the energetic applause of the drunk, but the genuine applause of people who were impressed enough not to have even finished their first drinks of the evening after the passage of several hours. As the barman raised the lights and switched on the irradiator, several drinkers returned to their drinks only to find that the heads had set and they would need a fresh glass.

  The robots made their way out of the room with Vid whistling the tune of Listening to Nothing as they went. In the corridor beyond, they encountered a number of disconsolate, scruffy humans in black t-shirts. Two of them were holding guitars and one carried a bass under his arm.

  ‘You bastards,’ the drummer yelled at Ben and the robots, waving his drumsticks threateningly.

  ‘What have we done?’ Ben asked, genuinely confused,

  ‘We’ve got the second set tonight,’ the drummer continued, ‘and they’re going to expect us to follow that. Follow that! How the buggery do you think we’re gonna do that?’

  ‘I imagine you’ll just have to play Jack of Clubs,’ said Vid consolingly.

  ‘It’s King of Clubs, metal-nose,’ said the bassist.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Vid. ‘It doesn’t matter - it’s not as if they’ll be listening, anyway.’

  38

  A
pale morning sun cast its gaze over the streets of downtown Fadora. Along those streets passed two robots, taking their regular early morning view of the outside world. The taller of the robots rolled smoothly on a ball-like wheel, his TV-monitor head turning from side to side as he took in the scenery; his companion hovered beside him, the gaze of his single-strip eye fixed firmly on his friend. A couple of rat-catcher bots peered out of the shadows nervously, wondering what could possibly be disturbing them at such an early hour, then scurried away on seeing the robot who had single-handedly reduced their population by ten percent overnight29.

  ‘Three days,’ Vid was saying. ‘It’s got to be some kind of record. We haven’t spent three days in one place since we left home.’

  ‘We were on the ship for three days,’ Keys pointed out.

  ‘That doesn’t count. There wasn’t anywhere to get off.’

  Keys remained pragmatic, however. ‘Perhaps you’ve misread Tony,’ he suggested, glancing to one side in response to a scurrying motion in his peripheral vision. ‘Perhaps he isn’t hurrying us on.’

  ‘I think he’s just having difficulty finding somewhere worse for us to play.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. The audience are listening now, at least.’

  ‘Now we’ve learned to handle them, yes. We still haven’t been paid, though.’

  ‘We get free drinks.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t get money.’

  Keys stopped and eyed Vid curiously. This mercenary streak was a new side to his friend. ‘What would you do with money?’ he asked.

  Vid didn’t even pause to consider. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’d just like to have the opportunity to find out.’

  Keys continued on. ‘Ben seems happy enough,’ he said. ‘And humans seem to need money more than we do.’

  ‘Yes, but Ben’s too busy trying to get it on with that prostitute. Polythene Sheila or whatever her name is.’

  ‘Polythene?’

  ‘It’s the plastic coat,’ Vid explained. ‘It just draws the eye.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what’s drawing his eye – at least I hope not. Besides, surely money would help him to…’ he paused at the unfamiliar expression, ‘get it on with her.’

  ‘It’s still a waste a time. It’s not as if he’s getting anywhere with her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell him that,’ said Keys as they reached the pile of garbage that marked the club’s entrance. ‘He’s pretty touchy lately and that could set him off again.’

  As they descended the stairs they were greeted by Riff, who was waiting expectantly at the bottom. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Out,’ said Vid simply. ‘Why, what’s the problem – there isn’t a breakfast gig now, is