I checked my watch. Late as usual. I silently willed the bus driver to drive faster than 30 miles a fortnight through the miserable, soaking January evening. Then again, no one was ever on time for practise so it didn’t make a shred of difference whether the bus driver continued his attempt to beat the Guinness World Record for Most Passengers Driven (ho ho) To Insanity by Crappy Driving.
I’m the lead singer and guitarist for the most inept band ever to torture an amplifier. I sing and play despite my extreme stage fright, ham-handedness and the fact that the combination of my voice and guitar skills would make deaf people wince with its unique sound of two scalded cats fighting. In a bag. At a road works.
And I’m my own biggest fan.
“Thanks” I muttered, my sarcasm lost on the bus driver who observed me from under his bushy eyebrows like a scientist would peer at a Petri dish. His glasses would have made good microscopes anyway. He finally managed to open the door and I stepped out of the bus, missing the kerb by several feet and ending up in an ankle deep puddle. Speccy the Bus Driver hadn’t quite reached the pavement. I squelched off towards Toms’ house.
Tom was our drummer. He was built like a minifridge (emphasis on mini) with the complexion of an overripe tomato, probably because when he wasn’t beating the hell out of his unfortunate drum kit
he was shouting. He was definitely the most talented of a bad bunch, saving our skins at many gigs with his nifty little solos distracting the punters from their efforts to extract a refund from our manager and keyboardist Jimmy Chon.
Jimmy, as he loved telling us, had played keyboard since he was six. This came as a surprise to most, seeing as he could barely play “Pop Goes The Weasel” let alone a concerto. He also made himself our manager because he knew how to get us gigs. The local pub? No, that would make sense. Instead we became the soundtrack to Chons’ massive extended family. Weddings, parties, anniversaries, you name it we played it. He even tried to get us to play his Great Aunt Xis’ funeral before his faulty common sense meter spluttered to life. Of course we could hardly expect him to ask his family to pay, could we? Actually, we could. And did. Several times, for all the good it did us.
The strains of crashing cymbals became louder than the squishing of my shoes as I got closer to Toms’ garage where we had our gear set up. Judging by the noise, Tom had begun without me. No wonder his mother had a permanent bewildered expression on her face with that cacophony going constantly, a thrumming backbeat that set her dishes shaking and ornaments flying.
I didn’t knock, no point in trying to compete with Tom. I stepped in to wall of noise that was the garage. Tom grinned at me, sweat glistening his shaved head and sticking his Panthera t-shirt to his chest.
“Ready to make some noise?” he said, his tongue stud glittering.
I nodded. I plugged in my guitar and cleared my throat. Just before we could continue the aural assault and battery, Jimmy burst in.
Water beaded his coat, a leather full-length number that he had rushed out to buy after he saw The Matrix. Unfortunately the coat made him look like a transvestite hooker from a distance.
“Lads, the recording studio called!” said Jimmy, brushing water out of his spiky black hair.
“Recording what?” asked two rather confused musicians.
“The deal is done, my friends!” continued Jimmy, oblivious to our expressions as he polished his glasses. My jaw made a plopping noise as it hit the floor.
“You actually persuaded someone to let us into their recording studio?” laughed Tom.
“Hey, he saw our last gig and he was well impressed!”
I shuddered. Our last gig was the talent show. Luckily they didn’t scan us for talent on the way in.
“Dude, I saw kids crying while we were playing!” I said.
“They were overcome by emotion!” replied Jimmy.
“Yeah, nausea and earache…” I muttered.
“When do they want us in?” asked Tom.
“Tomorrow afternoon” answered Jimmy.
“TOMORROW!?”? I shouted, resisting the urge to wrap my hands around his skinny neck. “We only have one song we wrote ourselves!”
“Please stop shouting, you’ll disturb Toms’ mother” soothed Jimmy. “One original song is fine for cutting a demo.”
That song had been the tearjerker at the talent show.
“That song violates human rights man. The only place we’re going to be allowed play it is Guantanamo Bay!” I said.
Jimmy rolled his eyes.
“Wait, that could work! We’ll do a live album Johnny Cash style!”
“Tom, what do you think?” said Jimmy, ignoring me completely.
I sang in my best Cash impression. “Guantanamo I hate every inch of you…” I crooned.
“Well, we’re definitely not prepared for something like this but it’s an opportunity we should grab, man” replied Tom, doing his best to disregard me.
“You’ve cut me and you’ve scarred me through and thruuuuuuuu…?”
I dodged the drumstick that whistled through the air that my head had been occupying.
“Ha ha! Reduced to one last shot, are w-“. My witty repartee had been stopped by a drumstick to the face. I made a grab for Tom but he jumped backwards. In the ensuing chase we managed to knock over: a bike, most of the drum kit and Jimmy, who had dissolved to tears of laughter on the floor.
“How can those stumpy legs move so bloody quickly?” I grunted.
“How can all that hair move at all?” Tom shot back.
“Maybe we should practise…” tried Jimmy.
And we did. Not that it helped. I still sounded like I hadn’t finished tuning up. Jimmy sounded like a toddler experimenting on a Fisher-Price keyboard and even Tom was off-beat. Not that there was any way a beat was going to hold us together.
“Lets just call it a night.” said Jimmy after yet another missed chord.
“I think we’re getting worse lads.” agreed Tom.
“Tomorrow at 9.00?” I proposed.
“Tomorrow at 10.00. I’m not getting out of bed at 8 on a Saturday just to set up all the gear” whinged Tom.
“I know ‘Desperate Housewives’ is on tonight but can you not just record it and get a good nights sleep?”
A drumstick clanged against the door as I left. That kid must have a bandolier of sticks on him.
I yawned as the bus once again trundled slowly towards Toms’ house, Speccys’ eyebrows knitted together as he carefully navigating the empty early-morning roads. The bus wheezed to a stop, the engine sounding as clapped-out as the driver looked. Jimmy was waiting for me at the bus stop, looking like someone had given him cat food on toast for breakfast.
“Why the face? Today we make it big, man!” I said as I leaped dramatically? from the bus to the pavement.
“Tom’s hurt.” came the reply.
“Is it...is it serious?” I gulped.
“He fell down the stairs last night on his way down to turn the video recorder off” said Jimmy, ashen-faced.?
He actually did watch Desperate Housewives. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
“Is he in hospital?” I asked.
“They released him at about 7.00 in the morning” replied Jimmy. “He can’t use the bass pedal with a cast on his leg!”
“What about the demo?” I murmured.
“Right now we need to know that Tom is ok” said Jimmy. “Lets’ go and check up on the poor bugger”.
“I knew I should have stayed up and watched it!” grinned Tom as we filed in to his room, avoiding puddles of dirty clothes and dishes that were on the verge of growing intelligent life. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Do we get to be the first to sign your cast?” I asked.
“No foul language, Mr. Tern!” Tom said sternly.
“You in much pain?” said Jimmy.
“Nah, they doped me up something crazy!” replied Tom. I noticed a set of bongos under a pile of clutter and pulled them out.
“Can you play these?” I asked Tom. He took them and tapped out an experimental rhythm.
“Is there anything I can’t do?” replied Tom.
“Get a girlfriend?”
Jimmy's face lit up. “Acoustic set?”
“Acoustic set.”
Here we were. I shifted my old acoustic guitar from one shoulder to the other, and checked to see if it was tuned properly.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
And we began to play.
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