Wired For Sound
By Cherime MacFarlane
Copyright 2013 Cherime MacFarlane
Copyright Notice:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is completely coincidental.
Author's Note: I played "roadie" for one particular musician for over 20 years. I got real good at hauling around all kinds of equipment.
Artwork: Sean Patrick Gallatin
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated to My musicians, all of them.
1He played a short bass pattern then began to add a melody line. Feeling slightly depressed without knowing why, Hamish MacGrough, Heavy Metal to his friends, ran through a series of warm up exercises.
H.M. found himself in bagpipe mode. It was amazing how realistic the sound was on his keyboard. A lament skirled out across the stage. Closing his eyes he could picture Loch Lomond and Ben Vorlich.
"H.M., what's bothering you?" A strong pair of hands began to knead his shoulder muscles.
"I am bloody tired of foolin. I wish tha gig was over. I have tha feelin somethin is goin tae keep us here." He found something more cheerful to warm up with. "Ye do have tha tickets safely tucked away, m'luv?"
"I made reservations the day after you and the Viper had it out. Slaughter is the biggest butt hole I've had to put up with in a very long time. How in the world have you managed to keep from running him over with the Harley? You've been real good for how many years now?"
"Tha bleedin' bugger has been taking bites out of my ego for eight years. How he can think I would work with him on his monstrous debut album, I cannae understand. I'd give up music an become ah motorcycle mechanic, or go on with tha remainder of tha medical program if he was all I had tae look forward tae for another tour."
Lori's fingers found the knots beneath his shoulder blades. H.M. rolled his shoulders as she massaged them out.
"Aye." he sighed. "Ye know tha old line about tha way tae ah man's heart?"
"Sure thing, 'm'luv." Her voice dropped in timbre as his wife drawled out a fair imitation of his slurred endearment. "Keep on rubbing, right?"
"I've another place ye can rub later. Listen, luv, want tae keep me company after tha show?"
Sliding her hand up to his shoulder, she gave him a gentle pat, snuggled her nose behind his ear, and growled softly. "I'd better be the only woman you full around with after the show."
Taking his right hand off the keys, Hamish reached up to cup her cheek. "Woman, ye've nae sense of humor." His hand went back to the keyboard and H.M. ran through another melody line, fingers flying over the keys.
Lori MacGrough tweaked an errant dark curl into place behind his ear. "Just get through tonight, and we'll climb on the jet for Heathrow tomorrow. You need a good dose of Glasgow and home to mellow you out. Let him play the big man and give everyone a bad time during sound check. You're almost free of him."
H.M. spun the stool round and rose to give his wife a bear hug, which almost broke a rib or two. "Ye're a wonder, Mrs. Mac."
"It's a wonder I haven't any broken bones. Turn me loose, Heavy Metal. I'll be waiting in the dressing room when you're finished." She strode off in a deliberate manner.
Laughing softly, Hamish watched her as she left the stage. Lori probably thought she was being quite serious. What she was, was sexy as hell. Hips swaying slightly, she strode past the curtains. H. M. gave a moment's consideration to following her back to the dressing room and pulling those lovely hips against him. Later, it would have to be later.
Sitting down on the piano stool again he spun around to face the keyboard. Vince wondered what he saw in such a 'cold fish'. Lori was not aloof with anyone, but Vincent the Viper. She had detested Vince on sight, a circumstance which endeared her to H.M.'s heart.
Scales, scales scales. Deliberately, he ran through several scales to limber up his fingers and warm his hands.
Were he to be strictly truthful, it was Lori's body which first caught his attention. H.M. never tired of the sight of her, or her company. It had been such a plus to discover she was as insatiable in bed as he was.
He enticed her into bed during their cruise in the Mediterranean. Getting her to agree to marry him proved to be vastly more difficult.
The melody that flowed from his head, to his fingers, and onto the keys was titled 'Lori'. It was simple, straightforward, but there was a suggestion of something in the phrasing.
Lori was like the song he had composed for her. You thought what you saw was what you got unless you could get past the mask. They had not been apart for more than twenty-four hours since the first night over two years ago.
Mood lightened, he began to fine-tune his rig. He did not care for the monitor mix. Perhaps a bit less reverb.
Lori, Vince the vapid, all was forgotten, as he adjusted his sound. Heavy Metal was a perfectionist. It was the reason he was always the first of the band on stage for sound check.
From the corner of his eye he noticed a rodie near the bank of speakers to his left. The lad was a frustrated keyboard player. H.M. had given him a couple of short lessons a time or two. Making a mental note of a spare pair of hands available should he need them, H.M. went back to work.
***
Vincent thought he might ask his latest groupie to hang around a bit more. She was more amusing than most. He might even keep her around after the tour wrapped up. He hoped to take a short vacation in California after the tour was over. Maybe he would keep her on when he began the new album.
Whoa now! Vince shook his head. What a dumb idea! There would be a whole banquet of fresh flesh to choose from shortly. Getting hooked on a groupie, even an interesting, accomplished one like the girl was stupid. Vince prided himself on not getting strung out on any one female.
Vincent the Viper Slaughter stuck with only one woman? With a grin, Vince pulled the blonde closer.
"Not bloody well yet!" He mumbled. With one hand on his crotch the smiling girl rubbed against him. The Viper felt himself developing a hard on. Sliding down, the girl knelt on the dressing room floor in front of him. With one hand on his thigh, she leaned forward and reached for the zipper on his leather pants. The tip of her pink tongue slid out between red lips.
Glancing into the mirror behind her, Vince checked his image. His shoulder-length blond hair fell in artfully arranged waves, a heavy gold choker was around his neck and diamond earrings in each lobe completed his look.
The Viper studied his face carefully for new wrinkles. A few creases he hadn't noticed before the beginning of the tour clustered around the corners of his eyes.
Further inspection revealed puffy, dark areas beneath the pale skin slightly above his cheek bones. The whites of his blue eyes bore a resemblance to a road map of London. It was no surprise considering how he had spent the previous evening.
Record company be damned! Vincent decided he was going to take a vacation before starting work on the new album.
Nimble fingers popped open the snap holding his pants together. The girl began to pull downward on the waistband.
"Bloody hell! Do you want something little girl?" Vince asked her with a grin.
The sound check could wai
t. MacGrough was probably usurping the throne anyway. The thickheaded Scots motorcycle bum had no appreciation of how good he had it. H.M. should be flattered he even wanted a wanker like him to play on his first solo recording.
Likely it was MacGrough's fud, Lori, who put a bug in H.M.'s ear. At one point he wouldn't have minded humpin MacGrough's burd, until he got to know her better.
Swinging that bahookie of her's around the place made her hard to miss. H.M.'s woman had decent tits as well. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was greetin about how he did things.
What bloody business of hers was it? The damn woman had no say in band business. MacGrough needed to put a muzzle on her.
Damn boot! Then again, they were all bitches, and wanted something. The one on the floor in front of him definitely wanted something, and he was going to give it to her. Vincent decided to cooperate with the girl who was smiling up at him.
***
H.M. launched into the keyboard part to one of their newer hits. The rhythm guitar kicked in. Lurch's rhythm was rock solid behind him. Before the chorus, drums, then the throbbing bass kicked in. Since Vince hadn't bothered to show up, H.M. played a hot keyboard lead.
Rocking on the stool in time to the music, H.M. was grinning. They were tight. It would be a good performance tonight. By mutual consent, without a word spoken, they ran through the tune again.
On the second go round, Lurch experimented with a lead, while H.M. kept the rhythm going. Thud carried the ending off with a spectacular bit of drum magic. H.M. spun around on the stool to face the other members of the band. Everyone was smiling broadly.
Glen, the bass player put it into words. "Hot! Damn, we're hot! Where is Vince? He shoulda heard that."
Thud pounded out a lick. "Who gives a flying frig? That's pr'bly what he's doing anyway. I saw his latest piece headed tae tha dressing room 'bout an hour ago. I wonder if those dumb groupies really think his prick is as big as his guitar's neck."
Glen turned to move his mic stand a little closer. "Like you said who gives a flying frig. Aren't we all going our own way after this gig? Wonder if we'll miss it in a couple of years? Maybe we'll be like the Who or the Stones and get together for a bash in fifteen or so years."
Leaning forward, Glen breathed into the mic. "Now in the year 2000, ladies and gentlemen for the revival of...Bushmaster!"
Lurch's deep bass chuckle was picked up by his mic. It boomed around the hall. "Sure. At the moment I think we should be worried about where the next gig is coming from. Forget the dreams. What are we going to be doing in a week? H.M. has the studio gig. What do the rest of us have?"
Thud adjusted his mic then whispered into it. "I plan tae get pissed for a week or so before going home tae Belfast. Don't tell me old lady."
Glen just grinned as the others looked his way. If he had any plans, he was keeping them to himself.
"Reminiscing about the good old days already?" Vincent took his guitar from its stand. "You stupid eejits will be lucky to be playing with yourselves in a couple of years."
"Go friggin do yurself, Vincent. I'm sure it would be most satisfying for ye." Thud sing songed into the mic.
Vincent chose not to reply as he stalked over to his amp. Flipping the switch, he turned it on then walked back across the stage to the mic. With one hand around the guitar's neck, fingers resting on the strings, he reached out to reposition the mic.
A scream cut the air, magnified by the microphone. It filled the hall. Vincent was clinging to the metal tube; froth bubbling from his lips.
"Pull tha plug! Thud, pull tha bleedin plug!" H.M. roared as he raced across the stage to Vincent's spare Strat.
Jerking the cord from the guitar, Hamish grabbed it like a golf club and dashed back over to Vincent. H.M. hacked at the mic stand with the guitar. Finally, he succeeded in knocking it away from Vincent just as Thud pulled the amplifier's power cord from the power bar somewhere behind the speaker bank.
Smoke filled the air along with the smell of burned flesh. Vincent the Viper jerked a few times before going still. H.M. tossed the guitar to one side. He began CPR on Slaughter.
Thud screamed at the nearest roadie to call an ambulance. H.M. counted silently as he tried to bring Vincent back to life. He didn't hear the wail of the sirens.
The paramedic had to shake him to get his attention. "We'll take it from here. You did the best you could."
H.M. reluctantly relinquished his position. The other paramedic continued CPR.
After a few minutes, he turned to look up at his coworker. "I don't think he is going to respond."
Looking around him, his gaze slightly vacant, H.M. left the stage without a word. Now, this minute, he wanted Lori. He pushed through the growing crowd which was forming backstage. A rising tide of voices filled the space.
Their dressing room was at the far back away from the noise and bustle. He pushed open the door. A slight smile curled his lips for an instant when he saw her. Lori was wearing the headphones for her Walkman. Humming along with whatever she was listening to, the small woman was working on her latest painting.
In an attempt to keep from frightening her, he walked around in front of the easel and waved a hand before her face. Lori glanced up with a slightly startled expression.
She tore the headset off; it dangled forgotten, from the Walkman on her belt. "What's wrong? What happened?"
Stepping back around the easel, Hamish reached out to tug her against him. With a deep sigh, H.M. hugged her tightly. "I think Vincent's dead. Electrocuted. I dinnae ken how it happened. I tried CPR. The paramedic," Taking a deep breath, he went on, "he said Vincent was nae respondin. I dinnae ken how."
Lori's head was on his chest. Closing his eyes, he felt her soft breath on his neck.
"What a horrible way to die! Hamish, how does something like that happen? It can't happen to you, can it?"
Her words cut through the shock which held him captive. "It shouldnae hav happene. ‘Tis been a verra long time since ah muscian died tha way. If everythin is set up correctly, 'tisnae possible."
The big Scot rubbed his hands over Lori's arms before backing away from her. "Listen, we must find Warren, ken? Tha concert will ha tae be cancelled an tha dosh refunded along wa ah thousand other things. Come wa me."
Lori absently noticed how much more pronounced his accent became under stress. It was the same when he was home in Scotland. At times, she had to work to understand him when he was with friends in Glasgow. H.M. took her by the hand. Tugging her along behind him, he strode out the door.
Warren Hale, their manager, was just where Hamish expected to find him, organizing the roadies so the show could be packed up. This was it. As of this day, Bushmaster was finished as a band.
Any chance there might have been for things to work out had vanished. The two men held a hurried conference. Warren agreed with H.M. as he had already been thinking along those lines.
"I'll need everyone's input." Warren waved a hand back up the stairs away from the area where the cases were stored. "Why don't you get backstage? I'll try to get everyone together."
Hamish started back up the stairs slowly. Reaching out, he tucked Lori next to him. With an arm around each other, they walked back the way they had come. Hamish avoided even looking out on the stage.
Just behind the heavy curtains, they stopped. Keeping his back to the place where everything had happened, Hamish pulled his wife close. Contact with her was essential to his sanity at that moment. He and Lori would wait for Warren there.
Heat radiated from her husband's body. Lori had always assumed his high metabolism came from living in a cold country. At this moment it was as if his brain was racing at such a high rate of speed, it was burning rubber.
Missing this particular horror did not bother her. Lori wished it hadn't happened at all. The slightly vacant look in her husband's eyes when he came to find her in the dressing room told her the experience would leave a permanent mark on him.
In every sense o
f the word, Hamish was a gentleman. She knew for a fact that he moderated his language around her. The man always put his body between hers and passing traffic when they walked. Since meeting the big Scot, Lori had never opened a door when she was with him.
Disturbed as he was by Vincent's constant sniping at him, H.M. held his anger in. Biding his time, he waited to be finally free. For two years she had watched him walk away from baiting that would have had her frothing at the mouth.
On a couple of occasions she had stepped in and told Vincent off because she couldn't stand listening to him rag on her husband one more minute. But it was always Hamish who got her away from Slaughter and defused the situation.
With an arm around him, Lori waited. She assumed they were waiting for news from the hospital. The silence was eerie in the auditorium.
Eventually, every one of the band members was assembled back stage. Someone brought out folding chairs so they could sit down as they waited for word from the hospital. Lurch was the last to join the group. Walker was carrying his six string acoustic guitar.
Without his asking, Lori went in search of H.M.'s tiny battery-powered portable keyboard. It was small enough for him to hold it with one hand while playing with the other. Or, he could put it across his lap. Lurch tuned to the little keyboard. Shortly, they were jamming. It passed the time as well as kept everyone's mind off the shocking incident they had just witnessed.
Thud tapped on the side of the case he was sitting on with his drumsticks. The three of them got the rhythm and launched into some up-tempo twelve-bar blues.
An old familiar frisson of awareness swept down H.M.'s spine. The hair at the back of his neck lifted. The polis had arrived.
After finishing a run, Hamish reached around the back of the instrument to turn it off. Moving slowly and cautiously, he placed the keyboard next to his chair. He was very careful to keep his movements slow and non-threatening.
Wired For Sound Page 1