The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence

by Corin Reyburn

  She had watched him night after night, one eye on her guitar and the other on the man to her left in profile, watched as he slithered, shook, crooned and screamed, breaking hearts and gathering new recruits. She thought Jeeves had chosen his frontman well—Sam was certainly a fast learner. He was hesitant to admit it, but he’d learned quite a bit from her in the past few months; she’d been able to use the experience of her formative years as a teenage rock icon to gift him with tools of the trade. He picked up everything like a sponge, from songwriting techniques to what to say and not say to the media.

  Just because he learned something didn’t always mean he applied it, but she believed he tried his best.

  “Well,” said Sam, slapping her on the knee, “I’m starving. Wanna get a bite to eat?”

  “No thanks, love,” she said. “I’ve got to work on the solo from ‘Unbreakable’. Didn’t you notice how wonky it came off last night?”

  “Thought that was on purpose,” he grinned. “I know how much you love dissonance.”

  “True, but like you said, only purposeful dissonance, not just random bad noise.”

  “You’re such a control freak.”

  “I am not,” she said defensively, without any real bile. “Don’t know where you got that idea from.”

  “S’not like you’re trying to control everything that’s on the outside. You’re controlling everything on the inside,” he said, tapping his finger lightly against her sternum.

  “Ha ha, Saint Fox, you think you’re so clever.”

  “Indeed I am. Seeing into people’s souls is part of my charm.”

  “What about your own?” she asked.

  He jumped up from the stage and onto the floor below, tracing a lazy circle across the floor with one foot before boxing her in, his arms on either side of her dangling legs.

  “The secret is,” he said softly, staring at her with his head cocked to one side, “The secret is...I don’t have one.”

  He backed away from her, dancing reptile-like across the dusty floor.

  “My soul belongs to Janus Jeeves now,” he said. “It does whatever he wants me to do. It feels whatever he wants me to feel.”

  “I thought you wanted him to use you like a cheap toy,” she said, grinning.

  “Oi!” He stopped dancing and glanced up at her, a look of mock offence on his face. “I like the old man’s ideas. He wants peace, freedom. Who doesn’t? As long as it puts the fat cats outta business. Still, sometimes I feel him draped over me like a shroud. Like I’m not me—I’m him. I’m Jeeves with a younger face and a guitar. Avatar Jeeves.”

  “You know much about what he’s planning?” asked Kit.

  “I’m off in search of a schnitzel,” Sam said.

  He shuffled a few more ragman dance moves across the floor, spinning and disappearing through the red-lighted exit.

  Kit thumbed at the edge of her boot where he had lightly scuffed it, feeling the weight of him in the room after he’d gone. How much had Jeeves really told him? she wondered. How much does he know? Kit had done this before—at least the rise and fall of the rock star bit—knew the ephemera of it, the flightiness of people’s loyalty. Still, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Best to wait and see. This plan of Jeeves’ could really turn out to be something.

  She swung her legs back over the edge of the stage, stood up, and went straight for her Strat—she would sort this guitar solo out once and for all. Sam Numan was just one of many silly boys she knew, and he would have to figure things out in his own time.

  

  Janus Jeeves selected Sam Numan as the frontman for Saint Fox and The Independence because he had the following three qualities he looked for in descending amounts: good looks, malleability, and intelligence. That is to say, he was a good-looking piece of clay who was smart enough to learn fast and adapt easily to new situations, but not quite smart enough to examine another’s motives too deeply or predict the future based on the present, or so Jeeves thought.

  Lately Sam had started asking questions, his arms crossed and a jittery little twitch-twitch in his eye. Jeeves kept a close watch on him and he loved the way he walked, but wasn’t sure he loved the way he talked. Sam would ask questions like How many fans are enough fans? When are we going to take a break from touring? Is anyone going to get hurt? Jeeves would answer with a lightning fast barrage of words that didn’t really mean anything, which had the intended effect of either confusing the recipient or causing them to forget what they had asked about in the first place.

  Janus Jeeves loathed deception and loved transparency, but the twitch-twitch in Saint Fox’s eye meant he could only reveal to him small tidbits of truth at a time.

  Too much and he would break.

  Jeeves sat in a sparse, utilitarian greenroom backstage, posed like a king atop a chair that was actually just an upside down rubbish bin. He sat with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette that wasn’t there, alone backstage while the band went through soundcheck. His hair was all tied in knots and he wore an eyepatch over his right eye with a black-and-white target print on it, rubber-spandex-gold-alligator trousers, and a white mesh top that once belonged to Madonna. The Independence rarely needed to shop for stage clothes anywhere other than Jeeves’ wardrobe.

  I’ve got to get Saint Fox a girlie, he thought. Keep him distracted. He fancies Kit, that short little minx who plays guitar like David Gilmour crossed with Thurston Moore. Band romances usually ended in disaster, but it would only be for a little while, just long enough to draw his focus. The band isn’t designed to last anyway. And it’s obvious I’d be doing them both a favour.

  Time to play matchmaker.

  Jeeves sprung from his perch, one hand extended, fingers splayed. He lifted the eyepatch to sit across the center of his forehead.

  “Love is in the airrrr,” he said to no one in particular.

  Kit entered the room then, her guitar slung over her left shoulder. She wore a black and red zigzag patterned jumper and an A-line black leather skirt, her hair frazzled in electric waves.

  “What are you doing back here all by your lonesome?” she asked. She began sifting through piles of gear, searching for something.

  “Making, calculationnns,” Jeeves said.

  “Oh, really,” she smirked. “And what are the results of these calculations?”

  “I’ve determined...that we’ll run out of petrol in approximately 8.25 years, the following month will be four degrees hotter on average, and Saint Fox is in love with you.”

  Kit laughed, a musical sound that was uninhibited, the warmth on her face bringing her subtle beauty to the forefront. “You’re wrong on at least one of those accounts,” she answered, finding a capo amongst the pile of equipment she’d been searching through and clipping it to the headstock of her guitar.

  “You may be right,” said Jeeves, walking towards her in a slinky criss-cross pattern, one foot in front of the other. “We’ll probably run out of petrol sooner than anyone expects.”

  “You’re quite the joker.”

  “I’m quite, serrriouss,” he said, taking the direct approach. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

  “He looks at everyone like that. It’s probably a medical condition.”

  “You make jokes, but you’re invested. Look at your face.” Jeeves stroked her cheek gently with the back of his hand, an overly familiar gesture, one of many forgiven him due to his eccentricity.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know about all that. I’m just here to play music.”

  “And how excellently you do play, and how you do shine,” he said, smiling fondly. “I’m sure you don’t want to get your delicate little heart broken, but isn’t it sometimes worth the risk?”

  “Vapid platitudes. Excuse me, love, but I’ve got to get back to business,” she said, her voice wavering like the steel strings of her guitar.

  “Indeed.” Jeeves watched her go, scuttling backwards like a duck until he was once again seated on his perch.

 
Excellent work, he thought to himself. The seeds I plant, they always grow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ANARCHY IN THE U.K.

  Black dirt, red sky, white t-shirts stained with sweat. Thundering war drums, electric metal wailing loud and clear, rising to the heavens, plummeting into the gutters. Words like a shot to the heart. The crowd shouting protests along with the band in perfect harmony.

  One body. One mind. Thousands upon thousands of parts.

  Glastonbury Festival took place across acres of wide field, but every inch below the Pyramid Stage was packed to the brim with fans here to see Saint Fox and The Independence, whose performance included a green-grid laser light show, four outrageous costume changes, and six-and-a-half screeching guitar solos.

  Bodies crunched so close together you and your neighbour were practically the same person, and the stench of it was beyond unbearable—none of the festival goers had bathed in several days and were subsisting on a diet of grease, sugar, and lager, and today the temperature broke record as the hottest and driest Somerset had seen in the past decade.

  But though they’d been on their feet for hours pasted into the thick of it, pain was no factor in the face of love. Enthusiasm only grew as the band neared the end of their set, still bleeding out the same force of energy they’d possessed at the start.

  The adrenaline singing in Sam’s brain was full to bursting. Up on stage he was invincible, gravity-defying. Sam and the band were in top form, the music never tighter—Saint Fox, Kit, Muzzy, and Zephyr working as one perfectly imperfect machine.

  Today, Sam played the rock star so well that he was buying his own act. Dressed in white feathers, black leather and makeup so heavy he barely recognised himself, he soared across the stage, spun in circles, his guitar crying out sweet, crunchy chords in perfect time with the band. His voice was more powerful than ever, chanting out rally cries that echoed back to him from the crowd. It felt like heaven and he never wanted to come down, he was whole and wanting for nothing in the golden moment.

  Off stage, he sometimes sank like a stone.

  Not today though, he told himself as he stood in the wings, sizzling red and high on adrenaline and electric fumes as he waited to go back on stage for the encore. Today he would give everyone exactly what they wanted. He took a sip of water and glanced around the side stage, starting at Jeeves suddenly standing beside him.

  “Hey,” he said, offering the maestro a big grin. “We’re doing good out there, yeah?”

  “You’re knockin’ ‘em dead, Sammy boy.” Jeeves removed his top hat, placing it on Sam’s head instead. “You’re showing ‘em proper, Foxy, showing ‘em how it’s done. We ain’t like dem good ol’ boys dressed in black just staring at their shoes, we sparkle and shine and seize their hearts, twist ‘em up real good. Saint Fox flying through the air on silver shoes, Miss Kit wailing her geetar like a spurned lover, our boys Muzzy and Zephyr keepin’ time like a heartbeat about to burst through their chests,” he said, the fervor rising in his voice. “Proper rock n’ roll! It’s been too long and these kids here, they didn’t even know they could have it like this.”

  “I guess rock n’ roll ain’t dead after all,” said Sam, still grinning.

  “You hear them screaming for ya? That’s your cue. Get back out there, kid,” Jeeves said, giving him a gentle push towards the stage.

  Sam was riding high as he approached the microphone. “We can’t thank you enough,” he said, his voice a booming echo for miles. “We’d be nothing without you guys. It’s you—beautiful people like you—who make all the difference. Who will change the world.”

  Sam’s face shone with white radiance as they launched into their final song. He played, sang, shook and shimmied, imagining he was channeling the rock gods from lives and worlds past, present, and future.

  They were one. The crowd was one. Completely enraptured.

  But as the first notes of Kit’s frenetic guitar solo hit the air, something shifted.

  The cries from the audience changed in tone; he heard gasps and exclamations. Down in the pit he saw movement, people spreading away from a small area like schools of fish. It was over near Muzzy’s side of the stage. He couldn’t see what was happening, really.

  Then he smelled the iron-rich scent of blood in the air. Someone had been hurt.

  Sam stopped singing. “Hey—hang on, wait a minute,” he said into the mic. “Can we get some help over here? Something’s happening down there. We need security.”

  A few stretched-out minutes where the air hung heavy passed. Soon a voice came through his earpiece.

  “All clear,” the PA operator said. “We’re a-ok. Let’s get this show back on the road.”

  “You sure?” Sam replied quietly. “It’s under control, everyone safe?”

  “Just keep playing,” she said in a voice that couldn’t be argued with.

  And so he played, finishing the performance to deafening cheers and applause, pushing from his mind the young girl’s face in the crowd he’d barely managed to glimpse before the swarming mass of bodies reformed into its usual shape. He made himself forget and finished the encore, clasping hands with Kit and Muzzy and taking a bow.

  If only he could stay on stage forever.

  But the show, like all good things, must come to an end.

  Backstage, avid young blonde journalist Joanne Fairweather pushed her way to the front of the pack.

  “Sam, Sam Numan, Saint Fox! Hullo, how are you, that was amazing!” she rambled out in a half breath, eyes wild. She shoved a large silver microphone towards him. “How does it feel to play Glastonbury, the best festival in the world?”

  Sam opened and closed his mouth, initially failing at a response. “Feels like jumping out of an airplane,” Muzzy said, leaning over Sam’s shoulder to speak into the microphone, a wet towel draped around his neck. Kit and Zephyr chatted a few steps behind, sweat on their brows and glow in their cheeks.

  “Sounds fantastic!” Joanne Fairweather trilled. The cameraman zoomed in on her and Sam’s faces in a close-up—hers radiant, Sam with his lips set in a straight line and his eyes glazed over. “And what did you think?” she questioned again.

  “I think we almost had a riot out there during ‘Cause of Cruelty’,” Sam half-muttered, half-spat, his expression distant as if he were still up on stage, gazing out over the crowd as singing and dancing turned to shoving and shouting. “There’s power in rock n’ roll, and that can feel great. But there’s a responsibility, too, I...I just hope no one was hurt. I’ve got to go check on something with the crew, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Joanne Fairweather turned to face the camera. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just like Sam Numan of Saint Fox and The Independence, his first concern is always the fans, as well it should be. But they put on a great show tonight, didn’t they?” Now she held the microphone out to Kit, addressing her as if she were an outside spectator rather than the studiously energised axeman who’d performed the most technically difficult parts of the performance.

  “It was great, yeah,” she answered. “At one point I botched it up a bit and had to improvise, but I don’t think anyone noticed.” She smiled, somewhat forced, but still buzzing with enough post-show energy that it felt authentic.

  “I sure didn’t notice,” Joanne verified. “Now tell me, what’s it like being the only girl in the band? Do you have all the lads fighting over you, you lucky thing?” she teased.

  “No, it’s not like that at all. We’re like family,” Kit said, ever the polite girl she strived to be, not one who lashed out with venom when presented with antiquated social constructs. “I don’t think being a girl in music makes me any different than anyone else in music. I’m just doing my job.”

  “And what a great job it is that you do...” Joanne’s sycophantic rambling faded out as the entourage made its way past her.

  In a closed-off area round the back, away from the din, Saint Fox slid down against a divider made of green tarp and metal poles, hid
den by stacks of blue plastic crates and cardboard containers. He pulled his leather jacket up over his head, arms still in his sleeves. The festival noise lowered to a white fuzz, words thankfully indiscernible, just the distant hum of another universe, one fading rapidly from his reality. He focused dully on his surroundings—yellow patches in the green grass, bits of rubbish blowing in the wind, the worn edges of his trainers, anything that was tangible, solid, made up of atoms, pieces of matter that didn’t matter.

  But that only helped for so long. His mind went back to the ugly mob scene that had broken out in the pit—looking down and seeing that girl, not more than fifteen, with dark blood trickling down the side of her mouth.

  They were just kids, he thought. Just kids. Whether they were his age, younger, older, it didn’t matter. It was the blind mentality of the follower, the chaos of the adrenaline-filled rock show mob, unwittingly going along with whatever was happening at the moment, all individual wills meshed into one. That was the mentality they sought. That was the army. That was the mindset they were taking advantage of.

  Sam took a sip from a flask he’d started carrying around—silver, leather, and full of Irish whiskey. He used it to wash down two round, white pills he’d found in Sailor’s stash, probably methadone, oxycontin, whatever, some housewife heroin pilfered from some lounge queen in curlers and a kimono.

  The booze worked instantly, the pills would take around half an hour. He shouldn’t mix; it would make him sick, but immediacy was key.

  What am I even doing? he thought, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face. The air smelled of stale food and banality.

  He needed an escape.

  Kit found Sam slouched on the ground behind one of the smaller stages. She watched him slowly raise his gaze from her two-toned, shiny leather boots to meet her eyes. His own eyes were glassy.

  “Whatcha doing, Saint Fox?”

  He held out the flask to her. She took a sip before handing it back.