The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  “Exactly,” Mark said. “C’mon mate. Don’t let it spoil your birthday.”

  Draining his cocktail with one slurp, Johnny stood and buttoned his blazer. “I’m just gonna grab a burger from the top of the road. Gimme ten minutes. Fresh air and some scran and I’ll be right.”

  Raising his ‘Frog in a Blender’ cocktail, Mark said, “Grab me one mate.”

  “Shall I drop it down the toilet first?” Johnny said, before kissing Mark on the top of his head. “You daft twat.”

  As Johnny exited, Chris patted Mark on the arm. “Give him ten minutes and he’ll be right. Let him chunner on to himself and we can forget all about it.”

  “Thanks mate. Another cocktail? My shout.”

  “Don’t push it. A pint. And no umbrella!”

  Leaving the warmth of the bar, Johnny hunched his shoulders against the cold. Pulling his blazer around him and rueing the decision not to wear his trusty Parka.

  “Fuck, it’s cold,” he hissed to himself as the wind picked his pockets. Sidestepping a pouch of pavement smokers outside The Millstone, he headed for the takeaway on the corner of Thomas Street.

  A screech of ‘hens’, goosebump-prickled arms linked, teetered towards him on skyscraper heels. Swathes of exposed flesh the hue of a freshly painted fence. Cheaply printed T-shirts bore hashtags indicating their respective roles in the upcoming nuptials.

  “HELLO SAILOR!” giggled #Bridetobe, exposing a hunk of well chewed gum.

  Stifling a grimace, Johnny smiled and proffered a half-hearted salute. A smorgasbord of mononymous celebrity perfumes assaulted him, and he gave an exaggerated cough as payback for the nautical quip.

  Pushing the plate glass door open, he was met with a fat saturated warm blast. Picking his way across the tiled floor, slick with smeared rainy footprints. A couple sat at a Formica table that was cracked into grease-engrained fractals. They made gooey eyes at each other as they fed each other fried chicken.

  Who said romance is dead, thought Johnny.

  With a cursory glance of the backlit menu. “Cheeseburger please boss. No ketchup ta.”

  “You want drink with that? Chips?” asked the burly proprietor as he busied himself at the skillet.

  “No. I’m fine ta,” Johnny said.

  Johnny leant against the tiled wall and then thought better of it, rubbing the back of his precious jacket. Glancing across, the deep-fried lovebirds were now attempting to eat their last piece of chicken a la Lady and the Tramp.

  He busied himself with nothing on his iPhone. Skimming through a few blasts from the past birthday greetings on Facebook.

  “You want ketchup on your burger?”

  “No ta,” Johnny said, smirking to himself.

  Inadvertently catching McRomeo’s eye, Johnny nodded. “Alright mate. She’s a keeper.”

  “Fuck off yer dick. Only a first date innit. Why do you think we’re eating in this shithole?” Turning to face the counter. “No offence mate. And you look a right cunt in that jacket! I didn’t know they were doing boating on the Ship Canal.”

  “A cunt on a punt,” his date sniggered as she wiped greasy fingers on an already soiled serviette.

  “CUNT ON A PUNT! OH YEAH! I told yer that youse was funny for a girl.” He snorted as he snapped his fingers.

  “Hilarious,” Jonny muttered under his breath, regretting his intervention into their culinary experience.

  He nodded his thanks as he took the warm carton, electing to eat on the go rather than endure anymore of the gastronomic floorshow that had now moved on to a one cup/two straws finale.

  Heading over the road towards Stephenson Square, Johnny wolfed down the burger in four bites and headed towards an ‘open all hours’ to pick up some chewing gum.

  As he surveyed the ‘ghost buildings’ – awaiting the inevitable hoovering up by avaricious developers for yet more rabbit-hutch-sized aspirational lifestyles – he saw a sticker on a lamppost advertising a gig that evening. Roadhouse. Two minutes around the corner. Bound to be someone in there I can pick up a couple of grams from and get the night back on track…

  ***

  The Roadhouse. Newton Street. Manchester.

  A subterranean club, hidden by two huge black metal doors. It had been doing shabby chic since way before shabby chic was a thing.

  A for once fully functioning neon sign cast a garish halo over the bouncer as he multi-tasked cupping a cigarette whilst drinking from a small Thermos.

  Johnny skipped up the three oh so familiar stone steps.

  “Hiya pal,” Johnny offered breezily. He never failed to be shocked by the facial tattoos sported by the behemoth of the door.

  He reached to his back pocket for a couple of pound coins to cover the early evening entrance fee but the booth cum cloakroom was unmanned. A promotional poster on the wall indicated that there were three bands playing that night under the imaginative banner of ‘Soundclash’. The typeface done in a punk styling even down to the ‘Anarchy A’. Somebody being oh so retro, Johnny smiled to himself.

  A headline band going by the name of Kaspar, with support from The Salvo and Lonely Souls. With the promise of ‘Classic Indie Bangers’ from DJ Sirus the Stylus. All for three quid. Not the usual cringeworthy band names, mused Johnny as he stepped into the veiled darkness.

  The smell of bleach hung heavy. The freshly swabbed floor anticipating the evening’s spillages. The air was begging for the heady cocktail of booze to eliminate the sterile, just-cleaned odour. Frustrated ambitions hung thick – the attendant bands myopically challenged by their own musical shortcomings.

  The club’s patrons would have filled two Hackney cabs. Just. Two small groups stood on opposite sides of the dimly lit room, resembling hormonally frustrated teenagers at a local youth club.

  Johnny headed straight to the bar which was staffed by a skinny indie boy with a wince inducing collection of piercings and tattoos and a petite redhead who seemed to be skipping to be seen over the high wood panelled bar.

  Spoilt for choice of server, Johnny nodded to the diminutive girl, who was wearing some seriously elaborate Cleopatra style make-up. The walking piercing busied himself stocking the fridges for the evenings demands. Slabs of Red Stripe, Breaker & Bulmers were stacked high awaiting a cursory chill before consumption.

  Just as he was about to order, his phone pinged. Phone reception was more than a little hit and miss below street level.

  ‘Don’t forget my burger? x’

  Mark. Predictably getting the burger hunger after his toilet mishap.

  Johnny nodded for his fellow patron to go ahead of him.

  The skipping redhead’s eyes widened at the new arrival. “Anything I can get you?” she offered flirtatiously, leaning her head coquettishly to the side.

  Glancing into the large mirror behind the bar, Johnny saw what had flipped her attentions up a couple of gears. A lad with thick brown hair worn in an outgrown crop, having ordered a half pint of Guinness was now counting out loose change onto the bar.

  Wearing a black denim jacket buttoned to the neck, with a blood red cotton scarf worn muffler fashion, he glanced up nervously as his limited shrapnel seemed to be adding up to not an awful lot. Just as he reached for his back pocket for further funds, Johnny interjected – an act of half generosity and half to impress the barmaid who was rapt by her financially challenged customer.

  “Make it a pint and I’ll have a Red Stripe please. And your own,” said Johnny, nodding across to the flustered customer.

  “Thanks man,” he said quietly, glancing in Johnny’s direction.

  Johnny’s glance to his left was met by the most arresting petrol blue eyes. “Gonna be a short night for you if you’re struggling for your first beer,” he offered sympathetically. Dabbing slightly at the corner of his mouth, Johnny indicated that there was something on the lad’s face. Rubbing at the corner of his mouth self-consciously, he said,

  “Thanks man. Pre-gig nerves.” Taking a small sip, “There’s no Guinness on t
he rider and I’ve spent up on guitar strings.”

  “You’re playing tonight? Which band are you in?”

  He pulled slightly at his scarf. “Lonely Souls. We’re on in 15 minutes. Reckon the crowd must have got lost,” he said before laughing self-deprecatingly. “Thanks for the drink, man. And nice jacket.”

  Johnny soaked up the compliment. “My pleasure man. It’s my birthday. Enjoy the drink. And have a good gig.”

  “It’s the first gig we’ve played….” were the last words he said as he walked towards the not so salubrious dressing room situated to the right of the cramped stage.

  The barmaid, leaning against the bar and stood on tip-toes followed his exit until he was out of sight, shaking her head slightly to herself before ringing the order through the till.

  “You know if Phil the pow—” He corrected himself, “Phil Taylor will be in tonight?”

  She looked up at him blankly. “He’s not been in yet. Probably in later as a rule,” the barmaid replied in a surly monotone. Looking disdainfully at yet another weekend Rock ’n’ Roller looking to be taken to his dealer…

  Turning his back to the bar, Johnny looked over at the stage as a skinny black clad figure with a cigarette behind his ear and a can of cheap lager clutched between his teeth hastily gaffer taped a hand-sprayed bedsheet behind the drum kit, walking with an awkward gait as if his bottom and top halves were in some coordination based disagreement. Stage adornment complete, the figure skulked back to the dressing room.

  In large capital letters that had bled into each other, the sheet read, “LONELY SOULS. PROPER FUCKING SONGS”.

  Johnny rolled his eyes in a seen-it-all-before way at the self-aggrandising slogan.

  As the stage lights snapped on, projecting stark white light from erratically situated floor and ceiling lighting rigs, four silhouettes became discernible. A small pocket of cheers was audible from a group who had made their way to stand equidistant between the bar and the stage.

  The drummer looked too big for the stage, never mind the undersized kit he was uncomfortably wriggling his way behind. Built like a modern-day rugby prop forward, he spun a pair of drumsticks adroitly between his fingers.

  The bass player – who Johnny had clocked whilst he dressed the stage – was now sporting black wraparound shades and a black bandanna pulled over his nose. Standing stage right, he plugged his black bass into an amp and then placed a can to the right of him, rubbed at his forehead and then nodded at the drummer. The guitar seemed to earth him as he now moved with a fluid confidence.

  Johnny’s eyes were again drawn to the lead singer. The lad with the red scarf was now looking intently at the fretboard of his champagne coloured Fender Stratocaster. Nodding at the guitarist to his left, and with a 1-2-3 jut of his chin, the band roared into action.

  A bottom of the bill band would never usually command much attention – aside from the obligatory rent-a-crowd of friends and family.

  However, as the beneficiary of his early kindness set about their first song, Johnny was transfixed. With a Strummeresque vocal, the lead singer was a captivating presence. As the lead guitarist picked away at an angry rising guitar line, the singer held the neck of his guitar in one hand and the mic with the other in a white-knuckle grip.

  Lost in song. “You started the fire, but I stood by and watched it burn…” he sang with eyes tight shut. The chorus was slightly muffled, but it hung anthemically over the rhythm section’s precision.

  Grabbing a bottle of water between songs, the lead singer introduced themselves. “We’re Lonely Souls. For those that are down tonight, I’ll stick you on the guest list when we play the Arena…”

  The band were dressed in uniform blue or black denim jeans, Converse with either a black T-shirt or black denim jacket, the only concession to on-stage colour being the lead singer’s red scarf. Pushing a hand through his hair, the lead singer announced, “This one’s called ‘Opaque’.” A loquacious bassline threatened to distort the sound but dropped perfectly to let a cascading, spiralling guitar line chop out a staccato opening verse. A chorus of “nature or nurture, I didn’t mean to hurt yer…” was coupled to an irresistible hook

  Johnny looked around the room. Was it only him that was seeing something very special here? His heart rate had upped a notch. Not drug induced. The earlier cocaine toilet mishap had seen to that.

  Glancing towards the bar, he saw the redhead barmaid point in his direction.

  Phil ‘The Powder’ Taylor was in the house. Bowing theatrically towards Johnny and tipping an imaginary hat. Johnny flashed a two-finger peace sign and turned straight back to the stage.

  Mancunian psychedelia all underpinned with a drumbeat firmly rooted on the dancefloor. The dreaded rock dance hybrid that could easily go oh so horribly wrong.

  Spellbound, Johnny knocked back a large gulp of lager, wandering over to the back of the room and standing centrally in front of the sound booth.

  Appearing like a genie in Johnny’s peripheral vision, “I believe you require my bespoke services,” Phil said as he made his way to the kitchens situated to the back of the club.

  “Yeah, cheers man. I’ll be through in a bit,” Johnny said, not taking his eyes off the performance.

  “Suit yourself. Good to see you as well,” Phil said with a shrug.

  “Nice one. Two if you’ve got ’em,” Johnny said to no-one as Phil was already through the door that led to the back of the club.

  At this the band kicked into their next song, a pealing guitar riff roared the song on, rawer and more urgent; the lead singer had slung his own guitar behind his back, the classic guitar gunslinger stance and was, eyes closed, snarling the lines “the city looks pretty as the flames rise high. Burn the streets, burn the sky…”

  Closing his eyes, Johnny found himself holding his breath as the song unleashed its killer chorus. He imagined an arena full of bodies moving en masse.

  He checked his wallet to see he had a ‘business card’ within, like a lustful teenage boy stashing a condom within the confines of his wallet. The crumpled card read ‘TCB Management’ – a lame Elvis/Colonel Tom Parker reference – with just his name, mobile and email address.

  During his mid-twenties Johnny had managed a couple of Britpop style bands which were ten a penny at the time. Any scally that could afford a guitar and a Berghaus cagoule thought that they could be the next Noel Gallagher.

  Neither band had achieved much success although Epiphany – dreadful name he had always thought, which sounded even worse when the North Manchester Herberts pronounced it with a crass exaggerated emphasis they thought made them sound ‘real’. They had released a self-financed EP which had been played heavily on local radio and secured them a tour support with an equally doomed to failure band. Johnny had never given up the hope of finding the next big thing and the card was a constant reminder of this.

  Great chorus, but the verse needed a little spice in the soup. But this was a band that had something. A decent producer would sort them right out. Feeling exhilarated, Johnny started to plan his post-set chat with them. Nice and laid back, not giving it the big one, he thought. Considering what would impress without promising them the moon on a stick.

  Next, a gentler number, all downbeat chords and metronomic drumming married to a euphoric chorus.

  Throughout the set, the band had stood stock still as if in front of a firing squad – the perpetual-motion drummer aside.

  The lead singer then announced in time honoured fashion, “This is our last song. It’s called Salvation. Thanks for coming.” With a gentle laugh to himself, “Remember the name. LONELY SOULS!”

  Then that moment.

  The band ‘locked’.

  Everything was right. Striking a squealing series of major chords, the song careered off at breakneck speed. The rhythm section pounding down an incessant groove which just about managed to hold the song down as the two guitarists now faced each other, chords exploding.

  Mesmerising. Utterly f
ucking mesmerising. Open-mouthed, Johnny felt dizzy on pure adrenalin. Astonishing. Bands like this don’t play bottom of the bill to less than you could get in the back of a cab.

  But they fucking do. His mind raced. Compose yourself. Get a grip. Fuck me. They are the gold nugget in a parched riverbed.

  The chorus opined that the singer could be ‘Your salvation’ and seemed to be working on the level of both a lost love and ‘the people’ in general. A roaring anthemic chorus insisted that “I’m your salvation, you’re my salvation, we’re your salvation”. A neat backing vocal of ‘ahh’s completed the irresistible nature of the track.

  The last chorus finished, the singer pulling at the blood red scarf still tight round his neck and the band hit top gear, clattering into a final flourish, as controlled feedback squealed, the guitars soloed to dizzying effect, with the huge drummer throwing in perfect fills at sweat inducing speed. The bassist, with his guitar held at textbook ‘Sid’ height, powered the song to its conclusion as he continued to stare down an imaginary packed crowd. The band finished as one, looking at each other and exchanging barely noticeable nods.

  An understated smatter of applause rattled round the sparsely populated venue. Equipment was quickly and silently packed away as the next band stood stage right waiting to load on.

  With his opening gambit planned, Johnny made his way across to the bar and nodded at the barmaid for another Red Stripe. After ten minutes and a half drained can, the lead singer and the lead guitarist made their way over to the bar, the cramped dressing room which would be being shared by all three bands not affording them any post-gig pleasure now their paltry rider had disappeared.

  Nodding at Johnny, the lead singer ordered two half-pints of lager from the still admiring barmaid. Okay. No time like the present, he thought, and stepping over to the two musicians, Johnny offered the threadbare opening platitude of, “Great set lads.” Instantly regretting the mundane nature of this, he then followed this up with the equally clichéd, “You lads have really got something. Certainly did what the sign said!’”

  The lead singer laughed softly at this.