The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Noticing that the guitarist had the identical blue eyes as the singer. And with them also sharing the same cheekbones and hairlines – although the blond guitarist sported some faint scarring on his cheeks – they had to be brothers, possibly twins, he thought.

  “We have. A proper fucking thirst,” offered up the guitarist.

  Seeing that both pint glasses were already drained, Johnny attempted to redeem his earlier opening clumsiness and offered up the next round. Once the two pints had settled, Johnny struck. “I really enjoyed that. It was fucking superb. I’ve looked after bands in the past. Not for a while, but I want to get back into it. And I thought you were fucking brilliant. Have you got a manager?” It all came out far quicker and sounded far more rehearsed than he had intended.

  Pausing. He offered his hand out to them. “I’m Johnny. Johnny Harrison.”

  Glancing at each other they both returned the handshake, gig sweat still making the guitarists’ hands overly warm to the touch.

  “I’m Jamie. And this is my brother, Dom.”

  Pulling out the time worn card, Johnny half mumbled, “I’d love to have a sit-down with you sometime. You’ll be wanting to have your night out now and catch up with your mates, so no point talking now.”

  “Which was your favourite song?” Jamie asked probingly.

  Without missing a beat, Johnny replied, “The last one. Salvation? Great chorus and the middle eight was fucking top.”

  Taking the business card from him and putting it in the sweat stained pocket of his black Levi’s denim jacket, Jamie then said, “Pass me your phone.”

  Without hesitation, Johnny unlocked his iPhone and handed it over. Going straight to the iTunes icon, Jamie held the phone between him and his brother and started to scroll through the music library contained within the phone’s vast memory. With muted nods and approving pulling of their mouths, the seeming initiation process was over, and the now sweaty phone passed back. “Some decent tunes on there, you clearly love your music.”

  Johnny glowed inwardly at the platitude.

  “But that jacket!” proffered Dom.

  “Nah, nah, that’s cool man. Nothing wrong with a Mod blazer,” laughed Jamie warmly. “Pass me the phone back.” Smiling at them both and slightly lost for words, Johnny frowned and handed the phone back to Jamie. Tapping at the smudged screen, Jamie entered the numbers to his own phone into the handset, rang it once to store the number before handing the phone back.

  “We’ve both got each other’s digits now. Let’s see who blinks first.”

  “Cheers. I’m serious about this. Dead serious,” Johnny said.

  “I know,” Jamie said quietly. “Here’s Mikee and Danny. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Alright man,” Mikee said, offering out a paw. “Smart jacket. Bit fucking cold out for strawberries and cream though.”

  A brusque nod and a surprisingly firm handshake was proffered from the bass player, who now had his shades on top of his head and was flicking a lighter on off in anticipation of a post-gig smoke.

  “This is Johnny, we’re going to meet him next week and have a chat about stuff. Used to manage bands.”

  “Looking forward to it! And you lads enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got to dash. Meeting my mates and I’m late after watching you lot. Enjoyed it though!” Johnny added as a parting flourish.

  Heading into the kitchen discreetly, Johnny saw Phil hunched over his phone, stabbing at it with a bony finger.

  Phil Taylor – nee Phil the Pill. He had been dealing since the early ’90s. The then burgeoning dance scene having made him a hectic but lucrative living. Since the demise of club culture, he had moved onto dealing high quality cocaine. This had earned him the beautifully crafted moniker of Phil ‘The Powder’ Taylor. A wonderful borrow from the current World Darts Champion. Although to Phil’s disappointment, he was a terrible darts player…

  “Come into my office,” he said as he looked up from his phone. Phil had special privileges afforded to him as he supplied the club’s seldom seen owner with his South American merch. “Right then birthday boy, what we looking at? Blow job? Full Sex? Anal?”

  “Did you see that band? Un-fucking real. Best band I’ve heard in years. Fucking brilliant. That last song!”

  “When have I ever been arsed about bands? Not bought an album since Beefheart were in their prime. Anyway. Calm down. Getting all excited at your age isn’t good for you.”

  “How did you know? I’ve not been shouting about it.”

  “Ah, the wonders of social media. I’m always looking at pictures of your Mrs on there. Way too good for you,” Phil said with a throaty laugh.

  “In that case, two grams and a blow job,” Johnny deadpanned back. “And I’d have paid more if you had actually had a shave.”

  “Ooh, ya bitch,” Phil replied, cod cattily. “Getting fussy in your old age?”

  Pulling out a large plastic click lock plastic bag from within the lining of his brown overcoat, Phil dug out the wraps and handed them to Johnny with all the subterfuge of a magician’s sleight of hand. “There you go, Jonathan. And smart blazer. D’yer leave the straw hat on the bar?”

  “Not fucking you as well! Has no-one got any idea of style? Do you want paying or not?” he grinned, counting out £120 in tens, lining them all Queen’s head face-up in a vaguely OCD manner.

  “And now my present for you.” Phil hunched over the kitchen work surface and chalked up two chunky parallel lines.

  Ever the master craftsman, the lines were both perfectly symmetrical and resembled bookies’ biros in thickness and length. Assuming the manner of a wine sommelier, Phil deftly rolled a twenty and proffered it with an affected bow. “I hope this is to your palate, Sir. It’s from a very well-tended crop in deepest darkest Bolivia. Not far from the sea, which gives it its fragrant salty and bitter undertones.”

  Clearing his nose in readiness, Johnny laughed at the routine he had heard many times before.

  “Bottoms up,” Johnny said as he ducked down, imbibing the choke inducing line in one. He swept a few stray grains on the end of his damp index finger and wiping it, as tradition dictates, on to his gums. “Fuck, that’s good gear,” Johnny said, already feeling the numbing affect hitting his front teeth.

  “You’re a good ’un. Let’s grab a beer and I’ll go about my business,” said Phil, ever the entrepreneur.

  “Love to, mate. But I’ve left Larry & Moe on their own. Best catch up with them or they’ll send out a search party.”

  “Suit yourself. But don’t be a stranger. And say hiya to the lovely CC for me.”

  Johnny winced at the mention of Claire’s former moniker. “Yeah. I will. Nice one man.”

  With a clumsy urban handshake all fingers and thumbs, Johnny made for the stairwell, noticing that the redhead was busying herself talking to Jamie. Maybe she had taken his advice after all….

  Leaving the club, Johnny had to check himself from bounding up the stairs, Rocky style. As he made his ascent, he laughed to himself and clapped his hands together just as a vintage shop vision of gold lame and leather navigated the perennially sticky stairs.

  “Fuckin’ hell. How long have you been on it?” asked Denise, a friend from back in the day.

  “Just seen the future of rock ’n’ roll!” Johnny replied as he planted a kiss on both her cheeks.

  “Have you balls! At half eight in here. I don’t think so mister. You need to ease up on the party powders!”

  “You’ll see,” said Johnny over his shoulder as he passed the catatonically bored doorman and reacquainted himself with the chill February night air….

  ***

  “Where the fuck have you been?” snapped Chris, animatedly pointing at the flotilla of pint glasses that adorned the ring-marked wooden table. Glancing down at the dark beer stain on Chris’s check shirt, Johnny counted six empty glasses. A decent effort in just over an hour, but it hardly constituted Withnailian proportions.

  Impatiently throwing his b
lack leather wallet on to the table, Johnny sarcastically shot back, “It’s in there if that’s all you’re arsed about!”

  Grabbing the wallet, and checking behind the credit card flap, Chris marched – more of a flounce, Johnny thought to himself – across to the gents’ toilet, indicated by a stab at Euro bar culture with a marker pen italic scrawl of ‘Hommes’.

  “But where the fuck have you been?” asked Mark in conciliatory tones.

  Seizing his friend’s verbal olive branch, Johnny shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “I met The Powder and then started watching a band.”

  His barely concealed excitement then gushed to the surface. “I saw a band. And they were fucking brilliant, man. And the music, fuck! It was like The Clash and The Roses, bit raw here and there but you’d expect that. Man, they are fucking….” Pausing as he struggled to articulate his excitement, Johnny’s hand waved up and down like a linesman unsure of a borderline offside decision. “…Fucking hell. They are. They could be brilliant.”

  Mark nodded in an exaggeratedly sage manner. “That’s alright then. You’ve been doing your Simon Cowell bit in a shit club on local band night.” Then assuming a very poor ‘Del Trotter’ voice – “This time next year you’ll be a millionaire.”

  Not rising to the withering tones of his friend’s comments, Johnny said, “I’m serious. They could be the next big Manchester band. You didn’t see them. They look great. Top musicians and they’ve got songs. They’ve got the fucking songs that you need. That people will want to hear.” Johnny’s eyes had widened as he waxed lyrical about his find.

  “I’m going to meet them and ask…”

  Smack. Just as he was about to finish his sentence, his wallet landed in front of him, just missing a small collected pool of lager that had formed in one of the scars running across the table’s grain.

  Chris nodded a sort of acknowledgment to Johnny. “Right. Where have you been then knobhead?”

  Misreading his now drug sated friend’s interest, he said, “I was just saying to Mark, I’ve seen a band that are fucking ace and I’m going to meet up with them and see if they want to work with me.”

  Chris laughed in a way that bordered on an unpleasant sneer. “You are fucking kidding me!” He reached for a glass and then embarrassingly slammed it down when he realised it was empty. Wagging his index finger towards Johnny’s face, he said, “We’re out for your birthday and you stand around watching some shit band that gives you a hard on.”

  Johnny grabbed at the accusing digit. “You don’t get it, they were superb and…”

  Cutting him off sharply, Chris said, “Superb my arse, you don’t ‘find’” – performing annoying finger punctuation marks in front of Johnny’s face – “bands just like that these days. And what the fuck are these band of undiscovered geniuses called?”

  Snapping back at his friend’s dismissiveness. “And what the fuck do you know? You buy your half dozen a year or so albums from fucking Tesco. If it doesn’t have ‘Greatest’ in the album title, you wouldn’t know a decent album if it got stuck in the stereo of your shite green Ford Mondeo. You fucking dick. And you thought that Keane were the future of rock ’n’ roll!” He paused momentarily to compose himself. “And for your information they are called Lonely Souls.”

  As the conversation started to become more barbed and personal, Mark stood up and leant between his two sparring friends, and said in calming tones, “Right, he was a tit for not letting us know what he was doing but we were fine having a beer. It’s only just gone half nine. Plenty of time to enjoy ourselves. And we can all agree that Keane are a big moist bag of posh toss.” He laughed at his little joke. “My round. Whilst you two kiss and make up.”

  Chris rubbed at his nose in typical coke user fashion. “You should have just let us know. We were sat here like a right pair of twats waiting for you. And this band, come on mate…” Tutting at Johnny, Chris fortunately ran out of steam.

  “I couldn’t get a decent signal in The Roadhouse and the band are the business. You’ll fucking see.” Adding in an unnecessarily high-handed way, “I know” – emphasising the next part – “‘a good band.’ I’ve always been looking for someone like this. I’d do it all again, but way better than I did the first-time round. Honestly mate, I was only in it for a laugh and to stand a better chance with the birds then, but I could do it again and get it right this time. With the right band….”

  Just as Chris was about to dismiss Johnny’s heartfelt sentiment, Mark intervened with three fully charged pint glasses and a packet of dry roasted peanuts between his teeth. “Here you are then children, we friends again?”

  Reaching for the pint glass and gulping a third of it down, letting out an overly loud satisfied ‘ahhh’, Chris looked over the table to Johnny. “We’re fine. Brian Epstein here is convinced he’s found the future of rock ’n’ roll, The Lonely Arseholes or whatever they are called, but we’ve kissed and made up and now we’ve got the bugle, the night is young.”

  Far from letting it go, and as always wanting the last word, Johnny said, “They are going to be something, you fucking wait. I’m going to manage them, if they want me to and I’m going to make them big.”

  Spotting Johnny’s bullishness, Mark put a hand on both his friend’s shoulders. “No more talk of bands then, eh. Let’s crack on and go and find a decent bar and let’s make a proper night of it.”

  Glowering over the top of his pint glass and with thoughts far away from the night ahead, Johnny drank deeply, stood up and said as convincingly as he could muster, “Deffo. Let’s go and make twats of ourselves and work on tomorrow’s shitty hangovers!”

  Winking at Mark, he handed over the drugs-packed wallet. “And your turn on the tackle next mate. That’ll get you sorted.”

  Leaving the bar and letting his two friends through the frosted glass door ahead of him, Johnny felt a tightening feeling in his stomach and played over the ‘what ifs’ of the potential meeting with the band…

  Chapter 3

  “So then. How was it? You were quiet when you got in. Not like you after a big one. You’re normally like a one man wrecking ball,” Claire said, not looking up from the screen of her laptop which flickered in her glasses as she trawled through the latest essential eBay offerings.

  “New found maturity now I’ve hit forty,” Johnny replied sarcastically. “Anyhow. I never make a mess. I’m not one of those daft twats that pisses in wardrobes or drawers and that.”

  Still not visibly acknowledging him. “Charming as ever though I see.”

  “It’s true! You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  Finally looking up from the laptop and blew an insincere kiss across the room. “No Johnny. I count my lucky stars every day.”

  Running the cold tap for a hangover stabilising drink, Johnny rolled his eyes and muttered crudely under his breath. Assuming a confrontation free air. “Yeah it was a good un ta. Mark and Chris can’t hack it these days. Pair of lightweights. Both flagging by midnight.”

  Not missing the open goal that his last comment presented, Claire looked over the top of her designer tortoiseshell glasses, “I didn’t think that’d be a problem with you and your little bag of magic powders.”

  Bristling at the pointed but pointless barb. “You never used to say no when you liked to party,” Johnny batted back.

  She rose to the occasion with consummately practised ease. “I grew out of that sort of thing though. I don’t need to waste money on drugs to make me popular.”

  “You never paid for it anyhow!” Backing down to avoid an argument which would be levelled at his hungover/coke crankiness, Johnny softly offered up, “It’s only now and then that I bother, I’m hardly Scarface am I?”

  “I know. But you should knock it on the head. You don’t want to be the oldest swinger in town now do you?”

  “Haha. I’m definitely planning on a massive cake made of smack for my 50th, so think on.” Tapping his forearm for added comedic effect, Johnny peered into
the graphite humming behemoth that was the Smeg fridge/freezer that stood in the centre of the kitchen wall. “Want anything for breakfast?”

  “You mean lunch. It’s gone 12 now, lazyarse. And I’ll have a bacon butty on brown if you’re offering.”

  He put on a mock addict voice. “Don’t mention ‘brown’. you’ll set me off wanting more drugs.” Laughing at his own joke, “No brown bread. Will white do you?”

  “That’ll be fine, grumpy drawers.”

  Johnny winced at the triteness of the comment and busied himself at the frying pan.

  “And don’t leave the cooker in a mess, my mum’s coming around later with a present for you, so I don’t want the place looking like a greasy spoon.”

  Assuming a world weary accepting tone, he said, “No dear, I’ll clean up after me. Promise.”

  “If you could. So where did you middle aged disgraces get to then last night?”

  Pleased at the feigned interest but without wishing to divulge too much about the highlight of his evening, he said, “Just the usual. Northern Quarter. Saw a couple of bands in The Roadhouse. One of them was great. For a change.” He deadpanned to deflect any hint of excitement over the band. “And then off to lap-dancing bars. Those two must have dropped a couple of hundred quid.”

  “I know you don’t like that sort of place. If only because you say the music’s rubbish, so don’t try and be clever. Mind you’d all fit in nicely now with all the other greying middle aged saddoes.”

  Running a hand through his thick but unkempt hair, Johnny ruefully thought of the carbon dating grey flashes at his temples. Having polished off his late breakfast with the gusto of a condemned man, he ensured the cooker hob was fat free, then made his way past Claire and headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

  Unable to let even this innocuous activity pass by without comment, she said, “If you’re having a shower, don’t leave the bathroom like a swimming pool, and open the window so it doesn’t get all steamed up.”

  Tensing his fists at the banality of the comment, Johnny lifted the ecru coloured blind up slightly and opened the double-glazed window sufficiently. He stripped out of his red and cream check boxer shirts and love worn Nirvana ‘Nevermind’ T-shirt – still a staple of his bed attire after 15 years’ wear.