“Look. I can do my bit with songs. Get them recorded. Tinker about with them, y’know,” he said, pointing behind at a dormant laptop. “Fuck me. You can polish a turd and sprinkle it with glitter but at the end of the day, it’s all about the songs and you have got some proper tunes!”
Danny was lost for words, and seemed to be choking back a tear, Jamie and Dom both nodded and thanked Dean. Huge smiles in perfect symmetry.
“Your man has paid for ten days. Means we can work on these for a day or so, then look at putting down a couple of acoustic tracks. Never does any harm these days. And how about a studio jam on the last session. If you’ve got any half-formed ideas, we can record them live and it’ll help you work on them.”
Having finally composed himself, Danny fixed Dean with his doleful brown eyes. “You’ve been fuckin’ brilliant. I knew we’d have to work hard but I’ve loved every second. Every fuckin’ second!”
“Not bad for a miserable old cunt am I,” Dean laughed heartily before coughing gruffly into his hand. Adjusting one of his many leather bracelets, he added, “I think that calls for a well-earned tea break. You can all fuck off and have a cig, yer dirty little addicts!”
“Johnny said he’d be down later, “said Jamie, leaning back against the old Victorian house. “He’ll be made up with the tracks.”
“How quick before he sorts us out a record deal?” asked Danny as he blew a pirouetting smoke ring.
“He’ll sort it,” said Mikee, readjusting the wide brimmed LA Raiders baseball cap that he had been sporting for the duration of the recording sessions. “The songs. They just sound the fuckin’ business. I can’t believe it’s us. I knew we were good but fuck. They sound sick!”
“Let’s get back to it,” said Jamie, flicking a cig end into a nearby flowerbed.
***
Meeting outside the surgery at 5.25pm, Johnny kissed a clearly agitated Claire lightly on her forehead. “You alright? Ready for this?”
“I’m just glad you’re here. I was worried that you wouldn’t show up.”
Shoving his hands into his suit trouser pockets, he said, “Thanks!”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I knew really.”
“Well, no time like the present. After you, lady.” Stepping aside, Johnny followed Claire in and they took adjoining seats in the waiting room.
After an interminably long wait, the buzzer crackled, and the receptionist called out, “Mr Harrison. Ms Cooper. The doctor will see you now.”
The two of them stood simultaneously, Johnny smiled as sympathetically as he could. “Here we go then…”
Sitting in front of the doctor, they were blinded by talk of ovarian cycles, optimum times, healthy ejaculate, sperm count, fertility, fallopian tubes, percentages, chances, absent ovulation, hormonal levels, diet, IVF, etc. etc. etc.
Johnny’s head was spinning, staring at the thick pile of helpful literature that had piled up in front of them. He had confessed to having a drink, but not to excess. He sidestepped the question of narcotics with consummate ease. Claire sounded the paragon of virtue with her semi-vegetarian diet. Low alcohol intake and exercise regime. But as the doctor said repeatedly, “this wasn’t about blame.”
Gathering up the leaflets and thanking the doctor profusely, they were both relieved to get outside.
Anything to break the silence. “Fertility clinic and spaffing into a plastic cup. That’s a date for the diary then…”
The glare delivered by Claire was enough for him to realise that this wasn’t the time for banal crudities. They walked to her car in silence. Sitting in the passenger seat, Johnny reached reflexively for the car stereo.
Slap.
Claire’s hand smacked him before he could. She turned to him with tear filled eyes. “I want this so much…”
“I know you do, and y’know, I’m not against the idea. I just never fancied all the tests and that.” Checking himself before talking about the cost of IVF, he added, “And I don’t like the idea of us finding out whose fault it is if we can’t have…”
Snapping irritably, a tear rolling down her cheek, she said, “DID YOU NOT LISTEN?” Rubbing at the tear and lowering her voice, “It’s not about blame! It’s about finding out what we can do differently to help us.”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry. I do get that, but you know what I mean. Neither of us wants to be told it’s your eggs or my swimmers!”
Managing a sniffled laugh, she said, “Oh Johnny, you dick. You can call them sperm like a grown up,” – with air quotes – “and not swimmers…”
The short journey home was made in silence. Johnny looking blankly at the pile of pamphlets he had on his lap.
Arriving home, Johnny popped the leaflets on the dining table. “I’ll sort tea out for us, what do you fancy?”
Claire was already sat on the sofa, turning her laptop on. “I’m not that hungry. I’ll sort myself out later…”
Retiring to the kitchen, he stood at the sink and stared out over the small garden, his eye fixing on a tennis ball that was nestled in one of the flower beds.
Deciding that he needed to take the initiative, he was just about to shout through to Claire, “I…”
Cutting him off before he could start, she said, “I think we should make an appointment at the fertility clinic as soon as possible. Get in quickly and you won’t get in a stress about your ‘plastic cup ordeal’, I know what you’re like!”
“I was just going to say that. No time like the present and all that,” he said, trying to add as much conviction as he could muster.
Needing some respite from this, he reached for his phone and texted Jamie –
‘Alright J. How’s it going? X’
Turning the kitchen stereo on at a sensitively quiet volume, Johnny popped Nick Cave’s The Boatman’s Call on.
The beautiful minor piano chords were wistfully playing when his phone pinged –
‘Hiya man. Songs sound wicked. Get yourself down. We’re making magic! x’
Smiling at the text, and pleased that Jamie never resorted to the bastardised text speak that rendered most young people’s missives nigh on indecipherable, he texted back immediately –
‘Tomorrow night. Can’t wait x’
He half smiled to himself at the last message – it sounded like he was arranging an illicit tryst with a lover. But he had to hear the fruits of their recorded labours as soon as he could.
Picking up the glass of water he had poured himself – best not have a proper drink, he had wisely decided – he went to sit on the sofa and saw that Claire, glasses firmly in situ, was looking at an IVF clinic’s website…
Chapter 17
“Right lady. I’m off out for a couple. I’ll pick up a pizza on the way back,” Johnny said cheerily.
Sprawled full length on the sofa, her laptop balanced precariously on her stomach as she drank from a tall glass of fizzy water, Claire looked up at Johnny. “Suits you, that shirt. You should wear it more often.” Fixing him with an I’m not messing glare. “And make sure it is only a couple. We’ve got the tests this week.”
Looking down at his crisp white linen shirt, he said, “Yeah it does, ta. But how often do we get decent enough weather to start dressing like Take That.” Flinging his arms out wide and tossing his head back, dramatic boy band style, Johnny laughed at his own joke. “And I’m driving so only a couple. Promise” Leaning over the back of the sofa, he kissed her on the top of her head. “And how could I forget about next week!”
Walking to the front door, he shook his head slightly as Claire had been looking at yet another ‘baby making’ website.
Since receiving Jamie’s text, he could think of nothing other than hearing the tracks. He knew how hard the band had worked, and if there were any near as good as he hoped then this really could be the start of things…
Pulling up outside, he was met by Danny, pacing the pavement, as ever sucking his cheeks hollow on a cigarette. “Where have you been man, we’ve been waiting for yo
u for the playback.”
Glancing down at his watch – six-fifty precisely – “We said seven, didn’t we Danny?” he said slowly.
Nodding, Danny looked at his watch less wrist, and looked up at Johnny. “Sorry Johnny. I just can’t fuckin’ wait. Y’know what I’m like.”
Putting his arm around him, he said, “Not a problem. You fucking lunatic. I’m here now so let’s go and hear these tunes.”
The friendly arm round the shoulder lowered Danny’s manic energy levels, and his mind momentarily flashed back to times when his father would think nothing of such a gesture.
Letting himself in with a quick input of the door code, Danny led the way to a room on the first floor that Johnny had not been in before. Entering the lounge at the rear of the property, Johnny saw the band, who were all sipping from cans of lager, sat on the two leather sofas that dominated the room - facing the large bay window which overlooked the unkempt garden. Either side of the window were two sizable and clearly expensive looking speakers. Housed in walnut, the speakers must have stood a good five feet high. And if they sounded as impressive as they looked…
The advent of digital files and MP3 had been a veritable musical revolution, but there was nothing better than putting on an actual tangible CD. Or if you were a real purist, vinyl. On a proper system and belting it through a quality stereo. Johnny nodded in approval. Taking a seat in the lone armchair, he gratefully accepted the can which Mikee offered him from the carrier bag at his feet.
Dean, as ever in combat fatigues, fleece and walking sandals, was, quite rightly, assuming the Master of Ceremonies role. Walking to the stereo that dominated the right-hand wall of the room, he hacked behind his hand and then with the same hand pushed his hair back. “Okay gents. I hope you remember this day fondly, as this is the first time you will have heard a playback of your songs. I think you’re going to like them…”
With that he pressed play on the stereo and went to stand at the far end of the room, dead centre between the speakers.
A squeal of feedback filled the room, followed by a slow metronomic drumbeat behind it. The feedback dropped, the drums ratcheted up a beat faster, and then the raw sounding guitars kicked in. ‘This Is Not Tomorrow’ roared from the speakers.
Jamie’s vocals sounded brilliant. Pure emotion, with the hint of an anguished strain. With Danny and Dom’s backing vocals adding perfect balance on the chorus. The bassline-driven middle eight was amazing - less frenzied and with the lead guitar perfectly placed in the mix. The guitars steaming back in for the last verse and chorus.
3.33 seconds and it was done.
Despite the clear power and anger it was the hook that grabbed you. An angry, yet hook-laden piece of protest that worked a treat. Johnny looked around the room; the band all looked incredibly serious, fixed concentration as they waited on the next track.
A skittering drum track and a spiralling guitar signalled the intro to ‘Mantra’. The guitars sounded huge. Dom had the chiming cascading solo down to perfection. The drum track had been done in one take according to one of Jamie’s progress reports. Mikee might seem to be laid back to the point of horizontal but he could play. No mistake.
‘Burn the Sky’ shimmered with anger and menace – Jamie spitting the line ‘so that’s how the avaricious bankers thank us…’ Dom’s guitar lines were economical but incandescent. No extravagant soloing but he was a guitar hero in the making.
Still nobody exchanged a word.
And finally.
The band’s tour de force. ‘Salvation’.
Under Dean’s tutelage, the intro was now strummed on an acoustic, before Dan’s bassline laid down the groove with Mikee’s hi-hats hissing like a cornered snake. The guitars glided to the forefront of the track. It sounded perfect. Anthemic. Soaring. And that chorus was crying out for mass adoration, Jamie and Dom harmonising the killer line, ‘I’ll be your salvation. You’ll be my salvation. We’ll be your salvation…’
Stepping over to the stereo, Dean pressed pause and looked expectantly at the band for their post-playback comments.
Before he had chance to speak, Danny bowled over from the sofa and hugged Dean tightly. Pulling away, he looked round the room at the collection of beaming faces. “HOW FUCKING BRILLIANT IS THAT? HOW FUCKING BRILLIANT!”
Clapping loudly, Johnny stood and said, “It’s glorious. Absolutely fucking glorious! I’m blown away. Utterly fucking blown away…”
Jamie and Dom still hadn’t said a word, Mikee was excitably hugging Danny. The feeling of a job well done was rife. Dean stood on like a proud father, winking at Johnny. “You’ve got a fuckin’ band and half on your hands here…”
Pursing his lips, and barely able to contain himself, he said, “I know! I fucking know!”
Calling for calm, Dean snapped his fingers. “And before we finish getting excited, there are a couple of acoustic tracks and a live track they jammed.”
“Like it,” said Johnny “Sounds like value for money to me.”
And then came the ‘surprise’. A track that the band had jammed around with in the rehearsal studio had now been given life. ‘Only the Good Die Trying’. A two minute forty-five second slab of furious guitars and a vocal that bought to mind Cobain at his angriest. The drums were huge in the mix and drove the track with an unbridled fury. And a call to arms lyric of ‘come and watch the people take the city’. Raw as hell, but the massive guitar hook signalled that this was more than just a work in progress.
“I’ve got some CDs that I burnt off for you all. Artwork courtesy of Johnny who spent ages cutting them out to size. I’d suggest you look after these. I’ll pop ’em on USB sticks as well in case you crazy young kids think CD is too old fashioned for you,” said Dean handing out the precious CDs.
“They look brilliant,” said Jamie, smiling at Johnny. “You got a spare for our mum?”
“I think there’s a couple of spare in the studio. But look after these,” he added with a grin, “they’ll be worth a fortune in a few years!” Looking down admiringly at the CD. “And as a little treat after all this grafting in the studio, I’ve booked us a gig next week. Short notice. But a band has dropped out next Friday night at Night and Day, so I said that you’d fill in. Bottom of the bill of three. But there’s always get a decent crowd.”
“Nice one,” nodded Mikee, turning to Dean, “You should get yourself down, sure we’ll all buy you a fizzy water.”
Laughing, Dean replied, “I’ll be there, I’ll see if I can do the sound as well, I know the fella there.”
“Okay, I’m off. And this,” waving the CD above his head, “will be getting a proper blasting in my car!” Turning to Dean, and shaking his hand, Johnny said, “You’re a top man, knew you’d do the business and, well,” making an expansive gesture with his arms, “What can I say? Let’s hope it all starts here…”
“My pleasure Mr Harrison. And the monies all safely in my bank account. Came across first thing today. Appreciated,” said Dean, nodding his head courteously.
“I’ll catch you later, and don’t go plastering this little beauty over the interweb just yet, eh?”
Leaving the band listening to another playback, Johnny headed home his head reverberating with rock and roll.
Chapter 18
Two large marker penned stars on the kitchen calendar. As if either of them were likely to forget about it.
Johnny had arrived home an hour earlier than Claire and was about to embark on a bona fide medicinal wank. He had omitted to use any form of pornographic stimulation as he had deemed that this would be inappropriate. His colleague, Paul, had recently dispelled the 10CC/male ejaculate urban myth – much to his consternation as he was convinced that he’d just produced a double album’s worth.
Job done, and the warm tub now safely popped in the jiffy bag, he went and showered before Claire got home. He’d been on rations that week and under strict masturbatory orders not to ‘overdo it’.
Showering quickly and dressing in jeans,
shirt and weekend suit jacket, he went and sat downstairs, awaiting Claire’s arrival.
On the dot of 1.30pm, she opened the door looking remarkably relaxed. Barely able to stifle a grin, she put her laptop bag down by the dining table. “We all done then?” The inevitable air quotes irked as ever.
“Two cups full. Just to be safe. Waste not want not and that,” he replied, keeping his face as straight as he could.
“Johnny! Do you always have to!” Claire said, grimacing.
“Yes, whatever,” he mumbled back.
“We’ll be off then. You going to drive, or am I?”
“I’ll drive. You can carry the merch. I tried to get one of them cup carriers from Starbucks, but they don’t do them for espresso cups.”
A raised brow. A look of disdain. And a fold of her arms. Hat-trick.
As they left the house and headed for his car, Johnny realised that the Lonely Souls CD was still pride of place in his car stereo. Claire probably bat an eyelid at it and it would be easily enough explained away but flipping to XFM was a far better option, he thought as he reached for the seatbelt.
Pulling up at Wythenshawe Hospital, Johnny reached for some loose change to pay for the parking. “You ready for this?”
“Of course,” Claire replied softly. A palpable tremor in her voice.
Holding her hand, they followed the signs to the fertility clinic, the jiffy bag held ceremoniously in a Tesco shopping bag.
Dr Amit was a small, chunky and friendly Asian gentleman. His relaxed tone immediately settled them, and Johnny vowed that he would refrain from any irreverent comments.
A general chat about their lifestyle was followed by a more thorough enquiry into their sex lives. Blood test and cholesterol checks were undertaken, and the doctor then politely informed them they should make a further appointment for two weeks hence. Shaking him by the hand – I wonder how many times he thinks that he is being offered a warm wanking hand, Johnny mused to himself – and thanking him for his time, they left and walked back to the car park.
The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That Page 11