The Rock 'N' the Roll. 'N That

by Steven J. Gill

  Reaching the car, he said, “That wasn’t too bad was it?”

  Replying quietly, Claire said, “We’ll see what happens next time then, shall we babe…”

  Pulling away from the hospital car park, Johnny’s mind turned to the following night’s gig.

  The journey home was made in silence, the ‘what-if’ possibilities hung large.

  ***

  Walking down the stairs, Cal did a slow 360 turn. “Will I do then?” Wearing a pair of tight fitting dark blue jeans and an equally fitted black T-shirt bearing a logo of ‘The Cult – Sonic Temple Tour’ matched with a pair of just above the ankle black heeled boots, she waited for the twins’ approval. Slumped together on the sofa channel surfing the music stations, Jamie turned around and laughed. “You look great, Mum. But it’s only 2 o’clock! Bit early to be getting done up.”

  “And I’ve not had my dinner yet, way too nice to be getting that ready for me,” added Dom.

  “Get it yourself for a change,” Cal laughed sweetly. Looking down at her evening’s outfit of choice, she said, “Of course I’m going to get changed again. I just didn’t want to let you down.”

  “You’ll be the coolest Mum in there. No danger,” chirped Dom, backtracking from his previous culinary request.

  Looking at his phone, Jamie stretched and said, “Right, I’m getting a couple of hours’ kip and then heading into town. What about you bro?”

  “Meeting Danny and Mikee for a couple. Talk gig tactics innit,” yawned Dom.

  ***

  Night and Day. Oldham Street, Manchester. A staple of Manchester’s rich musical heritage. One of the stepping stones that all the city’s greats had played.

  Having arranged to meet at 5pm, Danny and Mikee had arrived early and were sat at the bar sampling a cold Czech beer.

  Chinking the neck of his bottle against Mikee’s, Dan said, “I’ve not stopped playing our tracks. How about you? Your drumming sounds wicked. He did a fuckin’ sick job did ol’ Dean.”

  Taking a long draw from the bottle, Mikee said, “Same with me D-Mo. Can’t believe it’s us at times. Sounds sweet. He’s down later as well, Dean.”

  Frowning slightly as he drank the dregs of his bottle, Danny was still coming to terms with the new moniker he had acquired during their time in the studio. Dan Martin. D-Mo. He’d been called worse, he thought as he signalled for two more beers.

  “Top little venue this,” said Mikee as he raised his bottle to his friend, “Let’s fuckin’ smash it tonight. Really fuckin’ go for it. I’ve got a few mates coming down, so I wanna be good. And,” glancing down at the three empties in front of them, “that means saving getting smashed till after the gig…”

  “Don’t look at me,” Danny said indignantly, “I’d never let the band down by being off it. Never!” He made a small crossing his heart gesture and looked genuinely wounded.

  “I’m only messing, D-Mo. Don’t get an arse on.” The nickname was thrown in again to test his reaction. Mikee knew his rhythm section amigo was still slightly prickly about it.

  “I know, I know. Anyhow I need a cig. Want one?”

  “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

  “Only when he’s been chasing after a choir boy,” cackled Danny. Their addition to this malapropism never failed to make him laugh.

  As they stood on Oldham Street’s wide pavement soaking up the smoke and late Friday afternoon vibes, Jamie and Dom appeared. Both in sunglasses and carrying their guitar cases, looking every inch the rock stars they so craved to be.

  Throwing his cigarette stub into the gutter, Dom blew out the last of the smoke. “Alright Mikee. D-Mo. We having this tonight?”

  “Fuck off with this D-Mo lark. I’ve not decided if I like it yet. Alright Jamie,” said Danny sulkily.

  Laughing loudly and grinning at Dom, he said, “It’s not up to you to decide! It’s our nickname for you. If you don’t like it then we’ll just use it more!”

  With a mock flounce, Danny turned to go back into the bar, mouthing ‘cunts’ under his breath to himself. He secretly loved the attention, but as the youngest and smallest in the band, didn’t want to be the butt of the others’ jokes.

  As Mikee turned to follow Danny back inside the venue, Jamie noticed a magazine stuck in the back pocket of his low-slung jeans. Grabbing it, he looked at the cover and above an extravagantly tattooed couple read the title Inked.

  Unaware of Jamie’s light-fingered pilfering, Mikee span round when Jamie clipped him round the back of the head with the now rolled up magazine.” OY!”

  He laughed and snatched the magazine back.” You weren’t supposed to see that!”

  “No secret dude, Danny,” correcting himself with a smirk, “Sorry, D-Mo told us at the studio that you were after getting full sleeves done.”

  “Did he. I told him that in secret.” Unable to resist the opportunity for a spot of tit for tat he said, “Did he tell you that he’s gonna have a nose job when we make it?”

  “Haha! He did,” Jamie laughed loudly. “You’d be no good under pressure!”

  Assuming positions at the bar, whilst the two other bands soundchecked, the band respectfully kept their conversation to hushed whispers. The consensus being that neither of the other bands – the headliner, The Bitter Pills, or the dreadfully named second on the bill, Jimi Jimi – were up to much. Indeed, the guitarist of the latter was under the misguided notion that he was a Caucasian reincarnation of said Jimi. Complete with a mirth-inducing silk headband and a floor-length brocade overcoat, he wrung tuneless solos out of his Fender Stratocaster which at best could be described as self-indulgent.

  This had stretched the sound engineer’s patience to snapping point and as the bar had to open to at 6.30, left the bottom on the bill band only 20 minutes to set-up and soundcheck.

  Glaring over in the direction of the preening Hendrix wannabe, the band set about getting prepared as quickly as possible.

  A cursory run through ‘Mantra’ left the band far from happy. The drums were not right and a constant feedback in the vocal monitors meant that neither Jamie or Dom could hear each other’s vocals.

  Knowing that there was very little that could be salvaged, the band packed their equipment away until show time and retired to a nearby pub.

  As they walked out, Dom couldn’t resist an unsubtle mouthed ‘fuckin’ prick’ in the direction of White Jimi - who was oblivious to the not so thinly veiled insult as he was now miming a ridiculously overblown solo to what appeared to be his doting girlfriend – she was equally absurdly dressed, with silk scarfs hanging from her wrists and a large floppy straw hat with flowers stuck into the headband, worn over a bright pink headscarf.

  Hitting the pavement outside, Dom sneered, “Did you see the fuckin’ state of those two? What a pair of cunts.”

  Putting a brotherly arm round his shoulder, Jamie said, “Don’t let him bother you man. Just makes it easier for us to blow them away later…”

  “I know but what a wanker. Who does he fuckin’ think he is?”

  Having only heard part of the conversation, Danny chirped in, “He thinks he’s Jimi Hendrix, doesn’t he? Thought that was obvious.”

  They turned and laughed affectionately towards him. “I think we got that one D-Mo…”

  Heading up Oldham Street to the always inviting The Castle, the band found a table towards the back of the bar, ordered drinks and waited for the arrival of Cal, Johnny and various friends they had invited to the gig.

  With their short set due to start at 9.30pm, the band had almost three hours to kill and only a limited budget, so halves were nursed and Mikee surreptitiously passed a quarter bottle of vodka back and forth under the table.

  Cally and Johnny arrived in separate taxis. Both checking themselves in the reflection of the cab window as they alighted.

  Given the pleasant summer weather and adding a nice symmetry to the occasion, he had decided to wear his beloved boating blazer. Matched with faded jeans, a pale blue crew neck
T-shirt and brown leather desert boots. He hadn’t scrubbed up bad, he’d thought as he again glanced at his reflection.

  He’d barely recognised Cally as she made for the table that the band and their entourage were occupying. Dressed in the outfit she’d modelled earlier that day, Johnny took in a quick intake of breath. She looked amazing. Slim, tight fitting jeans and the heeled boots accentuated her legs and well-toned backside. The Cult T-shirt, stretched across her chest, made the pertness of her breasts even more eye-catching. With a touch of mascara and subtly applied lip gloss, together with her freshly washed brunette hair, Cally cut the picture of gorgeousness.

  As Cally, clearly nervous, made her introductions, kissing both her boys fondly on their foreheads - much to their embarrassment - Danny sat wide-eyed, and it wouldn’t have taken a mind-reader to establish that the expression ‘MILF’ was writ large between his ears.

  Snapping from his thoughts, he said, “Hiya Mrs Thorne, how are you?” He pulled a wooden chair back. “Take a seat. Oh, here’s Johnny.”

  As ever, Mikee roared the now familiar greeting, “HERE’S JOOOHHNNNNYYYY!”

  Rolling his eyes and feigning embarrassment, Johnny laughed. “I’m always going to disappoint after an introduction like that. Thanks dude.” Offering Mikee a down with the kid’s side-shake, finished with the flourish of a fist-bump, Johnny offered to buy a round of drinks.

  “Hello again Mr Harrison. A bottle of Becks. With a glass and ice please.” Looking him up and down discreetly, she said, “I like your jacket. You do look the part as Mr band manager.”

  Johnny performed a slight bow. “Why thank you. Lads. What can I get you?” Signals for three pints of lager were acknowledged, with Johnny questioning Danny when he asked for a sparkling water.

  “Couple of mates coming down. Want to be proper tight. I’m a professional, me.” Looking round the table, he saw his fellow bandmates sniggering at his proclamation. “I AM!” he protested, before punching Mikee on the arm.

  Returning with the drinks and sitting down next to Cal, Johnny drank down the top couple of inches from his pint and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Somebody needed that then?” Cal said softly over the top of her glass.

  Hunching his shoulders slightly and blowing out, he said, “Tough week. Needed this. And tonight.” He took a further sizeable gulp. “It’s nice to see you down here. You’ll love seeing them play live.”

  Leaning towards Johnny to be heard over the jukebox, and speaking in her soft melodic tone, she said, “I’ll can’t wait. Those tracks they recorded are brilliant.”

  As the band laughed and joked amongst themselves, Jamie looked across at his mum. She really didn’t get out of the house as much as he would like and everything she had ever done had been for them. He smiled as he saw her chatting to Johnny, watching her trace a finger round the rim of her glass absent-mindedly.

  “You’ve been brilliant with the boys.” She glanced up towards Jamie, who was now talking over his shoulder to a couple of friends who had just arrived. “Jamie says that every time your name’s mentioned. Dom can be a little more guarded, but I can see him coming out of himself a lot more recently.”

  “They’re both really good lads. And ridiculously talented. Dom mentioned that you do music tuition. Must be where they get their talent from.”

  With a slight look of remorse in her eye, she looked at Johnny, “Well there’s nobody else is there…” Composing herself quickly, she said, “Right, my round. What would you like? Same again? Boys. Same for you?” Pointing at the empty glasses on the table, she picked up a small red leather clutch bag and headed for the bar.

  Glancing at his watch under the sleeve of his black denim jacket, Danny, maintaining his self-endorsed professionalism, said, “Okay, let’s neck these and we’ll head off.”

  “Aye aye boss,” laughed Mikee.

  Stood at the bar, helping Cally with the drinks, Jamie said, “You seem to be getting on well with Johnny.”

  “Oh, he’s just easy to chat to, isn’t he,” she affected an ‘old codgers’ voice, “and us oldies have to stick together don’t we!”

  Whilst they polished off the round of drinks, a setlist was hastily scrawled on a piece of paper that Jamie had procured from behind the bar.

  It was only 30 minutes until they were on and just as they rolled up at the venue, Johnny’s phone pinged. It was Dean –

  ‘Sorry Johnny, can’t make tonight. Minor family crisis. Next time pal’

  “Balls,” he muttered under his breath. After the unsatisfactory soundcheck, the lads had been holding out for Dean to save the day.

  As they entered the venue, Cally took an immense amount of pleasure from having been on the guestlist. Looking admiringly at the small black stamp she had received on the back of her hand, they headed to the long wooden bar to be met by both Mark and Chris, who were both sampling a cloudy looking imported beer.

  “MR H!” Putting his glass down and hugging Johnny.

  Making the necessary introductions, Johnny said, “This is Cal. She’s the twins’ mum.” He pointed in the direction of the downstairs dressing room that the band had now retired to.

  Extended his hand, Mark smiled at Cally. “Lovely to meet you.” And fulfilling every clichéd introduction, “And ignore anything he says about us, we could tell some tales about him!”

  With mild irritation, Johnny said, “Yes, quite mate. Thanks!”

  Ordering a round of drinks and leaving Cally to listen to his friend’s small talk, Johnny made his way to the rear of the venue, and headed towards the dressing room.

  As he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw that the fire escape door was open, and the band were partaking in a pre-gig cigarette.

  Seeing Johnny, Dom exhaled into the night air, dropping the butt into a sand-filled bucket. “Surprised that cunts not got white bedsheets on the dressing wall and vases full of flowers. The twat. Is Dean here yet?”

  Johnny winced. “Can’t make it I’m afraid dude, some family shit has cropped up. He sent his apologies and said next time.”

  “Fuck,” hissed Dom. “We could have done with him after that shite before.” He shook his head in frustration.

  “Don’t worry about Dean not being here. I’m sure the guy front of house will sort it. Have a good ’un lads, I’ll see ya after!”

  With a quick exchange of handshakes, they then headed up the narrow stairwell and took to the stage, plugging in as the houselights dimmed.

  As the sound/light engineer picked Jamie out with a red spotlight, he adjusted his scarf, shaking out the flex of his guitar, stepping forward to the mic stand, addressing the 70 or so strong crowd. “Evening Manchester. We’re Lonely Souls. We’re gonna be your favourite band before you know it…”

  Nodding a 1-2-3 intro, they rattled into ‘Mantra’.

  ***

  Drawing heavily on a smoke, Dom was blazing. “THAT WAS FUCKIN’ SHITE! ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE AND WE SOUND LIKE THAT!”

  “It’s annoying but shit happens. It could happen at bigger and better gigs than this,” said Jamie, as he pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of his denim jacket.

  Johnny looked round at the bands’ disappointed faces, clapping his hands together. “Put it down to experience. Fuck, remember how good the last gig was. There’ll be far more to remember for the right reasons,” said Johnny with a placating nod.

  Rolling a cigarette as he descended the stairs, the sound engineer walked straight into the band’s post-mortem. Instantly bristling at the sight of him, Dom stepped forward only to be dragged back by Mikee.

  Lighting his cigarette, and raising both hand up palms flat, he said, “Lads, I’m really sorry about that. Fuckin’ nightmare for you. Happens now and then. It’s not the newest of sound systems and we just didn’t have the time. But I am sorry.”

  Shaking the proffered hand, Jamie said as calmly as he could, “Thanks man. One of those things. But you owe us.”

  Nodding enthusiastically, he
said, “Fuck, yeah! I’ll have a word with the promoter and make sure we get you another gig and we’ll get it right next time.” He drew on the ratty looking rollie. “Shame as you’ve got some good fuckin’ songs.”

  Still brooding but happy to take the well-intended olive branch, Dom ground his cigarette angrily into the concrete floor, and accepted the handshake. “We’ll hold you to that. It’s a crackin’ venue this. Fuck, I’m gutted!”

  “We’ll be back. Thanks,” interrupted Jamie.

  Not wishing to outstay his welcome, the sound engineer went to leave. “Sorry again lads, I’ll sort another gig. Got to get back and do sound for Jimi Jimi or whatever the fuck they call themselves.” He checked over his shoulder that said band were not within earshot. “That lead singer is a right knob…”

  “He can say that again,” grunted Dom. Never one in a hurry to drop a grudge.

  “Let’s have a drink and try and forget about this then. As Johnny said, happens to everyone at some point.”

  Trooping up the stairs just in time to hear the start of the second band’s set, they headed to where Cal was stood, still looking solemn, her hands clasped together in front of her. Seeing the boys, she threw her arms round Jamie, looking up at him. “Oh Jamie, I am sorry. You must be gutted. But it was still great. Honestly! And you all looked brilliant up there,” rubbing a hand over the top of his head, “And I’ll let you have my scarf. I wondered where that had gone!”

  Not wanting to spoil his mum’s evening, Jamie said, “We’ll have loads more gigs to come…”

  Adjusting a long floral scarf, the singer said, “Thank you. We’re Jimi Jimi. There’s a spirit within every one of us. I know whose spirit is inside me…”

  He then launched into a cod-psychedelic rock number with no discernible chorus but plenty of badly played guitar.

  Unable to hide his contempt, Dom snorted into his pint, “What a fuckin’ grade A cunt!”

  “Dominic! Language,” snapped Cally, momentarily forgetting where she was.

  Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he said, “Sorry but he is. I wouldn’t mind but they’re shite!”