I watched his eyes as I suggested he use the kit in the studio. They nearly exploded. The kit was state-of-the-art stuff, fully digitised, electronic pads, which were mixed through a special equaliser on the board, Zildjian cymbals; the whole ball of wax.
Alex had warned me to expect some teething problems, as the kid had never owned a kit, and I was prepared for the worst. For maybe fifteen seconds.
After five minutes, I was ready to draw up a contract.
When we called a halt, Alex brought him into the booth. He was speaking as the door opened, and I could sense his pleasure.
“I thought you said you’d never used a full kit. How did you …? You know …”
But Marco just smiled.
“I said I didn’t own a kit. Do you know how many music stores there are in this city? I’ve been thrown out of every one of them. At least twice.”
My opening.
“Well, Marco. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about getting thrown out of anywhere again …”
The next day he played for the others, and got the nod. I took him home and talked to his mother. A week later she signed for him, and he was in. The band was complete.
Marco wasn’t the problem.
Tasha was.
It was Tasha who had the most trouble adjusting. And it really wasn’t her fault.
All the others had cut their teeth on music. For Tash, the most it had ever been was a hobby. So it was all a new experience, and on top of everything, she was the frontline.
Apart from the rehearsal time with the band, she was putting in extra hours with a singing coach, smoothing out the edges. But the singing lessons, intensive as they were, were no problem. She was a willing student, and she had a great natural voice to start with.
If that was all there was, it would have been no trouble at all.
It’s just that her role was so critical. The sound was one thing, but she had to carry the burden of being the “face” too, so it was more a confidence thing.
In some ways it would have been easier if she wasn’t such a nice kid. If she was a little more egotistical. But she wasn’t, and it just wasn’t working. For a while there, I was beginning to think we might have to ditch her, and reopen the auditions. A prospect I didn’t relish — for any number of reasons. Most of them beginning with a capital “S”.
I discussed it with Chrissie, who had taken on a role that was somewhere between big sister and union organiser.
She listened, nodded, and stood up.
“Leave it with me,” she said. So I did …
CHRISSIE’S STORY
“Why don’t you wake up to yourself and start living in the real world?” I said. I was looking straight into her eyes, and I could hear the hard edge in my voice. Her mouth opened and closed once, but nothing came out.
Then, before she could work out what was going on: “I give you about three days before Max cans you and starts looking for a new damned singer.”
Max was right about one thing. Tasha was too nice. If I was her I’d have slapped me straight in the mouth.
Too nice …
But then, I couldn’t help thinking about Damien. He was an egotistical jerk and a monumental let-down, but I guess I’d always assumed that it was all a part of the personality that made a lead-singer just that — a leader.
Bullshit!
That was exactly what had been wrong with Torsion from the very beginning; the reason why Max had never been interested in us, even though he’d seen us at one of our best gigs. A band doesn’t need a “leader”, it needs a complete identity. It’s a team effort, and everyone has a job to do. Tasha’s job just happened to be to stand out front, looking hot, and selling a song.
She had a great voice, and she pretty much knew how to use it. And her body. She just didn’t know she knew.
Strike that. She knew it. She just didn’t believe it. It came from being catapulted into a job she’d never even considered as an option.
The other singers who’d tried out had been psyching up for that audition all their lives. They’d believed in themselves and in their ability to do it. Even if some of them were kidding themselves.
Tash knew she could sing and she knew she could sell a song. She’d proved it at the audition. But knowing something in your head just isn’t the same as knowing it in your heart. In your soul.
I think she was just plain scared. It was a case of snap her out of it or watch her go under. I knew what Max was contemplating, and I couldn’t really blame him, but the kid had potential. It was worth the effort it might take to try and break through.
Besides, I really liked her.
For a moment she looked like she was going to burst into tears.
“What do you mean?” She looked so bloody helpless that I was tempted to put my arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be alright. But it was much too late for that.
It was time for radical surgery.
I bit down on my sympathy and pushed on.
“I mean, ‘Why don’t you wake up to yourself?’ What do you think I mean? You’re just not cutting it, kid. You’re about this close to getting the flick. And you’ll probably take the rest of us down with you.”
It was a rotten thing to say, but I had to shock her into some sort of action.
She just looked at me.
“The rest of you..?”
I remained strong. Just.
“Of course. Once Symonds hears about it, he’s just as likely to pull the plug. Cut his losses and get out. He wasn’t exactly in love with this project in the first place.”
I watched the realisation dawn. Suddenly this wasn’t just about her, and settling in. It was the big picture.
The tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back. Almost. “I didn’t think …”
I pushed on.
“Well, it’s about time you did. And it’s no use crying. Either you learn to do what they’re paying you to do, or go back to selling overpriced dresses and quit making a fool of yourself.”
I got the feeling I’d pushed as far as I could get away with. She was ready to break, and the last thing I wanted to do was destroy her confidence completely.
Playing bad-cop and good-cop on your own isn’t easy, and I just hoped I could get the balance right.
I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. Her eyes were staring right into mine, like she was waiting for the axe to fall.
I had hoped to make her mad enough to fight, but that wasn’t going to happen, so I changed tactics. I touched her forehead gently with the tip of my finger.
“What is it, Tash? What’s going on in there?”
“I don’t know. I just … Chriss, it’s like part of me is standing outside myself and looking on, and when I try something, I can feel that other me shaking her head and acting embarrassed.”
“But you seemed so confident on that first night in the studio. It’s part of what got you the gig. What happened?” I had my own theories, but I wanted to hear what she had to say.
“I felt … I can’t explain it, but it was as if … I don’t know. As if that wasn’t me. The whole experience of being there, and watching the others, and then Max asking me … I guess I didn’t have time to think about it. But these last weeks, I …”
“You’ve had time to scare yourself.”
She frowned a little. “I suppose …”
“There’s no ‘suppose’ about it.” I paused, then an idea hit me. A long-shot. “Tell me about your family.”
For the first time in I don’t know how long, Tasha smiled slightly.
“Like what? My parents are old. They didn’t have my brother until they were in their forties, and he’s like … four years older than me. Dad retired last year, and now they spend most of their time speaking Russian with their friends, and reading. Vladimir is my brother. He calls himself Peter, but I call him Vlad. It gets him mad, because he says it makes him sound like a vampire … Mad Vlad …
I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
I shook my head.
“Not at all. You didn’t get out much, did you? As a kid, I mean.”
I watched her face. There was a moment of remembering.
“No, I don’t suppose I did. I did a lot of stuff. The dancing and the gymnastics. Stuff like that. But …” She shook her head and the words ran out.
“Well,” I said. “I guess it’s time to get down and get radical. Grab your coat.”
We picked up Alex on the way. Tim wasn’t answering his phone, and Marco’s mother was in the hospital again, so Alex was it.
If I’d had my druthers, I really would have liked Marco along. He had the sickest sense of humour and he wasn’t a bit self-conscious. If you make as much money as he did busking, you can’t afford to have any nerves at all. With his personality and looks, I could see him being the sex-symbol of the band — even if he was just “almost fifteen”.
I guess his home situation had forced him to grow up quickly. His father walked out on them when he was about five, so it had only ever been him and his mother, and when she got sick … Well, let’s just say Marco was a bit ripped off in the childhood stakes. But it didn’t seem to bother him that much. He got his own back with practical jokes and by just being Marco.
That was why I wished he was coming along. Tasha just needed a bit of a push, and he was exactly the one to do it.
Still, Alex was a pretty good substitute. There wasn’t too much he wouldn’t have a go at. As long as it wasn’t excessively illegal, or fattening.
So there we were, the three of us, heading down George Street to the Quay. I’d parked at the Goulburn Street station, and I really didn’t have anything particular in mind. Just to break her of her shyness. There was a rager inside there just waiting to bust out. All we had to do was find the key.
Small beginnings.
I’d made her agree to follow our lead in anything we decided to do. I’d got to her at her weakest, so she was ready to agree with just about anything rather than give up the dream.
Which was exactly the attitude we needed …
ALEX’S STORY
Typical Chrissie. Jump in with both feet, then sort out the details as you go along. You had to love her.
She’d filled me in over the phone before they came to pick me up, so I was ready for just about anything. I just hoped Natassia knew what she was letting herself in for. Though I very much doubted she did.
We started off easy. Halfway along George Street, Chrissie nodded to me behind Tasha’s back, then she linked arms with her on one side, and I did the same on the other.
Now it’s not easy for three people to walk side by side with their arms linked along George Street at lunchtime on a Monday. People give you the filthiest looks, and make exactly the kind of comments you’d expect from frustrated wage-slaves with forty minutes between them and starvation. But you’re never going to see them again, and they probably won’t remember the incident themselves a minute after they sit back down at their desks, so in the scheme of things it probably isn’t such a big deal.
So what’s there to get all embarrassed about? Nothing of course. And any normal, semi-intelligent individual over the age of ten should know that. But it doesn’t stop us worrying about what a few hundred complete strangers might think when they see us for a few seconds out of their entire lives.
Like I said, it’s not easy for three people to walk with their arms linked along a crowded city street. But it’s even harder when the two individuals on the outside start skipping, and singing excerpts from The Wizard of Oz at the tops of their voices.
Halfway through “We’re Off to See the Wizard”, I thought we’d lost her. I could feel her trying to pull her arm free, but I kept it trapped between my elbow and my body. I could sense it was the moment of truth. If she pulled away then, we’d lose her — maybe forever.
I kept singing, but I slid a look across at Chrissie. She winked, then hissed to our red-faced captive, “Come on, Dorothy, you ain’t in Kansas anymore. You promised, remember?”
I saw Tasha’s head turn and a look passed between them, which I only caught the Chrissie-half of. It was enough. She stopped resisting, and her feet picked up the rhythm of the song.
By the time we skipped past the Village complex, she was singing louder than either of us. And the words of the version we’d worked out would have set the straw-man on fire and had Judy Garland spinning in her grave.
Which must have convinced Chrissie that her pupil was ready for Round Two.
It’s one thing to act like a lunatic out in the street, but it’s quite another thing to do it in a confined space—which is, of course, exactly what we did next. And the most confined space yet invented by personkind is also the easiest place in which to really embarrass someone.
Next time you get into a lift, think about the rules that everyone obeys once they step through the sliding doors. They’re rules everyone knows, but nobody knows how they know them. They aren’t printed and stuck to the walls, you aren’t taught them at school, and the police probably couldn’t enforce them. But they are rules.
Most lifts will have signs telling you how many people can fit in safely, some will even tell you that you can’t smoke. But you will never see a sign saying, Passengers Must Face the Front of the Lift. So how come everyone always does?
We didn’t.
We also didn’t obey the other unwritten law of elevator-travel — namely that no one stares at anything but their own feet, or the numbers above the door.
When we stepped in, the lift was almost full. We stood just inside the doors, facing the back of the lift, and Chrissie pressed the button for the top floor, then started looking from face to face, studying each one in turn, as if she was looking for pimples or something.
Now, skipping along the street singing “Follow the Yellow-Brick Road” is one thing, but even I find it tough doing the one-to-one silent stare in a lift full of nine-to-fivers who are peeved enough already at having to go back for the afternoon shift.
Alex, I told myself silently, it’s for Task.
And I followed Chrissie’s example.
Pretty soon, Tasha joined in. She started the easy way, by studying my face, but then I could feel her take a breath, turn, and look straight at the woman in front of her.
I sneaked a glance at the woman’s face. She didn’t know what to make of us, and I could see her brain working overtime behind her blank expression.
The lift stopped and a few people pushed past, but the woman remained. As the door closed again, she took half a step backwards, then appeared to change her mind, and swayed forwards again.
At the back of the car a man’s voice whispered, “Bloody teenagers,” and a couple of the passengers looked decidedly uncomfortable. So did Tasha. I wasn’t sure how long she could last.
Then the lift stopped again, and the woman in front of her stepped forward to leave the car. But just before she did, she winked at the two of us, smiled, and kissed Natassia on the cheek. I’ll never figure out what made her do it, but I felt Tash relax immediately. She turned and watched the woman until the door closed, but the woman never looked back.
By the time we reached the end of the line, we were the only ones in the lift, and we were sitting on the floor, cracking up. Tasha was laughing louder than anyone.
A bit of a capella busking and some soft shoe tap-dancing near the entrance to the park and we were about ready to call it quits for the afternoon. Chrissie was smiling and looking pleased with herself, and as we made our way down Elizabeth Street Tasha took hold of our arms, linked up, and began a reprise of “We’re Off to See …”
I began to understand how Doctor Frankenstein must have felt, but Chrissie had joined in, so what the hell?
MAX’S STORY
They didn’t ever tell me what they did, but I noticed the difference in Tasha straight away.
There were still problems to be ironed out, but the light at the end of the tunnel was beg
inning to look less and less like an on-coming train.
Symonds’ money looked safer by the day, and by the time the six months were over, we were ready.
As ready as you can ever be in this business.
12
SIDES
ABUELITO
Loneliness is an itch that cannot be scratched. A feeling with no centre. An emptiness without boundaries.
The boy is late. As usual. His father is working.
Nothing is new.
But this is not the source of the old man’s loneliness. What he feels at this moment can strike when the house is full and conversation is bouncing from person to person like a soccer-ball from player to player. It is a sickness of the soul, and he has lived with it off and on since he was not much older than the boy is now. Since the night the music died.
He sits in the small chair beside his bed, holding in his hands the picture from the dresser.
They were happy then. In the middle of the horror that was tearing their world from its foundations, they had love. And family.
And music …
31 March 1937
Arenys de Mar
The gringo holds the camera and shouts an instruction in his own language, before he realises the futility of it. No one in the group in front of him appears to understand a word he is saying. Reluctantly he switches to his pidgin-Spanish, which proves almost as fruitless.
“Juntos … y … y … rian.”
“I think,” Ardillo whispers, pausing in his playing for a moment, “that our yanqui friend would like us to stay still for a moment. And Manuel, this time try to smile, instead of hiding behind Conchita. You ruined the picture last time.”
Behind them the Mediterranean flashes blue in the late morning sun, and the American is captivated by the beauty of the scene. At this moment, he is more like a turista than afreedom-fighter. The anger that led him to volunteer to come to Spain and fight the Fascist threat lies dormant under the gentle breeze, and for a short time the war seems nothing more than a bad dream which has boiled itself out, leaving in its place this perfect morning.
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