by Magnus Mills
Only when I was on the verge of sleep did the answer arrive. It was like a light coming on, and suddenly I knew precisely which record to take.
At ten o’clock the following morning I paid James an unscheduled visit. I had a long wait before he opened the door.
‘Ah,’ he said, when he saw me.
‘Hello,’ I replied. ‘Just dropped by on the off-chance.’
‘Er … right,’ he said. ‘Go through to the music room and I’ll join you shortly.’
Obviously the kitchen was still out of bounds, so I did as I was instructed and spent the next few minutes gazing around James’s sanctuary. It was slightly less orderly than usual and several of his storage boxes had been lifted down from the shelves. This told me he’d been seeking particular records. Lying on his turntable was a copy of ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction’, but there were no other clues.
Eventually James appeared carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.
‘Cinnamon Snaps,’ he said, as he handed me a cup and saucer. ‘I’ve run out of Malted Milks.’
‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘I thought you only got them in for me.’
‘I do normally,’ he said, ‘but somebody else likes them too.’
It was tempting to ask who he meant, but I managed to resist (I could hazard a guess anyway). Instead, I changed the subject and nodded towards the deck.
‘I see you’ve been giving the immortal rockers a spin.’
‘Yes,’ James answered. ‘It’s part of a little side-project I’ve been engaged with.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m playing all my records with bracketed titles.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘“Keep Searchin’ (We’ll Follow the Sun)”?’
‘Correct,’ said James.
‘“(If Paradise Was) Half as Nice”?’
‘Yep.’
‘“What Does It Take (to Win Your Love)”?’
‘Good question.’
‘Don’t forget “(S.O.S.)” and “(007)”.’
‘No,’ said James. ‘I won’t.’
I could have reeled off some more examples, but I sensed I’d gone far enough already.
‘Sounds like an absorbing pastime,’ I remarked.
James switched on the deck and we listened to ‘Satisfaction’ three times in a row. Afterwards we sat silently drinking our tea.
‘Was there something you wanted to ask me?’ he enquired at length.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I was wondering if you could lend me a record.’
‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘What do you want to borrow?’
Now I should mention here that, although James and I favoured the seven inch format, we each possessed a dozen or so long-players. We’d acquired them for various reasons over the years, and I happened to know James owned the one I had in mind. When I told him the title he was intrigued.
‘Interesting selection,’ he observed. ‘Any specific reason?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and I’m afraid you might object.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to take it to the Perceptive Records Society.’
‘I see.’
I could tell from his expression that James was shocked by the request. He could easily have turned me down flat, but to his credit he allowed me to explain my motives before reaching a decision.
‘I know you disapprove of them,’ I began, ‘and I admit we’ve suffered a split as a consequence of their actions. Nonetheless our ultimate purpose is to engineer their return to the fold, and therefore we should come bearing gifts.’
‘You mean give them my record?’ said James with indignation.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I said quickly. ‘That was merely a figure of speech.’
‘What then?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘as far as I can see they wish to broaden their perceptions.’
‘Yes.’
‘So this record pursues the idea to its logical conclusion.’
James considered my words for a few moments.
‘Don’t you think you’re perhaps being a bit too “clever”?’ he suggested.
‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but I’m hoping they’ll be flattered by our efforts to please them.’
‘And then I’ll get my record back?’
‘Naturally.’
The alternative was to let Keith and Chris go their own way with an entirely separate society, and I suspected James didn’t really want that. He deliberated long and hard, then finally relented.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘you can give it a try.’
‘Thanks.’
We celebrated the agreement by listening to ‘Satisfaction’ once more for luck, and after it finished I recalled some other bracketed song titles:
‘“Quick Joey Small (Run Joey Run)”.’
‘Oh yes,’ said James. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘“(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher”.’
‘Yes.’
‘And lastly,’ I said, ‘“I’m the Leader of the Gang (I Am!)”.’
‘Definitely not included!’ retorted James. ‘We don’t mention him these days.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
He paused expectantly.
‘Can you think of any more?’ he enquired.
‘No.’
James grinned with triumph, then went to one of this boxes and retrieved a record with a yellow and green label.
‘Aha,’ I said. ‘Something progressive.’
‘In its day, yes.’
He removed ‘Satisfaction’ from the deck and substituted ‘Momma’s Reward (Keep Them Freaks A-Rollin’)’.
‘Isn’t that a B-side?’ I asked.
‘Correct,’ James answered, ‘but it still counts.’
We played the record three times in succession, as was our custom, then I decided I ought to get going. James showed me into the hallway.
‘Best wishes for tonight’s meeting,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
‘Alright,’ I replied. At the same instant a belated thought occurred to me. ‘It’s a shame I can’t take Alice’s record to play them.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it would be a good test of their perceptions.’
‘But you’ve never heard it,’ said James. He glanced towards the kitchen door, which was closed. ‘Or have you?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, ‘but Keith has and he was extremely impressed.’
‘Really?’
‘Furthermore, he’s passed the word to the rest of the society.’
‘Oh,’ said James. ‘I didn’t know.’
I left him contemplating this piece of information and headed homeward. With me I carried my passport to the Perceptive Records Society: namely, the long-player I’d procured from James. Quite a lot would depend on the outcome of my visit, so I decided to make careful preparations. This involved a scrupulous study of the sleeve notes (which were printed in English, French, German and Italian) as well as a trial run in the controlled environment of my own bedroom. Once I’d played it through a couple of times I was convinced I’d made an inspired choice.
When evening came I sallied forth to the Half Moon, where it transpired that Keith and Chris had been making elaborate preparations of their own. Somehow they’d persuaded George to allow them to install a fifty-watt quadrophonic sound system in the back room.
‘How did you manage that?’ I asked with incredulity. ‘George has an aversion to loud noise.’
‘Bribery and corruption,’ said Keith. ‘It never fails.’
Maybe so, but they hadn’t attracted a single applicant for their nascent society. They sat waiting hopefully as the time ticked around to nine o’clock, then they accepted the inevitable and the meeting began.
‘Glad you could come,’ said Chris. ‘Obviously we bear no ill feelings towards the forensics.’
‘Pleased to hear it,’ I replied.
‘We simply needed
more room to develop.’
‘So I gather.’
Keith was peering with interest at my record.
‘Are long-players admissible?’ I enquired.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact anything goes.’
‘A commendable policy.’
‘And as our guest you’re entitled to go first.’
‘Thanks.’
The hi-fi belonged to Keith, but fortunately he wasn’t one of those people who were ‘precious’ about their equipment. He assumed I was competent to operate it safely, and watched in silence as I started the turntable and lowered the needle into the groove.
‘“Music has dreamt far too long,”’ I proclaimed. ‘“Now we shall awake.”’
At that moment the door opened and a man looked in. The introductory bars of my chosen record had just begun, so I put my finger to my lips and beckoned him to come inside. He found a seat and nodded with approval at the turntable; clearly he recognised the series of chords that were gradually building up and filling the room. The composition was now reaching the first of its multiple crescendos. As we sat around the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) I realised the newcomer had arrived empty-handed. Still, he seemed content enough and appeared to be following the music closely. It was a long haul, but he waited until it had completely finished before speaking.
‘Also Sprach Zarathustra,’ he said. ‘My name’s Kevin, by the way.’
Chris and Keith introduced themselves while I lifted the record from the deck and replaced it in its sleeve. At this point I thought perhaps there might be some kind of discussion before we moved on, but there was none. Plainly the old traditions continued to hold sway.
‘So who’s next?’ said Keith. ‘How about you, Kevin?’
‘Next with what?’
‘A record.’
Kevin was now starting to look slightly baffled.
‘This is the film quiz, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Keith. ‘It’s the Perceptive Records Society.’
‘You want the other Half Moon,’ added Chris.
‘Where’s that then?’
‘Go down to the end of the road here, turn left, then third right and it’s on your right.’
‘My mistake,’ said Kevin. ‘I’ve come to the wrong place.’ He stood up and walked solemnly to the door.
‘Leave it open, will you?’ said Chris.
Kevin turned to face us.
‘I’m sorry, Dave,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’
‘Dave’s not here,’ said Keith, but his words went unheeded. In an instant Kevin had gone.
If Chris and Keith were disappointed at this early loss, they didn’t show it. Chris merely raised his eyebrows (his normal method of expression) while Keith removed another long-player from its sleeve. His opening selection was ‘Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun’, and as we sat listening I slowly drained my pint of Guinness. When the record ended there was a respectful silence. No comments or judgements; only perceptions, and these remained unvoiced.
‘Anybody like another pint before we resume?’ I asked.
The pair of them gladly accepted my offer, so I took the empty glasses and headed out into the main bar. Which was when I received an unpleasant surprise. I emerged from the back room to see a group of three men sitting at our usual corner table. I knew them at once: it was Phillip and the two Andrews from the Confessional Records Society. Needless to say I pretended not to notice them and proceeded to place my order as normal. There was no doubt in my mind, however, that they were here to observe the comings and goings of the Perceptive Records Society; possibly even to intimidate would-be members with their presence. Moreover, it was quite probable they’d heard about the recent schism we’d suffered and were seizing the chance to gloat.
Well, I was determined to deny them the satisfaction!
I bought three pints from George and sauntered into the back room without giving the confessionals so much as a glance. At the same time, though, I decided not to say anything to Chris and Keith. I was trying to pursue a strategy of softly-softly; I didn’t want it derailed by external forces.
They were patiently awaiting my return, and the next record was already cued up on the deck. It was ‘I Am the Walrus’, and just before it began Chris quoted the line about Edgar Allen Poe.
This was the first time I’d heard Chris quote from a song prior to it even being played, and he was evidently enjoying his newly gained freedom. Nevertheless I couldn’t help feeling that he and Keith were squandering the wider opportunities which were now open to them. I thought we were supposed to be breaking through the doors of perception, but actually the two of them didn’t seem to know where to start.
Come to that, neither did I. My opening gambit with Also Sprach Zarathustra had been close to perfect; yet beyond that I, too, was out of my depth. All of a sudden the doctrine of the Forensic Records Society appeared not as a straitjacket but as a life raft. We listened to ‘I Am the Walrus’, and afterwards there were no comments or judgements (or even quotations).
Even so, it would obviously be a while before Chris and Keith realised exactly what they’d forsaken. For the present they continued to labour under the delusion that they were somehow more perceptive than the rest of us. So it was that we heard ‘Deluxe Men in Space’, ‘I Wanna Be Adored’, ‘2000 Light Years from Home’ and ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ amongst others. The final contribution of the evening was ‘Give Peace a Chance’*.
‘“OK, beautiful,”’ said Chris, as we wrapped up the session.
We adjourned to the main bar for a last drink, and I was glad to see that there was no longer any sign of the confessionals. Presumably they’d completed their observations and departed.
‘Coming next Wednesday?’ Keith asked.
‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘You coming next Monday?’
‘Time will tell,’ he said.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning we’ll think about it,’ said Chris.
This struck me as a rather one-sided bargain, but it was too late to withdraw from my commitment without losing face. I would simply have to stick to my plan and hope for the best. Besides, it wasn’t as if attending the Perceptive Records Society had been any sort of hardship. To tell the truth I’d quite enjoyed myself, and I was interested to discover what unfolded at the next meeting.
A little later George called me over for a quiet word.
‘Phillip and his friends were here earlier,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I noticed.’
‘They enquired about renting the back room on Mondays.’
‘But that’s our night!’
‘I know,’ said George. ‘I told them we had a prior agreement, and then they offered to outbid you. They were quite insistent actually. For some reason they seem dissatisfied with Tuesdays.’
‘I can’t see what they’ve got to worry about,’ I said. ‘They appear to be doing very nicely, thank you very much.’
George leaned in closer and lowered his voice.
‘Why don’t you start taking confessions yourselves?’ he asked. ‘Then you could rake in a bit of extra cash on the side.’
‘We’re not really like that,’ I explained. ‘It goes against our beliefs.’
‘Oh,’ said George, furrowing his brow. ‘Does it?’
He clearly didn’t have the faintest understanding of the difference between the various societies which operated beneath his roof. The last thing I wanted to do, however, was fall out with our host. Therefore, I politely declined his suggestion and returned to join my companions. All the same I was deeply troubled by the news he’d imparted. Once again the arch-confessional had made a hostile move against the Forensic Records Society, this time in a blatant attempt to supplant us from the popular Monday-evening slot. Fortunately Chris and Keith had no inkling of the narrowly averted crisis; otherwise their hand would have been strengthened considerably.
I decided the situation was too delicate to press them on their future intentions, so I carefully avoided the subject. Instead we had a discussion about records which began with ‘Hey!’
The following morning I called on James to return his long-player. I arrived at ten o’clock and after a brief delay Alice opened the door.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘James in?’
‘No, he’s gone out for a while.’
‘It’s just that I’ve brought his record back.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘And I also wanted to let him know how I got on last night.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
As she led me inside I noticed she looked much slighter than usual; then I realised she’d discarded her towering platform shoes and was walking around barefoot. She paused outside the music room.
‘You can entertain yourself in here till James comes back,’ she announced.
‘How do you mean?’ I enquired.
‘Play a few records.’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Not without permission.’
‘But I thought you were friends.’
‘We are,’ I said, ‘but it’s simply not done.’
Alice regarded me curiously.
‘Very well,’ she said at length. ‘You can sit staring out of the window instead.’
She showed me into the room and as I entered I glanced instinctively towards the record player. Lying on the turntable was a copy of ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’.
‘“When your rooster crows at the break of dawn,”’ I remarked, ‘“look out your window and I’ll be gone.”’
Alice turned in the doorway.
‘How do you know those words?’ she asked.
‘I just do.’
‘So you’ve heard it before?’