by Magnus Mills
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a copy at home.’
‘But normally you only like records with gimmicky bits.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I countered. ‘I like all sorts.’
Alice peered at me reflectively.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’re not as …’
I never found out what she was going to say next because suddenly the doorbell rang and she hurried off to answer it. A few moments later I heard voices in the hallway. James was back from his errand,* and when he came into the music room he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
‘It’s worse than that,’ he explained, after he’d recovered a little. ‘I’ve just come past the Public Meeting Hall and there’s a huge poster of Phillip on the billboard.’
‘Blimey,’ I said.
‘Apparently they’re planning to hold mass confessions down there on Thursday evenings.’
James was evidently quite distraught. He was holding a packet of Malted Milk biscuits, but he seemed totally unaware of the fact until Alice gently removed them from his grasp.
‘I’ll go and make some tea,’ she said.
James gazed vacantly at the biscuits.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Could have been worse,’ I ventured, after she’d gone. ‘George told me they were trying to take over the back room on Mondays.’
I went on to recount the events of the previous evening, and urged James that it was imperative to win Keith and Chris back to our cause. Without their support we’d be helpless against a mass movement.
‘There’s no doubt about it,’ I said. ‘Phillip is determined to suppress the Forensic Records Society by fair means or foul.’
James pondered the situation.
‘Phillip and his friends are obviously playing a numbers game,’ he said. ‘We know from our own experience that they tend to reject unsuitable candidates willy-nilly. On the other hand they need to maintain a constant flow of revenue. Presumably they’ve decided to make up the shortfall by adopting industrial methods.’
‘A scattergun approach,’ I suggested.
‘Correct.’
‘With no hope for those who fall by the wayside.’
As though to confirm our faith in the forensic principle, James went to the turntable and played ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right’. While we were listening Alice came in with a trayful of tea and biscuits, and I thought she looked at me slightly less severely when she passed me my cup and saucer. I knew full well, however, that I should not take anything for granted. Therefore I made a mental note to choose my words carefully if and when we discussed music.
In the meantime, the remaining members of the Forensic Records Society had no alternative but to continue to plough our own furrow. I can’t deny that I was rather disappointed the following Monday when Keith and Chris were absent once again, but I was pleased to note that most of the others had a positive outlook. Dave and Barry were without doubt the most firmly embedded of the rank and file; and Rupert, although he seldom spoke, showed no sign of wavering. The only cause for concern was Mike. Even after attending for several weeks he still displayed a periodic lack of confidence in his choice of records. This evening, for example, he’d plainly brought more than the specified number. He sat at the table slowly shuffling them as if unable to decide what to present to the rest of us. Amongst them, to his credit, was my copy of ‘Another Girl, Another Planet’, which he duly returned to me. All the same, there were at least six records stacked in front of him when the session began.
Despite the reduced attendance the meeting proceeded more or less as usual. Alice was on duty behind the corner bar, and James presided over the red portable. I’d been worried that this might sound puny in comparison with the fifty-watt system employed by the Perspective Records Society. Very soon, though, my qualms were laid to rest. Dave’s first choice of the evening was ‘Bad Moon Rising’, a recording perfectly suited to the mono format.
‘Right, let’s get started,’ said James, ‘and remember: no comments, judgements or quotations.’
He delivered the words in his normal uncompromising manner. We’d heard them on countless previous occasions, but tonight for some reason they produced a reaction from Mike. It was hardly anything, barely discernible, but nonetheless I could tell that some kind of watershed had been reached. Lying at the top of Mike’s stack was a copy of ‘No Particular Place to Go’, another record very much in the mono tradition. A moment earlier he’d seemed ready to present it as his opening contribution; now, however, he changed his mind and discreetly moved it out of sight. For the next two minutes seventeen seconds we sat around the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and listened to ‘Bad Moon Rising’. I only hoped it wasn’t an omen of what lay ahead.
Fortunately, Rupert lightened the tone with ‘Israelites’, then Barry followed with ‘Me and Baby Brother’ (both sounding surprisingly mellow on the red portable). By the time we got to Mike’s turn he’d settled for ‘Monkeys on Juice’ and appeared wholly satisfied with his selection.
The final offering was ‘Are “Friends” Electric?’ (chosen by James) and while it was playing it struck me as a befitting contender for the Perceptive Records Society. In the same instant I realised I must learn to erase such thoughts from my conscience; otherwise I could end up on the same slippery slope as Chris and Keith. I reminded myself that my link with the PRS was strictly ambassadorial. My role was to investigate them and report back, whilst taking care not to fall under their influence. Even so it was clear that I needed to cultivate their favour, which in turn required me to take a set of worthy records to their meetings. Yet how could I make choices except by engaging my perceptions? I was still debating this quandary when the session ended and we drifted out into the main bar.
As soon as I emerged George beckoned me over.
‘Phillip was here half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘He came to cancel his Tuesday evening booking.’
‘Oh, really?’ I replied. ‘That’s great news.’
‘What do you mean great?’ George demanded. ‘It’s a catastrophe!’
He was highly displeased, and when I considered the matter from his standpoint I could understand why. The Confessional Records Society had certainly generated large profits for the Half Moon and its passing would doubtless cause George a sleepless night or two. Still, it was only with some effort that I managed to express a degree of sympathy. In truth I was delighted that Phillip had decided to move on, and I couldn’t wait to tell the others.
I glanced across at the corner table where Barry, Dave, Rupert and Mike had already congregated. They sat with their heads together and spoke to one another in urgent whispers. All of a sudden Mike shook his head sharply; then without a further word he rose to his feet and headed directly for the exit. The other three watched him go before calmly resuming their discussion.
‘What was all that about?’ enquired George.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit of an outsider these days.’
It was a fact I’d only just become aware of, yet when I thought about it properly I realised there’d been many signs and indications recently. Dave, Barry and Rupert evidently viewed themselves as the core group within the Forensic Records Society. Where Mike stood in the arrangement was difficult to tell, but I suspected there was some aspect he was unhappy about. All I knew was that they no longer sought my opinion; neither was I party to any of their conversations. Therefore I decided to keep the news about Phillip to myself.
James was equally isolated, of course, but in an entirely different way. When he and Alice eventually reappeared from the back room they paid no attention to anybody else and, after returning the red portable to the cellar, sat down at a separate table. It was gradually dawning on me that my days of sharing pints of Guinness with James were well and truly over.
When Tuesday evening came I was tempted to call in on the Half Moon to see for myself that the Confes
sional Records Society had indeed departed. However, I swiftly changed my mind when I pictured George standing forlorn and abandoned behind his bar. Instead I began making preparations for Wednesday.
My previous foray to the Perceptive Records Society had been a partial success, but I knew it would be folly to pursue a similar approach on my second visit. They’d merely assume I was trying to be clever, so this time I chose a much simpler course of action. It was based on the concept of a blank canvas. Rather than spending hours selecting records according to some vague criterion of ‘perceptivity’, I would pick them at random from my collection. The other members of the society could then make of them what they wished. So it transpired that the following evening I arrived with copies of ‘All My Ghosts’, ‘Death of a Clown’ and ‘Hurry Up Harry’.
George nodded at me gloomily as I traipsed inside.
‘Number four,’ he declared. ‘Better than an empty house, I suppose.’
I bought a pint of Guinness, then went through to the back room. Seated around the table were Chris, Keith and Mike.
‘Aha,’ said Chris, when he saw me. ‘The secret envoy.’
‘We thought you had a genuine interest,’ Keith added, ‘but you were just spying on us.’
Presumably Mike had given the game away. He did look slightly guilty.
‘I’m not a spy,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to improve relations.’
‘You’ve got a funny way of going about it,’ Chris remarked.
‘Well,’ I said, glancing at Mike, ‘at least I’m not a turncoat.’
In spite of the cool reception it seemed they had no intention of ejecting me. I was unsure whether this was because they were more liberal than the Forensic Records Society, or simply because they wanted to make up the numbers. Whatever the motive, they offered me a seat and Chris quickly got the meeting underway.
‘Alright, Mike,’ he said. ‘Would you like to begin?’
Mike’s presence was yet to be explained, but when he revealed his first record I began to get an inkling. He’d chosen ‘No Particular Place to Go’.
‘Two minutes forty-two seconds,’ he announced. ‘Can I say something before we play it?’
‘Certainly,’ said Chris.
‘It’s only a minor point.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Right.’
Mike paused for a second or two while he composed himself.
‘The pitch of the guitar,’ he said, ‘reminds me of an angry Yellow Cab in heavy traffic.’
‘Must be to do with the tuning,’ said Keith.
‘Yes.’
‘Been to New York, have you?’ Chris asked.
‘Went there on a pilgrimage,’ Mike replied. ‘Nearly got run over.’
That was all he wanted to say, so Keith started the record and we sat listening closely. After it finished there was a long silence; then Chris quoted the line about the safety belt that didn’t budge. It was a poignant moment, and we could all imagine the way he felt. Furthermore, we were aware that neither Mike’s comment nor Chris’s quotation would have been allowed under James’s rigorous auspices. (Judgement, in this case, was quite unnecessary.) With these sobering thoughts in mind we continued the session, and for his opening choice Chris produced a copy of ‘Just Passing’.
‘If this was a portrait,’ he said, ‘it would be classified as a miniature.’
The running time wasn’t shown on the label, but I guessed it was barely more than a minute in length. Mike had evidently never heard it before: he sat gazing transfixed at the record as it whirled round and round on the turntable. Chris and Keith were similarly enthralled, and during that short period I realised that none of them were guilty of disloyalty. Regardless of their protestations they were all ingrained forensic men. The only difference was that they were now known by another name. However, I had no idea if this made my task easier or more difficult.
During the next hour or so we listened to several interesting recordings (including ‘Hurry Up Harry’, which caused Chris to raise his eyebrows); then, as the evening drew to a close, Keith submitted a long-player. The song he’d chosen was ‘Time Has Told Me’. This provided a perfect opening.
‘So,’ I said, after it had ended, ‘has time told you yet?’
‘Told me what?’ Keith enquired.
‘You said time would tell,’ I explained, ‘when I asked you about coming back on Mondays.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I did, didn’t I?’
‘I was just wondering if you’d reached a decision.’
‘Well …’
‘Hang on a sec,’ said Mike. ‘I thought we were supposed to be sharing our perceptions.’
‘We are,’ Keith replied.
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘My fault.’
Mike was most indignant about the way we’d casually drifted off the beaten track, but Chris intervened swiftly to smooth his ruffled feathers.
‘We share our perceptions,’ he affirmed, ‘simply by playing records to one another.’
‘You mean we don’t need to analyse them in depth?’ enquired Mike.
‘Not unless you want to,’ said Chris. ‘You can if you like.’
‘No, no, it’s alright.’
The long-player was lying motionless on the deck, and Mike spent a while peering studiously at the label.
‘Five Leaves Left,’ he murmured, as if committing the words to memory. ‘Five. Leaves. Left.’
Once again Chris raised his eyebrows. It seemed that the Perceptive Records Society had made a significant conquest, and I was at a complete loss as to what my next move should be.
‘That’s one of the problems with Mondays,’ remarked Keith. ‘Long-players aren’t allowed.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘I’ll concede that.’
‘Next Wednesday, for example, I was thinking of bringing the long version of “Voodoo Chile”.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘But on a Monday it would be strictly forbidden.’
During this brief exchange Mike had sat gazing vaguely across the table. Now, however, he suddenly snapped out of his reverie.
‘“Voodoo Chile”!’ he intoned. ‘Five minutes eleven seconds!’
Keith shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking of “Slight Return”.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The short version is subtitled “Slight Return”,’ Keith replied, ‘but there’s also a long version with different musicians.’
‘Blimey,’ said Mike. ‘I never knew.’
Needless to say there was no question whether Mike would be coming back the following Wednesday, if only out of sheer curiosity. The look on his face suggested a whole new world was opening up before him. Meantime, the future of the Forensic Records Society remained unclear.
Looming large in the background was the menace posed by Phillip and his swarm of admirers. From the moment I awoke on Thursday morning I felt apprehensive about the forthcoming meeting in the Public Hall. To judge from recent developments, the CRS was rapidly evolving into a formidable organisation whose reach extended further each day. To make matters worse, I gradually became aware of some kind of magnetic force that was trying to drag me towards its centre. At first it was barely noticeable, but by the early evening I found myself being drawn irresistibly in the direction of the Meeting Hall. Fortunately I had enough self-possession to regard the situation objectively, as though I was taking part in a scientific exercise. It was the others I felt sorry for: the unsuspecting majority who had no inkling they were being controlled and exploited. When I arrived at eight o’clock there were already hordes of people heading through the gateway, many of them carrying small square boxes with neat handles on their lids. It was a warm spring evening and they were being greeted at the top of the steps by the two Andrews, both wearing sunglasses and sporting flowery ties. Spaced at regular intervals along each side of the hall were large posters of Phillip, smiling b
enignly and inviting all and sundry to come and confess. I paused outside the railings, resolute in my determination to proceed no further, and suddenly I spotted Mike standing a short distance away. He was peering with interest at the advancing crowds, but I could tell at a glance that, like me, he had no intention of going inside. I walked over and joined him.
‘Come to see what all the fuss is about?’ I asked.
He was fully preoccupied and my words made him jump.
‘Oh hello,’ he said, once he’d recovered himself. ‘Yes, I thought I might have a look.’
‘It’s like lambs to the slaughter.’
‘Yep.’
Just then, from within the Meeting Hall, came the sound of a record being played. I recognised the song straightaway, and as a sorrowful voice began warbling I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Mike, however, had plainly never heard it before. He stood listening closely with a baffled expression on his face.
‘What’s he talking about?’ he demanded at length. ‘What’s all this about leaving a cake out in the rain?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I replied. ‘It’s one of the great unsolved mysteries.’
We resumed our vigil as the ballad wended its tortuous way towards its climax. By this time the hall was almost full and the flow of prospective confessors had diminished to a trickle. In consequence, Mike and I were fairly conspicuous as we loitered outside the railings. It was obvious the two Andrews would have noticed us, and when finally they slipped inside I had no doubt they’d report our presence to Phillip immediately. Even so, my duty as a neutral observer obliged me to stay just a little bit longer. I was unsure what course a mass confession might take exactly, and for the present I could only guess what was going on behind the closed doors.
After the record finished there was a loud ‘clunk’ as a public address system was plugged in; then a few seconds later we heard words being spoken in a rich, resonant tone. The voice belonged unmistakably to Phillip, but for some reason he was employing a slight American accent.
‘Good evening,’ he began. ‘I bid you welcome. Welcome to those who witnessed the birth of our humble society, and those who joined us as we took our first steps into the wider world. Since then we’ve achieved much and we still have much to achieve.’