. and some late news just in, pop pickers, UK rock band Scarface will be supported on their September tour by some local boys from Crouch End: an unknown, unsigned, six-piece skiffle group called Daktari.
OK, so we’re not a skiffle band; OK, so they got our name wrong; OK, so the whole gist of the piece was that the tour might turn out to be a pile of claggy old man’s underpants, but still, as Matty so rightly pointed out: “It’s a start, man, it’s a start.”
And you can’t argue with that, can you? It is, by anyone’s definition of events, most definitely a start.
For some reason I’m also feeling much less anxious about Alison than I was a couple of weeks ago. We’ve decided to limit our phone conversations to three times a week so there’s less chance of screw-ups and, loath as I am to admit it, I find I’m not missing her quite as much as I was. I’m enjoying having the flat to myself. I’m enjoying having Vince and Matty round to play poker until five o’clock in the morning. I’m enjoying playing my guitar in front of the TV and eating my dinner in my underpants, and I’m particularly enjoying the opportunity to record heartfelt works of lyrical genius into my mini-disc recorder in the middle of the night.
Still, at least I’ve stopped asking everybody I know whether they think she’s having an affair. It hardly even crosses my mind now. I hardly give it a second’s thought.
“Now, Daniel, you look a little off colour this afternoon. You’re not still worried that Alison might be sleeping with that Belgian fellow, are you?”
“No, Sheila, not at all. Not in the slightest. In fact I can honestly say it’s the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Good. I’m very glad to hear it.”
“Sheila?”
“Yes, dear?”
“You know when you were in Antwerp before the war…”
“Yes.”
“Well… um… what did you think of the Belgian men? Did you think they were more or less attractive than English men?”
“Well, it’s hard to say, dear. What kind of English men did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, men in their late twenties, dark-haired ones,
average height, average build, men like, well, say me for instance?”
“Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“I really don’t think you have anything much to worry about. You’re a very handsome young man. Especially now that you’ve had your hair cut. I know it’s dreadfully old fashioned of me to say so, but I do like a man to have tidy hair. Now, those John Woo films Kostas ordered for me, I especially enjoyed Violent Tradition and I was wondering if you could reserve me a copy of Bullet in the Head.”
“No problem, Sheila,” I say, oddly encouraged by her support for my new haircut. “I’ll just go and fetch the order sheets for you.”
The order sheets aren’t in their usual place so I nip into the stockroom to ask Kostas where he thinks he might have hidden them. Kostas is on the phone. He’s tut ting and sighing and shouting down the line in a rapid stream of phlegm-filled Greek, and I have absolutely no idea what he’s saying. He sounds like he might be arguing with someone, but he could just as easily be discussing the finer points of last night’s episode of Eas tEnders
“Danny,” he says when he finally puts down the phone, “I have some very good new ses for you.”
“Wow, what is it, Kostas, have the distributors come across a Telly Savalas film that you’ve never seen before?”
“No. And there is no need to be rudes, my friend. It just so happens that I have some good ideas to save you money.”
“Go on.”
“Well,” he says, hitching his belt up with both hands, ‘as full-time manager of the bands I decide is up to me to help you out with the tours.”
“Honestly, Kostas,” I say, putting the kettle on to make us some coffee, ‘you don’t need to, you’ve helped us out loads already.”
“Yes, but now I can help you some more. I speak to my cousin Charalambos just now and he say to me he has one very nice van you can use for the tours.”
“A van?”
“Yes, is a very nice van, very good condition, lot of rooms to store your equipments, and he say to me that you can have it for two weeks for fifty pounds only.”
“Fifty pounds? Wow, that would be great. That would save us about three hundred quid. I mean, we were going to rent one. Cheers, Kostas, that’s fantastic. When can we go and have a look at it?”
“Well, my cousin is using it for the rest of the summers but he say is OK for you to collect it the weekend before you go.” I
“OK, great, but you’re sure it’s big enough?” I
“Definitely is big enough. Very comfortable seats in front and the whole of the backs is empty to store your guitars and amps and drums kits.”
“OK, that sounds perfect. How old is it?”
“He only have it for two years. Shall I tell him you think is OK?”
“Yeah, all right, why not? It would really help us out.”
“OK. I call him back right away and tell him you accept his offer.”
I leave Kostas to his phone call, finish up the rest of Sheila’s order and head off to the flat to ring Alison. This is very good news. What with all the extra shifts and the porn money this means we’ve probably got most of the cash we’re going to need for the tour. Maybe we’ll end up having more than we need. Maybe we’ll be able to afford some decent accommodation and a few stage lights to make us look good. We might even have enough to pay for our own sound man at the London gig.
What did I tell you? There’s no doubt about it. The last two weeks have definitely been full of good things.
“Hey, Alison, it’s me.”
“Hey, how you doing?”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“Good.”
“How’s the job going?”
“The same, you know… busy but dull.”
“How’s the apartment?”
“It’s nice. I mean, it’s not as swanky as the hotel or anything but it’s right near where I work so—’
“How’s Didier?”
“He’s fine, Danny.”
“Still a midget, is he?”
“Yeah. In fact he’s probably shrunk since the last time you asked me about him.”
“Good, good.”
“So, how about you? What’s been going on with you?”
“Oh, you know… nothing much.”
“Right.”
“Kostas has given me a few more shifts at the video shop.”
“Right.”
“And we’ve been rehearsing quite a lot.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah, it’s going really well. I’ve written a whole bunch of new songs.”
“Good.”
“And we’ve had a write-up in the North London Herald.”
“That’s nice.”
“Don’t you want to know what it said?”
“What did it say?”
“It said we were a six-piece skiffle group called Daktari… don’t laugh, it’s not funny.
“Sorry… I’m sorry. But it is a bit, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. You’re right. It is.”
“So.”
“So?”
“So what else have you been up to?”
“That’s it really; rehearsing, writing, working up at the shop, trying to organise a van for the tour—’
“Have you found one yet?”
“Yeah. Kostas has found us a cheap one that we can rent off his cousin for fifty quid.”
“That’s good of him.”
“Yeah. Kostas is a top bloke.”
“How’s Sheila doing?”
“She’s fine. She taught me the Nimzovich opening and the King’s Indian Defence and the next time I see Rufus he’s going” to be very sorry he agreed to a rematch.”
“You reckon?”
“Yes I do. He better not think I’m going to take it easy on him just because he’s schizo.”
She knows I don’t mean it. She hates it when people patronise her brother. It drives her crazy that people can’t see how bright he is.
“All right then,” she says, sniggering. Till be sure to let him know next time I speak to him. And thanks for checking in on him last week. I know you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“So, Danny… have you seen anything of Kate this week?”
“No, absolutely not, not at all … why?
“No reason. I just wondered if she’d stopped bombarding you with books about reiki yet.”
“Oh yeah, she’s totally stopped bothering me with all that.
I told her I thought it was all bollocks so she’s sort of … given up on me.”
“OK. Well, look, I suppose I should be getting off. I’ll see you on Saturday morning.”
“What time shall I come and pick you up?”
“I’m not sure. Can I give you a ring Friday and let you know?”
“Yeah, of course, no problem.”
“Good luck at the gig tomorrow.”
“Cheers. It should be good. Matty reckons it’s almost sold out.”
“Well, I hope it goes OK. I wish I could be there.”
“Yeah. I wish you could too.”
“Love you.”
“You too.”
“See you Saturday.”
“Yeah. See you Saturday.”
It’s the weirdest thing. I look forward to speaking to her all day but when I’m talking to her I almost feel like I can’t wait to get off the phone. It’s no good without the facial expressions. It’s no good without the sexy crinkle of her mouth and the admonishing curve of her eyebrow, and one way or another I never seem to end up saying what I mean. It’s not like we end up arguing or anything, it’s just that I can’t seem to make a proper connection over the phone. It feels stilted. And uncomfortable. And strained. I can never work out what she’s thinking. I can’t tell if she’s happy to hear from me or if she’s genuinely interested in what I’ve been up to or if she’s just asking questions out of a sense of duty.
It’s the weirdest thing. While we’re talking there’s a part of me that can’t wait for the conversation to end. As soon as I’ve put down the phone, all I want to do is call her straight back.
It’s the afternoon of our warm-up gig at Kate’s art college and everyone including me is in fine spirits. The sun is shining, the venue is already sold out (they’re selling tequila for fifty pence a shot all night), and we’ve just heard that there’s half a chance we might even get paid. It’s going to be brilliant. We haven’t gigged together for almost six months now and I can’t wait for us to get back onstage and play the new songs in front of a crowd. I’m not even that bothered about running into Kate. I’ve decided to play it cool. I’ve decided to act like nothing happened: chances are she’ll be way more embarrassed than I will.
Vince turns up right on time. We load our equipment into his white Transit van, tie the door closed with a length of green string and pack Vince off to the gig with me and Matty following behind in a minicab. I’m excited. I’m looking forward to the whole routine: setting up the gear, running through the sound check, arguing about the set list and soaking up the anticipation from the crowd when it’s time for us to go on. It’s a great feeling. It’s like going into battle. The moment you walk on that stage you’ve got precisely three minutes and seven seconds (me and Vince have done extensive research on the exact timing) before the audience decide whether they like you or not. It’s all in the first few seconds. The first few moments. The entire fight is won or lost before you’ve finished the coda to your very first song.
As soon as we arrive at the whitewashed union building I feel my heart sink a little. The venue is tiny about the size of my flat and there’s barely enough room onstage for Matty’s drum kit, let alone the whole band.
It’s a crummy set-up: the stage is less than a foot high, the monitors are held together by what looks like infant-school papier-mache, the microphones stink from the pools of band spittle that have collected in them over the years, and the PA looks like it was borrowed from a pre-war Russian dance hall.
The sound guy waves at us from behind his desk and shoots us a clumsy smile. He’s barely out of short trousers and he clearly has no idea what he’s doing.
“Hey, guys,” he says nervously, ‘won’t be too long now. I’ll just switch on the PA and we can get started.”
All three of us suspect what’s coming next and we manage to cover our ears just in time. It starts off innocently enough - a low rumbling and a couple of muted speaker pops but within seconds the PA is yowling like a newly castrated dog and letting off a volley of feedback spikes loud enough to split teeth. Short Trousers Boy looks startled; he isn’t sure what to do: he’s pressing random buttons and fiddling about with insert leads and he’s just beginning to show visible signs of panic when Vince strolls over to the sound desk and pulls down the main fader. Matty shakes his head in disgust. Another know-nothing student who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. What’s new?
Venue restrictions mean we can only make noise for fifteen minutes or so, and we’re barely halfway through our first song when the power cuts out and we’re forced to call it a day. It sounds awful on stage. It always does in places like this. Vince is having trouble hearing his vocals, I’m having trouble hearing my guitar, and Matty’s monitor is so fucked he’s having trouble hearing anything at all. Short Trousers Boy tries to convince us that it will sound better when the place is full, but Vince and I both know that it’s highly unlikely.
There’s not much else to be done. We give our gear a final once-over, make our excuses and leave as quickly as we can. There’s four hours to kill before we go on. We might as well go and get pissed.
x>
“No. We are not going to go and get pissed.”
“Why not? You heard it up there, it’s a shambles. What’s the point? At least if we’re wankered we won’t notice.”
“No, I’m serious. This is the last chance we’ve got to play in front of an audience before the tour. It doesn’t matter how it sounds, it’s about the playing, it’s about the songs. It’s about having some fucking pride in yourself when you’re up there.”
“Yeah, well, I was only saying…”
“No you weren’t, Danny. You’re a defeatist little fucker and I’m not having it. You go up there tonight and you give it a hundred per cent or you don’t bother doing it at all.”
“OK, keep your hair on.”
“I mean it, mate.”
“Yeah, all right, chill out. I know you do.”
For want of anything better to do we make our way to the student cafeteria and load ourselves up with chocolate and mugs of sugary tea. I’m a little taken aback. I know Vince can be pretty demanding sometimes but I’d almost forgotten how seriously he takes the whole gigging experience. He sees it like some kind of moral contract: as soon as someone buys a ticket to see you play you’re duty bound to perform to the absolute limit of your abilities. It’s part of the deal; anything less is as good as nothing at all.