Drowning Success.

The rain lashed out at the corrugated roof, banging and sputtering like an overworked engine. It fell in sheets from the gutters, little waterfalls of cold against a steel morning sky. Inside the transport office, huddled over dirty mugs full of coffee, were Bobby and Chris. They tried to warm their stiff fingers with the heat of the grey liquid.

‘I doubt we’ll get much business with this weather.’ Chris stated.

‘You're right. Nobody in their right mind would come out in this.’

‘Up to much last night?’ Bobby asked.

‘Not really. A few beers at the local. You? You left here in a hell of a rush yesterday.’

Bobby smiled, thinking back.

‘It was a strange one last night. I had a gig at The Tunnels, but I was well late for it. I couldn’t get away from here for folk phoning. I mean, who the hell needs prices on a Friday afternoon?’

‘Sods law.’ Agreed Chris.

‘Anyway, when I got out of here, I nearly put the car into the bollards out front. Traffic was the usual nightmare. It took me ages to get home. When I did get there, I had to have a shower, and when I went to load my gear into the car, I realised I still had to re-string my guitar before the gig.’

‘Did you not think to do that the day before?’ Shrugged Chris.

‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Anyway, so I get to the venue. I’m hauling my gear down the steps, when Paul, the drummer, he comes up and tells me there’s an A&R man in. If I was stressed out before, then now I’m really sweating.’

‘What’s an A&R Man for then?’

‘Artists and Repertoire. They’re the guys that recommend you to their record companies for an album deal. Or not.’

‘No shit! But that’s a good thing surely?’

‘Yeah. Great. Usually. Last night it was just the bloody icing on the cake. By the time I had my gear set up, I was running nearly an hour late, with no time for a sound check. I was not in a good mood. For once, I didn’t even want to play.’

‘Because of the A&R man?’

‘Not just him. I was all hot and bothered before I even started. I didn’t want to let the guys down, but I knew I wouldn’t be at my best. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. I need to be chilled out to play my best.’

‘So how’d it go?’

‘Well that’s the funny thing.’ Bobby smiled, closing his eyes and leaning back. ‘I played better than I ever have.’

My left hand curves, cradling the radius of slick wood that stretches from the heavy chunk nestling at my waist. My right hand is teasing, taming and touching, insistent upon the strings. I close my eyes, but the colours of the stage lights shine right through, casting shadows deep into my mind. I am focusing on the sound that emanates from my amplifier. A big black box, struggling to contain an avalanche of spirit. A flood of emotion, expressing our loves and lives in quarter notes and triplets. The inexorable passage of time is being measured by noise, sounding like the din of a glass bottle being smashed, but frozen in mid-break; the violent crash drawn out, with melody, for a finite distance. I open my eyes, and I am expecting to see the audience, but my vision is dominated by bank upon bank of lights, burning their psychedelic pulse into my retina. My eyes are adjusting as my fingers dance their strange fast steps, and now I can make out a haze of happy faces looking up at me. They look a bleached out tableau behind the colour storm. An ethereal pastiche of an audience. I am electric. My guitar is becoming me. My brain is directly connected to the sound streaming from my amplifier, my guitar the connection. I make it scream and weep, with passionate sensation. The song is climaxing, my fingers taking care of themselves, because I am no longer there. My mind is empty, a conduit for perpetual rhythm. The climax is ending, and the adrenaline is already fading. My rational thought is re-surfacing. I notice the smell of a hundred bodies in the crush. The bass is making a filling in my tooth buzz. There is a bead of hot sweat rolling down between my shoulder blades. The song drifts to an end, but my heart beats on. The applause is colossal and enveloping. Dizzy pleasure. Before long I am dismantling my gear, loading it into my car. The roughness of my towel, taking my clamminess away. The sharp bite of chilled lager assaulting my thirst. My flesh is weary, but I stay to soak up the glances and the smiles. Alcohol-fuzz is gradually replacing the endorphin rush. My thoughts are heavy, like wet clay. I am abandoning my car in the car park, and I feel guilty for leaving my guitar. I am walking home, and the long march is taking forever. I am chewing on hot, greasy pizza, as my feet pound the pavement. I am dreaming long before my eyes close.

Bobby looked up at Chris, his reverie melting back into the shadow of his thoughts.

‘I really think I peaked. I reached some kind of musical nirvana.’

‘Nirvana?’

‘Yeah. I am almost worried I’ll never play that good again.’

‘Don’t be daft. What did the A&R guy say?’

‘I’m not sure. I remember him buying me a pint, and he waffled at me for a while. Adam was his name I think. He gave me his card. I can’t remember him leaving. I was pretty boozy. I’ll give him a call after work.’

Bobby spent the rest of the morning getting through a column of paperwork, and serving the occasional customer. Throughout the day, his thoughts inevitably drifted to the gig. Surely the A&R guy had been impressed? Every time Bobby thought of the call he had to make, adrenaline spurted somewhere in his gut. He knew he had blown everyone away, and although he tried to repress them, thoughts of fame and success kept popping into his mind. Every now and then, a smile blossomed onto Bobby’s face. After work, Bobby went to pick up his car. As he walked, the sun glimmered off of newly washed streets, the rain having died. There was a fresh smell in the air, and Bobby glided up the road, optimism overwhelming him. He drove back to his flat, taking his time, and enjoying the journey. He glanced more than once into his rear view mirror, at the black case that held his prize possession in the back seat. When he got home he put the kettle on. He laid a pad and pen on the table. When he sat down, his coffee was in one hand and the phone in the other. He fished the business card out his trouser pocket. The corner was soft and bent where he had fingered it all day. Forcing his stomach to settle, he dialled the number.

‘Hi, Adam here. Who’s that?’

‘Hi Adam. It’s Bobby. You gave me your card last night.’

‘Ah. Bobby. The guitarist, right? I was just talking about you.’

‘All good I hope?’ Bobby asked nervously.

‘I must confess Bobby I was surprised how drunk you got after the gig. You were pretty rude.’

‘Rude? To you? In what way?’ Bobby’s heart plunged. He couldn’t remember saying anything to offend Adam.

‘Well you were telling me how much money you would make my company, and that I had better snap you up before someone else did. I said that we should talk in the morning, and you started telling me I knew “bugger all about music.” That I was “just the middleman.” It was ignorant and arrogant.’

‘Jesus. I’m really sorry Adam. I had far too much to drink last night. I can’t even remember that. I really am sorry.’ Panic was mounting in Bobby.

‘Anyway Bobby, I had a chat with my gaffer today. He doesn’t really want to sign any more guitar bands at the moment. I like your stuff so I did try to persuade him you were worth a look, but he wants to take the label in a more “poppy” direction.’

‘Oh.’ Bobby’s pen dug angry lines into his pad.

‘Yeah, so I’m afraid we won’t be offering you a contract. I’m sure you have plenty offers on the table anyway, if your comments last night were anything to go by.’

‘Em, actually, it sounds like I was being a total arse last night Adam. Do you think there is any way your boss could be persuaded? If he maybe came to a gig?’

‘No. He’s was clear with me he has had enough of guitar bands. What I can do is ask a couple of friends from other labels to check you out if you like?’

“I would really appreciate that. And again, I’m really sorry for being such a moron.”

‘No worries. Got some advice for you though. If you’re seriously trying to get a deal, stay off the booze. It’s not good for the image.’

‘Yeah. I think I ‘ve just learnt that lesson.’

‘Also, if I was you, I would tone down those guitar solos. I know you can play, but you go way over the top. It’s not the eighties anymore.’