They once were steely blue.
A twisted comfort. Style.
It seemed to me they’d last
if not maybe forever,
then something not far off,
until my lack of wisdom
spoiled our quirky look.
My hurried decorating;
glossy magnolia scars
in faded stonewash denim
a sign of rash impatience
to end the job. Instead
I ended them. Destroying
our cred with careless flicks
of viscous and silken poison.
Mocking me, the bucket
waited, open. Hungry.
I gave. It received with glee
gulping down my favourite jeans.
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.’
Jack Frost has been playing again:
doing his best to please his friends.
Once upon a distant time,
I thought he was a friend of mine.
His snowballs, sledge runs and snowmen
were hours of fun when I was ten.
Outside the window, it’s two feet deep.
I wish Jack Frost would go to sleep,
but still snow falls in bursts and flurries,
to slow down those who always hurry.
Some folk think it’s really sweet
to see the village, white and neat.
I know now, that it’s not so nice
to head out on the bitter ice
and drag a child from Daddy’s car,
knowing she’ll be permanently scarred.
An angry gash of crimson glow:
a Nike swoosh upon the snow.
Still the traitorous snowflakes drift.
Tonight he’s on the graveyard shift.
Your precious cells, with Mitochondria witness
degrading Telemeres, in Deoxyribonucleic Acid
marking time with wrinkling grey
protecting from cancerous pain.
Hauling yourself from crowded waves
to climb up trees, and jump out again.
The Tiktaalik Roseae, your very own
redraft of Archaeopteryx.
Bacteria on you, in you, are you.
More than you could hope to count
Outnumbering your cells, ten to one.
Your gut, a walking hotel.
A precious thumping heart
since yesterday, hammered
a hundred thousand times
in your living husk.
Yet Creationism denies
the fact of Evolution
And in God’s name
ignores the beauty.
Atoms of carbon
with water and
another thirty seven.
Electricity
you and me.
My Nana’s house always seemed crammed with life. Aunties and uncles babbled away, while my cousins, brothers and I tore around, playing hide and seek, tag, or some other game that we had invented. In the centre of it all, my grandfather held court, telling stories, and giving us piggybacks around the living room. My nana was always on hand with a biscuit and a plaster, for when you skinned your knee. Mother and father always had to pretend to like each other when we were there, to keep up appearances.
Out in the hallway, with the heavy door closed, you could find a modicum of quiet. It was like turning the T.V. down; the shrieks and yells of happiness faded to the edge of hearing, and the air seemed to cool down in the muted light. It is here that I first discovered the piano, hidden by shadows, underneath the stairs. It sat, surrounded by jackets and coats, sadly wedged into its makeshift nest.
I wasn’t allowed to touch it, which stoked my fascination. I felt sorry for the way it was pushed to the periphery of the house, excluded from the family. The timbers were extremely dark, and the lacquer glossy. The oily reflections and smooth curves, somehow managed to convey sadness and despair. I often used to lift the long, skinny lid when no one was around, exposing the strip of yellowed ivory that seemed to ache for touch. Whenever I was caught with the lid up, I was scolded, and told that the lid could nip my fingers.
When I was nine, my nana gave the piano to us. She always knew that I loved it. I remember the day it arrived, strapped to the back of a rusty truck. The piano was planted beside our massive oak dining table for the next few years, and seemed a much happier creature, in the heart of our home. It stood proud in the sunshine, beaming its toothy grin at me; I made sure the lid was open all the time. I never had any musical tuition, but even I knew there was something wrong with the piano’s insides. It sounded ill, but still made me smile with simple pleasure. One of my friends taught me Chinese Chopsticks on his new piano, and it sounded thin and vacant. I hurried home, eager to play it. I preferred the discordant notes that filled my dining room, and the history they were packed with. They helped to drown out the arguing that permeated the house.
Once my legs grew long enough, I discovered the sustain pedal, and my delight was recharged by the thick noise that reverberated around me. I never understood what the other pedal was for. Perhaps it was broken.
There were ceramic soldiers stationed on top of the piano, accompanied by glass ashtrays and discoloured postcards. I think that was the reason it took me so long to realise that the top could open. I discovered this purely by accident, leaning against the rim when I was clambering about on a chair. It moved a fraction, and I immediately cleared the ornaments off for a closer inspection. Opening it revealed a strange world of strings, pegs and hammers, coated with decades of dirt and dust. I pressed the keys with my feet, and laughed with joy, watching the little hammers strike the strings. At some stage, my father found me, staring blissfully into the mechanism. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry; he just told me to put the ornaments back, before my mother caught me.
A few days later, Dad told me someone was coming, to see if the piano could be fixed. I got very excited at that. The piano would finally be getting the treatment it deserved. When the man came, with his case of strange tools, I wasn’t allowed to watch, in case I pestered him. I had to wait impatiently in the living room. Eventually, he came through, and told my Dad that it wasn’t worth fixing. He said we could probably get a new one for the price it would cost to fix it. I hated him for saying those words. He crushed my hopes with an opinion.
Not long after that, my Mum and Dad split up. I moved away with my Mother. When my Dad sold the house, he dumped the piano at the council tip. What really annoyed me though, was that shortly after moving, he purchased an ancient, malfunctioning Harmonium. It fills the space that the Piano should sit in. Every time I visit, I start pumping the bellows, and churn out a wheezy rendition of Chinese Chopsticks, in memory of my beloved Piano.
