Broken Birdie Chirpin (11 page)

PART III

THE
KICKER

The
buzzer in my Kensington flat sounded as I poured myself a glass of Chateau
Margaux. The interruption was rather disconcerting considering my overwhelming
desire to unwind. Relentless touring, recording, and promotion had turned my
rock n’ roll fantasy into bloody work after all. My first inclination was to
ignore it, but I’d given the doorman explicit instructions not to buzz me
unless faced with absolutely no alternative. Something foul might’ve been
afoot. I gulped my wine before heading to the callbox.

“What?”

“Sir,
I’m sorry for disturbing you. I tried to sort it out, sir. This gentleman
simply won’t take no for an answer. He insists that he’s an old chum and that
you’d be irate if I sent him on his way.” Blimey. The identity of my visitor
became immediately apparent. He’d pop onto the scene every now and again with
the same heartbreaking modus operandi: beg and plead for a second chance. “What
shall I do, sir?”

“Let
him up.” I wished that my Chateau Margaux was a Chivas Regal as I chugged it
down. His presence in my living room would surely dredge up painful memories.
Moreover, I’d have to send him away in bloody shambles even if he didn’t
deserve it.

I
paced about in anticipation of his arrival. The elevator chimed off in the
distance. Seconds separated us. Knock. Knock.

Frisby
was rapping at my door.

***

Frankie
Shū’s Ballroom. Brick façade. Two enormous black tinted windows plastered with
flyers from hundreds of rock n’ roll shows. Gaudy pink and green neon sign
beckoning would-be hipsters to the red imperial doors. It was as though the
Gods of rock n’ roll had devoured all forms of rock n’ roll stylee and then
chucked up in the middle of Camden Town.

We
waited on the sidewalk for what felt like forty years. “Come on, man. Give it
another bloody knock.” Ollie Maserati grew prickly as he sat in his van with
the motor rumbling. Frisby plopped down his bass guitar case, grabbed the ring
on the golden lion knocker, and rapped mightily.

“That’s
enough, mate. We don’t want to piss them off now.” Skeffington tossed a stern
glance back towards Ollie. “Right?”

“Oh,
you’re right. Better you stand there looking like a bunch of tossers.” Blimey.
Nerves were manifesting themselves in ugly ways and Skeffington wasn’t about to
back down.

“Why
don’t you practice your parallel parking while we sort this out.” Twas a verbal
roundhouse to Ollie Maserati’s ego. No matter. Their row grinded to a halt as
sounds of life echoed from the depths of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom.

“Mind
your manners, Skeffington. We don’t want them thinking we’re bloody barbarians
now, right?” Lincoln couldn’t help himself but Skeffington smiled anyway.

The
imperial doors finally swung open revealing a geezer in black trousers and a
Kinks t-shirt. “I suppose you’re here for an audition.” Skeffington responded
politely in the affirmative. “Alright, sport. Set up your crap. We’ll start in
ten minutes.”

He
stepped through our ranks and yanked a pack of fags from his trouser pocket.
“Son-of-a…” Mr. Pleasant crumpled up the empty box and flicked it onto the
pavement directly in front of me. “Make that fifteen, ladies.”

Onwards
and inwards. A narrow corridor filled with velvet ropes and queue posts emptied
into a rock n’ roll Shangri-La. Dark walnut floorboards crescendoed into a
glorious 20' by 12' stage. Black wrought iron V.I.P. balconies burst forth from
the candy apple red sidewalls. Multicolored spotlights lined the perimeter
while speakers of all sizes dangled from the vaulted ceiling like Apollo’s
plums.

“Are
we underdressed?” Cletus flipped up the collar of his denim jacket as he
ascended the stage.

“Listen
up. I’ve got a wee surprise for you lot.” Lincoln barked over the din of
semi-tuned guitars as he stood atop his stool. “A touch of class for a bunch of
classless buskers.” He flopped down and circled to the front of his kit, which
was all set up save for a black towel covering the kick drum. “Ta daaah…” He
fired off a toothy smile before yanking away the towel. A glorious and stylized
rendition of our collective nom de plume burst forth from the drum’s face:
Rip Churchill
.

His
simple gesture sent the butterflies fluttering away into the mostly empty
ballroom. Win or lose, our ride suddenly felt official. Rip Churchill was here
and all that. Skeffington quit fumbling with his microphone stand and knelt
down in front of the emblazoned kicker. “It’s fantastic, mate. It’s our
anchor.”

“Alright,
dollybirds, let’s get on with it then.” Our luvvly-jubbly moment had been cut
short by Mr. Pleasant himself as he strolled towards the stage flanked by two
additional blokes: a gangly twenty-something clad in a horribly pretentious
Sgt. Pepper inspired ensemble, and an impeccably dressed Asian gentlemen who I
incorrectly assumed was Frankie Shū or his relation.

I
glanced at the kick drum one last time before marching to my amplifier. I
dropped the volume and plucked at the 1
^st
and 2
^nd
strings. A few twists of the machine heads and my git-fiddle purred like an
alley cat. Cletus shot me a thumbs up to signal his readiness as he backed away
from his own amplifier. Our rhythm section had already fallen into line and
were busy clowning about as always. Skeffington made a final adjustment to the
height of his microphone stand and breathed deeply. Moments later the cackling
behind me faded. The supersonic rollercoaster stood motionless at the top of
the first drop. Boom. The slap of Lincoln’s sticks sent us barreling over the
edge.

Somewhere
between “The Sophisticate’s Flat” and “My Little Refugee Girl” we became
teeth-bearing pumas circling ill-fated caribou. Three inches of ash smoldered
atop the tip of Mr. Pleasant’s cigarette while his 20 oz. latte grew cold in
his lap. The gangly chap battered air drums to keep from self-combusting. Only
the impeccably dressed Asian gentlemen seemed impervious to his impending doom
as he coolly mobilized armies from his handheld.

The
final sturdy thrusts of “Ramses Revenge” signaled the end of our audition.
High-fives and backslaps abound on account of the palpable sense that no band
this side of Denmark Street rock n’ rolled any better. A pinch of anxiety crept
in, however, as our would-be beaks temporarily regained control. Fortunately,
the honey in Mr. Pleasant’s tone mostly tipped his hand. “Well, alright. Thank
you. Can you lads hold tight for a tick while we chat?”

Intense
but indecipherable whispers echoed from the peanut gallery. We played it aloof
whilst stowing our gear even though our guts churned with anticipation. The
whispers finally ceased as Mr. Pleasant approached the stage. The verdict was
in. “We’ve got a problem.” Buggering hell. “The headliners for this Friday
night backed out because they’ve got their heads up their own arseholes. We can
dust off one of our regulars, but that’s no bloody fun.” My heart thumped
against my throat. “I don’t suppose you lads can be ready on such short
notice?” I nearly sparked out.

“Sir,
we can definitely be ready.” Skeffington responded with the confidence of a
Spartan general. “We’ve been preparing for this opportunity.”

Mr.
Pleasant tittered at his naiveté. “Don’t soil your knickers, sport. Just swing
by my office after you’re all packed up and we’ll discuss the particulars.”

We
relished the relative ease by which we’d climbed out of obscurity and into the
neon bosom of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. Less talented bands sold the souls
of their unborn ankle-biters just to sit at the table. Rip Churchill licked
crème brûlée off of Sterling silver desert spoons without so much as a bloody
scratch. It wasn’t our intention to stick our thumb into the eye socket of the
fates, but it certainly may’ve appeared that way.

Lincoln
burst through the front door of “Tremaine’s Guitar Shop” shortly after lunch.
Fortunately, I’d been dusting the window display or else he would’ve likely
encountered some old-world snobbery courtesy of Ainsworth. Ainsworth still
managed a disapproving furrow of his jungle-brow before turning back to his
customer. I pulled Lincoln into the corner so as to avoid the appearance of
impropriety. He’d never visited me at work before so I wasn’t sure what to
expect.

Lincoln
began blathering on about the glorious weather we’d been having and the spicy
shawarma he’d eaten for lunch. I’d never seen him quite so squirmy. His idle chatter
became mostly unbearable. “I’m in the middle of dusting.” I held up my ostrich
feather duster as proof.

“Alright,
I’ll get on with it then.” He leaned forward for maximum discretion. “I’m in
love with Rose.” He mistook the look of jealousy on my face for skepticism. “I
know it’s only been a couple of weeks, man, but…”

“Have
you told her?”

“No
bloody way, Churchill. But that’s why I’m here.” Lincoln winked. The intrigue
made me considerably less interested in continuing with my manual labor. I
surveyed the area and was pleased to discover that Ainsworth’s customer had led
him into the side showroom.

“Go
on.”

“I’d
like you to help me write a song for her…something that’ll really ring her
buzzer.” Dozens of thoughts popped into my bonce, but one in particular popped
the loudest. It may’ve been awfully selfish and petty considering the moment.
No matter.

“You’ve
come to me instead of Skeffington?”

“Of
course.” Good answer. “So, you’ll do it, right?” Bloody hell. I couldn’t write
my way out of the shallow end of a puddle at the moment, but telling him to
shove off didn’t seem right either.

“It
may be easier to buy her a luvvly-jubbly greeting card and some dark
chocolates…but, yeah, I’ll do it.” I wondered about the logistics of our
endeavor considering I’d never known Lincoln to write a lick. “Are we going to
write this one shoulder to shoulder?”

“I’ve
got some ideas floating around believe it or not.” Lincoln glanced behind me.
“That geezer’s back. I’ll leave you to it.” He took a step towards the exit.

“Wait.
Has Becky asked about me?”

“Do
you really want to know, Churchill?”

“Maybe
not.” Lincoln left moments later amid a flurry of aggressive posturing by
Ainsworth. I swiftly returned to dusting with a renewed vim and vigor so as to
avoid any further pestering.

Mr.
Surtees popped into the shop shortly thereafter and summoned me to his office.
His wrinkly mug beamed with pride as I informed him of our triumph at Frankie
Shū’s Ballroom. He whipped up a couple of celebratory Brandy Alexanders
and we conversed like old chums for the better part of an hour. His desire for
even the minutest details regarding the audition suggested that he was living
vicariously through yours truly. I didn’t mind because it confirmed that my
life had become infinitely more interesting.

He
finally ordered me back to work so as to avoid drawing the ire of Ainsworth. I
was just a bloody skivvy after all. The mop and bucket began taunting me from
the back closet. Not so fast. “Oh, and do me a favor, will you? Tell your mum
that her proposal sounds just fine. She’ll know precisely what that means of
course.”

“Right.
Sure.” I didn’t give a rat’s arse what sort of cagey extra-curriculars these
two were involved in because good things seemed to happen whenever they
conspired.

Sleeplessness.
Paranoia. Brown liquor. The show was a horrible blur of miscues and rock n’
roll excess. There were sporadic boos on account of sloppiness. There were
sarcastic cheers when we managed to keep it together for a bit. It was a
self-fulfilling prophesy. We’d become handsomely paid circus clowns and it was
mostly my fault.

The
Soho Hotel. Another after party. Rip Churchill was awash in decadence as
bootlickers thrived on the decay. I stumbled about with a Chivas Regal in each
fist. Boom. Laugh at my spiteful barbs lest ye be banished to the dark side of
the velvet curtain. Do you like my Italian leather jacket that I picked up in
New York City? Blah, blah, blah.

Cheap
thrills were too easy to come by. I desperately wanted to ruin something. Donnie
was an easy target because I loathed him anyway. “Do you know that I don’t even
want this toad in my bloody band?” I spat in the face of the pink-haired
cocktail waitress who’d been entertaining Donnie prior to my arrival. “He gets
to stay in my band because I get outvoted every month.” I turned my gaze
directly to Donnie. “I’d be really bloody embarrassed if I were him.”

Donnie
placed his cocktail on the bar and rolled up his sleeves. This poseur was
fixing to watch me bleed. Shogun swiftly emerged from the whiskey haze,
however, to escort me across the lounge. Horrible vulgarities about Donnie and
his mum spewed forth as partygoers looked on in amusement. My cocktails were
summarily confiscated and replaced with ice water. I was apparently inches away
from being extricated from my own bloody party. Sod off. These tossers would
have no such pleasure. I’d escaped before and I could do it again.

Downtown.
Bright lights. Jam jars. I caught my second wind riding the electricity of
Saturday night in Soho. “Ziggy Stardust” thumped out of a local boozer as some
patrons hit the pavement. I slipped inside hoping to be entertained. My
celebrity didn’t go unnoticed and I rewarded their affection with martinis and
firewater. Witty. Charming. Flirtatious. I regaled the hoi polloi with tales of
yesteryear as I graciously posed for dozens of photographs.

Twas
a sharp decline. The lights were flickering. Even my hollow leg buckled under
the weight of this binge. Unfamiliar faces from the crowd offered help, but
what did they really want?

Their
alien hands invaded my space. Where was Shogun or Skeffington? I tumbled onto
my arse as the entrance moved farther away. Darkness.

Then
came an oddly familiar voice that reconnected the circuits if only for a
moment: “Come on now. Let’s get you off to bed.”

Bloody
hell. These were hardly the circumstances I’d imagined, but I instinctively
reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out my wallet. The inner-most flap
contained a delicate folded napkin with some faded scribbling on top. I placed
it in the palm of her hand. She unfolded it as a sparkle of recognition flitted
across her thunderstruck eyes.

“It’s
never been worth it.”

“I
know, slapper.” Her simple words ushered me into oblivion.

***

I
shut my eyes amidst the glorious roar of Rip Churchill as we approached the
last chorus of “Carmenita.” We’d spent the previous two hours ripping through
our set list for Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. It felt like we’d been barreling
down Cautley Spout whilst two finger saluting all comers. I would’ve spent the
next two hours ripping through it again had it not been for bus schedules,
curfews, and alarm clocks.

We’d
agreed to take Thursday night off to recharge the batteries before Friday’s
performance. This was our final rehearsal and spirits had never been higher. We
chin wagged about the future as we crashed down from our rock n’ roll high.
“I’m telling you, it’s time to drop quid on studio time. We’re gonna need
something to toss around at our shows.” I was chuffed that Cletus brought it up
since I’d been thinking about it for weeks.

“We
can probably get a couple of days inside Chuck Magoon’s basement for a decent
price.” Lincoln was obviously acquainted with some of the local sound
merchants. “He’s got a tin ear, but his equipment is topnotch.”

“Let’s
just do it. I’ve got a sweat sock full of bills.”

“You’d
let us use some of your toilet scrubbing earnings? You’re a bloody saint,
Churchill.” Lincoln grinned. “I’m thoroughly inspired. I’ll even smash open
Frisby’s piggybank for the occasion.”

“I’ll
give you the two pence I dropped in her last Christmas, but you leave piggy
alone.”

“We
may not need Frisby’s dowry if we keep capitalizing on opportunities and
getting some real exposure.”

“Right…but
even as bloody talented as we are, Skeffington, and I mean bloody talented…a
record deal isn’t going to happen overnight.” Lincoln had been at it longer
than any of us of course.

“Well,
one thing we’ve got is time, mates.” Blah, blah, blah. “But I’ll throw in my
share if that’s the desired course.” Brilliant. The old fart had come through
once again.

Fifteen
minutes later Skeffington and I were fixing to catch the bus back to reality.
Lincoln pulled me aside as I snatched up my guitar case. “Don’t forget. Next
week we start working on our side project.”

“Do
you have anything down on paper yet? Because I could start fooling around with
it tonight.”

“No,
Churchill, it’s all up here.” He tapped the front of his bonce with his index
finger. “Safe and secure.”

“Alright.
Next week then. Hopefully we’ll come up with something worthy of Rose.” Lincoln
gave me an affectionate tap on the shoulder with his enormous mitt before
ruining the moment.

“Remember,
if you don’t come through…I can always ask Skeffington for help.”