Expiration Day (9 page)

The drummer was actually a lot older than my parents. He looked really craggy, like old leather or baked earth, neither black nor white, but somewhere in between; gaunt and wiry, with not a spare ounce of flesh on him. When he grinned, I wasn't surprised to see gaps.

There was a guitarist, with awful ropelike hair, tight-wound and matted. Like dreadlocks, I suppose, but nothing so neat. His clothes looked like he'd robbed a scarecrow, but the scarecrow must have been glad to hand them over.

The last of Mike's Stands was the bassist, a woman dressed in a man's pin-striped business suit, a size or so too large. She, too, was wearing shades and a flat-rimmed hat—Blues Brothers style, of course. She'd rolled up her right sleeve, thought, and had added a couple of Nike wristbands, which rather spoiled the effect. As I watched, she was putting the last touches to her wiring. Then she straightened up, and began to stretch, but only flexing her fingers and hands, first clenching a fist, then releasing. In turn she eased each finger out and back, massaging each one gently with her thumbs.

Odd.

So, that was the band John had brought us to see. Definitely a blues band, then.

I turned back to John and Siân, who'd also turned to watch the band getting ready. I managed to catch John's eye, and he gave me a little smile, which made me think of dance floors and Slade tribute bands and … anyway, maybe I wouldn't kill Siân just yet.

But before I'd got any further with those thoughts, I heard a couple of faint strums of the electric guitar, and suddenly the band exploded into their first song.

It was like nothing I'd heard before—a couple of snare beats warning, then the whole band was in there, with the kick drum driving the whole thing along, while the guitar and bass wove complex melodic fireworks about each other. Meanwhile Mike prowled the center stage—there's no other word for it; he was a lion marking out his territory—and sang I-don't-know-what, but it gripped me and shook me and demanded my total attention.

Wow!

I risked a look at John, and his mouth was open. He was staring at the band, too, wide-eyed. Then I looked back at the band, and my eyes settled on the bassist, and I realized why she'd been doing those finger stretches. I could barely see her fingers move—they blurred over the strings like berserk spiders—but I could hear the distinct hawsering of the melody in the bass, and feel it deep in my innards. And it looked effortless.

That was the moment I knew I wanted to play bass, in a band. A proper band, writing its own music, not a tribute band. I wanted a bass that was cool, like hers, horned and slim-waisted, laquered jet black and chrome, and I wanted to make it sing, like she did. I wanted to dress my own way, and have people look at me, and admire my playing. Yes, and admire
me,
too.

And I wanted John to … stop looking at Siân!

There was no doubt. John was staring at Siân, quite blatantly.

Now Siân is a blonde, and a very stareable blonde, I suppose, if you're a boy. She's shaped like a girl, you see, a proper, grown-up girl, I mean. And she'd just spent the morning shopping for clothes in a top Oxford Street boutique, and she looked just … oh!

Oh, gosh, Zog, this is just so embarrassing! And you have no idea what I'm going on about. How humans are two different sorts. I mean, you must know, being an archaeologist and an anthropologist and a xenologist and a space traveler and all that. You must know that men and women are different, but you only know it in an academic sort of way, because you're a great scientist, all the way from Andromeda.

Anyway, we are different, and we grow up even more different, not just bigger. Girls get curves and padding, and I was thirteen just like Siân, but
I
was still shaped like a Meccano hat stand. A very short hat stand.

So amid all those wantings around basses and becoming a great player of basses, I added wanting to be a proper thirteen-year-old, too. I wanted to grow up, I wanted to start to look like a woman. I wanted to stop being skinny and elbows, I wanted to have my own curves and padding. I wanted John to stare at me. Desperately, desperately, I wanted, needed John to look at me the way he was looking at Siân.…

So the band finished their first number with a crash, and the three of us yelled and clapped and stomped. And Mike wiped his brow with a towel, and raised one sardonic eyebrow in acknowledgment.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That was called ‘Cuts.' We're gonna take the pace down a little with this next one. It's called ‘Ace.'”

It was slow and incredibly haunting. Just voice and percussion for a verse and a half, and out of nowhere the faintest of notes detached itself from Mike's vocal and became a high bass countermelody. It sent shivers down my spine, honestly.

The whole of the set was like that.

When it came to an end, I felt drained, like I'd just climbed a high mountain, but exhilarated, like I was standing on the summit, with the whole world beneath my boots, looking down at it.

John and Siân were on that same mountain, I could see. Antonio's other customers, yes, they were atop their own peaks. I risked speaking, just a whisper in the sudden silence.

“John, did you know it would be like this?”

“Yes, more or less. I've seen them before. A week or so back. I hoped I could persuade you to come and I could surprise you.”

Then Siân spoke.

“That was wonderful, John. I'm so glad you asked us.”

Which he hadn't. He'd asked
me,
but I'd had to bring
you,
Siân Fuller.

John stood up.

“Can I get you girls something to drink?”

We chose fruit juices, and he wandered off to the bar.

“Your friend's nice, isn't he?”

“Yes,” I agreed, not quite sure what else I could say.

“Quite tall.”

“I suppose he is.”

“And rather handsome.”

“Uh.”

“You were on holiday with him, you said. It must have been lovely.”

I thought back. Fake coal mines. Platform shoes and a Slade tribute band. Me in lilac hot pants.

“Not really. It was … boring. It was the seventies. It was embarrassing.”

“Really? Even with a nice friend like John around?”

“
Yes
. No. I mean, we were just
eleven
. He didn't look like that, then.” Even if
I
did. I needed an escape.
There
.

“Look, Siân, excuse me. I need to go…”

But it wasn't the bathroom I needed. I walked over to the band, where they were breaking down the equipment, to the lady bassist, bending over her guitar in its case, carefully wiping down the strings.

“You played really well.…” My voice sounded small, nervous.

“Thank you.” She didn't look up, but threaded the cloth between the strings and the neck, and eased it back and forth.

“It's a lovely bass.…” I ventured.

“Yeah. It's an Aria RSB Deluxe 5. It's about sixty, sixty-five years old. I look after it.”

“How…” I was starting to flounder.

She looked up. She'd taken off the shades, and I could see her eyes. Hazel. And kind. I could almost see her make a decision not to brush me off.

“What do you want?” Gentle.

I took a deep breath.

“I want to learn to play the bass. Like you.”

“Like me. Umm. What's your name?”

“Tania. Tania Deeley.”

“Don't you think you ought to learn to play like Tania Deeley, first?”

I didn't know how to answer that.

“Sorry, Tania. That's not fair of me. When I was your age, I wanted to play like John Entwistle. It took me years to learn to play like Amanda Taylor. That's me, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I smiled.

“You're just going to have to buy a bass and learn. Listen to records. Find what you like and what you don't. Then search the TeraNet and find others who share your interest, and start a tribute band.”

“I don't want to be in a tribute band. I want to do what you do—write your own music and perform it.”

“Don't waste your time.” Her voice was bitter now. “Look at us. Mike and Gary are brilliant songwriters. And Gus and I do our bit. Together we're inspired, brilliant. In another time we'd have had a five-album recording contract. We could have filled any stadium in the land. Instead of which we're gigging in a sleazy café in Soho, playing to twenty people, if you include the staff. My day job is a TeraNet programmer, and I'm not a very good one, but it mostly pays the bills. I'm divorced, childless, and forty-five. And only slightly angry at the world.”

She smiled, and it was a brave smile. She continued.

“Have you been in a record store lately? Have a look at what's on offer. Greatest hits of 1975. The Complete Frank Sinatra. Elvis: the Sun Sessions. It's all old. Nostalgia. Look at the posters—mostly names like the Lost Corrs. People don't want original music. They want tribute bands, to help them turn the clock back to happier times. Our world is dying, and who is strong enough to watch it happen?”

“So why…?” I began.

“Why do we do it? Make music for a world that doesn't want to listen? I can't speak for the other guys, but for me, making music is the only time I feel alive. I need to create … something. Every woman is made that way, and every man, too. If I can't create a baby, then I'll create a song. It's not much; it only lives for three minutes and then it's gone. But…”

“You must have recorded the songs, though. They'll last.”

“It's not the same. It's the difference between a real person and a photograph. Live music is the only thing that matters. And I didn't mean to put you off forming your own band, Tania. That was mean of me. If you really think you can write good, original music—go for it! Don't be a tribute band, though. That's just another photograph. Excuse me.”

She turned back to her bass, and bent over it, polishing where it was already pristine. I sensed the interview was over. I started to turn away, just as a tear splashed next to a pickup.

“Goodbye, Amanda. Thank you.”

No answer.

Back at the table, John had returned with our fruit juices. He was deep in conversation with Siân. I decided to ignore his fixation on her chest.

“John. How do we form a band?”

But he was ahead of me.

“Tania, meet our new singer. Siân Fuller.”

Sunday, January 14, 2052

Mister Zog, I'm learning to play bass. It's hard work. My fingers don't stretch far enough, so I can't play some of the standard patterns in the books—I've had to experiment to find other ways of getting the notes. And the bass I've got is just huge. I mean, it's nothing special, just a Precision copy. But it looks huge on me.

It's the church's bass, really. Dad found it in a storeroom, along with an amplifier that's supposed to be for keyboards, but it sounds okay. There was a drum kit in there, too, equally cobwebby. Dad says the church used to have a live worship band, thirty years ago, before the worst of the Troubles. These days, the church is not a jubilant place, and the instruments are in storage, waiting for happier times to come again. If anyone asks, I'll give it back, but I'm not expecting that anytime soon.

It wasn't hard to find books on how to play, either. They've all got titles like
Play Bass like Led Zeppelin
or
Stones Bass Guitar
. Put your favorite band in, hit search.

What is hard is to find the techniques and the theory, but John put together a contextual search that filtered out all the tribute band stuff, and what was left was a few golden nuggets.

So I practice every chance I get, up in my bedroom, headphones on. I'm starting to get the hang of what bass lines do, how they fit with the chords and melody. I've downloaded some of Amanda's recordings, to listen to. She's amazing—they all are. Yet …

Yet I start to see what Amanda meant. It's not the same as being there. It reminds me of the gig—see, I'm talking like a musician—but it doesn't reach down into your guts and tear at your emotions in the same way. So I dip into it occasionally, but I try not to listen to too much of any one band. I know I've got to find the style that works for me.

Style. Now that's the other thing. I stand in front of the mirror, sometimes, with my bass strapped on, and play along to a blues, or some rock and roll. I try to move like Amanda did, but my knees and elbows are as ridiculous as ever. I look like a little girl who's borrowed her big brother's bass. We don't belong together, visually.

I've tried different clothes, and they do make a difference. The ones that work best are the ones I bought in Oxford Street that day. Black and gray and silver. In them, I look least like a child.

So I've hunted the TeraNet, and I've found a few ideas. Mike's black leather jacket gave me the basic idea, I suppose. It just seemed to work so well with the music. I tried sketching myself in a leather jacket, but I've never learned to draw. So I tried John's contextual search again, and tried the TeraNet fan sites. Top of the list was a lady by the name of Suzi Quatro, but there were plenty of others to prove that the look worked.

I tried a photo edit, with my own head melded into some of those pictures. It was good enough.

So I took a deep breath, and headed downstairs.

 

 

Mum and Dad were watching an old George Lucas movie when I came in. They're never totally convincing in pseudo-3-D, but Lucas kept on remastering those movies until he died, claiming that each new cinematic innovation would enable him to realize his true vision of
Star Wars
. Still, his final space battles are magnificent. I settled down and waited for the right moment.

Sure enough, the next appearance of C3PO, and Mum started getting restless. Dad took the hint, and turned it off. At least it wasn't
Blade Runner
.