I usually don’t waste my precious time writing to magazine forums to bore others to death with stupid ramblings. Especially regarding such silly topics as "my experiences from musician’s life". Crap. Waste of paper. But after what happened to me last week, my pen itched too much to let it go.
I’ve been struggling along as a musician for a heap of years. I’ve had my glorious moments (once I managed to make whole 9 pounds in a day by busking in the filthy pedestrian tunnel under the river Thames – alright alright, I spent them the very same evening in a pub, curing my claustrophobia from the bloody tunnel, but that changes nothing about the fact that it was a smashing success); I’ve had my moments of shame (it wasn’t gorgeous when the fucking old bitch poured a bucket full of water on my head in the midst of January, unappreciative of the fact that she could enjoy a free music gig right under her windows). Ups and downs, that’s life. But I have no doubts there’s a career for me to be made. Whenever I spot a "musician wanted" ad winking at me from a clipboard, I try my luck. Bunch of loony punk kids looking for a crazed weirdo who would bash his brains out onstage every night? Group of elderly jazzmen seeking replacement for their saxophonist who recently passed away at the blessed age of ninety-five? Been there, seen it, tried my luck. Seasoned veteran of music biz. But the last week’s encounter beats everything.
Having been sacked from yet another job (scrubbing floors in a very posh club where nickels could be found under the chairs almost as frequently as cig butts), I went to drown my sorrow in a bottle – a well-tried and tested medicine. I ended up in a stinky hole of a pub – dropping in there just confirmed my expectations that their beer was watered-down slop and that the stench from their toilets might kill somebody some day. I downed several pints, but my sorrow was still showing signs of life. Having run out of cash, I decided to resort to good old busking. I climbed on a table and used my vocal chords as a powerful instrument to soften the hearts of the listeners – or to make them shut my mouth with a jar. The next thing I remember is lying sprawled, face down on a pavement, rumble of angry voices behind me, a hysterical female giggling, a meaningful slam of the pub door. Shit. I struggled to my uncertain legs and limped away, looking for a peaceful place where I could lick my wounds. I turned around a few corners and found myself in a quiet alley with a comforting row of benches. I staggered to the first empty one, slumped down on it, and staring out into nothing, I wallowed in self pity and nursed my wounded pride. After a while, my tired head dropped to my knees and that was when I spotted the paper. It lay there under the bench, just a tiny crumpled scrap. No, I haven’t sunken as low yet as to rummage bins or pick up leftovers from under the benches. But for some reason the paper caught my eye and wouldn’t let go. I reached for it, nearly falling from the bench. It was dirty as hell and seemed as if it had been lying there for some time. I smoothed it out and read: "... playing abilities [... missing bit...] just a minimum of your free time. Drinking bent is welcome. Contact xxxxxxxxx." Damn. This could be my chance. I carefully dusted the paper off and put it into my wallet as if it were a hundred pound banknote. My ticket to bright career.
I spent the following day in bed, fighting with hangover and with my reluctancy to fix the dripping tap although each drop was like a nail being stabbed into my poor head. It wasn’t until the late afternoon that I remembered my lucky find, my ticket to glowing future. I got up, performed the heroic task of dressing myself and summoned up all my charm to persuade the landlady to let me use her phone. (Whether my own phone line was disconnected or gnawed through by a rat, I don’t know and don’t give a damn.) I dialed the number from the scrap of paper and sat there, nervously toying with the crocheted cloth on the phone table, listening to the rings emptily echoing at the other end of the line. When I was about to abandon all hope, a weary voice murmured "Yeah?" Only that, and nothing more.
"Hello, I read your advertisement that you were seeking for musicians..." – it didn’t occur to me for a split second that the word "playing" could mean anything else than a musician-hunt – "... and as I’m a very skilled musician..."
"Advertisement?" Long pause. "Ahh." Even a longer pause.
"Yes, I’ve played in variety of bands and I can guarantee that..."
"XXX Pub. At 10 p.m."
Then the line went dead. But I didn’t need to hear anything else. I was so overjoyed that I not only forgot to put the receiver on the cradle, but in my haste back to my den, I tripped over the landlady’s tomcat, sending the poor creature scurrying away with aggrieved mewing. And I’m an animal lover, I swear. Share my flat with at least one cockroach family.
Precisely on time, I stood in front of the pub door, guitar in one hand, bass in the other and a whistle stuffed in my shoe under the trouser leg. I pushed the door handle with my elbow, kicked the door open with my whistle-free foot and boldly stepped inside. The room was dim, filled with blueish smoky haze. Chubby long-haired barmaid was lazily polishing glasses behind the bar. Handful of patrons were scattered around, but still the pub seemed surprisingly empty. The guests were obviously chatting over their pints, and yet an eerie hush hung over the place as if I entered a TV scene with the sound turned down. I went to the plump fairy behind the bar and began to explain that I had been summoned there to meet musician hunters. Without even bothering to raise her eyes, she nodded her chin to a corner table and continued to circle the glass with monotonous movements of the towel.
I approached the table. Three men sat there. A hunched guy whose once lean figure was slowly running to fat, with lanky, greasy hair and something distinctively weasely about his long wrinkled face. A bald man hiding behind very dark sunglasses, crushing a whiskey bottle in his right hand, his knuckles white from the effort. It wasn’t only because of the pair of handcuffs at his waist why he gave the impression of being a psycho. And finally, deepest in the dark corner, a pudgy individuum with a strikingly pale skin contrasting with a tangle of dairk hair and a distant, faraway look in his bassett-like eyes. His black shirt was smudged with cigarette ash and with something unidentifiable which could have been mud as well as the remains of dinner.
"Ehm, hello."
Psycho’s sunglasses turned to me but he didn’t utter a word. Bassett didn’t notice me at all. Weasel mouthed a half-hearted "hi" and motioned me to an empty chair.
I took the place, brushing a layer of dirt from the seat – I suspected the chair usually served as a leg-rest. "So here I am. I’ve come..."
"We noticed." Weasel eyed me sceptically and with just a slightest hint of interest. When I flashed him a dazzling smile, he turned away. At that moment, Bassett suddenly awoke from his reverie, snatched a blunt pencil lying on the table, looked around urgently and then grabbed the menu from under an ashtray, tore away a page and began scribbling hurriedly around the edge. Almost unnoticeable smile played on Weasel’s lips. He turned back to me. "So?"
"Well, you didn’t specify who exactly you were looking for, but I’m kinda multi-instrumentalist, so just tell me where I should start. I’m a very skilled guitarist..."
Psycho jumped up as if there was a spring steel in his body. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the jungle of half-empty bottles and glasses. "Hey, what the fuck, Joey! I do not fucking dig it! You said..."
"Cool off, Paul. Shane said, not me. Said that The Popes were sacked, that’s a fact."
"I’m not The Popes!" Another bang to the table. An ashtray jumped and the mountain of ash settled into a low hill, half of it spilling over the table. "I’m a guitar player, I need the fucking job! I thought we were old mates, Joey!"
"Yeah, Paul, that’s the only reason why I told you I’d see what we can do. Sit down and shut up. If you disturb Shane from his creative rapture, I will personally sack you once and forever, I swear."
Psycho angrily plopped himself down on the wooden chair, took a hungry swig from the whiskey bottle and wringed a napkin in his hands as if it was someone’s neck. If he was shooting murderous glances around, the sunglasses mercifully hid them.
Weasel once again turned to me. "Fuck the guitar. A multi-instrumentalist, you said?"
"Me multi-instrumentalist too, krrrsshhh," supplied Bassett from the corner, but before anybody could take in the remark, let alone react, he was back to his furious scribbling, filling the tiny spaces between beer and whiskey brands with his messy scrawl.
"So what else is in the scope of your expertise, maestro?" asked Weasel.
"I brought a bass...," I quickly started to open the case.
"We don’t need a fucking bass," growled Psycho. "Hell, every idiot can play bass. I messed about with it several times when Bob was totally out of it. Can play it as well."
"Simultaneously with playing guitar, yeah? Now I know why I have always loved you, Paul," retorted Weasel.
"Shit, banjo should be a piece of cake too. Looks like a fucking round guitar, no deal. Gimme an hour or two of practice, and you have a banjoist here too. All we need is a fucking drummer. Then if His Highness Shane drags his lazy arse onstage, we are out of the woods." Psycho seemed impressed with himself for such a long and reasonable speech. He nodded his head with appreciation, drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle, pulled out a water pistol from somewhere behind his back and began studying it closely.
I quickly seized my chance. "Yes, of course, drummers are essential. I have a wide experience with drumming, played the percussion in several bands..." The longest time I lasted in any was three days, but one doesn’t have to always say everything, yeah? "I have experience with rich variety of drum kits..."
"Bodhran," announced Bassett. All eyes turned to him. "I will play bodhran. We dont’t need no fucking drummer."
"Shane, it was your idea to hire a new band," Weasel reminded him.
"Fuck drummers," murmured Bassett, then grabbed the paper he had been scrawling on, tore it into two and with an exasperated "shit" crumpled both halves and threw them on the floor. Then he groggily stood up and shuffled away in the general direction of the toilets.
I felt my unique chance evaporating, my ticket to bright career breaking into shreds. "Hey, even if you change your mind about drummer, maybe I can still be of help. I’m also...," I rolled up my trouser leg and reached into my shoe, "... I’m also an excellent whistler."
A pure fire flashed in Weasel’s eyes. "Get outta here," he hissed.
I held up my hands and the offensive instrument sparkled in the weak light of the pub. Weasel eyed it in the same way a bull eyes a red cloth. "Sorry, no offence meant, no whistle, okay, but look, I can also play the sax..."
"Fuck off this very second! This very second, you filthy puppy!"
Psycho chuckled. Then chortled. And again, louder, absently pushing the trigger of the water gun and sending a fountain of water against the dirty pub window. Perhaps the first washing the window pane had seen in years.
The white anger in Weasel’s eyes turned into stone. Then into arctic ice. Then his thin lips broke in a smile. "What about your practice with lighting fags? Lighting fags to geniuses," he added meaningfully.
"Uhm, sure, extensive... uhm, very extensive, of course."
"Consider yourself hired." And under his breath: "If you do well, you may even pick up the guitar from time to time."
Psycho crashed the empty whiskey bottle against the edge of the table, the shards raining down on the filthy floor and drops of whiskey seeping into the two abandoned paper balls scribbled over with Bassett’s hand.
Weasel rummaged in his pocket for a while, then the other pocket, until he found a piece of paper with an internet address printed on it. He threw it into my lap. "Check the web for gig dates." Then he bent down, picked up the sogged paper balls, carefully smoothed one out and began reading. He raised his eyes to me as if surprised to still see me there. "And now fuck off, didn’t you hear me?"
Psycho pointed his water gun at me. I bid them polite farewell, hastily picked up my instruments and headed towards the door, expecting the stream of water to hit me between my shoulder blades at any moment. But it never came.
Since then I have been practising the most elegant fag-lighting, using cig butts I pick up on the streets and stuffing them into a rotting melon resting on my shelf which substitutes the mouth of a genius. I think I’ve honed the skill to perfection. Can perform the whole operation without even missing a beat on my guitar. Been checking the website regularly, and I’m not exactly sure how to understand the line: "Shane is concentrating on writing for a while. There are currently no live dates pending." immediately followed by "All tour dates are confirmed! All gigs will take place as planned!" I have decided to nurse hopes. After all, geniuses are entitled to extravagancies.
I also nurse the hope that you’ll publish my story in the magazine forum. Just remove all the place names and phone numbers, please, I don’t want any vultures to swoop on my unique chance.
Yours truly,
XXX, musician, multi-instrumentalist, and aspiring assistant of geniuses.
photo © unknown