Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 4

  “Right. He’s just being a cheeky bastard. You’re hired.” I chimed in to massage egos and diffuse tensions. Skeffington constituted just one piece of the puzzle after all.

  “Well, not so fast. Why don’t you hotshots sing your arses off and we’ll see if you can pass our audition.” This sure-thing that Becky orchestrated out of sheer kindness had turned mostly hostile. Our former rhythm section forced us to put our money where Skeffington’s mouth was. We huddled up for a moment to discuss strategy.

  “You’ve really gone and made this more difficult now, haven’t you?”

  “Sorry, mate. But we don’t need charity and we’re not pushovers. Let’s thread this sodding needle.” Underestimate Skeffington at your own peril. Our band was going to be a mutual respect society or nothing at all.

  We decided to let it ride on a mid-tempo rocker entitled “The Sophisticate’s Flat.” The song was mine conceptually, but Skeffington smoothed out the edges with his pop sensibilities. It was raucous enough to make your stomach churn but melodic enough to keep you humming along. We upped the torque by trading off on vocals. Skeffington’s velvet tone massaged the verses while my howl punctuated the chorus. The time had come to let this three-minute opus out of its sleeve.

  We were celestial bodies laying waste to the brick and mortar of the Muswell Hill garage with rock n’ roll flamethrowers.

  Then there was a rumble from inside the smoldering dust. It started with a tap here and a tap there. It grew into a sporadic pulse. Before long it was a steady beat intertwined with intermittent flourishes of crashing metal. Seconds later a series of sonic thumps joined the fray. The Jump Jets were flying sorties behind us in earnest. “The Sophisticate’s Flat” began to burst at the seams.

  The garage fell silent as the final note finally stopped reverberating. Skeffington broke the silence with seven simple words: “It’s time to tell my dad, mate.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Skeffington’s decayed body was found three years later, buried under the parking lot of the Davies Football Complex in Mayfair. His bones were draped in the tattered remains of a St. Thomas’ School for Blighters football uniform complete with shin guards and jock strap. His dad delivered a stirring eulogy that mostly recounted Skeffington’s glorious career as a jock. There was no mention of Skeffington’s brief flirtation with rock n’ roll. His ashes were placed in a silver football-shaped urn etched with the following epitaph: “Midfielder.”

  Fortunately, the fates weren’t as cruel as my imagination. There wasn’t any bloodshed on account of Skeffington’s confession. He wasn’t even beaten. His dad took the news reasonably well. There was an intense interrogation followed by stern warnings. Skeffington’s artistic endeavors weren’t to interfere with the three As: Academics, Athletics, and Attitude. He’d also have to quit the band post haste if it negatively impacted his mum’s social calendar. These terms were non-negotiable, and Skeffington was obliged to execute a handwritten contract. He did so with an enormous sense of liberation.

  The week that followed was transformational. I’d gone from lo-fi busker to frontman/lead guitarist of a genuine rock n’ roll band. Intros. Outros. Tempo. Cohesion. The strenuous learning curve should’ve been rather daunting on account of our tiny window. Lesser rock n’ rollers might’ve buckled under the enormous pressure. Sod off. We sucker-punched pressure in the konk with our grizzled rhythm section leading the charge.

  Lincoln and Frisby might’ve only been one or two years older, but they’d already lived a lifetime. They’d been playing in one rock n’ roll outfit or another since puberty. I found myself mostly enamored with their scars and the war stories they bandied about like currency. Snatching them up as our permanent rhythm section seemed like a bloody no-brainer. Skeffington remained somewhat skeptical of course because of his natural predisposition towards rigidity. He didn’t altogether appreciate their lack of decorum or frequent forays into tomfoolery.

  Lincoln referred to Skeffington as “Sporty Spice” after he waltzed into our final rehearsal dressed in football attire. My rock n’ roll fantasy flashed before my eyes as Skeffington glared at him with distaste.

  “Oh, that reminds me, mate.” Skeffington struck a surprisingly mild tone. “Do you mind if I run inside to grab my jockstrap and the box of Magnums I left on your mum’s nightstand? I snuck out late last night and forgot all about them. I’ve still got two raincoats left and I want to save them for after the spring dance.”

  “Sure. But mum’s in with Frisby’s granddad right now. It could get a bit awkward because he’s a bloody Viking. No worries though. The geezer uses bin bags for protection.”

  “Eight gallon bin bags.” Frisby chimed in.

  “That’s a rather disturbing mental image, mate.”

  “Awful.” Lincoln shook his head. “Alright, lads. We’d better quit or else junior’s going to develop a complex.” He winked at me before settling behind his kit. “Shall we rehearse now?” I nodded and moments later we were putting the final flourishes on our big number. Bloody hell. Perhaps Skeffington wasn’t such a stiff after all, or perhaps I’d simply underestimated his prowess as a politician. Either way, my rock n’ roll fantasy had just sprouted wings.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The audition was fixing to be a mere formality. No liberties would be taken, however, as a classic bait and switch was unspooled. “Skeffington and the Disciples” strutted into the auditorium adorned in pressed black trousers, white collared shirts, thin black ties, and tidy coiffures. We were rock n’ rollers in drag.

  Headmaster Moobs immediately spotted Skeffington and descended upon him in a beat. “Skeffington, my boy. I had no idea you were such a renaissance man. Smashing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how is your father? Splendid, I hope.”

  “Dad’s great. He wanted me to tell you that it’s scotch and cigars at the club as soon as he’s able.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful. Well, best of luck today, sport. If you bebop half as well as you kick, I am certain you’ll be just dandy.” Headmaster Moobs patted Skeffington on the back and chuckled like an old fart. He noticed me for the first time as he turned away. “Good day.” His dismissive tone and bothered facial expression suggested bewilderment that Skeffington would associate himself with such a distasteful tramp. No matter. Headmaster Moobs was in our pocket and we were better than any blighters that stood in the way.

  Our greatest competition was from a quintet who dubbed themselves “The Tight Fitz.” They offered second-hand rock retreads buoyed by a high energy stage show. Their frontman, Donnie Fitzgibbons, pranced around like a toad with its hoppers on fire. Aficionados might’ve found his melodramatic style somewhat infectious, but I thought it was shite. Moreover, if I cared to hear the latest single by Johnny Jingles I’d buy the bloody record.

  Skeffington and I penned a hug and sway called “Wisteria Blues (She Been Dancing with the Wrong Guy)” just for the occasion. It was insipid enough to make grannies swoon over slow dances long since disremembered. Even Sister Duff could sing along without having to scurry to the confessional for a verbal spanking. When played at the right moment, however, this breezy serenade became a subversive blueprint for funny business. It was the cherry on top of the whipped cream.

  We ascended the stage as a four-headed wolf dressed like a choirboy.

  Our performance couldn’t have been tighter. Skeffington delivered the syrup with a golden spoon while “The Disciples” stood in the shadows fluffing the pillows. Headmaster Moobs could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Delightful, absolutely delightful.” He sounded mostly chuffed that he didn’t have to sell his soul for scotch and cigars. Our coronation felt imminent.

  Donnie Fitzgibbons approached Skeffington as we took our seats in the back of the auditorium. “When did you become a crooner, Skeff? You and your comrades are bloody alright.”

  “Thanks, mate. Your lot wasn’t too bad either.”

  “Much appreciated. Was that an original compos
ition?”

  “Yeah, we knocked it off last week.”

  “Impressive, man. We’ve been trying for months, but there’s nothing to show for it. These blokes are players, they’re not artists, know what I mean? Bleeding covers will only get you so far. If things don’t change, I may be looking for greener pastures. Well, better get back with me band before they notice me fraternizing with the enemy. Good luck to you.” Donnie Fitzgibbons had planted a seed in Skeffington’s bonce that would one day blossom into a horrible sodding idea. At the moment, however, all we cared about was landing our first gig.

  Twenty minutes later Headmaster Moobs punched our golden ticket to the spring dance. “My colleagues and I couldn’t be happier with our selection. You were simply astonishing, and your backing band wasn’t too shabby either. Well done, my boy.” He shook Skeffington’s hand before wobbling out of the auditorium. The old prat would be in for a bloody surprise when the four-headed wolf took the stage without pretense and lit the sodding gymnasium on fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  There was nothing extraordinary about it. Just a simple smacker before I boarded the bus to Muswell Hill. “Better get on the bus, slapper. Skeffington looks jealous.” I wanted to stay with her. I’d grown somewhat tired of rehearsals and pressure. There were only two days until the spring dance and we weren’t ready. We hadn’t even been able to agree on a proper name for our band. I should’ve shared my feelings with her, but it wasn’t in me. I slapped one on her soft lips instead. Time didn’t stand still. Nobody snapped any photographs. Memories are imperfect. It was the last time we kissed.

  The recognition that we had two rehearsals left to learn fifteen songs gutted us like a Bristol Bloodhound. Nerves were bloody raw. We weren’t professionals who could drop everything in pursuit of cohesion. There were frustrated coaches, meddling parents, disappointed teachers, and arsehole brothers to contend with. It also didn’t help that we were besotted with ourselves and ignorant of our mortality. We mostly blew off our first rehearsal riding high from conquest. The next few were spent pouring over a handful of songs. Tunes like “Carmenita” and “Gutter Minx” were perfect, but perfection was a luxury we couldn’t afford. The joke was on us: We were being schooled in the art of time management by the gods of chaos.

  Progress deteriorated into dysfunction with each passing moment. Songs were blending into each other and perspective vanished. “Hold it. Hold it.” Skeffington halted the proceedings during the second verse of “Birdie McBride.” “You’re playing too bloody fast, mate. It’s not blooming speed metal.”

  “I thought the point was to run through these as quickly as possible. It’s a simple song with a simple beat.” Lincoln looked at Frisby. “Right?” Frisby nodded.

  “You being condescending with that ‘simple song’ bit? Funny…”

  I interrupted Skeffington mid-stream at my own peril. “We’re knackered. It all sounds the same to me now…fast, slow, left, right. We can’t squeeze it all in. End of story.”

  “We’ve got a show to do in two days, mate. Two sets in front of the entire school. Writing the songs was the difficult part. All these mutts have to do is play them.” Skeffington shot an antagonizing scowl at Lincoln. “Pushing through is the only option.”

  Captain Skeffington had the most to lose given his stellar reputation, but our interests were mostly aligned because I had the most to gain. My association with him was inches away from paying dividends. Exhaustion and infighting weren’t going to sod it up. And that’s when it dawned on me. “Wait. Alright. Skeffington and I can do a handful of these ditties acoustically. Three or four thumpers and then mix in something lo-fi. Repeat. It’ll free us up a bit.”

  “I knew you were the leader of this outfit for a reason. In fact, I’m calling you Churchill from here on out.” Lincoln was mostly launching a verbal haymaker to Skeffington’s ego, but I didn’t necessarily mind. There’d be mighty struggles for creative control for decades to come. The shifting tide was often quick, intense, and dependent on who’d been knocking off the better jingles. Our internal politicking eventually became so unruly that even the most ordinary decisions were unbearable. Fortunately, reason mostly prevailed during those early days.

  “Codswallop aside…it’s a blooming great idea, mate.” Skeffington’s nod meant that Father Time wouldn’t be pissing on our dreams any longer. “Shall we take her from the top?” It felt as if an industrial-sized exhaust fan began sucking the tension out of the garage. The rehearsal continued with renewed swagger as solidarity displaced bitterness. Lincoln played “Birdie McBride” mid-tempo. Skeffington even accepted Lincoln’s suggestion to convert “Judy’s Jam Jar Jive” into a reggae number. The latter conversion proved rather fateful.

  Lincoln and Frisby laid down the one drop riddim while I finessed the skank. Skeffington sang in his grittiest jamdown inflection. The bridge seemed wide open, however, and I transformed into an iron bird setting course for Trench Town. I filled it to the blooming rafters with a sundrenched island groove. Lincoln frequently barked words of encouragement when he was amped about a solo. His voice suddenly burst through the clatter: “Let her rip, Churchill.”

  We were the heirs apparent to the jewel encrusted throne reserved for the rajas of our craft, but we’d been unable to conjure a band name worthy of such promise and position. Lincoln had just unwittingly christened us with a befitting title. I informed the others as soon as we returned from Zion. Blessings. Our collective identity had been established. We’d conquer the stage now and forever as Rip Churchill.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It seemed much narrower than the stage in the auditorium. I guessed a modest 12' by 12'. The dim lighting and worn mahogany floorboards made it feel even tighter. Its intimacy conveyed the false impression that it was our refuge from the gathering storm. The truth was much more horrifying, however: A ruffled velvet curtain provided our only real cover, and it would spread wide open in less than five minutes.

  We were tuned up, warmed up, and dug in. My ticker beat horribly fast and I felt like chucking up. Skeffington wasn’t fairing much better. His hands were trembling as he adjusted the height of his microphone stand for the fifteenth time. Lincoln and Frisby found our jitters highly amusing and ribbed us brutally. Their barbs and intermittent laughter were the only sounds coming from our side of the spectacle. The noise from the other side, however, had grown exponentially louder. Distinct voices or conversations that could be heard moments before were now part of a collective and indecipherable chatter.

  Suddenly, I heard walrus footsteps directly outside the curtain. Unpleasant feedback followed loud tapping on a microphone. The chatter trailed off and for a blink there was mostly silence. “Good evening.” The voice belonged to Headmaster Moobs. “I just want to take this opportunity to welcome all of you to the annual spring dance. It’s glorious to see such a large group of my students gathered together for some boogie woogie and jive. Wonderful. I’d also briefly like to thank the staff for turning the gymnasium into the Rivoli. Job well done. Let’s give them a hand…Alright. Alright. Without further ado…” We were seconds away from launch and I was about to spark out or else leg it for the exit. “I present to you Skeffington and his Disciples…”

  Bloody hell! Our plan to introduce ourselves as Rip Churchill after gashing through the first number had been shattered. We hadn’t even discussed the possibility of Headmaster Moobs introducing us prematurely. Moreover, his replacement of “the” in favor of “his” made it sound like we were Skeffington’s fluffers. The sudden jolt of anger shocked the shakes flat out of me. I’d show these frontrunners whose bloody band this was.

  The curtain squeaked open. We were like exotic sea creatures floundering in an enormous aquarium for the amusement of our mostly curious contemporaries. I glanced at the puffer fish to my right and then at the two clownfish behind me. Clownfish number one winked and spun his drumsticks in the air before coolly counting us off. I was the ravenous barracuda ready to devour the ope
ning lick of “The Sophisticate’s Flat.”

  Three minutes later the gymnasium was aflame. Slags were ditching their dates in droves to get closer to the stage. Confused lads were hatching makeshift plan bs to cope with becoming obsolete. Even the wallflowers and dorks were peeling themselves from obscurity to join the fray. The spring dance had become a blooming concert. Skeffington did something awe inspiring amidst the mayhem that I’d never forget. He grabbed his microphone and bursting with adrenaline shouted four simple words: “We are Rip Churchill.” Shivers. Cheers to Skeffington. It was time to unleash “Brooklyn from Bawtry.”

  I spotted her during the first chorus. It was like looking through the tubular insert of a roll of paper towels. She held her ground like a gladiator as waves of love-struck zombies crashed all around. Her auburn hair was pulled back with some tendrils framing her decorated face. I’d never seen her in a dress before. Blood hell. She was every bit a lovely bird. My ticker fluttered as she smiled from ear to ear. Even at that moment, however, I could feel myself being torn away. There was a gymnasium full of temptresses in a horrible frenzy on account of our budding stardom. Regrettably, the tension between affection and lust didn’t dwindle as we thundered forward with increasing artistry and confidence.

  High-fives and salutations abound as the curtain closed on our first set. We wouldn’t be playing the polka at Aunt Wanger’s 50th anniversary gala. We wouldn’t be but a footnote in the chronicles of rock n’ roll obscurity. We were a magnum of cuvée de prestige. Top of the Pops on a meteor made for four. Giggles from stage left suddenly interrupted our self-congratulatory saber-rattling. It was none other than Lana Moxley and her gaggle of fem fatales. She and her mates were royalty.