Broken Birdie Chirpin (18 page)

Skeffington
stood before me with brother’s fist buried in his hand. The fearless bugger had
caught brother’s punch midstream and held it there. My hero. Brother appeared
dazed as he slipped into his choirboy persona to salvage whatever dignity he
could.

“Hey,
Skeff. This is a wee bit awkward isn’t?”

“It’s
fixing to get a lot more awkward if you ever raise a fist to my mate again.”

“Hold
on now, Skeff. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but your mate messed around
with my girlfriend. She broke up with me today on account of it. I’m his older
brother and he owes me more respect than that.”

“I’m
not here to chit chat or compare dick sizes, but it’ll be awfully hard to find
a new girlfriend with your eyes swollen shut and no bloody teeth.” Skeffington
smirked rather roguishly. “Birds don’t really go for benchwarmers either.”

“No
worries, Skeff. I’m not going anywhere near him.” Cicero might’ve wet his
knickers. He looked at me with all of the sincerity he could muster. “I’m
sorry.” His mea culpa felt mostly satisfying even though it had been offered
under extraordinary duress. More importantly, Cicero’s retreat left brother on
an island.

“I
respect you as our captain and as a person, Skeff. I knew you two had become
mates and I’m sorry for being such an absentminded plonker. It won’t happen
again. Hopefully in time we’ll forget that this ugly incident ever happened at
all.”

“Brilliant.
Anyway, your brother and I have some business to attend to. So, I’ll see you
blokes around.” Skeffington and I strolled inside, commandeered the kitchen
table, and sprawled out like we owned the bloody joint.

“Bloody
hell. You cut it awfully close. Another second and I would’ve been done for.”

“I
figured you ought to sweat a little, mate. You did sabotage your brother’s
relationship after all.”

“Shirley
Weller nearly chucked up when brother pinned her. I did him a bloody favor, if
anything.”

“Oh,
right. How very saintly of you.” We both chuckled before Skeffington leaned
forward  in his chair. His expression suddenly turned solemn as the elephant
hiding behind the flowery yellow curtains began to stir. “We’re playing Frankie
Shū’s Ballroom at the end of August. It’s part of some end of summer rock
n’ roll extravaganza. I don’t want to do it without you, mate.”

“Starting
over where it all bloody ended.”

“No
better way to exorcise the demons and make peace with yesterday.”

The
merry-go-round goes around and around. I didn’t want to rehash our previous
debate over the worthiness of Donnie and Mickey. It seemed like an uphill
battle that I couldn’t win, especially on account of Frisby losing his marbles
and Cletus selling me out. The truth was mostly simple besides: I feared being
left behind, even if two-fifths of the band had become shite.

“Will
we be even half as good as we were?” Bloody hell. I’d given him a door the size
of Avon Gorge to ramble through.

“Better.”

Thirty
days later Rip Churchill waited in the wings for The Black Larkspurs to finish
their set. Skeffington paced to and fro while intermittently performing
calisthenics. Cletus sat meditatively in the corner as if the ghosts of
yesteryear were running roughshod over his psyche. The same could not be said
for our rhythm section, however. Donnie and Mickey busily snapped photographs
of one another in a variety of glammed up rock n’ roll poses. Pursed lips.
Panther-like growls. They probably couldn’t wait to wallpaper them all over
their social media outlet du jour.

I
stared at the Humbucker sitting snuggly in its furry case and wondered whether
it was cursed. I’d sought Mr. Surtees’ counsel on the subject during work a few
days earlier. He put on his bifocals, grabbed my shoulders with each of his
hands, and looked me directly in the eyes: “Rock n’ roll is cursed, son. Now,
pull off your knickers and strap on your Humbucker.” Bloody hell. I inhaled
deeply before wresting it from its cradle.

I’d
just begun quietly tuning up when Mr. Pleasant strode into our midst. Not
surprisingly, he wanted to make certain that we’d actually make it onto the
bloody stage this time around. “I know you boys have been through a lot with
the death of your drummer and all. Just do me a favor, alright? Don’t any of
you leave the sodding ballroom until after your performance is over. Think you
can swing it?”

“Yes,
sir. We’ve learned our lesson. The feet are firmly planted.” Skeffington
continued to enjoy my support as the band’s official spokesperson.

Mr.
Pleasant popped a fag out of his well-worn pack and flipped it into his gob.
“Break a leg, Rip Churchill.” Poof. Moments later he disappeared into an
enormous puff of smoke.

We
each returned to our idiosyncratic warm up routines until The Black Larkspurs
finally announced their final number. They’d chosen an up-tempo rocker with a
mostly catchy beat. I tried extraordinarily hard to focus on the sound but it
just wasn’t any use. The memories of our unsuccessful bid to take that very
stage a few short months before came crashing through their derivative melody.
I instinctively looked to Mickey’s drum kit as if somehow I’d be transported back
in time and
Rip
Churchill
would be stenciled across the bass drum. Instead my glare landed on Mickey
Cormac picking his konk.

The
Black Larkspurs swaggered off the stage riding a tidal wave of goodwill. They’d
apparently become local darlings on account of some “ferocious” gigs around
Camden Town and a well-oiled grassroots marketing operation that delivered
hundreds of “rabid” revelers to each of them. Their enormous contingent at
Frankie Shū’s Ballroom shouted for an encore even as we prepared to seize
the spotlight. Bloody hell. We’d be considered the sodding anticlimax unless we
could swiftly win over these bootlickers.

The
eyes of a skeptical audience danced upon us as we stepped out onto the stage.
My own skepticism over our prospects only amplified the uneasiness. By all
accounts our fifteen or so rehearsals had been mediocre. Captain Skeffington
remained convinced that Rip Churchill would rise to the occasion and recapture
its former glory. I hoped we could get through our first offering without imploding.

The
opening chords of “Gutter Minx” tore through the stagnating landscape like a
wakizashi. We sank waste deep into its finely crafted filth a few bars later. I
quickly picked up on the imperfections, the bumps and bruises, the missing
triplet licks, the simplified bass line, etc. etc. The crowd didn’t seem to
mind, however, as they began thrutching about in a mostly rhythmic rock n’ roll
frenzy.

We’d
suddenly become rock n’ roll missionaries converting the misbegotten followers
of The Black Larkspurs into true bloody believers.

A
monsoon of emotion began to swell within me as I massaged the fret board of my
Humbucker during the middle eighth. I shut my eyes for a moment so as to ram it
back down from whence it came. Selling my soul for the adulation of the fickle
masses felt awfully cathartic. Not so fast. My eyes shot open on account of the
boney arse grinding against my right hip. Bloody hell. Donnie had unspooled his
dime-store showmanship like some sort of pansexual gypsy.

“Bugger
off.” The microphone partially picked up my rebuke but it was mostly inaudible.
Donnie heard it loud and clear, however. He just chuckled, twirled around, and
sauntered over to Cletus. The audience’s enthusiastic reaction to the entire
blooming spectacle only encouraged Donnie to further explore his onstage
libertine persona for shits and giggles.

Brooklyn
from Bawtry. Ramses Revenge. Ramses Still Handsome. Puddle Jumper (But She’s
Mine). My Little Refugee Girl. A Soul for Wally B. Blah, blah, blah. Rose Anna
Springs.

The
Black Larkspurs constituted a mere footnote in the evening’s festivities by the
time we’d finished our second encore. Skeffington, Cletus, Donnie and Mickey
were jubilant. I couldn’t blame them of course because by any objective standard
the show had been an enormous success. My bonce was buzzing too after all. One
needn’t be a bloody spiritualist to see the writing on the tea leaves, however:
Success with tweedle dee and tweedle dum meant that they’d become permanent
fixtures in my rock n’ roll fantasy, and that Skeffington would reign supreme
as the de facto raja of Rip Churchill for all eternity.

The
nail in the coffin came in short order. Mr. Pleasant sent a lackey backstage to
escort Skeffington and I to his office. “Sit down. Sit down.” The geezer
must’ve been in a rather festive mood because he offered us a snort of single
malt scotch from a guitar-shaped crystal decanter. He handed us our drinks and
plopped down behind an enormous metal desk.

“You
pulled it off. Bravo. Cheers.” He stretched his arm out over the desk and we
all clinked glasses. “My associate will be joining us in a moment to discuss
your future. Until then just sit back, be quiet, and enjoy your Dalmore.”

Moments
later the impeccably dressed Asian from our audition strolled into the silence.
Black tailored suit. Starched white shirt. Black silk tie with a wide Windsor
knot. The blue glow from a mobile device lighting his chiseled mug. He pulled a
kerchief from his pocket, wiped down the seat cushion, and sat in the only
other empty chair in Mr. Pleasant’s office.

“Gentlemen,
my name is Mitsuo Takahashi. I’ve been managing successful rock bands for
fifteen years. Yesterday I fired a four-piece from Merton because they didn’t
fully buy into my methods. Real success takes patience and time, gentlemen.
Anyway, its left an empty slot in my stable of talent. I’d like to bring Rip
Churchill into the fold.”

We
chatted for nearly a half-hour as Mr. Takahashi set forth the general terms and
conditions of his representation. He seemed like a no-nonsense type of bloke so
I trusted him right off. Skeffington had to play the part of the bloody
barrister of course. It mostly just amused Mr. Takahashi.

“Thanks
for your time, sir. But we’re going to have to talk it over with the entire
band before making any decisions.” Bloody hell. I was ready to sign on the
dotted line with Mr. Takahashi’s Montblanc. The band needn’t be a bloody
democracy after all.

“You
have exactly ten minutes. And please, call me Shogun.” Brilliant.

Rip
Churchill’s latest magnum opus rejuvenated interest in an otherwise fading
brand. Critics praised it. Radio stations fired off the fashionable singles.
Our powdered mugs appeared on the covers of all the rock n’ roll rags. Arenas
on both sides of the Atlantic sold out months in advance. Bloody hell.
Celebrity seemed a thousand times more exhausting without the refuge of a
Chivas Regal blackout.

I
jetted Becky away to a lakeside villa in Lago di Como for a weeklong respite
from the bedlam. We frolicked like sprogs under the cloud-like sheets and
gorged on local fare. One particular evening she teased about an extraordinary
present she’d procured for yours truly. Another pair of handmade Italian
leather rock n’ roll boots. Dave Davies’ Gibson Flying V. A package of brand
new unders. Becky assured me that I’d never guess despite by best efforts.
Fortunately, she planned on handing it over during our last night together at
the lake.

I
tiptoed out of the villa early in the morning to scour the Bellagio boutiques
in search of something to give her in return. Enormous diamonds. Fancy
timepieces. Handmade Italian dresses. Blah, blah, blah. I could’ve found them
on any street corner in Mayfair or Los Angeles. Becky deserved something more
personal, and each gently sloping alleyway offered renewed hope. Regrettably,
nothing really caught my attention.

I
finally slipped into a quaint café to order a cappuccino and regroup.
Brilliant. My eyes were suddenly struck by a gorgeous oil painting hanging on
the wall behind the counter. Our villa as well as its intricately manicured
flora had obviously served as the painter’s muse. I playfully haggled with the
Lombardo proprietor over the price before exiting the café with Becky’s
painting nestled under my arm.

We
dined by candlelight and soft orchestral music at our favorite lakeside
ristorante. The mood was so perfect that I could’ve easily taken her atop my
chianti braised short ribs. One final luvvly-jubbly stroll through the streets
and we arrived back home. I playfully tossed her on the plush sofa to embark on
the next phase of our evening. Becky wiggled away rather quickly, however. “I’d
like to give you your present before things get out of hand.”

“Right.
Sure. I’ve got a little something for you too.” We both leapt off the sofa to
fetch our respective presents. I’d stashed her painting under some linens in
the hall closet. She disappeared into the bedroom. We reconvened in the living
room moments later.

“At
the count of three then?” I nodded. “One…two…three...” I handed Becky a rather
sizeable rectangle covered in brown paper. She handed me a tiny gift-wrapped
square. I tore through the wrapping to discover a clear plastic case with a CD
inside. Becky had written “
Play Me
” across the top of the disc in permanent
black marker.

“I
love it!” Becky shouted as the final shred of brown paper landed on the carpet.
“Now we’ll always remember our Italian hideaway.” She leaned over and planted a
peck on my cheek. “Time to drop your CD in the stereo.”

“Alright.
But I’m not convinced these modern stereos actually spin 45s.”

“Hush
up. Just make sure it’s loud.” I turned the dial a few extra ticks. Becky
jumped off the sofa and hurried over to me. Bloody hell. She’d never been so
excited over a gift before.

Inaudible
chatter. Clanking glasses. A stray guitar chord. Silence. A moment later my
knees buckled and goose pimples sprouted up and down my forearms. I looked at
Becky with tears swelling in my eyes. Judy’s Jam Jar Jive. Rip Churchill.
Lincoln. Frisby. The Thirsty Bard. The sound was instantly recognizable even
after all these sodding years.

“How?”

“Shhh.
Just listen. I’ll tell you all about it later.” She took my hand and led me to
the sofa. I shut my eyes. The memories became so vivid that I could feel my
fingers on the fret board. I could feel Lincoln and Frisby playing behind me
like two steam-powered locomotives. Bloody hell. Skeffington and Cletus were
just a couple of sprogs.

Our
sound was perfect.

“You’re
in the front row this time, Becky.” I kissed her forehead just as the walls of
our villa began to crumble all around us from the sonic thump of “Carmenita.”