The Beating of the Heart

Short Story in London, 1974

1 – Twist and Shout

The band had the beating of a heart, and the audience knew it. Of course, most of the crowd there had filtered everything through a lens of coke and booze and was ecstatic even though in 1974 we did not have ecstasy on tap. But the musicians were tuned to a different sort of intoxicant, namely the ravings of the tunes that they had spent weeks working through and arguing about. The problem now is that you mention the practice sessions, where the guitarist thought his idea reigned supreme, but anyone who watched them hashing through the material knew that the drummer had the best and most solid plunger to how to make that work. They had watched some of the greats working through things in collaboration as a roadie.

Anyway, the drummer was entirely stoned when not engaged in thrashing on his high hat and bass pedal, but that is not the issue now is it, really? When he was on a said even the devil himself could not rumble any better and the angels could not raise the rafters any higher.

Ba-ba-i-ching.

Oh, by the way, I am the sometime manager, I say sometime because that’s when I get paid: sometimes. Which meant of course that my attitude for doing the work comes and goes when the paycheck comes and goes. And no, I’m not from London and don’t know any cockney rhyming slang at all. Move to the left.

So, they were grooving at a small; no tiny; scratch that, a claustrophobic bar in a part of London where seeing people appear to tread except to get “the good shit.” Some of them even got it and a few of them did not pay shipping charges from the boys with knives. After all the boys would knives have to do something when the Rolling Stones don’t need protection.

The walls were tight, and the ceiling was almost within reach. And if you did not have five people touching you in various persuasions then you were not dancing as everyone else was. Not that I cared because once you were in the door and paid the flop, it did not matter to me what you did. I just counted tools going in and the money coming out. Which is why it only made sense for me to iron a shirt or steam my pants when there was a gig in the sky going on. The band was called “hiraeth” lowercase h, and at the time I did not know what that meant. Someone had said that it was Welsh.

It was a difficult night, especially because one of the guitarist's favorite guitars had a short and twice stopped signaling the amplifier which was a true cock up sûr cock ups. It was one of those things that seemed funny in the past, but at the time it wasn’t the past, yet. And if I keep running on with the sentences, you may not get that it is in the past until five minutes later.

The way the guitarist, during the break and the set, came off of the boards which served as somewhat of a stage, and in that cramped kind of way started right in the middle: “I thought we were supposed to be you are being the person who counted the instruments and make sure they are working properly and this one isn’t working properly now is it.”

I waved my hand and then turned to him and said: “I only the instruments I don’t make sure that they’re working properly, that is your job.” And in fact, the guitarist had made that point rather clear.

But when one starts drinking, especially when one starts at nine, or maybe eight, the liquor = hones in on the memory circuits very early. And at a young age, one doesn’t have as many memories to go around. Flyaway flyaway flyaway home.

“Well in the future I want you as the manager to make sure that all of the knobs work.” He actually finished it with an expletive, but then almost everything that I am reporting here can be laden with expletives sort of by default. It was a youth culture, and we were sensed with the way things entered, exited, paid out, and conjoined, in an Anglo-Saxon kinda-way. Ka-ching-ching.

Then I squeezed into my eyes the devastation that they were making on the instruments. It wasn’t their fault because the room to unfurl the amps and wiring was simply not there, but I realized that I was half to clean up the mess and in a hurry. It is a battle of evermore in fact. So, starting again, I remarked: “Can you be more careful with your gear? It is a rather tiny space and the beer you have been drinking can short out almost any guitar that we can afford.”

The guitarist only turned with the volume raised up on his right hand as held ignored me and began to tune up his third guitar for the next session.

I then went over to the drummers and asked Keith if everything was all right.

He slipped out of his headphones and looked at me with that downtrodden frown: “While the band is okay everything else could be a little bit better, ya know.” Then he pointed at the bassist and rhythm guitarist and to hot mamas who were the backing vocals for tonight and continued: “Tommy,” the guitarist, naturally, “has been taking all of the suds and I think you should make sure that a little bit spills down to Ray, Stevie, Joyce, and Tricia.”

I nodded. “They really got into the original number that you and Tommy wrote. It was like something medieval with a white horse.”

“I was reading Tolkien.”

“Very hip.”

Took note of this and reassured him that I would do that during the next session. But he said: “I think next break they will be too parched to sing. Give us three more minutes even if it means overtime on the break.” This was sensible and my response was to not tell Tommy but simply pass out the plastic mugs to everyone.

The thing to realize is that he was still, as we like to say, grooming with a Pict, meeting he was lucid at the time because his drums were not only an instrument but an obsession. It was his beating heart.

The next session began late but everybody was soused for the opening which started with a bang on A Mixolydian. And of course, it was “Louie Louie” and the band was flying away from the get-go. Beam me up and fly. You only got better with every passing song. Mostly, they were covers but even the originals were applauded but their songwriting wasn’t the strongest suit. There was also the rattling of the rhythm guitarist and a string needed to be tied onto the frets so his guitar would not short out the way Tommy’s had.

The last set closed with their favorite rendition of “Twist and Shout” - you could tell that the fans were juiced up and ready to rumble. Was also the case that all of the good beer was sold out, or consumed by Tommy, and even the dregs were running dry. On this version, Stevie sang the vocalist because he had this raw edge to his sound which made it seem in the range that is a bit more than edgy. They all looked at each other to get the first notes correct because it was clear that virtually everybody in the band was in some form of inebriation, that is to say, beyond wasted. I think that if it were not for the noise from the bottom they would simply curl up and sleep it off. But the noise was deafening, and they all had the rhythm. The center could not hold.

Tommy: “One - Two - Three - Four” eins-zwei-drei-vier as they used to count down in Germany.

 And they nailed the opening:

“Well, shake it up, baby, now…”

“Twist and shout…”

And then came the “Ahs.” Stevie just nailed it with the last guests of his vocal cords getting that raspy golden feeling.

2 – Seasons in the Sun

The ocean water stretched from the white edge of the boat with sales that were neatly trimmed. Tommy was in his element passing the jib back and forth. Truth be told, which is why I’m writing this story if you think about it, Tommy was better as a sailor than as a guitarist and certainly better than being a loudmouth-pissant-thinks-of-himself-as-a-leader. The wind was also cooperating, and Tommy was tacking to the right and decided himself with pleasure because Tricia was trying to get him to go down. But Tommy was not having any of it.

I was back with Keith, and we were talking and drinking, though not exactly in that particular order. At one point he said: “So how did you get this boat?”

“It belongs to a somewhat friend of mine, and he lets me take it out occasionally.”

“There’s got to be more to the story than that.”

“Well, yes, there is. He’s on land right now getting stoned and his parents have my number.”

“And there is a bit that you are leaving out.”

“I don’t get stoned. I don’t get drunk. I don’t do anything with substances.”

“You’re not helping me here…”

“I am the only one who can make up an excuse on the fly to cover for him.”

He just made the loud “O” and giggled. Then he took another drink of the really good beer, that is to say, Guinness. He could actually taste right now before he got down to seriously drinking after drinking before drinking. I scored each one of my band members and Keith could drink three of them out of the moon. Katcha-Ka-Ka. Though I should probably add “Thump.”

Keith whispered to me asking what my friend's name was. Without thinking I told him to his ear and thought nothing about it again.

3 – God Save the Queen

We had just been to Maggie Jones, that eatery of the fashion set on Old Court Place where Stevie had some ins with a waiter. However, the waiter could not get us libations to go with our food because the owner kept careful track of all of the alcohol, since that is the place, he made money. Everybody had the DTs because we had gone through all of the alcohol the night before and no one had any money to get more. That meant that it would be 3 o’clock in the afternoon when Tommy could harass the sous chef act this dive, he knew to hand him a couple of the cheap bottles. Tommy had been on a streak for a couple of months, and he felt he could do no wrong. Well, actually they always thought that but even more than ever.

We were up in Keith’s flat, lying around on the bed and sofa. A couple of us were staring at the ivory-swirled ceiling as if in meditation or hallucination. Shang-A-Lang.

“Do you remember the time when we scanned out of Oslo Court restaurant? That was a blast we snuck out and the two waiters thought the other one would get the money.” This was Tommy remembering his favorite winners of all time.

 Stevie replied: “I just remember you were singing Killer Queen all the way home from there.”

 Tricia spoke up: “Guaranteed to blow your mind away…”

“You said it.” Replied Tommy, who then noticed that Keith was distinctly absent. “You know where Keith went to?”

Because I had been seated in a green chair and saw everything, I could reply: “He went out for something he didn’t say what it was.”

“Well, that’s rude. He should have said something to me.” Always count on Tommy to be thinking about Tommy in between considering Tommy’s point of view. Because after all, he was the most important person in the world, just ask him or Tricia.

Then Trisha replied: “I am sure it is not anything we need to be concerned with. I know he got a check from his mom to pay for the rent and stock the fridge with groceries.” Tricia then got up and opened the refrigerator door. Two hams fell out. “That is a yes.” She stared back at us each one of which had found his particular spot along the dilapidated chairs or the frayed bed. Looking over the furniture and the posters on the wall you could see that everything was in early to late neo-trasheap style. One of the posters was of Led Zeppelin with the Rob and Jimmy rockin’ it out. Strange to think they had already recorded Stairway to Heaven.

Then the door opened with a key and Keith came in with his blue silk button-down shirt and his bell-bottomed khaki pants holding a ground paper bag and his left hand.

“Then he should have had money to buy booze.” Countered Tommy.

“You know Keith, he already spent the money in his head and was checking off the things one at a time.”

Tommy looked at his black sneakers. “So, then he can get drunk or stoned or both.” It was at this point that it seemed like a good idea for Tommy to dance on the coffee table. Or at least it seemed like a good idea Tommy. But the coffee table was taken and actually expensive because Keith had gotten it from an ex-friend of his who wanted to keep the table but did not have space. But then, the friend had an apartment not just a pad. The ex-friend also did not know what the table was worth, but Keith did. A lesson once learned is so hard to forget.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Went to see a new friend of mine. Actually, John, you were the person that made the connection for me.” At the time I did not make the connection. In fact, it was a long time before I did.

Tommy piped up: “Why was it so important now?”

Keith just showed up the brown paper bag. “I had to pick up some things.” He was extremely nonchalant and with an easy smile on his face even with his mustache. He picked up a knife from a plate that held spaghetti the night before. He slit the bag. It was only then that he plopped and relaxed back into his favorite chair. He also took out a fresh pack of Camels which the liberty only distributed one to each of the band. All of us smoked Camels when we God the chance because cheap reigned over us and we were too cheap to get Dunhill’s or Naties.

Just as he sat down, I turned to him and asked: “You never told me what hiraeth actually means.”

But it was Tommy and answered: “Keith is from a Welsh mining village, and he remembered that the word was like a memory of a past that one could not get to anymore.”

“This is true?”

“In some ways, it is the opposite of ‘new.’ It’s like a collage of the misremembered miss-past.” And then took a long drag on the fag, blowing it out very slowly. They then explained: “I had to practice burying the accent. Yes, it sounded like Yates or something in that vicinity. I couldn’t stand it because it marked them as other.”

 There was a bit of confusion, but I finally asked: “I don’t understand what you by the word other.”

“It’s something they teach in college in literary criticism.” This was met by stares. “It means that are your own people and then there are people from outside. The others. Like Foucault?” He looked at each person. There was no response. At the time pomo was fomo.

At this point, I stood up, with a smile on my face: “Anyway,” I began, “since no one else has stepped up I got a few gigs at some more open spaces. The first one is at Nikki’s which is down year Shoreditch. Nikki was one of the higher-end establishments with a white blind with black ceiling and countertops of marble with little round seats. What I had done was I talked my way in and showed him the two picts that I had taken. “I don’t need to say need to address nice to play there. When are opening for The Wheel and The Carousel.”

 First, there was silence, but then Tricia was the first to speak up: “That’s groovy.” Puff, puff, puff. In fact, the entire room had gone from clear pure air to a malaise of cigarette soot…

“We can do that?” asked Tommy. It was the first time I’d seen him genuinely surprised by anything that I said.

I merely nodded.

Then Keith moved out of his chair with be bag firmly under his right arm. He excused himself as he bumped into Tricia and squeezed by the drum set which was slightly in the way of the bathroom door. The bathroom had pink titles to the waste and cream wallpaper.

The door closed and we could hear in run tap. But then after a minute, there was silence. Finally, I knock on the door, gently at first and then with more force as if I were wrapping out a radar love. But no use, as the monogram ran.

I wedged myself in against the drum set nearly slipping along the way: pushing on the bathroom door but not open if beyond the small crack. Inside I could see brown hair splayed down. Then I caught the mirror. The mirror that told the till which the flesh could not. In the mirror, I see the tiny cotton swabs dangling to and fro, and a claustrophobic little bag plastered to the wall, which the odor of alcohol came from, near there was a lighter on the floor. In the mirror I see his left arm hanging down with a plunger stuck in and the plunger going all the way down. And then my eyes craft up to Keith’s face which was closed in more ways than I care to count: the eyes, the nose, but the brow was flaccid and serene. I knew that if he was not dead then he would be there soon because I could hear no breathe, breathe, breathe. I pushed harder.

At last, my push got the door opened and Keith’s body laid out with the hands coming out clasped together like a shroud. I tried to wig out and then tried to stimulate the heart, but I had no experience. All of the bandmates gathered around in a circle, and it was as if they were sing to the morning light that played in through the window.

I placed by year on his chest. Tricia was weeping and Tommy was crying.

I heard no sound. No Ba-dump-bump, Ba-dump-bump, Ba-dump-bump.

The beating of the heart stopped.