The Summer of Kicks Page 7

  ‘Come on, Sandra, don’t have a tanty,’ says Reece, and Hemmo looks around, the hint of a smile creeping onto his face. ‘Look at the big picture, man, we’re starting a band. No one cares if right now you’re shit at playing bass. It only has four strings – how hard can it be? And look, the last time Bailey picked up a drumstick he was still rocking night nappies.’

  ‘In fairness to Bailey, he blew those off in grade three,’ says Hemmo, and looks across at Bailey, who acknowledges the back-up.

  ‘The point is,’ Reece says, and he’s counting on his fingers now, ‘we’ve got bass, drums, keys, Starrph on vocals, and that Scene dude on lead guitar. What we have, my good men, is a frickin’ band!’ He puts his hand up to receive a pounding of high-fives. My hand answers the call, but Bailey’s and Hemmo’s are once again glued to the Xbox controllers.

  ‘But how are we going to get that cool guy you work with to think that we’re an actual band?’ Bailey asks. ‘Won’t he know straightaway that we’re, you know … not very good?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I say. ‘If we can stall him for a few days or weeks by talking about our influences, musical heroes, favourite bands, that kind of thing, maybe that’ll buy us enough time to practise – at least until we can successfully play a bunch of notes or whatever. But I guess we have to know what kind of music we’re going to play first.’

  ‘I like pop music,’ Bailey says.

  ‘Then clearly your opinion doesn’t count,’ Reece says.

  ‘Reecey’s right, Bale,’ I say. ‘Anyone with Garage Band and half an hour can put a crappy pop song together. We’re talking about playing real music. Live instruments – making music with a pulse – music that you feel deep down in your gut.’ And I’m feeling it. Deep in my gut and right now I’m believing my own hype. ‘Hemmo? How about you?’

  ‘Hey, I’m up for playing any kind of music that’ll make girls want to do rude things to me,’ Hemmo says, and he points his cross-hairs to the top-left corner of the screen and successfully takes down an enemy sniper. ‘But what you guys need to be thinking about is a social media presence, if you want to get anywhere.’

  ‘What, like, on the internet?’ says Bailey, and I really wonder how he’s managed to make it to this point in life without falling down a well or accidentally stapling himself to a passing car.

  ‘Yes, Bailey,’ says Hemmo. ‘And thanks for joining us in this century. I’m just saying if you put something together and slap it on YouTube, then it’s out there, and people are watching it.’

  ‘You know Elvis was discovered on YouTube,’ says Reece. ‘True fact.’

  ‘So was your mum,’ Hemmo replies. ‘Just sayin’.’

  ‘Right, moving on,’ I say. ‘Now, before we become internet royalty, we need to figure out what the hell we’re going to do as a band. We need to sort out a set list. You know, a bunch of songs that we can play.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure we can’t play anything,’ says Hemmo, eyes re-glued to the screen. ‘And that’s your list right there. Now, Bale, let’s blow these dumb asses out of the water.’

  The controllers click and move, and Hemmo and Bailey are again lost in their make-believe battlefield, so I turn to Reece.

  ‘What if between now and the next band meeting, we write down five or ten songs that we think are pretty cool songs? You know, stuff we’d be happy to try to play?’

  ‘Sounds cool,’ he says. ‘How about you two?’

  ‘What?’ Bailey asks.

  ‘Write down a list of songs.’

  ‘Can’t you guys do that?’ Hemmo says. ‘Seriously. Like I care anyway. I’m only the bass player, remember? Probably not even that,’ he says, checking in on his alleged finger injuries again. ‘Aah, watch your cover, Bailey!’ he shouts, and we’ve lost him once more.

  ‘If just the two of us do it,’ I say to Reece,’ ‘that’ll at least give us a handful of songs to show Scene when he fronts up to a band meeting. Hopefully a bunch of cool songs will be enough to stop us looking like a total pack of rejects.’

  ‘Do you seriously think a list of songs is gonna do that?’ Reece asks.

  Hardly.

  But with no other skills, what else do we have?

  Reece and I wait silently beside the street lamp that promises to light up Hemmo’s driveway once the sun sinks and takes the last faint bursts of daylight with it. The band meeting is over, and if productive band meetings were ferocious animals, ours would be one of those furry little marsupials that exists purely to be food for other animals.

  ‘Well, that sucked,’ Reece says. ‘It sucked a fat one.’ He kicks at a stone or a clod of dirt at the edge of the drive. He motions to the house. ‘Those morons in there don’t get it.’ Reece straightens, his eyes lock on mine and just like that I can see that he’s no longer angry. Excitement has moved in. Settled down. Bought a new rug and a recliner chair. And I’m listening. ‘This whole band thing, Starrph … I remember this interview I saw once on Channel V or whatever, and it was with that Sting guy or some dude from The Who, and they asked him about his success, and this guy said that the reason he was so successful wasn’t because he was all that great a muso, but because he surrounded himself with great musicians. That’s the ticket, man. Us four – we don’t have to be a thousand per cent brilliant. But we need your guy from Vinyl Analysis. With his killer guitar skills onboard, he’ll be like the drawcard. The kick-ass guitarist. And you can slap me if you think I’m an idiot, but I’m serious – we could totally be at the start of something big.’

  I nod while Reece draws breath, then he’s off again. ‘And not just big – big big,’ and now Reece is motioning with both hands like he’s re-enacting a one-that-got-away scene from some old guy’s over-exaggerated fishing story. ‘Dude, this could lead to all kinds of stuff,’ he continues, and he looks like he’s about to burst, and I have to admit I’m riding the excitement wave, too. ‘Think about it. Parties, meeting and hanging out with other cool people. Girls … hey, what do they call those chicks who are all over guys in bands?’

  ‘Band scrags?’ I shrug.

  ‘Yeah,’ Reece says, giggling like a sugar-charged Tickle Me Elmo doll. ‘Sign me up for some of those.’

  ‘Hey, another thing,’ I say, ‘is that we might not be seen as such losers by the general population. You know, social acceptance? And then after that, musical credibility … adoration …’

  ‘Hey, you might end up with more than nine Facebook friends,’ Reece jokes and sends a punch with a sting in its tail into my shoulder.

  ‘OK, whatever it takes, this band thing – we’re doing it,’ Reece says. ‘We’ll have to keep Hemmo and Bailey-boy on track, but no matter what, we don’t screw it up. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ I say, and we attempt some kind of cool fist-pounding routine that is pitifully unrehearsed and fails miserably.

  ‘The band!’ I say, as Reece runs towards his mother’s car.

  ‘Empire of Gandalf!’ he screams back – and I kind of wish he hadn’t.

  It’s just me and my iPod and I’m scrolling through playlists and albums, attempting to find five songs to bring to the table. But surprisingly it’s not as easy as I first thought. These songs have to tick a lot of boxes. The ‘easy to play’ box. The ‘songs that include keyboards, drums, guitar and bass’ box. The ‘songs that won’t be too hard for me to sing’ box. The ‘good mix of classic radio rock with a hint of alternative and obscure’ box. But most of all, the ‘cool enough that they’ll earn Scene’s approval’ box.

  And after almost two hours I think I’ve got it.

  The Ramones – ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’. I figure that this is a great place to start. Dead simple everything, but still totally cool. And we could easily work a bit of tambourine or something in there for Hemmo.

  Van Halen – ‘Jump’. Keyboard-heavy intro, all the right instruments, and despite David Lee Roth’s usual vo
cal highwire act, he’s sedate enough on this one that maybe I can bluff my way through it. The Eddie Van Halen solo is up to Scene.

  Violent Femmes – ‘Blister in the Sun’. Goes without saying. No keyboards, but Reece can tie his shoelaces or go make us all smoothies while we play this one.

  The Strokes – ‘Last Nite’. Classic. Enough said.

  Quasi – ‘Nostalgia Kills’. Totally left field, but I want to include something a little less mainstream. If I’m honest, this is mostly to impress Scene. Truth is, it’s hard to find cool songs with simple keyboard parts. This one I’m pretty sure no one knows, so it won’t matter so much if Reece nails his part or not.

  I’m calling it done.

  And just like that, with me hand-picking five songs, our band’s direction is starting to take shape.

  It’s like that saying, You are the sum of the five people you spend the most time with. And our band – at least so far – is the sum of these five songs. We’re cool. We’re edgy. We’re going to kick ass.

  We’re the Brittney Pigs.

  With my list complete, I’m lying here and, of course, I’m second-guessing all the songs I’ve just chosen. What will Scene think? Will they be cool enough for him? Too many old classics? Not enough punk? It’s like the songs I choose are a direct reflection of me, and it’d be a nice boost to the ego if Scene saw my list and said, ‘Dude, awesome tracks.’ I worry about Van Halen. And Quasi. Is ‘Blister in the Sun’ too mainstream? Maybe I should have included more from this decade. Who knows. These are songs that I didn’t even write, and I feel like I’m handing over my soul. And I’m pretty sure that Reece isn’t sweating on his five like I am. Seriously, it shouldn’t have so much weight attached to it. But I don’t have Scene’s coolness, his musical ability, his (I’m assuming) mile-long list of female conquests. The only thing I have that I can impress him with – that could get me anywhere near his playing field – is my knowledge of music. If he thinks I’m a loser in general, that’s one thing. But if Scene thinks I’m a loser based on my musical choices, then I’m right back to square one – just a random dork in a Bert and Ernie T-shirt.

  Chapter 14

  Grease is the word

  Four periods down and it’s now lunchtime. The silver seat is hot. Even through my school shorts, I can feel it burning, so I stand up to scoop plastic forkfuls of leftover stir-fried ginger chicken into my face. A dribble of cold tamari escapes from the corner of my mouth and races towards my jaw, where it will have to decide whether to roll under and keep sliding or drop off and burn up on the sizzling asphalt. I take the pressure of the decision from the drop and wipe it away with the back of my hand. I know kids, plenty of kids, who don’t give a toss if they have food smeared across their faces or bits of soggy bread stuck in their braces, but what if your hypothetical dream girl walks past? Or again, super-hypothetically, stops to talk to you? Do you want to be standing there, trying to impress her with a face that looks like you’ve just been dumpster-flushed?

  ‘Our band is so gonna rock, hey, Hemmo?’ Reece says. With one hand he’s chugging down a large carton of iced coffee and in the other is the remainder of a violently unnatural-looking jam doughnut.

  ‘Yeah,’ Hemmo says.

  And that’s all he says.

  ‘You know you might want to watch that enthusiasm level,’ says Reece. ‘Don’t get too excited or your zits might explode.’

  ‘Bite me, Polar Fleece.’

  And all is normal. I’m just about to ask the guys about their song lists when Bailey looks at his watch.

  ‘Hey, Starrphyre, don’t you have that thing, rehearsals or whatever?’

  ‘Crap. Grease!’ And now I’m running, backpack in one hand, remnants of lunch in the other. I don’t have time to stop and put the lid on my container properly and, as a result, my shirt has become a splash mat for flying chicken blobs and gallons of gingery sauce. I’m not running for Grease or for Miss Kellaway. I’m running for Candace. I’m Danny Zuko and I’m running to Rydell High to meet Sandy, all covered in slimy stir-fried lunch juice.

  Grease is the word.

  As I run to rehearsals, a scene is playing out in my head, but it’s not a scene from the musical. At least not the one we’ll be performing in front of the school. In this one we’re onstage. We’ve been rehearsing lines for hours and they finally call a drinks break. Candace’s friends all run off to the girls’ toilets, but Candace stays behind. Asks me if I can go over this one particular line with her. We’re backstage and everyone else seems to have left the building. It’s just us. She’s looking at the script, and she’s talking right to me, but the words she’s saying aren’t from any script I’ve seen. I look up to her, and she meets my eyes. And we just hold it – that moment of almost. And then …

  I’m at the hall. This is it. The next six hours are for me and Candace. As the two lead characters, we’ll be sharing the bulk of the scenes together and I’ll get to hold her. Touch her. Put my arm around her. And if the movie’s anything to go by – and please God, let it be so – there’s the kissing scene at the drive-in, and I’m pretty sure there’s another one at the end. I know they’re editing the show down to just twelve minutes, but kissing scenes – they’re pretty key scenes. Surely they’ll leave at least one in, won’t they?

  Miss Kellaway is waiting just inside the door, set up at some kind of greeting table, and the place is buzzing. Mum and Katie Kellaway are old drama-school buddies – Mum was actually Rizzo to Miss Kellaway’s Sandy about a hundred years ago and they’ve been part of the same Friday girls’ coffee gang since quite possibly forever. The unofficial word, according to Mum, is that Miss K’s leaving at the end of the year to go and teach at some other school, so she wants to go out on a winner. No pressure at all.

  ‘Hi, Miss,’ I say, my breath inning and outing in hot laboured, bursts. I scan the room for Candace.

  ‘Welcome, my dear,’ Miss Kellaway says, face down at her pile of papers. ‘And you would be?’

  ‘It’s Starrphyre, Miss,’ I say, still looking. No sign of her yet. ‘Starrphyre … um … Jones.’

  She looks up. ‘Ooh yes, of course you are. And I believe that you’re our Mr Zuko,’ she says, wild red hair bouncing off in all directions from her head. ‘It’s wonderful that you’ve volunteered your time. I’ll tell you now, Danny has a big part, well, it’s the male lead, which I’m sure you know, so … oh, look!’ She fumbles around under the desk and hands me a collection of papers, stapled together at one corner. ‘Now here’s your script – speaking parts are highlighted in yellow and singing parts in green. We’re all systems go here and I have to say that if you hadn’t put your name down – thank you, Lord – our little musical would be much like The Wizard of Oz without a Dorothy. Not suggesting that you’d make an especially convincing Dorothy, but I’m sure you get my vibe. Walk with me now.’

  And we’re walking to the stage, where twelve or fifteen or maybe twenty year-eleven kids are heaving various boxes and bits of set left and right. Stage lights are flicking on and off, flashing, blinking, rotating and making large circles of brightness on the floor. Through the speakers, some kid with a voice that’s almost but not quite broken through is repeating the age-old roadie mantra: ‘Check, check one, two …’

  And then I see her.

  A group of five girls semi-obscured by the black velvet stage curtain are riffling through a large plastic container, pulling out pink jackets and trying them on. My heart is bumping along now at a noticeable pace. I can see Sara-with-no-H Maddock, Jenna who does rep hockey, some other girl with brown hair and braces, Kasey Eagar, and Candace. With the pink skirt, the tight cardie and her hair all pony-tailed up, she couldn’t be a more perfect Sandy.

  ‘Come on up, young man, it’s time we get you acquainted with your female lead,’ Miss Kellaway says, and my stomach jumps. I follow her up the stage steps, but my legs are like limp ropes and wobble too
much for me to make it up the stairs convincingly. I stop, bend down to rub my calves. I must look like a total goose, hunched over on the stairs, engaging in a selfie-massage, but it’s enough to kickstart them again and I’m good for the two remaining steps.

  ‘All right, Mr Jones, for the next few intensive practices, you’ll be working very closely with this young lady – our female lead, Miss Candace McAllister,’ says Miss Kellaway. ‘I’m sure you’ll get to know one another quite intimately over the course of the next few days.’

  And I like the sound of that, thank you, Miss Kellaway. I take a step forward. A step towards intimately getting to know my female lead.

  Four girls are standing before me.

  All of them pink.

  None of them Sandy.

  ‘What? But where’s … where’s our lead?’ Miss K asks and she’s looking behind the other girls, separating them, bending over and searching at ground level, presumably to rule out the chance she may have been stuffed up one of the Pink Ladies’ skirts.

  ‘Oh, Miss, Candace had to go,’ says hockey Jenna.

  ‘Go?’ says Miss Kellaway.

  Go? What the hell does she mean Go?

  ‘She just got a call from … I think it was her mum,’ Jenna explains. ‘She had to go home. I think her dog died or something. I don’t know. It was something pretty important.’ Jenna covers her mouth and I can’t tell if she’s eating something, giggling, or both.

  ‘But what about the musical? We have a very tight schedule, people. She can’t afford to miss a minute of it!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Miss. She’s been in every school musical ever, and she’s seen Grease like a zillion times,’ says Kasey. ‘She knows it to death. Candace could play Sandy with her eyes closed and still nail it. We’ll go over lines and stuff with her tonight. We’re all going to hers after rehearsals. It’ll be cool. Trust us.’

  ‘But without our Candace, who’s going to do the Sandy scenes with young Danny Zuko this afternoon? The scenes, the dancing, the dialogue – this is vital to the success of our production. How can we have Sandy and Danny scenes when all we have is a Danny?’