Love Like A Rockband
The rain thundered down, slapping endlessly against my skin. I ran across the dark, empty streets of my home town, skimming in and out of door fronts, searching aimlessly for a place of shelter. At this time of night everywhere was shut, grey shutters menacingly closed down.
At one time I remembered walking these streets, not a fear in sight, no shutters, no bars on the windows, but that was a while ago. Since then this place has become a criminal hot-spot. No where stayed open after ten. It was like a mutual deadline between everyone.
No one even went out after ten. Only fools like me, an open target to be mugged or murdered.
Blinking lights flashed through the dense rain. I headed straight for them, finally finding a place of refuge from this thunderous storm.
I walked in to see a small cosy bar. Red walls warmed the room immensely and the wooden floorboards creaked under my feet. The place was decorated well, planted pots in every crevice possible, fancy tables and chairs, covered with upholstery were situated in a planned design, and framed pictures hung on the walls.
Groups of faces smiled out at me from them. The winning football team in 1997, the darts champions in 2001, even family occasions were plastered along the walls. 21st birthday parties, Confirmations, Holy Communions. Everything.
It was one picture that caught my attention more than any of the others. It was a picture that I knew all too well. The caption read “Dark Failure, our local band heroes.”
Looking back now, I wondered whether that name was the curse for it all.
It all started on a Sunday afternoon. Blake Matthews had put up posters all around the school and neighbourhood trying to get people to come to his garage to audition for a band he wanted to create.
Our small town folk not being the musical type, only a handful of us turned up at his garage. Actually only four of us did. Three other guys and I. Luckily for Blake we all played different instruments and he was able to cover the vocals. This was it.
We practiced in his garage, jamming together. I admit it, at first it sounded terrible and his mother was right when she came to us shouting that we’d never get anywhere if we played like that. We couldn’t play smoothly together, both someone was going to fast or to slow or then the catastrophe of someone forgetting what they were playing altogether.
I wasn’t good either and being the drummer I was supposed to keep the beat, so when I screwed up, it couldn’t be overlooked.
After about a week of practice every night we still weren’t getting anywhere and it was my fault. I couldn’t get used to the set that Blake owned. The guys were well able to keep in time with each other, they were even able to do their solos properly on time, but as soon as I came in, it crashed. The whole song died.
So on one tempered night, I snapped the sticks off the ground and said I was quitting, before I stormed out of the garage, not ever wanting to walk back in there again.
It was a warm hand that spun me around and pleaded me not to go. Blake even got down on his hands and knees and begged in front of me, a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’m never going to be any good.” I whined, tears spilling out over my eyes.
“You are good.” He wiped away my tears. “I’ve heard you at your house, you’re amazing.”
“Stalker.” I mumbled, turning away from him.
“Let’s go get your set.” He walked past me, jingling the keys of the van in his hands.
