Dance On Fire - Chapter 08

‘And now a closer look at some of today's papers. Most of the tabloids lead with the… er… revelations by one Suzy Cash of her - I quote - Nights of Passion with the Eighties rock legend - Pete Taylor. Journalist Steve Heady from the magazine RockRoots joins me now. A bit like the good old days of the Eighties, don't you think, Steve?’

‘Yes, Anita. Although, I'm at a loss to see what all the fuss is about. It is only another story about Pete Taylor and a woman; except that maybe it is only one woman.’

‘Ah, yes. He did used to have a bit of a reputation, didn't he?’

‘Er… well, I'd say that it was a lot more than a 'bit of a reputation ', Anita. But, yes, as I said it is about as startling a revelation as someone claiming the pope is a Catholic.’

‘So, Norman Fletcher - media consultant - do you think this is another failure by the tabloids to recapture their golden age?’

‘Yes. Times have changed, the world has moved on. Although I don't go as far as some commentators in saying that no-one is interested in these 'celebrity exposures' any more. We still live in the celebrity-obsessed age.’

‘Can I just say Anita, that I wouldn't call Pete Taylor a celebrity - not in the terms that they are normally defined anyway.’

It had been the first mention of his name from the bedside radio that had awoken Pete. He had been back in Gower for a couple of days. He’d left London the morning following Suzy's departure. Now he knew what she had meant when she had said that he would not forget her name. He had half-expected it, or something like it, but still he found it saddening to have it confirmed like this.

Now he was downstairs, listening on the kitchen radio as he waited for his coffee machine to deliver the goods.

‘Both Pete Taylor and Spike Johnson-Brown have always tried to maintain a distance between themselves - and Transmission, of course - and the whole celebrity-obsessed media circus,’ Steve Heady continued.

‘Which, I suppose…’ Norman Fletcher interrupted ‘… is why the media - the tabloids - have this sort of love-hate relationship with them, right back to those infamous Most Famous lesbian in the World days of the mid-Eighties. There were though, I suppose, one of the biggest bands of their time – if not all time. So no matter what they said, did or claimed to do or say, there was no way the tabloids could afford to ignore them.’

Pete wondered for a moment what Suzy had written about him, about their brief time together, but he found it difficult to summon up any real emotion one way or another. He had been in so many newspaper reports - most of them wildly inaccurate, or simply untrue, over the years, that the prospect of another one, especially another one promising yet more intimate secrets left him indifferent.

He noticed that his coffee machine wasn't working and wandered over to have a fiddle with it. Meanwhile the radio programme moved on to something else in the news and Pete stopped listening.

‘What?’ Pete looked up from his - so far fruitless - attempt to unblock the nozzle on his coffee machine. ‘What did you say?’

But the radio newsreader ignored him and started on another story about Australia, or maybe Austria, instead.

Pete stood over the sink still holding the piece of his coffee machine, waiting, but the news headlines finished, and the programme turned to a piece about female hormones in the tap water giving men female breasts. After a quick glance down at his own chest and a rather desultory prod at his left nipple, Pete sighed and headed for his computer.

Eventually he found it. After navigating his way through several seemingly unrelated web pages, he found the story. Or rather, he just sat there, staring at the list below the headline: New Year’s Honours List.

And there, halfway down the list of those elevated to the New-Look House of Lords was her name - Helena De Vires.

‘Bloody Hell,’ Pete whispered as he read the name for about the tenth time. He read further:

***
… her name put forward for her dedicated charity work, most notably in Africa, during the late eighties and early nineties. She originally began as a freelance photojournalist, but gave it during an African assignment up to concentrate on organising and delivering relief to the many thousands caught up in the interminable troubles of the region. She was married to the late MP Joseph De Vires, who died in 1999 after a long battle with stomach cancer. She has a daughter, Charlotte….

***

The Phone rang.

‘Hello? Oh, hello Spike.’ Pete leant back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk, next to the computer. He transferred the phone to his left hand as he looked around for his lighter and cigarettes, then remembered he had given up - nearly six months before - and had thrown out all his smoking-related paraphernalia in this house. He had started smoking again, while on the tour, but had decided to give up - yet again - on his return to Gower. He had dumped all his tobacco and papers, and his lighter, in the bin in the hotel room as he left.

‘I take it you've seen the tabloids?’ Spike said.

‘No, but I've heard about them on the radio. I can't honestly say that she surprised me, but she did disappoint me.’

‘Apparently, you didn't disappoint her. Three times a night, she says.’

‘Bollocks. I can't even fart three times in one night these days. Sounds like the usual nonsense. I'll probably read it when Stan gets someone from the office to send the cuttings down.’

‘Have you heard about Helena?’ Spike said.

Pete waited until she stopped laughing. ‘Yes, on the news… on the radio again. I had and check it on the BBC News Website - just to make sure.’ Pete picked up a pen and began chewing on the top of it. ‘Did I ever tell you how we met - me and Helena?’

‘Oh, yes, several times.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, listen… do you mind popping over sometime, for a chat?’

‘No, not at all. Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Tomorrow? Great. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘No, why should I?’

‘Oh, nothing… it’s just that…. Oh, it doesn’t matter. See you tomorrow afternoon. Bye.’

‘Spike?’ Pete stared at the humming telephone then shrugged. He put it down and turned back to his computer. From the links on the BBC website, he had found a website devoted to Transmission and was amusing himself counting all the inaccuracies he could find. He clicked on the History of the Band link.

"Transmission were first formed in late 1977, when Spike [Cordelia Johnson-Brown](keyboards, vocals) and Pete Taylor (lead vocals, rhythm guitar) first met. There are many conflicting stories about how they first met - including one widely believed, but since disproved, tale of how Spike dragged an unconscious Pete Taylor out of a burning building after a party.
[…]"

Pete laughed aloud. He could remember Stan making up the burning building story during one late-night drinking session during a tour in Scotland. The number of people, fans, who still believed it, amazed him.

Further down the webpage, he found a brief mention of Transmission’s first-ever gig at The Pit. He smiled to himself as he sat back in his chair. Despite all the years, all the gigs in-between, he could still vividly remember that first gig.

*

Transmission had about fifteen songs ready for their first-ever gig at The Pit. Spike worked out that it would mean they had more than enough for their set, which would be about an hour long.

They arrived early, about seven o'clock in the evening, to set their gear up. Big Stan was the only other person there. He chatted to them about this and that as they set up. He spent a lot of time talking to Jenny in particular, at least until his wife, Cathy, turned up, and he suddenly had to go and help behind the bar.

There were three rows of seats, with tables, just in front of the stage. Once they had set up, they sat down, with their drinks, in the front row. It seemed strange to Pete seeing their gear up there, just like for a real band.

Jenny was sitting next to Pete. He noticed she was shivering. Spike, sitting on the other side of Jenny, stroked her hand along Jenny's thigh and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was she said, it did not stop the shivering, but it made Jenny smile.

The wait seemed to last for several hours. The hands on Pete's watch seemed to be moving backwards rather than forwards. Mott the DJ turned up about eight o'clock. He began to play some music, mostly the punk and New-Wave stuff that he preferred.

At last, around half past nine, they got the nod from Stan. Pete stood up and looked around; there was quite a reasonable crowd for a weekday evening. Suddenly he felt the shivers that Jenny had been suffering from all evening. The band reluctantly shuffled on to the stage. They all tried to hide behind Stan as he sauntered up to the mike stand. Fortunately, the stage lights were down low, so they had the anonymity of semi-darkness to hide in as they got their instruments sorted and tuned up.

Big Stan turned around and looked at Pete. Pete looked over at Spike, who glanced nervously over at Jenny. Spike nodded to Pete. Pete nodded to Stan. A single spotlight came on and illuminated Stan. The disco faded slowly away, and the only sound was the sound of a crowd coming almost to a hush. Pete felt an overwhelming desire to be on a deserted beach or deep in the heart of a forest, miles from any possibility of meeting another human being.

‘Right! Listen, all of you!’ No-one could accuse Stan of trying to ingratiate himself with anyone. ‘This is the third of these new band nights. The first two were pretty shit - I'll have to admit. So… if this lot are no good either, then this will be the last of them. Anyway, some of this band are regulars here. So, we'll have no bottle throwing, or anything, not like last week. Right?’ He paused for a moment, but no-one with anything more than one functional brain cell to call their own would ever consider challenging anything Big Stan said.

‘So, here they are. Put your hands together for…. Oh, shit! No, hang on - that's not their name. Er… Pete! Pete?’ Stan then remembered to muffle the microphone with his hand. The mike disappeared like a sparrow into a thundercloud. He turned to Pete. ‘Hey Pete - I've forgotten the name of the band.’

‘Transmission,’ Pete whispered.

‘What?’

‘Transmission!’

‘Transmission?’

‘Transmission, yes.’

‘Transmission? Transmission. Right.’ Stan nodded and the sparrow emerged from the thundercloud. ‘Right. Here they are: Transmission!’

There was a smattering of applause from Linda and Jane as the stage lights came on. Pete looked over at Spike, hoping the panic in his eyes was nowhere near as obvious as the panic in hers. He nodded at her, swallowing hard.

‘One… two… three… four…!’ She yelled into her mike and they were off into Firestorm. Spike and Pete had picked it as the first song simply because it was the easiest to play. It was also fast, almost hectic. So - they hoped - any mistakes, cock-ups or incompetence would be lost in the general clamour.

Pete only had time to glance around quickly, everybody else was coping, but he was convinced that he would not remember what the next chord was going to be, or how to play it. The microphone dominated his vision. A few more bars and he would have to sing.

Sing!

Pete stepped up to the microphone, convinced that no sound - or, at best, only a squawk like a constipated chicken - would come out of his mouth. But the words came - he was doing it. They were doing it!

Then, seemingly a minute or two later, it was all over. They had suddenly run out of songs. There was some clapping, but nothing ecstatic. It was the sort of applause given for a competent job, well done, maybe - but nothing more than that.

Now it was all over they were all eager to get off the stage. Stan made a 'follow me' gesture and lead them off the stage and into the dressing room.

They slumped down into the seats, and just sat - staring around at one another. Pete supposed it was mainly relief at having survived.

‘Here. It's on the house, on me,’ Big Stan said. He handed some bottles of beer around. He leant back against the table and folded his arms.

The way Stan's muscles stretched the tattoos on his arms fascinated Pete. The naked dancer on Stan’s right arm seemed suddenly to become eight months pregnant.

‘Thanks, Stan,’ Pete said quickly as he cradled his beer.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Cheers.’

‘No problem,’ Stan said. ‘Listen, I thought you had something… nearly… tonight.’ He sat on the table and took a half-smoked roll-up from behind his ear.

‘Thanks,’ Pete said again. All the others nodded and muttered various noises of gratitude and assent.

‘Listen,’ Stan said as he lit up. ‘I'll be honest with you…. Hang on; have you got a manager, yet?’

‘A manager?’ Spike said. ‘No.’

‘I don't think any of us had thought that far ahead.’ Pete shrugged.

‘Ah, I think you are making a mistake there,’ Stan said. ‘I've been involved in running this place for… well, for a long time now… and I've seen bands, with and without managers, come and go. And - like I said, I'll be honest with you - if you want to get anywhere, you need a manager. A bloody good manager who knows how the system, the business, works.’ He paused and stubbed out his roll-up. ‘There’s a reason why I started these gigs for new bands. It wasn't just trying to liven up a slow night at the club, or an act of… I dunno… charity… or whatever. I was looking for a band, a new band; one I could manage. Well, now… now, I think I've found 'em.’

‘Who are they?’ Jenny said. ‘Do we know them?’

‘It's you, you lot….’

‘Oh,’ Jenny said. ‘Hang on! Does this mean… do you… we… do you think we are that good then?’

They all leant forward at the same moment, smiling and grinning at one another.

‘No,’ Stan said.

They all sat back deflated and stunned, their smiles and grins forgotten.

‘No… not yet anyway,’ Stan said. ‘But I think you could be. I've got this… now, don't laugh.…’

They paid attention, trying to look serious. Only the extremely suicidal would dare to consider laughing at Stan anyway.

‘No, go on,’ Spike said. ‘We're listening.’

‘Like I said, I've been doing this club for a while now. Too long - maybe. Occasionally, I see a new band, and mostly - a club this size, obviously - they are just starting out. Y'know, we've had loads of bands play here, and - more or less - I could tell which ones were going to be the ones that would make it.’ He shrugged. ‘Not all the time, mind. But most of the time.’ He rolled another cigarette. ‘I got that feeling about you lot,’ he said, without looking up. He lit the cigarette and looked at them, at Pete and Spike sitting side by side on the dilapidated seat. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I… I….’ Pete tried to think of something to say.

‘We've - like I… like Pete… said - we haven't really thought about a manager yet,’ Spike said.

‘And you said you didn't think we were quite ready yet, anyway,’ Jenny said. ‘So what would you do - as a manager - about that?’

‘I think what you need is practice - live, in front of an audience,’ Stan said. ‘It is the only way. But live gigs, for a new band are fuckin’ hard to come by. Now, with me in my position, I know all the places were you can get those gigs, even with all the anti-punk aggro that's going on and buggering it up for all new bands - but that will pass, I'm sure. And I can do what is necessary for you to get those gigs - speak to the right person and so on. I mean, you are - if you do get paid in the first place - only going to get a pittance, beer money and such, right?’

They nodded, more or less in unison.

‘So, what is my percentage of that going to be, compared to all the hassle it will take?’ He sat back. ‘Bugger all, that's what. But once you are good enough, and we start getting real money - and record company interest - only then will I start to earn. So, really, it is in my own interest - long term - to see you do all right, isn't it?’

‘Er… yes,’ Pete said. ‘Can we have a talk about it then Stan - as a band - and let you know?’

‘Well… how long will you need?’ Stan said. ‘The sooner we get started… and all that.’

They looked around at one another. None of them knew what to do.

‘Er… how… er… formal is this thing going to be,’ Matt said to Stan. ‘Are we talking contracts and lawyers and all that?’

‘I dunno, nothing involving lawyers… yet,’ Stan said. ‘As long as we trust one another, and we are all working for the same thing. But, I suppose when we start talking about real money and stuff, then we'll have to start signing papers and all that.’

‘I think we ought to give it a go,’ Spike said. ‘Does anyone disagree?’ She looked around; they all shook their heads. ‘After all, as Stan says, we need practice - live practice - and he can get it for us.’

‘I don't think any of us has anything to lose,’ Pete said.

‘Good, great,’ Stan clapped his hands together. He jumped off the table and put his head around the open door. ‘Cathy! Bring us a crate up here, there is some celebrating to be done!’

A couple of minutes later Stan's wife, Cathy, dropped the crate of beer on to the table. ‘So, what are you celebrating?’ she said.

‘I'm their manager,’ Stan said. ‘And they are going to be stars. Fucking great big stars!’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Cathy said, shaking her head as she left the dressing room. ‘I'll believe that when I see it.’