Peter McFeely

Suddenly, a shrill blast cut through the hum of barroom chatter. The razor-edged roar was punctuated by thunderous, churning beats, raucous sounds bawling in unison.

Eyes turned towards the makeshift stage in the corner, chairs and tables cleared from the lightly raised section reserved for drinkers who saw themselves on a higher plain. It didn’t matter where ears turned; the cacophony filled every inch of the small space, down into the knots of the planked floor, deep through the chipped tiles in the bathroom and up, via the holes in the ceiling insulation, out into the night sky.

On stage, the house band threw themselves into their performance, a coruscating mass of hair, denim and hormones. The rubber soles of the ubiquitous Converse trainers generated a symphony of squeaks that, had they been heard above the thumping instruments, would have been sworn to be perfectly timed and musical in their own right. In just the opening bars, the energy for which the band had become known was in full flow, rushing like a spilt pint; a sudden release, constantly pushing outwards, expanding its boundaries and slowly filling every available inch. Such was their fervour, the band could have been playing to the biggest of audiences in the biggest of stadiums. That reality, playing to at most a three-figure crowd in a dingy local pub, did not get in their way was one of the reasons they had been earmarked as having the potential to go to the big city and be successful.

Knuckles whitening, Marcus clutched the microphone and fed it with a visceral soprano pitch. The sound belied the brooding eyes which sat in an almost gaunt face beneath matted strands of hair. Guitar slung over shoulder a-la Springsteen, he dreamed of the day the foursome were screened on TV and headlined stadium shows. For anyone who asked, success was inevitable; they were simply too talented. And too determined. Granted, his balance leaned towards the latter, but in Ben the band did have genuine ability. Some people talk of how guitarists can make their instrument sing. Others, of how they can make theirs talk. Ben could make his guitar orate. Together, he and his instrument could deliver philosophy and theory to rival the thinking of the great ancient Greeks. Socrates and Plato could have risen from the grave and stood alongside the band on stage and attention would still have been fixed firmly on Ben. Jacob and Jonathan provided the foundation for Ben’s expression, though the pair could barely be less similar. Outspoken and opinionated, Jonathan was as close to a pro as the local music scene could offer, having played in multiple bands and graced many an average dirty barroom floor. He was well known within the town but still carried himself with a pleasant mix of self-surety and humility. Jacob, on the other hand, was quiet to the point of reclusive. He had joined the trio by happenstance and loomed in a corner of each performance with menace and an air of disconnection. The foursome may have seemed somewhat mismatched, but together they gelled to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

After 18 months of performing in the bar, the musicians had only recently been able to legally enjoy a drink after (or before, or during) their show. Their stint could have surpassed two years by now, were it not Marcus’ insistence that, as a point of supposedly memorable differentiation, they present bar managers with auditions via cassette. Some managers made the effort but were unable to find a compatible stereo, others found, not to their surprise, that a dustbin did not extract music from the magnetic tape upon it’s immediate deposit. Fortunately, one manager humoured the young bedraggled singer and a live debut soon followed. It didn’t matter that the bar had a grime which hung in the air. Nor that it was just as likely to find a man in a football jersey as one in a button-ed up polo, hipster to the edges of his fingernails. The beauty was that the bar attracted all-sorts. Beaten up sofas sat amongst high, sticky varnished barstools while carriageway booths lined one side of the room. Drinkers couched over tall tables or slunk low in the miniature rooms created by the high dull white walls of the train set. At the same time, a group of ardent teenaged fans gathered in front of the plinth. They bounced out of time, a thronging mismatched collection, gyrating to guitars as if they were manna from heaven, providing unexpected answers to their sullen existences.

Marcus looked out over the bar – over the dancing teens, the well-put-together yuppies and the daytime drinkers who hadn’t gone home – and smiled to himself. His mind wandered to the future and to a bigger arena. As they played, Ben, Jonathan and Jacob also looked forward but, little did Marcus know, they dreamt of different stages.

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