Touch of Creation

Rock and Roll!

Steam lifted the nearly-triangular and flat cardboard box out of the back of his SUV and took it up the back stairs to the rehearsal rooms over the studio.

"Let’s see what we’ve got here."

There were plastic securing tapes around the box – not unlike Plasticuffs, Steam thought to himself – perhaps he could find another use for them later – before he took out his penknife and slit them apart. He lifted the lid off the box.

Inside was a swathe of bubble wrap and polystyrene balls. The bubble wrap contained an object, like eggs in a spider’s nest. He lifted the bundle out and began to tear away the wrap. The roadies would probably have great fund popping the little air cells later, between duties. Or instead of them. "Show me a conscientious roadie," Steam had been known to say, "and I’ll show you a wannabe groupie who couldn’t even make it as a bank clerk." The wrap protested and he tugged hard, shredding it away. Then, revealed at last, like Tutankhamun’s tomb to Howard Carter, there lay before him a treasure beyond price, the shining lacquered wood, ivory-coloured scratch board and gleaming brass-gold frets of a Fender Stratocaster guitar.

It was not the first time in his life he’d uncovered a Strat to the light of day. But the thrill of that first time, that magical moment when he saw the strings, the humbucker pickups and the fret-board, its pale, flesh-maple perfection under its slick patina of varnish, was always the same. It was like the first time he’d had sex, the first time he had stripped a woman and seen her naked, curved body. The moment when time itself held its breath, and he shivered with delight.

"Wonder how you’ll play," he murmured. He gathered the guitar up into his arms and held her comfortably close, like a familiar lover. Or a child, in need of comfort. Suddenly, he was gentle, cradling her, stroking the long sleek neck in an act of tenderness.

Now he was holding the wooden body up to the light, sighting along the length of the guitar like a marksman, armed with a weapon, checking for flaws. The barrel of the neck was dead straight, her aim would be true, he could go into battle safe in knowing she would not jam, or misfire or let him down at the crucial moment. When the notes would cascade like bullets, or shower like communion wine over the supplicants of the crowd. Tonight, during the show, the baptism.

Steam looked at the strings. They were Fender’s own brand and they were fine strings. But they would have been on the instrument some time at the showroom and would they would need replacing, and he preferred his own choice. This were Ernie Ball Super Slinkies with the 9 top E – he’d tried the Extra Slinkies which were an 8, but this was just too light. 9 was just right. He would put them on later, fresh like dew on grass for tonight’s show. But first he just wanted to check the electrics. He reached down for a TEAC cable – alleged to be so tough they were roadie-proof, connected one end to the angled cable slot rudely on view on the front of the body, next to the control knobs, the other into a small Marshall practice amp, and snapped on the chunky red switch.

The guitar became alive.

He caressed the strings, held down a G major . Amazingly, the instrument was almost in tune. Considering the rough ride it must have had from manufacturer to showroom to him. Steam tried a few more chords – the D was out – a riff, and a couple of runs – everything was fine. He just needed to get the Slinkies on and give them the chance to settle down – new strings always took a while to bed in and would slip for some time on the machine heads. Get the in-transit strings taken off and play in the new strings ready for tonight, when they and their blood-red and sunburst new home would start earning their keep before a live audience.

Hard-egg came in the room. "You got it?"

Steam nodded. "I don’t like changing guitar in the middle of a tour – it’s like changing ladies in the middle of the night. I wanna stay with the old one."

"Romantic bugger," said Hard-egg. "You should have thought of that before you trod on the old one."

Steam looked at his old sunburst Fender standing in the corner of the room. Already battered before the ‘mishap,’ gouges and scrapes in her skin, varnish worn right down to the wood on a fretboard that had had an army of fingers march across it, the scratch plate was cracked and the pickups depressed inwards. Steam felt contrite. "Yeah, well – I dunno, I was really drunk at the time. I didn’t know she’d fallen over. What’s that melon-head technician say about getting her fixed?"

"Solder-iron Boy? He’s out now getting new parts. I don’t think he’ll have her fixed for tonight. It’s almost tea. You’d better get prepped."

Steam picked up the psychedelic pink packet of Super Slinkies. "Already on it," he said.



The concert was a sell-out, the tour indeed was sold out, the album climbing high in the charts. The new Stratocaster had a lot to do and it didn’t let Steam down. When it came to the big solo, screaming and aching to touch a level of meaning that no words could match, it was like the guitar was playing him. His back arched, his fingers bled to please, the feverish desire of every note soared over the heads of the enraptured crowd.

A young man in the audience, at his first ever gig in his life, felt the pleading urgency and spirit of the guitar seeking him, stretching out to him. His skin rose in goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck bristled.

Just then, as Steam tipped himself back to the peak of the final squealing crescendo, a solitary bright spotlight held him in its aura, the dazzling beam bounced off the diamond-shine of the Stratocaster’s smooth slab body and shot into the fan-mass to the young man, sanctifying him, in a blazing spark of brilliance. It was like God reaching out to Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

The young man now knew what he must do – with himself, with his world, his life.

He must play guitar. A new guitarist was born.

The End

Imagine

(Imagine meeting John Lennon. A short story where a young piano-tuner from a sheltered background helps the composer of one of the world's most loved songs.)

Dave waited at the entrance to the impressive white mansion in Weybridge, the heart of London’s stockbroker belt. A distinctly un-stockbroker-like voice was audible through the gleaming panelled door.

"I’m not saying that I’m not doing any more rock and roll! I’m just telling you, like I’ve told other people before – I’m not going to be wriggling me ass at thirty to Twist and Shout." There was a pause during which someone may have been answering back, followed by: "Lemme get the door."

The door opened, and there stood one of the four most famous men in the world.

"What the hell do you want?"

Dave gulped. He had tried to prepare himself for this moment, but for the good it had done him, he could have spent the trip down from London playing tiddlywinks.

"Gosh!… Mr Lennon."

"Yeah, I know my name – who the hell are you?"

"I wasn’t expecting meeting you. I thought you’d have a servant or something."

"It’s his night off."

"But it’s day-time," said Dave, now slightly puzzled.

"Well, he’s must be having a hard night’s day. So what are you after?

"I’m from Steinway’s. The London store sent me."

John was studying him carefully. "What for?"

"We sold you a piano," said Dave. "I’ve come to have a look at it."

"I wish I had an exciting job like that. Why?"

For a ghastly moment, Dave began to fear he had made some kind of mistake. "You said it needed some attention. Can I just say that we’re delighted you chose one of our instruments? The thought that it will be on one of your records – "

"I’m not letting you in just like that," John interrupted. "How do I know you’re not just after an autograph or a lock of me hair?"

"Please don’t worry – I’m not a fan… Well, I am a fan, actually… of your music. I think it’s marvellous. But that’s not why I’m here. We understand you have a problem with a piano we supplied."

"Don’t you have a card or something?"

"We don’t normally carry them. But I’ve this." Dave produced a piece of paper from a pocket and read out: "The piano was a Walnut upright Model Z. It says here you paid just over a thousand pounds for it. I understand from the store manager that you took a liking to it when you learnt that it had been made in Hamburg."

"Yeah, that’s right." John seemed to relax. "You’d better come in. Welcome to Tittenhurst."

"Thank you. May I say Mr Lennon, that it’s a privilege to meet you. We’re really not supposed to say this but I am really quite an aficionado of your music."

John closed the door and started to lead Dave into the depths of the house. "Yeah, well… that’s nice. D’you wanna cuppa tea?"

Dave was surprised by this kind, simple offer and nodded.

"Hey, Yoko!" John called out. "Put the kettle on – lad here needs a brew. What’s yer name?"

"David. Dave… to my friends."

They entered what was apparently a music room. "Right, Dave, let’s get cracking. One piano here, crippled inside."

Dave stared at the piano for a moment before saying anything. "Why have you taken the front off it?"

"Well – you have the lid open on a grand, don’t you? Like the big white grand over there?"

"So – what’s wrong with it?"

"I’ve only gone and lost me goddam glasses down the front of it, haven’t I?"

For the first time since his arrival, Dave felt relieved. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too difficult after all. "Oh, I see – I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’ll retrieve them for you right away."

"I’m not usually that clumsy. It was actually Yoko. She came up behind me to give me a cuddle. We got a bit carried away and me specs came off. They weren’t the only thing, either."

Dave was startled. "Good Lord! There’s nothing else in there, is there?"

"Oh no," said John. "Just the specs. I wouldn’t bother but every time I play this… what’s this chord? Something starts buzzing down inside. It’s like fret-buzz on a guitar, when you don’t hold the chord down properly. What chord’s that?"

Dave studied John’s fingers on the keys. "Let me see… It’s F6, in that inversion."

"In what? It’s not one of those aeolian cadences, is it?"

"No, Mr – John. An aeolian cadence is – "

"I don’t wanna know what one is. I still think they sound like exotic birds. Finding out would spoil it."

"But you do know chord names, don’t you? Pardon me for asking, but I was just curious."

"That’s alright. I know chord names on guitar. But I’ve been playing that since I was at art school. I’m composing more stuff on piano now ‘cos I don’t know it as well and I surprise meself."

"That sound like a great idea," Dave said. "I’m really pleased to hear you are still writing. I thought perhaps that when The Beatles – "

"Why does nobody think there’s life after The Beatles?" John suddenly became animated. "We weren’t born Beatles. We had a life before we were Beatles and we’ve got one now The Beatles are over. We were just a band that made it really big, that’s all. It was just a dream. The world will go on without us. It’s over. That’s reality."

"Of course. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to take the bottom panel off."

"I tried to do that but I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I thought maybe it was nailed on."

"No – there are catches just inside. I can reach down this gap over the top of the panel, and… there we are."

"Great," said John. "Just as a matter of interest, how old are you?"

"I’m thirty. Why?"

"You’re the same age as me! Yet you look twice my age. And the way you talk. Take that stupid tie off for a start. It makes you look like Sir Joe Lockwood. Or Dick James. I don’t know which is worse."

"Very well. But… I’m not sure how – "

"Don’t grow old early. Walk before you try to run. And just relax, man. Hey, Yoko, where’s that tea? Do you fancy a fried egg butty?… "

Some time later, the two of them were reclining on the floor, tea mugs and plates scattered around them. The piano was fixed, the refreshments had been welcome, and Dave was finally beginning to unwind.

"You know your way round a piano," said John. "I’ll give you that. Perhaps you can teach me which end I blow into."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was only joking. How’s your egg butty?

"Ah," Dave laughed. "I’ve never had one before. Best one I’ve ever had!"

John, seeing the joke, laughed back. "So d’you really like me music, Dave? Honestly?"

"Honestly, John? I love it. You create such wonderful images. Some of the chaps at Steinway aren’t convinced, but to me it’s like dreaming outside your head. Specially that one, I am The Walrus. It’s like a Van Gogh painting in music. It’s like you know a dream I’ve had – even if it was a disturbing dream – and you’ve set it to music. How did you do that?

John was suddenly serious. "Dreams you dream together are reality, man."

"Gosh. It’s brilliant. I think you’re a genius."

"Yeah. I am. I know." And then he winked.

Dave hesitated. "I’d love to know how you compose something like Walrus."

John reflected. "Sometimes it’s easy. It just comes to me in little bits. Then I join them up. You hear something and next thing it’s in a song. I loved that noise you made when you brushed all the strings in the piano at once, Dave. How’d you do that?"

"I was leaning on the loud pedal so that none of the strings was damped. All the strings were vibrating at once."

"The world’s biggest chord. It sounded like thunder. I wonder if you could use that somewhere in a song. It’d sound really weird, – not a lot of people would get it. They don’t get that it’s just as good art as anything else. It’s a con – only it’s not a con. If you call it art, then it’s art."

"I suppose it is," Dave nodded. He’d never thought of art like this. "Who’s to say something isn’t art?

"Exactly, Dave. Exactly!" He turned and peered at Dave over his freshly-retrieved spectacles. "I suppose you know all the chords there is?"

"I’ve grade 8 piano but… "

"When we first started playing, before we even became Beatles, we’d travel all the way across town to meet someone who knew a chord we didn’t. Right back when were The Quarrymen, if we heard someone on the other side of Liverpool had a chord they could teach us, we’d get on a bus and go and see him. Just to learn it."

Dave nodded. "But I’m no composer. Not like you."

"Don’t put yourself down. There might be a hit lurking in you right now."

"Well… you’ve got your glasses, John. I think you should find that the buzzing sound has gone now."

"Ta." John leapt up and perched on the piano stool. "Let me just try it. There’s this song I’ve been working on… That’s a C major, I know that one. Oops – got a wrong note there."

Dave was watching carefully. Standing next to one of the world’s two most famous composers while at work was something he would remember till his final hour. "It’s not really wrong, John," he said quietly. "You’ve added a ninth to the chord. You just caught the D with your thumb."

"Is that it? I thought a ninth would make it bluesy, like a seventh. I wanted something a bit softer than that."

"But you’ve left out the seventh. So it does sound, sort of, more dreamy. Debussy might have used it like that."

"C with a ninth added? I wonder if that smart-ass McCartney knows about that."

"I don’t know, John. He might do. Is he a good piano player?"

"He thinks he is." John grimaced. "Specially since that Long and Winding Road. Probably does know a bit more about it than me. So if I play C with a nine then F with a 6. What do you think of that?

Dave listened thoughtfully. "It’s quite nice, isn’t it?"

"I like the idea of a nine," said John talking almost to himself. "I like it being like a dream. Nine is a very special number. I was born on the ninth. I think special things’ll happen, every time the ninth comes round each month. When me and Yoko had our names changed to John Ono Lennon and Yoko Ono Lennon, there’s nine letter ‘O’s’ in our names."

Dave smiled. "And nine letter ‘N’s’"

"N for nine. Nine’s me lucky number. I like that. Lemme try it again. If I just rock me hand, like strumming a guitar softly… What d’you think of that.

Dave could feel the prickle of hairs rising on his arms. "That’s so simple. Yet it’s so beautiful."

"Yeah. That’s going to be me fave rave. Thanks for your help, Dave. I think I’ll do it like that. It does sound better with the nine in."

"It really is lovely," said Dave, drifting into the music. "Peaceful. Uplifting even. What are you going to call it?"

"You’ll have to wait and see, Dave," said John. "It’ll probably be on the next album. Till then, just imagine."

THE END.

On The Beat

(Short humorous story when a cop meets his favourite rock star)

"Claudia Raine?"

"You got me."

"I’m…"

"Call me Claudie. Come in," she said casually and walked away from the door.

The most immediately noticeable feature of the room – apart from the complete and utter mess, piles of clothing draped over half-hidden furniture, every surface covered with empty beer bottles, dirty glasses, crushed cans, overflowing ash trays, unidentifiable bric-a-brac and general rubbish – was a speaker cabinet with four – four! – huge drivers, standing on cheap set of open and overflowing drawers. That and the guitars. The guitars were all hanging neatly as if to attention along the wall from the kind of fixtures gardeners use for spades and the like in tool sheds. There was an Ovation Classic, two Fenders, both a Telecaster and a Stratocaster, a Gretsch Tennessean, a Yamaha 12-string and some others.

"You from Mojo?"

He stepped cautiously into the room. "No, I’m from…" but at that moment he stumbled over some cabling snaking across the floor. For a moment, he thought he was going to have to choose between falling on to a small television on the floor, or an expensive-looking record deck complete with vinyl LP perched precariously on a chair. He grabbed a littered table, causing a plant pot to fall off the back.

"Never mind," Claudie said. "I got a loose schedule today. You can interview me anyway. Wanna beer?"

"No… Thank you." Before he could say more she had gone into an adjoining room that looked like a kitchen except for the fact that a bomb seemed to have gone off in it. There was a crash, a tearing noise, and the sound of a bottle being popped with an opener.

He took in the rest of the room. Over to his right was an ugly set of Ikea CD racks, packed to the top. At least all the CDs were put away. Looking closer, he saw the CDs were stacked in alphabetical order. Under what might have been a bed were piles of sheet music, some in folders, stapled or paper-clipped together. On the nightstand, an ash-tray was grimly trying to contain a mountain of roll-up stubs, next to a Walkman with tiny earphones.

"What magazine are you with, then?" She was stood in the doorway with a bottle of Stella in her hand.

"I’m not with a magazine, Ms Raine."

"Oh?"

"I’m Detective Constable Burton, Greater Manchester CID."

"Wow," she said, not seeming overly impressed. How do I know you’re a po-lice man? Where’s your uniform?"

"I’m in plain clothes."

She took in jeans and jacket at a glance. "You’re telling me, honey. You’re a walking style famine. Don’t they teach you how to dress? To blend in?"

"What’s wrong with my clothes?"

"Let’s just say you’d look better in your uniform. I could have tried your helmet on."

Burton turned away and, stepping carefully to avoid standing on anything, pulled a pair of headphones from where they were hanging from a drawer.

"You got a warrant to search these premises?"

"I’m not here to conduct a search," he said, stiffly.

"Betcha glad about that," she said with a grin, and punched his shoulder with her bottle hand. "So what can I do for you, Detective Constable Burton? You come to stitch me up?" She laughed at her own joke. "Burton – stitch-up. Geddit?" She propped the beer bottle against a cushion on the sofa and began rolling a cigarette.

"I’m here about an alleged incident at the Band On The Wall pub last night."

"You call that an incident? That was an event."

Burton had interviewed lots of people, over the years of his career, about alleged incidents. Usually, there weren’t too happy to be speaking to him. They had a tendency to latch on to word alleged, because that could mean that the incident hadn’t actually happened. He liked people to think they were in trouble because it tended to make them more co-operative, as they gave their version of the facts. He especially wanted Claudia Raine to take the situation more seriously. After all, he had an objective to achieve in being here. He studied a poster Blu-tacked to the wall. On it was the word Apocalypse.

"Have you been with Apocalypse long?"

She was licking the edge of her Rizla and paused a moment before answering. "A while," she said, and started hunting for a lighter.

"Before that you were with The Gin Crew, weren’t you?"

She looked mildly impressed. "Hey, that’s right." She held up her tobacco pouch. "D’you want one."

"No, thank you."

"I split from them months ago," she said tossing the pouch and the lighter on to the table. "Personal differences."

He bent down and retrieved the plant he’d knocked over and put it on the table, noting its familiar-shaped leaves, and looked at her, impassively.

"Got that from an admirer," she said. "Guess he couldn’t afford flowers. Such a little plant, too. Under eight inches tall."

"Quite," he said, and began to pick up other items from the top of the drawers. There was a small, round-topped box about the size of a packet of cigarettes, with the word Farter printed on it, and a can of Right Guard.

"I thought you said you didn’t have a search warrant," she said.

"I’m not searching. Just looking. Men’s deodorant?"

"It gets hot on stage. Girlie stuff can’t hack it." She still sounded relaxed, conversational. "What was this alleged incident?"

"It is alleged that you assaulted a member of the public during your act."

"I did?" She looked genuinely puzzled.

"You hit him with the neck of your guitar."

"It was a headless bass," she corrected him.

"You nearly turned him into a headless fan," he said, with an edge to his voice.

"The twat jumped up on stage. I was just fending him off."

"You fended him right off the edge of the stage into the audience. He needed stitches afterwards."

"He stumbled. It’s a long way down. Needed stitches, did he?"

"So did the member of the audience he landed on."

"Haven’t you heard? It’s lonely at the top. Or it’s supposed to be. If I hadn’t done it, security would have. And they wouldn’t have been so polite about it."

Burton could see he still wasn’t getting her rattled. He continued to inspect objects on the drawers, picking up the round-topped box. "What is this, exactly?"

"The Farter? It’s an effects pedal. Like a fuzz box. For lead guitar."

"Oh." He nudged a crushed beer can off the drawers and spotted a lump of something dark and crumbly wrapped in Cling-film. "And this?"

It was the first time she had looked uncomfortable. "If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And I’d have to kill you."

"Looks like a full ounce. Claudia Raine, I am arresting you on suspicion of possessing a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything, but you may harm you defence if you fail to mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say…"

"It’s Oxo."

"What!?"

"It’s Oxo. I carry it around with me at gigs. You get dehydrated and lose a lot of salt with sweating. I like to have a drink made of that when I come off stage."

"What’s wrong with keeping it in the foil wrapping?"

"The foil tears. You see, I wear leather pants and they’re very tight. It’s safer wrapped up like that. See how crushed it is. Plus I don’t want to be known as some freak who carries Oxo around in her pocket."

"You must think I’m daft!"

"You arrest me for possession of a stock cube and everybody’ll think you’re daft."

"And what about the assault?"

"Get real. The twat fell off the stage. Five hundred people saw him. It’s not as if I swung my guitar like an axe and brained him. You’d never get that to stick. And you know it."

Burton sniffed the Cling-film-wrapped package. There was an unmistakable savoury aroma. He was wrong-footed. He played his last card. "Who’s to say I might find something else in my pocket on the way to the station?"

"My lawyers. Klein, Mullin and Mansfield. You’ve heard of them, no doubt."

He put the little package back down on the table. They seemed to be at an impasse.

"There might be a way out of all this," he said.

"I thought there might be." From her tone, Burton finally realised that Claudia Raine had been around a little and was way ahead of him from the moment she opened the door. She knew people every bit as well as he did. Everybody wanted something.

"I thought it a shame," he said, somewhat at a tangent to their foregoing conversation, "when The Gin Crew split up."

"Why was that?" She was prepared to be patient.

"I… I used to enjoy your gigs."

"Why, thank you kindly, sir."

"I went to a lot of your gigs."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Someone who dresses the way you do?" she snorted, and stubbed out her cigarette.

"Have you any idea how boring it can get being in the Police?"

"Well, it got to Sting in the end. Someone should write a song about it."

Burton coughed and studied his shoes. " I have written a song."

"Oh, God. I was scared you might have."

"Would you like to hear it."

"Arrest me now. I’ll even plead guilty."

"I was hoping I might be able to get it to you when you were in The Gin Crew. But they split up. Then I caught your act last night. And that idiot tried to get at you on stage and… well, that was the end of him. But it gave me an idea."

"To commit police harassment?" She swigged her beer.

"Something like that." He looked longingly at the beer. His throat was very dry. "I could make a real nuisance of myself. If I wanted."

"I wouldn’t argue with that."

"My colleagues and I could always make a visit to you backstage. What would you say the odds were against us finding something.

Claudia tapped the rim of the beer bottle against her lips. She seemed to decide. "What’s this song, then?"

"You really want to hear it?"

"Oh my," she said, with mock melodrama, "do I really have a choice?"

He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Something fell off the drawers behind him and knocked over a double angle spot lamp.

"That’s criminal damage," she said.

"It’s arranged for piano," he said, pulling a sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket. "Do you play piano?"

She shoved a heap of clothing off what Burton had presumed to be a desk, and revealed a Roland keyboard. "A little. I’ve got Grade Eight. What’s it called?"

"Love Patrol."

"Oh, Jesus," she sighed, and took the papers from him. She studied them for a moment, then pulled up a practice amplifier as a piano stool. "Perhaps we could do it in an ironic post-modern sense. Go and put the kettle on."

Burton navigated his way to the kitchen. As he got to the door, she threw the Cling-film package to him. "Make us both a cup."

He was gone a few minutes, time spent partly hunting for two mugs, and washing them. She played snatches of the chords he had written, and la-la-ed fragments of melody. He came back in and sat beside her, handing her a mug.

"Well," she said, taking a long swig from her mug, "the lyrics are crap but no-one ever hears them. And we’ve got to change the title. But it’s got a good hook." She took another drink. "A very good hook. I just might be able to do something with it."

He took a long drink from his mug and pulled a face. "This," he said, "is the strangest Oxo I’ve ever tasted."

"I didn’t say it was pure Oxo. Great, isn’t it?"

The End