Band Practice

Band Practice

Klaus is on drums. It’s more like a collection of pots and pans collected from the dump but it makes a noise. Bog is on bass. She ‘s had a few lessons and she tuned her guitar on the way to Middle’s house, so she is waiting patiently for the others. Issues is on keys. She plays a mean keyboard. Middle has a 1964 Les Paul electric guitar. He is tuning the E string up and down, up and down.  It sounds like a frog trapped in an elevator. There’s a ginger cat watching the commotion- nobody knows how it got there or who it belongs to.
    “Who is going to sing?” says Bog.
    “I will,” says Klaus.
    “Don’t be a balrog Klaus,” says Middle. “Drummers don’t sing.”
    Klaus bangs the biggest pot in anger.  “I can name ten drummers who sing.”
    Middle stops tuning his guitar. “Name them.”
    “Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters,” says Klaus.
    Issues plays the opening bars of ‘Times Like These’ to back Klaus up.
    “And the other nine?” asks Middle.
    “The guy from Def Leppard,” clares Issues.
    Middle sighs. “He didn’t sing. But he only had one arm.”
    Issues takes her hands off the keys. There is an uncomfortable silence. A gust of wind bangs against the garage door as if to say ‘get on with it.’
    “How about…Phil Collins?” says Klaus.
    “Who’s Phil Collins?” clares Middle.
    “Emmm…”
    “He’s the guy in that video with the fruit,” says Issues. She’s wearing a short black skirt, black hoodie with a swirl on the front and a pair of Docs. “Where the fruit moves, but his face stays in the centre. It’s a very powerful piece of art.”
    “OK,” says Middle. “That’s two.”
    “Look,” says Bog. She’s wearing an oversized grey sweater with holes in the sleeves and black leggings and a pair of Docs. “If you don’t want Klaus to sing, why don’t you sing? I’m sure you’ve got a lovely singing voice.” Bog moves the microphone stand over to Middle.
    “I don’t wanna sing,” clares Middle. He pushes the microphone stand away and it clatters to the ground. It misses the cat by a natswing but it doesn’t move.
    “Debbie Stephenson from the Bangles.”
    “Why don’t you want to sing?” Bog asks again. She thinks Middle can shout a lot when speaking will do.
    “I…just want to play the guitar. I’ve got to concentrate.”
    “He is a very good guitarist,” says Issues. “I don’t want to sing though. Why don’t you sing Bog?”
    “Oh,” she says, blushing. “I don’t have the confidence for it. Don’t make me sing, please.”
    “Ringo Starr,” shouts Klaus. There is another clatter by Klaus’s feet—he has dropped his phone. It splits into three pieces and a puff of smoke floats into the damp stone ceiling. “Blatherskite!”
    “What’s the cambrone?”
    Bog puts her bass down and picks up the remnants. The smell of technology failure. “That’s totally broken,” says Bog. “I can’t fix that. What were you doing—were you searching for singing drummers on your phone?”
    “My parents are going to kill me,” says Klaus. But he doesn’t look too bothered.
    The band practice is interrupted by the whirr and grind of the garage door. It opens up and under the ceiling; the band are blinded by the dipped lights of Middle’s dad’s fourbyfour. The car slides in, pauses, then the hazard lights blink on.  The driver door opens and Middle’s dad gets out. He’s the village geepee so every member of the band smiles and looks to the ground. He’s wearing the beige suit with stripes.
    “Michael,” he says. “You’re going to have to clear this up. I’m sorry but you’re friends will have to leave.” Middle’s dad leaves the garage and walks up the garden to the Van Dean manor abode.
    “Sorry guys,” says Michael Van Dean. He likes his father but doesn’t like the way he refers to his friends as ‘your friends’—he knows their names for gopher’s sake. The cat leaves—band practice is over for today.