Gang Of Losers
PART WAYS.
SORRY IT DIDN'T WORK OUT,
AUGUST WELLS
PS: YOU ARE STILL THE BEST DRUMMER IN LYNCOMBE
Those final words sounded damning, not complimentary. What August really meant was "you are only a drummer." But now Theo didn't care if he was the best drummer in Lyncombe or even the whole of Wiltshire for that fucking matter. To be just a drummer no longer seemed enough. He looked at the kit in front of him: how many times had it been ferried back and forth, up and down stairs, in and out of cars, all to accompany music created by other people? Other people who could turn around and drop him when he no longer suited their needs?
He was sick of it. He was absolutely sick of it.
His mother came down the stairs: "Oh hello dear. Mr Wells turned up with it just after you left. Nice of him to bring it over, save us the bother of collecting it for Tuesday." She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she passed.
"Thanks mum," Theo said glumly, not sure if he meant for the information or for the kiss. Sylvie smiled and headed towards the kitchen. Theo picked up his shopping bag and walked slowly past the kit up to his bedroom. He noticed that some of the black paint had been chipped off the floor tom, the original sky blue showing through.
So that was that: discarded from another band. Another good band.
He went to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He sat on the bed expecting to cry, but no tears came. Instead he picked up the bag and pulled out the Don McLean album. Don stared back at him, his thumb upturned. Theo couldn't share his optimism.
He took the album out of its cover, wiped it with his forearm and placed it on the Panasonic music centre. He lined up the needle at the beginning of track three and waited.
Vocal and guitar started simultaneously. No introduction, just:
Starry starry night...
Followed by some rather dreary acoustic guitar. It sounded like the sort of thing you might hear on Radio 2. A soft American voice sang about painting a palette in grey and blue. But surely it should be the canvas that gets painted, not the palette? The song was already annoying him, just as 'American Pie' had for its unknowable 'levee' reference.
But Theo gave McLean the benefit of the doubt. The gentle voice carried on, describing the gentle artist looking out on a summer's day, with eyes that knew darkness in the soul. Theo thought immediately of his mushroom cloud landscape of Box valley. There was darkness in my soul that day...
On it went, the sketching of shadows on the hills, of trees and daffodils, and Theo nodded in recognition - this is what I've been doing all summer long! Suddenly the song became not just about Vincent, but about him as well.
And now Theo could see that the previously dreary guitar was simply a sympathetic shoulder for the lyrics to cry on. The song was plain, it was clear, it hid nothing. It kept on coming, each rhyming couplet a damning summation of Vincent's chaotic journey from romanticism to self-doubt and madness.
Yes. Theo could see that this was a good song. But now the affinity he felt became displaced with the certainty that he would never be able to create something like this.
To play guitar like this.
To sing like this.
To write like this.
Never, never, never.
He listened on. Awe and envy, rapture and sorrow.
Vincent lived, Vincent died, Vincent left the world behind.
Theo glanced at the album spinning round the turntable at 33rpm, and could see that the stylus was still mid-song. There was more to come. But Vincent was already dead - what else was there to sing about? The answer was empty halls and nameless walls; the tragedy of Vincent's priceless canvases exchanging hands for millions. The irony...
And just as Theo didn't think the song could get any more tragic, a lavish swell of strings entered beneath the vocal, and he could hold his emotions back no more. Tears flooded his eyes and the rest of the song was lost to sob after sob after sob.
The tears gave way to a renewed anger, but this time not directed at August; but Don McLean, whose perfect song only served to remind Theo of the mountain he had to climb if he too was to become a songwriter. He ripped the record from the turntable and threw it across the room as hard as he could. It hit the wall and bounced to the floor unbroken.
He picked it up with the intention of snapping it in two, but managed to stop himself just in time. Instead he inspected it for scratches and placed it carefully back in its sleeve.
Theo decided that writing a song about Vincent Van Gogh was something that he should probably put on the back-burner for the time being.
-
Needing a project to occupy his mind for the rest of the day, Theo took the bus to the Halfords in Chippenham and bought six cans of sky blue spray paint. He then visited the off-licence by the train station and made his way back home on the bus.
When he got there, he took the drum kit from its current resting place in the hallway to the back garden. He then removed all the skins and covered the mounting lugs with masking tape. Then he laid some old newspaper out on the lawn, and was about to shake his first can of spray paint when his mum shouted out "Theo! Pete's here!" He looked up to see his friend walking from the house into the garden, his hands in his pockets, a broad smile on his face.
Theo had known Pete since the second year of Lyncombe Comp. He'd arrived half-way through the first term. Theo spotted him in the school playground one lunchtime - he was minding his own business when a couple of the rougher kids ran up behind him and pulled the rucksack off his back. In response Pete held on to it but the momentum destabilized him and he spiraled to the ground. The rough kids laughed and threw his rucksack at him as he lay there. Theo watched as the new kid stood up and put the rucksack back on.
Once Theo was sure that the bullies had had their fun, he went up to this awkward looking boy and said "Good here innit?"
"Not really," came the reply, a tear rolling down Pete's cheek.
And then, inexplicably, Theo said "Did you see The Two Ronnies last night?"
"No," replied the baffled newcomer.
So Theo began to perform one of the sketches that had amused him. He played both parts; the posh Ronnie Barker part, and the course working class Ronnie Corbett part. Theo had never performed in his life, but it seemed to come naturally in this circumstance, and the new kid laughed. Before lunchtime had ended, Theo had promised to show Pete around town the following Saturday, and introduced him to his other school pals that afternoon. They had been best friends ever since.
Pete ambled up to where Theo stood, poised over a drum shell. "Afternoon. Thought I'd drop by and see how you are. What's going on here then?"
"Got bored of black, gonna paint them blue."
"Fair enough. Anything I can do to help?"
Theo thought about it. There were some old drums in the garage, some of which had newer skins on than his current set-up, so he asked Pete to go and retrieve them.
"Sure!" Came the reply and off he went. It took him three trips to bring all the old drum stuff from the garage - a snare, cymbal stands with rubber stoppers missing, a pair of Roto-toms that Theo got bored of, a cracked ride cymbal, a cowbell, various-sized skins and a floor tom with only two legs.
Theo looked over the heap of rejected parts. It looked like there were a couple of decent skins here that he could salvage. And maybe that cowbell could make a re-appearance as well.
Theo and Pete set about spraying the drums the new sky blue colour. It took two coats to completely cover the black. Once the paint was dry, they took the masking tape off the lugs and re-attached the skins. They looked at their handiwork and both agreed that the new colour looked great. Now Theo had a sky blue Strat and sky blue drums.
Pete motioned at the pile of rejects from the garage. "What are you going to do with the discarded ones?"
"Dunno. Why?"
"Weeeell, I was kind of thinking about learning the drums myself. Looks like it might be fun."
"Sure! Take them!" replied Theo.
r /> "Thanks. What do you want for them?"
"Nothing. You're my friend."
"I've got to give you something."
"Oh just buy me a pint some time."
"Sure. You at the White Hart later?"
"Dunno, maybe. Who's going?"
"Just the usual gang of losers I guess."
-
That evening, before meeting Pete and the others, Theo took the 'Wallflowers' logo from his mantelpiece and threw it in the bin. Using his gauche paints, he set about creating a new version, with a new name. This time he started with a background made up of vivid pink, green and orange brushstrokes, and on top of this, in deepest Vermillion and in the same Van Gogh type face as before, he wrote out his new band name.
Once finished, he placed it on the mantelpiece and stood back. He squinted at it, looked at it sideways, stood way back, stood up close, and finally nodded in approval. There was still plenty to think (and worry) about - writing songs, singing them, recruiting band members - but at least he had the name, and for now that felt like enough.