Broken Birdie Chirpin (5 page)

Skeffington’s
decayed body was found three years later, buried under the parking lot of the
Davies Football Complex in Mayfair. His bones were draped in the tattered
remains of a St. Thomas’ School for Blighters football uniform complete with
shin guards and jock strap. His dad delivered a stirring eulogy that mostly
recounted Skeffington’s glorious career as a jock. There was no mention of
Skeffington’s brief flirtation with rock n’ roll. His ashes were placed in a
silver football-shaped urn etched with the following epitaph: “Midfielder.”

Fortunately,
the fates weren’t as cruel as my imagination. There wasn’t any bloodshed on
account of Skeffington’s confession. He wasn’t even beaten. His dad took the
news reasonably well. There was an intense interrogation followed by stern
warnings. Skeffington’s artistic endeavors weren’t to interfere with the three
As: Academics, Athletics, and Attitude. He’d also have to quit the band post
haste if it negatively impacted his mum’s social calendar. These terms were
non-negotiable, and Skeffington was obliged to execute a handwritten contract.
He did so with an enormous sense of liberation.

The
week that followed was transformational. I’d gone from lo-fi busker to
frontman/lead guitarist of a genuine rock n’ roll band. Intros. Outros. Tempo.
Cohesion. The strenuous learning curve should’ve been rather daunting on
account of our tiny window. Lesser rock n’ rollers might’ve buckled under the
enormous pressure. Sod off. We sucker-punched pressure in the konk with our
grizzled rhythm section leading the charge.

Lincoln
and Frisby might’ve only been one or two years older, but they’d already lived
a lifetime. They’d been playing in one rock n’ roll outfit or another since
puberty. I found myself mostly enamored with their scars and the war stories
they bandied about like currency. Snatching them up as our permanent rhythm
section seemed like a bloody no-brainer. Skeffington remained somewhat
skeptical of course because of his natural predisposition towards rigidity. He
didn’t altogether appreciate their lack of decorum or frequent forays into
tomfoolery.

Lincoln
referred to Skeffington as “Sporty Spice” after he waltzed into our final
rehearsal dressed in football attire. My rock n’ roll fantasy flashed before my
eyes as Skeffington glared at him with distaste.

“Oh,
that reminds me, mate.” Skeffington struck a surprisingly mild tone. “Do you
mind if I run inside to grab my jockstrap and the box of Magnums I left on your
mum’s nightstand? I snuck out late last night and forgot all about them. I’ve
still got two raincoats left and I want to save them for after the spring
dance.”

“Sure.
But mum’s in with Frisby’s granddad right now. It could get a bit awkward
because he’s a bloody Viking. No worries though. The geezer uses bin bags for
protection.”

“Eight
gallon bin bags.” Frisby chimed in.

“That’s
a rather disturbing mental image, mate.”

“Awful.”
Lincoln shook his head. “Alright, lads. We’d better quit or else junior’s going
to develop a complex.” He winked at me before settling behind his kit. “Shall
we rehearse now?” I nodded and moments later we were putting the final
flourishes on our big number. Bloody hell. Perhaps Skeffington wasn’t such a
stiff after all, or perhaps I’d simply underestimated his prowess as a
politician. Either way, my rock n’ roll fantasy had just sprouted wings.

The
audition was fixing to be a mere formality. No liberties would be taken,
however, as a classic bait and switch was unspooled. “Skeffington and the
Disciples” strutted into the auditorium adorned in pressed black trousers,
white collared shirts, thin black ties, and tidy coiffures. We were rock n’ rollers
in drag.

Headmaster
Moobs immediately spotted Skeffington and descended upon him in a beat.
“Skeffington, my boy. I had no idea you were such a renaissance man. Smashing.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“And
how is your father? Splendid, I hope.”

“Dad’s
great. He wanted me to tell you that it’s scotch and cigars at the club as soon
as he’s able.”

“Wonderful,
wonderful. Well, best of luck today, sport. If you bebop half as well as you
kick, I am certain you’ll be just dandy.” Headmaster Moobs patted Skeffington
on the back and chuckled like an old fart. He noticed me for the first time as
he turned away. “Good day.” His dismissive tone and bothered facial expression
suggested bewilderment that Skeffington would associate himself with such a
distasteful tramp. No matter. Headmaster Moobs was in our pocket and we were
better than any blighters that stood in the way.

Our
greatest competition was from a quintet who dubbed themselves “The Tight Fitz.”
They offered second-hand rock retreads buoyed by a high energy stage show. Their
frontman, Donnie Fitzgibbons, pranced around like a toad with its hoppers on
fire. Aficionados might’ve found his melodramatic style somewhat infectious,
but I thought it was shite. Moreover, if I cared to hear the latest single by
Johnny Jingles I’d buy the bloody record.

Skeffington
and I penned a hug and sway called “Wisteria Blues (She Been Dancing with the
Wrong Guy)” just for the occasion. It was insipid enough to make grannies swoon
over slow dances long since disremembered. Even Sister Duff could sing along
without having to scurry to the confessional for a verbal spanking. When played
at the right moment, however, this breezy serenade became a subversive
blueprint for funny business. It was the cherry on top of the whipped cream.

We
ascended the stage as a four-headed wolf dressed like a choirboy.

Our
performance couldn’t have been tighter. Skeffington delivered the syrup with a
golden spoon while “The Disciples” stood in the shadows fluffing the pillows.
Headmaster Moobs could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Delightful, absolutely
delightful.” He sounded mostly chuffed that he didn’t have to sell his soul for
scotch and cigars. Our coronation felt imminent.

Donnie
Fitzgibbons approached Skeffington as we took our seats in the back of the
auditorium. “When did you become a crooner, Skeff? You and your comrades are
bloody alright.”

“Thanks,
mate. Your lot wasn’t too bad either.”

“Much
appreciated. Was that an original composition?”

“Yeah,
we knocked it off last week.”

“Impressive,
man. We’ve been trying for months, but there’s nothing to show for it. These
blokes are players, they’re not artists, know what I mean? Bleeding covers will
only get you so far. If things don’t change, I may be looking for greener
pastures. Well, better get back with me band before they notice me fraternizing
with the enemy. Good luck to you.” Donnie Fitzgibbons had planted a seed in
Skeffington’s bonce that would one day blossom into a horrible sodding idea. At
the moment, however, all we cared about was landing our first gig.

Twenty
minutes later Headmaster Moobs punched our golden ticket to the spring dance.
“My colleagues and I couldn’t be happier with our selection. You were simply
astonishing, and your backing band wasn’t too shabby either. Well done, my
boy.” He shook Skeffington’s hand before wobbling out of the auditorium. The
old prat would be in for a bloody surprise when the four-headed wolf took the
stage without pretense and lit the sodding gymnasium on fire.

There
was nothing extraordinary about it. Just a simple smacker before I boarded the
bus to Muswell Hill. “Better get on the bus, slapper. Skeffington looks
jealous.” I wanted to stay with her. I’d grown somewhat tired of rehearsals and
pressure. There were only two days until the spring dance and we weren’t ready.
We hadn’t even been able to agree on a proper name for our band. I should’ve
shared my feelings with her, but it wasn’t in me. I slapped one on her soft
lips instead. Time didn’t stand still. Nobody snapped any photographs. Memories
are imperfect. It was the last time we kissed.

The
recognition that we had two rehearsals left to learn fifteen songs gutted us
like a Bristol Bloodhound. Nerves were bloody raw. We weren’t professionals who
could drop everything in pursuit of cohesion. There were frustrated coaches,
meddling parents, disappointed teachers, and arsehole brothers to contend with.
It also didn’t help that we were besotted with ourselves and ignorant of our
mortality. We mostly blew off our first rehearsal riding high from conquest.
The next few were spent pouring over a handful of songs. Tunes like “Carmenita”
and “Gutter Minx” were perfect, but perfection was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
The joke was on us: We were being schooled in the art of time management by the
gods of chaos.

Progress
deteriorated into dysfunction with each passing moment. Songs were blending
into each other and perspective vanished. “Hold it. Hold it.” Skeffington
halted the proceedings during the second verse of “Birdie McBride.” “You’re
playing too bloody fast, mate. It’s not blooming speed metal.”

“I
thought the point was to run through these as quickly as possible. It’s a
simple song with a simple beat.” Lincoln looked at Frisby. “Right?” Frisby
nodded.

“You
being condescending with that ‘simple song’ bit? Funny…”

I
interrupted Skeffington mid-stream at my own peril. “We’re knackered. It all
sounds the same to me now…fast, slow, left, right. We can’t squeeze it all in.
End of story.”

“We’ve
got a show to do in two days, mate. Two sets in front of the entire school.
Writing the songs was the difficult part. All these mutts have to do is play
them.” Skeffington shot an antagonizing scowl at Lincoln. “Pushing through is
the only option.”

Captain
Skeffington had the most to lose given his stellar reputation, but our
interests were mostly aligned because I had the most to gain. My association
with him was inches away from paying dividends. Exhaustion and infighting
weren’t going to sod it up. And that’s when it dawned on me. “Wait. Alright.
Skeffington and I can do a handful of these ditties acoustically. Three or four
thumpers and then mix in something lo-fi. Repeat. It’ll free us up a bit.”

“I
knew you were the leader of this outfit for a reason. In fact, I’m calling you
Churchill from here on out.” Lincoln was mostly launching a verbal haymaker to
Skeffington’s ego, but I didn’t necessarily mind. There’d be mighty struggles
for creative control for decades to come. The shifting tide was often quick,
intense, and dependent on who’d been knocking off the better jingles. Our
internal politicking eventually became so unruly that even the most ordinary
decisions were unbearable. Fortunately, reason mostly prevailed during those
early days.

“Codswallop
aside…it’s a blooming great idea, mate.” Skeffington’s nod meant that Father
Time wouldn’t be pissing on our dreams any longer. “Shall we take her from the
top?” It felt as if an industrial-sized exhaust fan began sucking the tension
out of the garage. The rehearsal continued with renewed swagger as solidarity
displaced bitterness. Lincoln played “Birdie McBride” mid-tempo. Skeffington
even accepted Lincoln’s suggestion to convert “Judy’s Jam Jar Jive” into a
reggae number. The latter conversion proved rather fateful.

Lincoln
and Frisby laid down the one drop riddim while I finessed the skank.
Skeffington sang in his grittiest jamdown inflection. The bridge seemed wide
open, however, and I transformed into an iron bird setting course for Trench
Town. I filled it to the blooming rafters with a sundrenched island groove.
Lincoln frequently barked words of encouragement when he was amped about a
solo. His voice suddenly burst through the clatter: “Let her rip, Churchill.”

We
were the heirs apparent to the jewel encrusted throne reserved for the rajas of
our craft, but we’d been unable to conjure a band name worthy of such promise
and position. Lincoln had just unwittingly christened us with a befitting
title. I informed the others as soon as we returned from Zion. Blessings. Our
collective identity had been established. We’d conquer the stage now and
forever as Rip Churchill.

It
seemed much narrower than the stage in the auditorium. I guessed a modest 12'
by 12'. The dim lighting and worn mahogany floorboards made it feel even
tighter. Its intimacy conveyed the false impression that it was our refuge from
the gathering storm. The truth was much more horrifying, however: A ruffled
velvet curtain provided our only real cover, and it would spread wide open in
less than five minutes.

We
were tuned up, warmed up, and dug in. My ticker beat horribly fast and I felt
like chucking up. Skeffington wasn’t fairing much better. His hands were
trembling as he adjusted the height of his microphone stand for the fifteenth
time. Lincoln and Frisby found our jitters highly amusing and ribbed us
brutally. Their barbs and intermittent laughter were the only sounds coming
from our side of the spectacle. The noise from the other side, however, had
grown exponentially louder. Distinct voices or conversations that could be
heard moments before were now part of a collective and indecipherable chatter.

Suddenly,
I heard walrus footsteps directly outside the curtain. Unpleasant feedback
followed loud tapping on a microphone. The chatter trailed off and for a blink
there was mostly silence. “Good evening.” The voice belonged to Headmaster
Moobs. “I just want to take this opportunity to welcome all of you to the
annual spring dance. It’s glorious to see such a large group of my students
gathered together for some boogie woogie and jive. Wonderful. I’d also briefly
like to thank the staff for turning the gymnasium into the Rivoli. Job well
done. Let’s give them a hand…Alright. Alright. Without further ado…” We were
seconds away from launch and I was about to spark out or else leg it for the
exit. “I present to you Skeffington and his Disciples…”

Bloody
hell! Our plan to introduce ourselves as Rip Churchill after gashing through
the first number had been shattered. We hadn’t even discussed the possibility
of Headmaster Moobs introducing us prematurely. Moreover, his replacement of
“the” in favor of “his” made it sound like we were Skeffington’s fluffers. The
sudden jolt of anger shocked the shakes flat out of me. I’d show these
frontrunners whose bloody band this was.

The
curtain squeaked open. We were like exotic sea creatures floundering in an
enormous aquarium for the amusement of our mostly curious contemporaries. I
glanced at the puffer fish to my right and then at the two clownfish behind me.
Clownfish number one winked and spun his drumsticks in the air before coolly
counting us off. I was the ravenous barracuda ready to devour the opening lick
of “The Sophisticate’s Flat.”

Three
minutes later the gymnasium was aflame. Slags were ditching their dates in
droves to get closer to the stage. Confused lads were hatching makeshift plan
bs to cope with becoming obsolete. Even the wallflowers and dorks were peeling
themselves from obscurity to join the fray. The spring dance had become a
blooming concert. Skeffington did something awe inspiring amidst the mayhem
that I’d never forget. He grabbed his microphone and bursting with adrenaline
shouted four simple words: “We are Rip Churchill.” Shivers. Cheers to
Skeffington. It was time to unleash “Brooklyn from Bawtry.”

I
spotted her during the first chorus. It was like looking through the tubular
insert of a roll of paper towels. She held her ground like a gladiator as waves
of love-struck zombies crashed all around. Her auburn hair was pulled back with
some tendrils framing her decorated face. I’d never seen her in a dress before.
Blood hell. She was every bit a lovely bird. My ticker fluttered as she smiled
from ear to ear. Even at that moment, however, I could feel myself being torn
away. There was a gymnasium full of temptresses in a horrible frenzy on account
of our budding stardom. Regrettably, the tension between affection and lust
didn’t dwindle as we thundered forward with increasing artistry and confidence.

High-fives
and salutations abound as the curtain closed on our first set. We wouldn’t be
playing the polka at Aunt Wanger’s 50
^th
anniversary gala. We
wouldn’t be but a footnote in the chronicles of rock n’ roll obscurity. We were
a magnum of
cuvée
de prestige.
Top of the Pops on a meteor made for four. Giggles from stage left suddenly
interrupted our self-congratulatory saber-rattling. It was none other than Lana
Moxley and her gaggle of fem fatales. She and her mates were royalty.

“Hey,
Skeff. We just wanted to tell you and the other lads that we really like your
music.” Lana spoke over continued giggling.

“Yeah,
really tight.” Annie “Lips” Ralston chimed in.

“Thanks,
Lana. Annie. We’ve got some more gems for you ladies in set number two.”
Skeffington rubbed elbows with these high flyers on account of his status as a
legendary jock. He rolled steady and smooth.

Lincoln
and Frisby drew some incredulous glances as they imitated the giddy birds,
which probably elevated their status as rebellious rock n’ rollers. I lurked in
the shadows hoping they wouldn’t address me directly so as to avoid making a
plonker out of myself.

“We
can’t wait!” Lana winked at Skeffington. “Oh, and we’re throwing a little
after-dance party at mums. We’d like for all of you to come…even your brooding
guitar player.” She smiled at me and I nearly sparked out. I wanted to say
something witty, but I was much too frightened.

“Thanks
for the invite, Lana. We’ll see you later.” Skeffington shined as the band’s
official spokesperson.

“Toodle
pip, girlies.” Lincoln spoke only on behalf of the rhythm section. He waited
for them to scuttle off before piping up again. “Well, well, well…what do you
think about that, Churchill?”

“Bloody
hell.” Only the crème de la crème stepped foot in Moxley Manor.

“You’ve
become a bona fide A-lister after only one-half of a sodding show, mate.
Cheers.” Skeffington had been an A-lister for years. I didn’t want to be a
tourist. But there was a single act of sheer cruelty that would have to be
undertaken before I could officially click my heels. Regrettably, I knew I had
it in me.