Master Apprentice
Archive
Bass
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1.
He isn't entirely certain whether this is Berlin, or Gothenburg, or some weird place the local pronunciation of which has nothing in common with the smudges on the map in the tour bus. Ultimately, he doesn't care. He is only in this for the money, only along for the ride, only this one tour. Or so he said.
He stands out, not just because of his size. Up there on the stage everyone looks like they're six foot tall and some sort of god, he remembers that much from his more impressionable days. A while ago, those days, buried under decades of sessioneering. His hair's gone grey, that's what's making him stand out. The evil turquoise flash of the stage lights plays with the faded strands, long and tangled. He's let his hair down. To fit in. Shouldered into the tattered dark grey hussar's jacket with the black and gold frogging all down the chest. Gaping wide, showing off his bare skin, shimmering with sweat. All that Jimi Hendrix crap, they'd said.
In deference to the common band style, he's smeared a wide streak of black across his face, high on his cheekbones and across the bridge of his nose, hiding the place where it broke ages ago in a silly drug-fuelled accident. Hiding the flush creeping all over his skin, making his fingertips tingle, and not from the vibrations of the thick strings.
His eyes are not on his hands, not where skilled blunt fingertips caress and pummel the cobalt blue custom Fender Jazz into sweet throbbing submission. His eyes are not anywhere on the trajectory of a small pale green item of feminine clothing about to flop down at his feet, missing its mark by a good six feet, he suspects. His eyes are not on the likely originator of said pale green item, frantically waving her arms in the air, her head thrown back in a scream of frenzied excitement as Ben-K goes down on one knee and wraps himself around the mike stand sinuously, crawling towards her while belting out the high notes like an angel in agony. The slack khaki pants that have threatened to fall off his hips all evening have slid a little lower.
From where he is standing, the view is perfect.
2.
It used to be black and white, a clean crisp square of heavy glossy photographic paper. Now it's buffed and curled around the edges, the image faded to a soft murky brown as the imperfectly developed silver oxidises away under the onslaught of the decades. A distant girlfriend had taken the picture, someone from art school. He can't quite remember whose girlfriend she had been.
Three men, barely men, standing in a field of high corn. Well, mostly standing. There is Norman, the singer and lyricist, in all his fake period finery, the deep black cassock over his embroidered pants, both slightly too big for him. Of course he would have contested that in the most erudite terms while trying to keep his single eye-glass balanced between his messy black brow and an impressively gaunt cheekbone. He dresses more soberly these days of course - Jim remembers seeing the press shot he's been sent along with an invitation to the Edinburgh festival premiere of Norman's latest play. Still distinguished of course, and still cool enough to send his erstwhile bassist and band mate the occasional hand-written card. He wouldn't have expected anything less really.
Next to him, hands on hips, peering curiously into the camera, Mark. Or Mark Sebastian as they had taken to calling him. Face half-obscured by a thick mass of dark curls, his lopsided grin probably means that he was either tripping on some really good weed, or on some really good counterpoint. Or that the photographer was his girlfriend. Cheesecloth shirt, painted jeans and those funny soft suede moccasin boots - the perfect hippie. Except his mind had always been on Bach, to the extent that Norman had left several rehearsals in a huff complaining that it was impossible to sing over the top of Mark Seb's curly chord sequences. He'd heard, years ago, and from a fan no less, that Mark had turned his obsession into a profession and now made a comfortable if obscure living as an organ builder in the English countryside.
Which left him, James A. Frant, nicknamed Quiet Jim by all those who hadn't managed to coax the meaning of that middle A out of him. An impossibly tall gangly boy half-crouching behind the other two, hidden in the high grain up to his chest, hands absently playing with the bristly ears tickling him. The leather waistcoat looks less stained on the photo than in real life, and the skinny T-shirt underneath has faded almost to the tone of his skin. The only remarkable thing about him, except that he is not looking into the camera but at his hands, is the haphazard array of pheasant's feathers on his head, thrust seemingly at random into the loose knot of thick brown hair on top of his skull.
Vocals, organ, bass, Jim thinks, slipping the faded photo back between the pages of his notebook. No wonder we never made it.
3.
The late-afternoon shadows are blue, deep cold blue oozing down the sheer mountain face that looks as if it's about to fall down on the autobahn. If it's still called that here, he thinks. In his experience, things looking like the mountains outside tend to turn into Italy, or New Zealand, and the latter is extremely unlikely.
The evening of a travelling day drips into view, slowly and unimpressively. The on-board video system replays a grizzly copy of Being John Malkovich, which only the driver is listening to, with half an ear. The soft yellowish light inside the tour bus illuminates Katyusha, the synth wizard, holding a tattered paperback novel. He is not sure whether she is still reading or already asleep. At any rate, his gaze, blue as the rapidly darkening shadows, is fixed on the window he is leaning against.
He does not care for the looming mountainscape, or what the name of the country outside is, soaking up the fading light like a craggy black sponge.
Reflected in the tinted glass of the window, he can see Ben-K, slumped in his seat, the dark green half of his hair framing the face softened by sleep. Improbably thick lashes fluttering occasionally, lips parted, impossibly sweet and delicious and innocent. Pure light. It makes Jim feel about as old and blue as the mountains of wherever this place is.
4.
The girls are carefully chosen. One of the side benefits of having a female tour manager. Wreathed in smiles, Katherine Topourira, Kati to her crew, eases her considerable bulk into one of the steel-framed armchairs of the backstage area. It is just like any other backstage area really, high whitewashed ceiling garishly lit by white neon light half-heartedly tinted with transparent yellow and orange paper that is coming away in shrivelled rags. The tablecloth is paper too, the vodka is horrible, and the beer is warm. But the salads are good (this is Italy after all), someone has had the bright idea of supplying coffee and avocados, and the boys are abuzz with excitement after the show.
And the girls fit in seamlessly. One, in a schoolgirl skirt and leather jacket, points an avocado at Kati as if it were a hand grenade. The point she is making is lost in the general good-natured noise. Katyusha is being handed a paper cup of red wine which she reaches for absently, clearly engrossed in a highly enlightening chat with two women in their early thirties, possibly a couple, possibly not. G, the drummer, in a sweaty grey undershirt, is hovering at Katyusha's shoulder, grinning, uncertain whether to join the discussion or secure one of the few remaining chairs. Ian and Broomboy are stacking their plates with food, oblivious of the rest, while a thin rat-blonde girl has curled herself around Ian's acoustic, plucking chords, brow furrowed in concentration. Emo-core does that sort of thing to fans.
Ben-K stands in the middle of the room, hair still matted and dishevelled, large sweat stains on his tight blue crop top. His hands have forgotten all about the can of beer they were supposed to grab, and the plate of salad balanced in the other hand is tipping precariously. His mouth is open, but the sparkle of joyful welcome that's in his eyes hasn't reached the rest of his face yet. He is quite literally slack-jawed at the sight of Quiet Jim wandering into the room fresh from his shower, hair loose and glistening wet, an old pair of worn jeans clinging to his hips, the ugly light pink towel slung around his neck utterly failing to detract from the sheer delightful expanse of all that skin.
Jim hasn't got round to grinning at Kati yet. His eyes are hung up on Ben-K. He imagines he can read the words 'oh my God... nipple' in the pink 'o' of the youth's mouth.
Ben-K's face is a good read.
5.
The owner of the menswear shop in downtown Milan is trying his best to keep his composure, biting his lip and constantly reminding himself of the publicity buzz this might cause. If the other customers have the good sense to gossip about the rich and famous frequenting his little boutique. The rich and famous and, it has to be said, rather silly.
He is smiling thinly, politely, at the quicksilvery boy in the garish print shirt and the oversized trousers, his hair long and shiny, and, lamentably, dyed green on one side. He could have been pretty. Well, he is in a way, the shop owner suspects, at least to the strange older man he's brought with him.
The boy is standing a little too close to the man for them to be just friends, for all that he appears to be adjusting the fit of the man's tie. Yes, a tie. Deep green silk over a pristine white shirt and a suit of the finest pitch black wool that manages to look large and generous even on a man of his size. He is tall, the stripes of black satin up the sides of the old-fashioned trousers seeming to go on for ever. His face is shadowed by a fedora balanced on his head at a rakish angle, clearly a size too small for the man's head. All that hair. Thick grey-streaked hair, in a careless ponytail, streaming over those impeccably-clad shoulders. A shade of stubble on the cheeks. He looks like a real gangster.
It is more than likely that that is exactly what the quicksilvery boy is thinking as he is adjusting the big man's tie, his mouth grinning at the masquerade, his eyes shining with something more than mere amusement.
The boy's face is flushed. And the air conditioning in the shop is perfect.
6.
The usual rusting tubes and faded fire notices on the walls. Not that he can see them. From where Jim is standing, his back pressed against the rough concrete wall behind him, all he can see is the ceiling, and he is most definitely not interested in the ceiling, not when his sight, along with all his other senses, is being pulled out of him with gentle force.
They are underground, far enough to be out of sight for the moment, far enough to be out of earshot. Nobody can hear the desperate groan escaping Jim's mouth, head thrown back in sheer brutal pleasure, one hand tangled in green hair, one possessively grabbing Ben-K's slender waist, plastering the lithe young body to his, squashing the young man's hand between them, there where it disappears into the fly of Jim's leathers, squeezing the gloriously hard flesh in time with the thump of G's drums sound-checking above, making Jim writhe, trapped between the hard wall and his equally hard lover.
The lad does not see the waves of mind-melting need running across the man's face, making his lashes flutter, making him gasp for air. Ben-K is not looking into Jim's eyes, hooded and darkened with desire. He would be too short for that.
Instead, he has latched on to Jim's throat, biting a deep purple mark into the tender skin, just there where the last of his beard ends, just where he is really soft and smooth and salty and... Ben-K feeds, eating the ever more urgent moans before they spill over the older man's lips, thrusting himself against the big hard body.
The thought of Quiet Jim hitting the stage with a fresh love bite on his throat almost makes him come on the spot.
7.
The doors won't open for another two hours, and the lighting man has just come off the rig to have a late lunch, leaving the hall darkened save for the dim red pre-show lighting. It creates wispy purple highlights on the body of the deep blue Fender bass guitar. It creates an atmosphere of intimacy there at the side of the stage where Ben-K is sitting on a monitor box, the heavy body of the instrument cradled in his lap.
His nails are clearly too long, giving away the fact that he tends to write his tunes on piano and his lyrics on the run, on paper usually. He is struggling amiably with the twisted position he has to bring his left hand into in order to reach the top string, the fattest of them all. Helpfully, a large hand with strong blunt fingers is covering his, nudging his more delicate digits in the right direction. Ben-K is not looking at the fretboard, his right hand resting limply against the strings it was meant to pluck.
Oh yes, his tongue is sticking out slightly between his lips. In concentration, maybe. But the object of his concentration is not the beautifully tricky specimen of bass guitar in his lap. His eyes are drowning in the ones of his teacher, standing behind him, one hand on his, the other resting lightly, heavily, warmly on his shoulder as Quiet Jim bends down for a kiss.
This could be Gothenburg, this could be Hamburg, this could be Milan. From where he is standing, the view is perfect.
---End---