hundred to sort the tour van out.”
Tour van. Yeah, right, because playing a few gigs a month in local pubs amounted to a tour. Next thing they knew, Nasher would be calling Malc—his kid brother and chief hanger-on—their roadie. “I don’t think he’d be interested.”
“Yeah? Maybe best not anyway. Wouldn’t want him feeling like he owned you.” Nasher ground the brush against a huge rust spot like he could somehow paint it away.
“Too right. How’s about the rest of you try and charm some rich older women instead?”
“Nah, you’re the front man. You’ve got the looks.” Cosmo wasn’t going to argue with that, seeing as how Nasher had the kind of face that made small children cry. Instead he cuffed him around the back of the head, saying, “Bloody right. Now let’s stop talking about making money and do something constructive. We’re meant to be having a session right about now.”
“Yeah, they’re all getting set up. I’ll be in in a moment. Gotta wash the brush out.”
Cosmo wandered around the side of the house to the garage. It was the reason they’d gone for the place together. The rooms inside the house were small and crappy, but the garage was a decent size for practising in. He opened the door on a cloud of bluish smoke, which tickled his sore throat. Great. Bloody Rizzo had started on the spliffs already. Cosmo sighed as he took in the familiar forms of Brett, the band’s rugby-playing bassist, and Rizzo, the dreadlocked and leather-jewellery-laden lead guitarist who fancied himself an undiscovered living legend. They were both collapsed on the sagging sofa, giggling about something as they passed the joint between them. Nasher’s drum kit sat in the corner, but they could always start without him. Cosmo clapped his hands. “Come on, then, we’re running late.” He headed over to his guitar case.
“And whose fault is that?” Rizzo challenged, drawing himself up to his bony five foot five. “We weren’t the ones who disappeared off without letting anyone know where we were.”
“I don’t need your permission to have a night out.” Cosmo refused to get drawn into Rizzo’s pissing contest this early in a session. There’d be time for that when they started playing, and Cosmo had to fight to keep Rizzo’s solos from running into overindulgent-jazz-wank length. He pulled his guitar strap over his head and checked her tuning. The old girl was only a Fender Strat copy and not a great one at that. She had a tendency to slip out of tune really easily.
“Let’s get going on ‘Life in Waiting’,” Cosmo said. He’d written it a month ago, and they’d only had a couple of run-throughs so far. If they wanted it to be ready for their gig, it was going to need a lot of work.
“Umm, Cosmo, you’re not gonna like this…” Brett trailed off when Cosmo fixed him with a glare. What now? He could see the smugness written all over Rizzo’s triumphant pose.
“We’re not going with that anymore,” Rizzo said. “Needs too much work. We all decided last night. Here’s the new set list.”
Cosmo took the crumpled piece of paper and scanned through the list of cover versions, all of which featured long lead solos and frankly uninspiring lyrics. Hits by Staind, System of a Down, Tool, Slipknot, Alice in Chains, Placebo—along with the metal classics Rizzo and Brett insisted on. “It’s exactly the same as the old set list.”
“Nah, we changed the order. Made it flow better.”
“Since when was there a band meeting last night? No one told me.”
“We all had one down the Horse. We called you. Not our fault you were off sucking some biker’s cock, was it?”
“For fuck’s sake. Nasher,” Cosmo appealed as Nasher slunk through the door and tried to hide behind his kit. “Did you know about this meeting earlier? You could have said something, mate.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Nasher mumbled, “but it was all a bit last minute.”
And this was supposed to be his best
Tour van. Yeah, right, because playing a few gigs a month in local pubs amounted to a tour. Next thing they knew, Nasher would be calling Malc—his kid brother and chief hanger-on—their roadie. “I don’t think he’d be interested.”
“Yeah? Maybe best not anyway. Wouldn’t want him feeling like he owned you.” Nasher ground the brush against a huge rust spot like he could somehow paint it away.
“Too right. How’s about the rest of you try and charm some rich older women instead?”
“Nah, you’re the front man. You’ve got the looks.” Cosmo wasn’t going to argue with that, seeing as how Nasher had the kind of face that made small children cry. Instead he cuffed him around the back of the head, saying, “Bloody right. Now let’s stop talking about making money and do something constructive. We’re meant to be having a session right about now.”
“Yeah, they’re all getting set up. I’ll be in in a moment. Gotta wash the brush out.”
Cosmo wandered around the side of the house to the garage. It was the reason they’d gone for the place together. The rooms inside the house were small and crappy, but the garage was a decent size for practising in. He opened the door on a cloud of bluish smoke, which tickled his sore throat. Great. Bloody Rizzo had started on the spliffs already. Cosmo sighed as he took in the familiar forms of Brett, the band’s rugby-playing bassist, and Rizzo, the dreadlocked and leather-jewellery-laden lead guitarist who fancied himself an undiscovered living legend. They were both collapsed on the sagging sofa, giggling about something as they passed the joint between them. Nasher’s drum kit sat in the corner, but they could always start without him. Cosmo clapped his hands. “Come on, then, we’re running late.” He headed over to his guitar case.
“And whose fault is that?” Rizzo challenged, drawing himself up to his bony five foot five. “We weren’t the ones who disappeared off without letting anyone know where we were.”
“I don’t need your permission to have a night out.” Cosmo refused to get drawn into Rizzo’s pissing contest this early in a session. There’d be time for that when they started playing, and Cosmo had to fight to keep Rizzo’s solos from running into overindulgent-jazz-wank length. He pulled his guitar strap over his head and checked her tuning. The old girl was only a Fender Strat copy and not a great one at that. She had a tendency to slip out of tune really easily.
“Let’s get going on ‘Life in Waiting’,” Cosmo said. He’d written it a month ago, and they’d only had a couple of run-throughs so far. If they wanted it to be ready for their gig, it was going to need a lot of work.
“Umm, Cosmo, you’re not gonna like this…” Brett trailed off when Cosmo fixed him with a glare. What now? He could see the smugness written all over Rizzo’s triumphant pose.
“We’re not going with that anymore,” Rizzo said. “Needs too much work. We all decided last night. Here’s the new set list.”
Cosmo took the crumpled piece of paper and scanned through the list of cover versions, all of which featured long lead solos and frankly uninspiring lyrics. Hits by Staind, System of a Down, Tool, Slipknot, Alice in Chains, Placebo—along with the metal classics Rizzo and Brett insisted on. “It’s exactly the same as the old set list.”
“Nah, we changed the order. Made it flow better.”
“Since when was there a band meeting last night? No one told me.”
“We all had one down the Horse. We called you. Not our fault you were off sucking some biker’s cock, was it?”
“For fuck’s sake. Nasher,” Cosmo appealed as Nasher slunk through the door and tried to hide behind his kit. “Did you know about this meeting earlier? You could have said something, mate.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Nasher mumbled, “but it was all a bit last minute.”
And this was supposed to be his best
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