Asturias (3 page)

4

TO DIE FOR …

MAX'S STORY

We set up the studio session for Friday evening.

It was Symonds' idea. Put the pressure on, see how the kid reacted. This time, the guy was taking no chances.

We sat in the booth and left Alex alone in the studio, with his guitars. And it wasn't one of the little studios, either. You could fit a full symphony orchestra in there, and still park a fair-sized truck.

Alex looked small. And young.

Until he picked up his guitar.

He was only checking the tuning, but it was as if … I don't know. As if some kind of transformation came over him as soon as he touched it. He stood there calmly, facing us through the glass of the booth. Waiting.

Symonds leaned forward and spoke into the mike on the control console.

“Play us something.”

I never knew the guy to say please, and he wasn't about to start when he was out to put the wind up a victim. It was an impossible demand. No guidance; no clue as to what he expected, just “Play us something”.

The kid looked at him through the window.

“Any requests?”

There was a trace of attitude in the tone and I felt Symonds bristle.

“You choose.”

You could sense the gears working behind the kid's expression. He adjusted a couple of dials on the amp, pushed a button on the foot-pedal, and began.

Fifteen minutes, without a pause.

I recognised Carlos Santana, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page, Jimi Hendrix and Brian May, a little Mississippi Delta blues, Richie Sambora, even a couple of bars of Joe Walsh, before he finished on a jazz progression that moved seamlessly from one end of the fretboard to the other, and finished on a chord that made my heart stop. All without missing a beat.

Then, before anyone had chance to recover, he had swapped guitars and found a stool. He was halfway through something Spanish — and very fast — when Symonds called a halt.

“Thank you, Alex. You want to come in here?”

Thank you?

Symonds must have been in shock. He didn't even say thank you when “Blood on the Streets” went platinum and he got to accept the award.

The kid took his time. He laid the acoustic in its case and brushed his hair back from his face before he came into the booth. It was the first time since he'd picked up the guitar that I'd seen any sign of nerves from him.

Claire sat quietly at the back of the booth and said nothing. She was watching Symonds like a hawk, and I got the feeling she didn't like him.

Well, just form a queue to the right
…

Of course, I didn't know her name at the time. As far as I knew, she was just some girl the kid had brought along for the ride. Someone he wanted to impress. Later, when things went so bad, she more than earned the price of her ticket.

But all that was in the future.

At that moment, all that mattered were the next words that would pass Symonds' lips. I knew he was impressed with the kid's talent, but he had a thing about attitude, and I found myself holding my breath when the door opened. Praying that Alex had the brains to keep his mouth shut and let the big shot act like a big shot.

Alex paused in the doorway, then came in. The girl touched his hand as he passed, and he held onto her finger for a moment, then let it go.

Symonds stared at him for what seemed like an age. Then he smiled.

“Pretty impressive, kid. Where'd you learn to play like that?”

Alex returned the smile and sat down facing him.

“It sort of runs in the family … My mother's side.”

“What was that last piece? You didn't learn that playing sessions.”

You could see the kid relax. He was on safe ground.

“It's traditional. I learned it when I was ten or eleven.”

Symonds just nodded. He'd made his decision. We were on our way. He stood up and spoke to me.

“Well, Max. You'd better fill the boy in on what you're planning for him. Maybe he's not interested in fame and fortune.” Then he turned back to Alex. “Goodbye, son. I have the feeling we might be seeing a lot more of you.”

When he was gone, the tension in the booth eased, and I saw Terry, the engineer, physically slump. Claire moved across and began massaging the boy's shoulders, and he reached up, covering her hand with his own.

I reached out a hand.

“Congratulations, Alex. You're in.”

He shook my hand, but his gaze was steady and penetrating.

“What exactly
am
I in?” he asked.

So I told him.

ALEX'S STORY

My father was at work when I got home. Night shift. Claire dropped me off, but she didn't stay. So it was just Abuelito and me.

My grandfather was sitting in his chair looking out of the window when I told him the news. I was excited and I needed to share it with someone.

He didn't look at me, didn't say a word. A silence stretched between us that I didn't understand, and I felt the sudden need to break it.

“Well?” I asked. “Aren't you going to say anything?”

Slowly he turned his head from the window.

“I think I like to go to bed now. You want to help me?”

Supporting his arm, I led him upstairs to the bedroom. Questions revolved in my head. I didn't understand his reaction.

His lack of reaction.

As he climbed painfully into bed, I tried again.

“Abuelito, what is it? What is the matter?”

Whenever I spoke with him, I could hear my accent changing slightly. Thickening. As a kid I used to fight it, but it always slipped in, and after a while I gave up. But tonight I was suddenly aware of it again. Without ever doing anything, the old man had always had a strange power over me.

He looked out of red-rimmed eyes, his face expressionless.

“This is what you want?”

Maybe he didn't understand. He hadn't been there when Max had explained it.

“Of course it is what I want!
No
one gets offered a chance like this. Why would I
not
want it?”

“This music. That you will play … Is electric?”

I began to understand where he was leading.

“You know it is. Rock, pop … I don't know. Whatever it takes to make it. Try to understand. I am being offered a chance that thousands would sell their souls for. I —”

“And you?” he cut in. “You would sell yours?”

“It's just an expression. Abuelito, it's music, it's not religion.” It came out more harshly than I meant it to, but I pressed on. This was my big break, and I wasn't going to let him ruin it for me. “There is no such thing as ‘traditional' and ‘modern'. There never has been. That's all crap. It's music. And it's my life. You never minded up until now. Even when I was fourteen, I was doing sessions. What did you think I was playing?
Malagueña
?”

I hated to fight with him. Even at his most annoying, I loved the old man. But he didn't seem to
want
to understand.

He shook his head.

“When you are little boy, I tell you no go in my room. You remember?”

I nodded, and he continued. “And you go in. Every time. You think I no see it? You think I sleep all time?” He smiled. “Why you think I tell you no?”

It was not a question that expected an answer. I waited. After a few seconds he went on.

“I say no because … something there is in there I want you to want. Want you to want so bad, you disobey me.”

I sat down on the bed and he placed his hand on my knee. He looked up at the wall where the two guitars had once hung, then he looked back at me.

“You so much like him … But he was wrong. And you are wrong. Electric, no electric. New, old. Is just music. Is not life. You play … sessions, you make money, was good. But this …” He shook his head.

I waited. For a moment he was quiet, gathering his thoughts.

“My brother, Ardillo. Was good. Good as you, maybe better … Maybe not. For one year he even study with Segovia. He only nineteen. When our father dies, he comes back to Consuegra, but his life only is in his fingers. His mind always is on the music. When he lose that, is nothing left. Even love is not enough. Ardillo, he … he was dead for a long time before he die.

“To play … is good. Earn money. Buy car, maybe. But this … This is more. I see your face tonight, and I remember. You so much like him. And it frightens me.”

I placed my hand over his.

“If it scares you so much, why did you encourage me? Why did you keep his guitars for all those years?”

For a moment I thought he would remain silent. Then he shook his head and looked away, out of the window.

“All my life,” he said, “I never feel anything enough to die for. Maybe to feel that way … Maybe is worth it. I don' know. Your
abuelito
is old man. Who knows why old man do anything?”

Then he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it.

“You take care, Alejandro. Is all you can do.”

5

AUDITIONS

CLAIRE'S STORY

So, they chose him.

And I was happy for him. Really I was. ‘Fame and fortune'. It was a cliché, but Symonds had meant it. I didn't like the guy, and I certainly didn't trust his motives, but he meant it. It was just … I don't know.

I guess I'm conservative.

Not because I prefer a baby grand to a programmable digital keyboard with a pentium chip and its own built-in hard-drive. And not because my family have had money since the year money was invented. I guess I just always believed in the old sayings.

Like, “Don't wish too hard for something. You might get it.” Or, “All that glitters …” You know. I just don't believe in miracles.

Maybe I'm not conservative at all. Maybe I'm just pessimistic. Or a depressive.

Whatever. I just had this feeling.

Alex might have sensed it. I didn't say anything about how I felt, but he looked at me strangely a couple of times on the way home from the studio.

That didn't last.

When he kissed me goodnight, his tension was gone and his hands were wandering. He laughed as I slapped them away.

He ran up the path to the door. I watched him in the rear-vision mirror as I drove away.

But for hours I couldn't shake the feeling. The premonition.

Then my mother called from Paris and three minutes later we were screaming at each other. Nothing too unusual, but it drove the feeling from my mind.

Within a week they were auditioning the rest of the band, and it was too late to change anything. But I guess it had always been too late. From the moment that Max had heard Alex play.

The rest, as they say, is history …

CHRISSIE'S STORY

At the sound of the doorbell I jumped.

Right on time.

Max, his name was. Max …
what
?

I stood behind the door in a panic, searching my memory for the guy's last name.

The phone call had come out of the blue. And just in time.

How long had it been? Two weeks? Three? Since Damien had walked out. On the band. On me.

Two years I'd been with them. Two years of late night gigs in dives where no one heard the music after happy hour. Two years of promises that amounted to jack.

One minor Top Forty “appetiser”. Number twenty-one in Melbourne and as high as twelve … in Tasmania. For one week. Two months on low rotation on the FM rock stations, and then … nothing. Oblivion.

And Damien playing the star. On stage and off. Then walking out.

At first it had hurt. Not losing him. I'd lost whatever feelings I'd felt for Damien long before. It was the dream I missed; the lying awake at night, planning, writing the tunes in your head, preparing for the day when success would finally arrive.

But the hurt didn't last. With Damien gone it had taken perhaps a week for Nick and Sam to stop calling. It was over. The remaining gigs were already cancelled and “Torsion” had ceased to exist.

Torsion
… Even the name was Damien's idea. He said it meant “twisted”. Suddenly it seemed really appropriate.

The doorbell rang again, right next to my ear, and I swallowed my panic.

“Who is it?”

“Miss Tieu? It's Max Parnell. From CTT. I called yesterday.”

Parnell! That was his name.

I opened the door. He was standing a few steps back from the doorway and I found myself thinking that he must have spent some time as a salesman.

I sold vacuum cleaners door to door to put myself through school. Even on a scholarship, the Conservatorium is a drain on the finances.

One of the first things they taught you during sales-orientation was not to stand too close to the door when it opened. “Take a couple of steps back. You don't want to give the customer the impression you're pressuring him. A foot in the door only gets you a bruised instep.”

Old habits die hard.

Max was just standing there and I realised that he was waiting.

“I'm sorry …” I stepped back as I stammered the apology, and swept an arm absently towards the interior. “Please come in. And call me Chrissie.” I struggled to control the rush of nerves I was feeling.

He smiled. “Max.”

I shook his outstretched hand and we moved inside.

Shutting the door I caught him “casing” the flat.

Definitely a salesman. Encyclopaedias, probably.

Check out the home environment. Calculate the sales potential …

He turned and I smiled, masking the observation.

“I caught Torsion at ‘Goodbar's' six, seven months ago.” He paused, as if what he was about to say might offend. “I hear on the grapevine, that …”

Again he hesitated just slightly. So I made it easier for him. “You heard that we had some ‘artistic differences' and split up.”

He smiled at the choice of words.

“Something like that.”

I moved across to the kitchenette just off the small lounge, then stopped and turned.

“Actually, it wasn't ‘artistic differences' at all. It was religious … Theological.” He looked confused. I continued, “Our lead guitarist, lead singer, spokesperson and resident sex-symbol thought he was God … And no one else agreed.”

Max smiled and nodded knowingly. “That would be … Damien Knight.”

“I'm impressed. You must be a demon at trivia nights. Would you like some tea? I have Chinese or I have teabags.”

“Tea-bags are fine. Black, no sugar.”

“No lemon either, I'm afraid. The fruit-shop stopped my credit.” I fussed around the sink, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove, talking silently to myself while I tried to calm my nerves.

Don't talk tough, you idiot! The guy's a six-figure-a-year bloody executive. Let him make the running
…

The resolve lasted less than five seconds.

I spoke without looking at him. “Six months ago … So, how come you didn't call when we still had a band? I don't think —”

“To be blunt, Miss Tieu … sorry … Chrissie. To be blunt, we weren't interested in Torsion.” He paused, and I turned from the stove to face him. “But I was very interested in you. And now I have a project that —”

“In me?” Warning bells were sounding. A girl doesn't survive long in the big city without being suspicious. “Exactly what kind of … project?”

He must have caught the drift of my thoughts, because he stood up, as if to fend them off.

“CTT … Well, actually, I … am putting together a band. A group of … unknown teenagers. With talent. And —”

The truth hurts. A minor Top Forty near-miss doesn't exactly elevate you out of the “unknown” category. But that wasn't what caused the expression which had stopped his flow.

“Mr Parnell … Max, I'm not a teenager.” I could feel the tension going out of me. It was over. Before it even began. What was there to be nervous about? There was nothing to screw up. It was finished.

He looked like I'd told him his fly was undone.

“But,” he managed, then he sat down again. “I thought —”

“You thought I looked about sixteen.” I have this really bad habit of finishing people's sentences for them. It used to annoy the hell out of Damien. But then again, anything that took the focus off “Mr Wonderful” annoyed the hell out of Damien.

Max recovered quickly. I guess having a six-figure salary does that to you.

“If it isn't a rude question, exactly how old
are
you?”

I didn't think it was particularly rude. I'd been having the same problem since I was twelve.

“I'm twenty-two next month. Too old, huh?”

I was trying to make it easy for him to pull out of the situation. I liked him, and it wasn't his fault.
I
knew me, and sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't believe it myself.

I could see his mind ticking over.
Sixteen … Twenty-two.
Then he smiled.

“I don't see that it should make any difference. After all, it's the look that counts. We just avoid actually mentioning your age in the publicity …” He pulled up, as he realised that he had been thinking aloud. “That's if you make it. If you want to audition.”

I felt myself smiling.

If?

The kettle began to whistle and I turned towards it gratefully.

CTT. Only the top of the heap!

For a moment, I wished I could see Damien's face when he heard. Then I realised.

I wasn't interested. I didn't give a damn what Damien thought.

“I'm out of biscuits,” I said. “But I can make you some raisin toast if you like.”

You can say some really dumb things when your brain is on fire.

TIM'S STORY

Chrissie was the one who put them on to me.

She'd been the “older woman” in my life for most of the time I spent at the “Con”. We'd both led a double life of sorts, and she was the one person I could always open up to.

We met when she needed an accompanist for one of her exam pieces. To look at her on stage with the band — with her long black hair falling over her face, as she drives her bass-guitar through the middle of a twelve-bar riff like a lethal weapon — seeing her like that, it's hard to imagine her playing a Haydn chamber-piece, dressed from neck to toe like the picture of innocence, and caressing the cello with the kind of gentle finesse that puts you right at the top of your class.

I know, I do tend to get carried away. Haydn isn't likely to drive anyone to want to rip your clothes off.

But that was the only kind of music I knew until I met Chrissie.

At first I thought she must have been about fifteen, like me, so when I discovered she was five years older than I was, it came as a bit of a shock. It wasn't the last one she would ever give me. And I guess at times I might have shocked her, too. But we hit it off. Best friends from day one.

I'd never been comfortable with girls. They were like a strange race, with their own language and their own rules. Chrissie reckoned my main problem was that I'd spent far too much time fingering keyboards, and not nearly enough … you know.

Maybe she was right. It took a long time for her to understand me properly, but from the first moment, she made it her job to save me from myself.

It was never sexual. Even apart from the age difference, I just wasn't “her type”. Mind you,
I
never thought Damien was — and I once made the mistake of telling her so. It was one of the few things we ever really fought about. I said she deserved better. She said I deserved a punch in the mouth if I couldn't mind my own damned business. But she didn't really mean it.

She knew there was no jealousy there, and I think deep down she probably sensed that something major was wrong, long before things went cold between them.

Anyway, that was later.

At that time, Chrissie's idea of salvation, at least as far as I was concerned, had absolutely nothing to do with sex. For her, the answer to the problem of Tim Henderson — and just about everything else in life — was musical.

That was how I found out about her “other life”.

“Hell, Tim,” she said once. “If you're ever going to break out of that glass jar they've got you trapped in, you're going to have to loosen up.” She was leaning across my piano, obscuring the middle two octaves with her hair, and I didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

I told her so.

She just smiled and told me to be ready at eight-thirty; that she'd pick me up.

I was. Ready.

At least, I thought I was.

She took one look at me — freshly ironed shirt, jacket and tie — shook her head, pushed me back into the bedroom, undressed me and forced me into a pair of practically unworn jeans, a T-shirt and some old running shoes.

When I asked her where we were going, she just smiled. “To work,” she said.

Torsion played the kind of music you could never use a cello in. And up on stage was a character I had never met. She had the same face as Chrissie, but … Wow! The energy, the way she slammed out the beat on an electric bass that looked bigger than she was. The way she played up to the audience.

I'd always thought she was beautiful, but until that moment I hadn't realised she was sexy. I'd always known she was talented, but now I realised that she was versatile, too.

Damien was posing and pouting and doing the “lead-singer” thing — that was the first time I ever saw him — but I was watching Chrissie. And so was most of the audience.

Afterwards she sat down beside me. Her hair was wet from exertion and she was breathing heavily.

“Well?” She sipped a drink and looked into my eyes, and I got the idea that my opinion was important. “What did you think?”

What could I say? My pulse was only just slowing down and I could still feel the concussion from the speakers.

“Can we get out of here?” I was under-age and I was sure everybody was looking at me.

She glanced across at Damien, who was busy basking, oblivious to her.

“Sure. Why not?”

A few minutes later, over a coffee, she asked me again. “Well? What did you think?”

By then I'd had the chance to get my breath back.

“I never knew —” I began, but she cut me off.

“Did you like it?”

For a moment I paused. “No,” I began, and watched her face fall. “I
loved
it!”

I know. It's the oldest line in the history of lines. 10CC used it once in a song. But it happened to be true. Something inside me had responded. The worm was beginning to turn.

She smiled, confident again.

“Good,” she said. “Because, as of tomorrow, you're going to take a crash course in Rock ‘n' Roll.”

I smiled.

“Why wait until tomorrow?”

Two years and a couple of thousand jam sessions later, I got the call from Max Parnell.