The guitar’s neck was broken clean off.
“What have those incompetent arseholes done?” Keith screamed.
“Fuckin’ aye!” Ryan echoed. “Why now?”
“I need to be on stage at one of the biggest festivals in the world and these imbeciles destroy my guitar!”
I noticed the others inspecting their instruments, which thankfully were unscathed. I was glad I’d carried on what few art supplies I’d brought. Having lost them when mugged, I knew how Keith felt.
A security person approached. “Sir, I need you to calm down.”
“Calm down?” Keith screamed. “Look what the fucking baggage handlers did to my guitar! I need to be on stage in three hours and you’re telling me to calm down?”
“If you don’t calm down, we’ll escort you out.”
Ryan intervened. “Can’t they read the word fragile stamped in big red letters?”
“You can get a claim form from the airline, but we can’t have you making a scene.”
“A scene?” Keith bellowed. “I’ll show you a scene.” He held up his broken guitar. “Look what the fucking airline did to my guitar!” he yelled. “Some wanker in baggage played football with it!”
“If you go to the airline desk and fill out a form, you’ll get compensation in two to three weeks.”
“Two to three weeks! I fucking need this guitar now. I’m performing at the biggest fucking festival in the world! I can’t play shit with a broken guitar!”
“I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you. You’re disturbing others.”
“They should be aware of what wankers run this airline. This guitar was packaged to specifications!”
“Come on, Keith, let’s just go,” Jimmy said. “If we hang about here, we’ll never make it to the festival on time.”
“I’ll pick up a claim form,” Ryan said. “We’ll never use this airline again.”
Keith placed his broken guitar into its case. I didn’t know what to say. I felt badly for him, but his behavior seemed extreme. I was beginning to be sorry I’d tagged along.
All the way to the festival, Keith groused about his guitar. “What the fuck will I do? I can’t play No Connection without that guitar. That’s our most popular song.”
“We’ll figure out something at the festival,” Ryan said.
Keith wouldn’t be consoled. “I can’t fucking go on without that guitar.”
We arrived at the festival, finding our way to the Up and Comer stage. “Stay here. I’ll see what I can find,” Ryan said.
I was alone with Keith in our dressing area. “I’d forgotten that guitar was Ian’s,” was all I could think of saying.
“His sister brought it to me after his funeral. I couldn’t bring myself to go, and she said I should have it. I fucking learned to play on that guitar. It’s a genuine Les Paul Junior with double cut-away. He saved for a year for a guitar like Mick Jones played. We were so convinced The Piss Ants would be the next Clash and I was so envious of that guitar. I’d return it in a second to have Ian back.”
“Can it be fixed?”
Keith sat on an amp, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know. It’s in bad shape.”
“Well, this will sound daft, but maybe Ian did this from wherever he is.”
Keith looked at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe he’s telling you you’re a good enough musician to use any guitar. You don’t need him channeling through that guitar any more.”
Keith looked surprised. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Because you’re too close to it. I can’t say his timing is great. I mean, he could have done it before a gig at the Borderline where you’re comfortable.”
A weak smile crept over him.
Ryan rushed in. “Great news! This bloke called Dave from the band Astoria says you can borrow his Telecaster. They’re on right before you. It’s pretty close in sound to Ian’s.”
“See, it’ll work out,” I assured him. “Maybe this happened for a reason.”
Keith left with Ryan. I breathed a sigh of relief. Ryan couldn’t say I wasn’t earning my keep.
I followed them to Astoria’s tent. Astoria took their name from the Queens, NY town where they lived. Dave was more than willing to answer my endless questions about New York City while he handed his guitar to Keith. I hoped I wasn’t a pest, but I couldn’t learn enough about New York City.
We stuck around until Astoria went on stage. Their music was reminiscent of The Beatles or even The Kinks. They even did a cover of Autumn Almanac.
Before The Piss Ants went on, I cornered Keith for a final pep talk. “Remember Ian is still looking out for you, but more importantly I’m here. You can do this.”
We held each other a moment and I gave him a long kiss. Someone came on, revving up the crowd to yell, “Piss Ants! Piss Ants! Piss Ants!” They hit the stage and Keith held up his broken
guitar. “Look what the airline did to my guitar! Dave from Astoria was generous enough to lend me his, but I want everyone here to yell Fuck You as loud as they can so the fucking airline hears you! He led the crowd in several FUCK YOUs before the band lit into the usual opener of No Connection. After five songs, Keith broke a string. He stopped playing
long enough to give all the girls in front a lascivious look. “Hello, ladies. Which one of you wants my G string?”
This evoked screams from several of the aforementioned girls until Keith pulled the broken string off the guitar, tossing it to them, before switching guitars.
“This next song is a new one I wrote in honor of our illustrious leader who just took jobs away from striking minors because they dared ask for livable wages and decent working conditions. So for all you slaving away for substandard wages and lousy working conditions, this one’s for you. It’s called Mouths Sewn Shut.” Before we begin, I want everyone out there to shout three FUCK YOUs to the Iron Lady with the same energy you gave the airline wankers. Three very loud FUCK YOUs rang out that surely were heard throughout the festival. For the next thirty minutes, Billy and Keith ran about the stage, riling the audience into a frenzy. Some left the mosh pit battered and bloody, but smiling like it were a badge of honor. I stood just off stage. The band left the stage to loud, roaring cheers. I hurried backstage where Keith grabbed me, swung me around, then set me down. “Bloody great show, eh?” He grinned from ear to ear.
I laughed. “Your best yet!”
“I hate to disrupt your romance,” Ryan said, “But there’s reporters out there and we need the world-wide publicity.”
“Fuckin’ aye, Ryan,” Keith yelled. “They all treat me like some fucking teen idol.”
“We can’t pick and choose right now, Keith. Just answer the questions you feel like answering. I’m taking these tapes to the sales booth.”
Billy and Jimmy, always anxious to have fun with reporters, left to seek them out. Keith declined their attempts to get him to follow.
I felt sorry for the next band. The Piss Ants were a tough act to follow.
A couple reporters found us, so I slipped out to watch the next band — Test Tube Babies. They definitely held their own following The Piss Ants. They had a more pop sound rather than the raw punk the Piss Ants played. Their lead singer bounced around like a rubber ball and was sort-of nerdy looking with short, mousy colored hair and wire rim glasses. Half way into their set, Keith was next to me. The music was too loud to communicate, but when Test Tube Babies finished, he insisted we check out the main stage. “I wanta see where we’ll play next year,” he said, taking my hand.
Said main stage was packed with a mile wide sea of bodies. We couldn’t get near it. We skirted the perimeter of bodies when Keith spotted a huge poster for a band who’d already played. “We didn’t get this much promotion,” he said. “How do they expect us new-comers to get ahead when they give the biggest poster to the established bands?” He suddenly looked enlightened, then tore the poster off its holdings. “Fuck, this band played over an hour ago. They won’t miss this. Have anything red on you?”
I eyed him warily. “What are you up to?”
“Don’t worry. Just give me something red.”
I rummaged through my satchel and handed him a red pastel crayon. He scribbled Piss Ants in big letters, then ran off. I caught up to find him climbing some scaffolding.
“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Get down before you break your neck . . . or worse!”
Keith ignored me and started waving the poster he’d created. “This band is playing the main stage next year!” he yelled. “Go buy our tape!” He then chanted “Piss Ants Piss Ants! Piss Ants!”
Several people congregated, cheering him on.
He continued his chants, and to my surprise, many chanted with him, though I’m sure they had no clue what or who The Piss Ants were. Then I noticed security headed our way.
“Security!” I yelled. “Get down before you’re thrown out.”
“Fuck!” Keith said, scrambling to the ground. He grabbed my hand and we ran off, while those surrounding us cheered.
We ran back to the Up and Comer stage. Keith collapsed with laughter while I sat on an amplifier catching my breath. “Bloody great publicity stunt, eh? Sometimes I amaze myself.”
“You didn’t need to risk your life, you twat!” I said between gasps.
“Come on, luv. It’s no big deal. I told you I learned to climb from second story windows as a kid.”
We spent nearly an hour at the sales booth where the band signed autographs. That sold us one hundred tapes. It was getting dark when we returned and Test Tube Babies asked both The Piss Ants and Astoria to open for them at an impromptu show in Roskilde.
“Bloody yes!” was Keith’s response.
Soon after, we piled into a dilapidated old bus with the name Test Tube Babies sprawled over both sides with the image of a fetus in a test tube painted above the name. The inside of the bus looked like a flashback from the 1960s. There were a couple regular seats in front, with blankets
and beanbag chairs in back and beads hanging from the ceiling. We squeezed around the instruments that didn’t fit in the cargo hold or attached trailer. I was wedged between Billy’s stand-up and a drum kit. Keith squeezed next to me. The bus engine spat, sputtered and backfired before rolling from the festival grounds.
As we rolled into town, I got a look at Roskilde. The streets were abuzz with people — mostly young and probably out-of-towners who came for the festival and like us, wanted to experience local nightlife. We pulled into an alley and entered a run down, hole in the wall with stained and worn wood plank floors and a wooden bar with more crevices than the Swiss Alps. By a coin toss, the Piss Ants would play first. The club was packed and I stared in fascination at the many people who had hair so blond it was nearly white.
The Piss Ants hit the stage with such energy I could scarcely believe it was their second show of the day. The minute the first chords of No Connection burst forth, the audience was slamming off each other and soon fountains of sweat sprayed the air. When Test Tube Babies’ ended their set, they invited Piss Ants and Astoria on stage for a huge jam session. We stayed backstage after and for the first time, I wasn’t anxious to leave. Dave was keen to tell me places I should see in New York, emphasizing the Dakota Apartments where John Lennon lived. He even offered to let The Piss Ants sleep on the floor of his flat if they played New York. We didn’t get to the hostel until after four and had to
be up by eight for our flight home. The room was stark, but we had a double bed and private bath with plenty of hot water. Trés bliss. All hopes of calling my parents had faded. I had too much fun to care.
The fun stopped abruptly with our eight o’clock alarm. As we stumbled onto a bus for the airport, I took in scenery of ancient buildings and cobble stoned streets. I wished we had time for sightseeing.
When we landed in London, Frank waited to take us to Bayswater where Louisa insisted on feeding everyone. It was past four when we finally staggered into our flat.
I dumped my things in the middle of the room and noticed the blinking light on the answer phone. “Who would call?” I wondered aloud. “Everyone knew we were in Denmark.”
“I’ll let you find out,” Keith said with a yawn. “I’m having a shower.”
The message was a frantic plea from my mother to call immediately. She’s probably mad because I didn’t call. I may as well get it over with. I punched the number. My mother answered on the first ring.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. There wasn’t time. We just got back from Denmark and . . .”
“Ma Cherie,” my mother interrupted. “I have horrible, horrible news. I do not know how to tell you, especially over the phone.” She started crying uncontrollably.
Before I could ask what was wrong, she gave me news so shocking I almost dropped the phone.
[To be continued… Click here to view all chapters.]
