Taking Note
Another night in the Heaven Rock Bar. 12.51 am and the smell of beer. Milton spends half the set eyeing up the cool green-eyed girl at the back, who seems less interested in Smoking Jacket and far more concerned with the faceless jerk she’s texting.
The heady mix of nerves and anticipation - which an hour ago had began to crackle in the back of Milton’s head like ice cubes dropped into soda - are waning, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before a few more punters creep out of the door, and he’s forced to swallow disappointed oxygen with the rest of the band again. Already he can taste it: ten minutes into the future and he’s outside Soho’s finest, tendrils of smoke clawing up his nose and pasting down his bitter throat; talk of ‘almost there’ and ‘better next time’ and other heinous bullshit. Still; all part of the process. Being in a successful rock band takes time and perseverance; better failed rock animal than successful couch potato.
The lights begin to thump in the back of his eyes as their fourth song opens out: a ricochet of drum crashes and tumbled bass notes continue on regardless, as reds and blues splash into his face, dizzying him as he struggles to slice open the song a thrust of plectrum, tiny pinpricks of sweat clustering on his forehead. To his right, he catches sight of a man arguing heatedly with the barman, his greying ponytail forcibly thrown around as he struggles to pitch himself above the noise of Smoking Jacket and what he believes to be the ignorant attitude the member of staff in question. Does the guy realise he’s being a prick? Perhaps he doesn’t care. Milton looks back down at his crisp Les Paul: D7-C#-D-D-C, before offering a cursory glance to the punters, who thankfully seem to be enjoying this one rather more than the last three.
When he looks back, the ponytailed man is sitting on a red-cushioned seat at the bottom-end of the bar, a paradoxical look of self-satisfaction and mild irritance as he sips his newly topped-up brown ale. Yet something about the way the man sips his beer jars with Milton; the fact that he is sidelined and lonely in a bar full of people, perhaps, and an overwhelming sense of loss suddenly surges behind his eyes; for a second they glass over and for a terrible moment he thinks he might actually cry. For some reason, buried deep at the back of his head, the man reminds him of his father.
The urge subsides as quickly as it comes, not least because the chorus is coming up and he’s forced to focus on the tricky bridge leading up to it. The next band up – The Weavers, or something, stand halfway down the bar and to the right, the lead singer thumping his foot to the floor in an insistently off-beat manner; a child drumming their fingers because they can’t go out and play. Noticing, Milton offers a ‘part of the club’ nod and smile, but the singer either doesn’t notice or doesn’t give a shit. A further look to the back reveals the girl with the green eyes has gone too: Voiceless Texts from a Faceless Jerk have won out in the battle for green-eyed affection. Play on, thinks Milton.
In six years and two days’ time, Milton is working in the finance department for a company called Lite Bite. He has a smart, hazel-eyed wife, and a baby boy on the way - although he doesn’t know it yet. Claire will tell him when he’s ready. Occasionally he’ll get his guitar out and reminisce with some of the old hits; although in truth he has forgotten half of it now and the other half is patchy at best. He talks of Smoking Jacket and days at the Heaven Rock Bar after a few too many beers, although he knows Claire is listening out of matrimonial duty rather than any kind of real ardour. He’s happy, although something about the sprawling days of jamming, socialising and playing never really leaves him. Life has mellowed out into an acoustic Cmajor: comforting, regular and strong, but potentially tedious and no way near as exciting as an overdriven D7.
Back in the Heaven Rock, the clock is ticking and Milton is running out of time. Thirty seconds ‘til the end and the soundman’s waving his hands in desperation at a set that’s now thirty four seconds over. It’s Smoking Jacket’s last gig here and they no longer care about set timings or not pissing off the next band. Especially when it’s The Weavers. In fact, a small but dedicated puddle of customers are dancing with abandon round the stage, and the band are damned if they’re going to finish on time when this is the best reaction they’ve had for months. Milton can see the lead singer of The Weavers - matchstick appearance and a sour lemon-slice mouth – gesticulating wildly at the soundman, presumably telling him to cut the power. Despite his misgivings, the soundman clearly has no intention of doing this, and the bolied-egg look of rage and frustration building up in the front-man’s face causes Milton to play commandingly and with renewed zest; wry smile and ‘fuck you’ forming on his lips.
The crowd are bubbling up now - jumping and frothing around; arms flailing, wild looks in eyes and electric connectivity surging between bodies. This is the moment Milton’s been waiting for: life in experienced D7; majestic, fresh and wild.
And so, in amongst angry front-men, thoughts of green-eyed girls and greying pony-tails; beer, stale smoke and an over-time song-five, Milton hurls out the final signature riff as the rest of the band drive home the ending of the set to beautiful fruition. Slowly lifting his Les Paul towards his head, Milton stares out in heady defiance, smiles, and lets the chords and the crowds have it.
