Paul Andrew Sneddon

Rock and Roll

Part 2 of Rock and Roll is Dead

Frankie leaned into the table as Deak said, ‘Rock and Roll is dead.’

“No, it’s not.”

“Aye, it is, Frankie.” Deak took a swig of his beer as he watched the barmaid walk by.
“Look at the charts. It’s all pop princesses and dance hits.”

Frankie snorted. “That’s pish, Deak, and you know it is. Rock and roll has waxed and waned. It survived the eighties, for fuck’s sake, when all the guys had bigger hair than the lassies.”

“Ha, they made a lot of money in the 80s. Flew on their own private jets. Coke parties. Any woman or man they ever wanted,” grinned Deak, warming to the subject.

Frankie moved his beer to the side, his arms getting more animated. “Well, maybe, but so fucking what? It’s music, mate. It’s alive now in the clubs, online,” replied Frankie, his hands open on the table.

“Ooh, online. Were Led Zeppelin online, eh?” laughed Deak.

“Ah, fuck off. Different generation. There are still bands out there, and there are still bands coming up. Bands sell out the Riverside Dome. But the best music I’ve seen has to be in a small club, with sweaty walls, drums so loud the crowd shaking the floor.”

Deak looked up at the ceiling. “You ever just want to put on some music and just peace the fuck out?”

“Aye, course, but a beat, drums, guitars, bass, and a vocalist that can reach right into your soul and just light it up.”

“You sound like you’re off your head. I blame the internet.”

“The internet? Aye, maybe, but you might find a song or band that just changes everything.”
“Changes everything? I just want something playing in the background.”

Frankie rolled his eyes. “In the background? That’s the difference between us, pal. I still love ‘Howl on the Lonesome Road’ by Bring Your Ghost to the Fire. Some songs just stick with you.”
Lauren stopped by the table with a tray of empties. “Here you two, nae falling out tonight. I cannae take any more drama between you two, not after the last time. I’ll be honest with you, I’m tired of your pish. So keep it sweet eh?”

“Aye, sorry about that, hen,” they both mumbled as Frankie’s face turned a little red.
She laughed. “Alright, boys, chill.”
“Here, Lauren,” offered up Deak, “what was the name of that band you used to play in?”
“Howd do yous know about that. That was a long time ago.”

“Alright, greatest rock and roll band of all time?”
She barely hesitated. “Easy. Oasis. Biggest band of the last thirty years. Real Rock and Roll.”
The boys looked at each other. “Oasis…” laughed Frankie.

“What… how… what? Did I say something wrong?” Lauren looked puzzled.

“Were they no’ just a rip-off of The Beatles and Status Quo… plus those haircuts?” laughed Deak.
Lauren playfully swiped him with her cloth. “I happen to quite like those haircuts! Were you at Manchester? Edinburgh? You don’t see many bands doing that these days.”

“Oh aye, here we go,” laughed Deak.

“Here, you two are snobs. See the number of artists and singers that saw Oasis and were inspired to pick up a guitar or take a chance. Plus, you go to one of their shows and everyone is having a good time.”

Frankie interjected, “First two albums were classics, but after that… nae chance.”
“Ha, maybe. I was always into Idlewild anyway. Had my first kiss with a boy to ‘Actually It’s Darkness’.”

“Funny that, so did I,” laughed Deak.

“Anyway you two, go listen to Oasis, Sam Fender, Biffy Clyro, Traquair and the Tranquilizers.”

Someone called her from the bar. “Later, losers, no ripping Morning Glory in my bar again,” she smiled, and she was gone.

Frankie and Deak looked at each other and laughed. Frankie said, “It’s all opinions, eh? That’s what makes the world go round.”

Suddenly, the volume of the music went up, and the unmistakable sound of “All Around the World” by Oasis started up.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Deak.

They looked over at the bar and saw Lauren looking over, her face turning red as she laughed so hard.

“Fuck’s sake.”

Frankie went to the bar for another couple of drinks.

“Tell her to turn it up!” laughed Deak.
The song blasts out across the bar before Frankie returns to the table.

Rock and Roll is Dead

Part One: Hubie

Hubie lay on the bed, strumming absent-mindedly on an acoustic guitar. He wasn’t sure if he even had the energy to write a new song. He almost felt like if he started Terry would be knocking on the door, wanting to know all about it.

He had the door open to the balcony and a cool breeze was flowing through. From his spot on the bed, he could see across the city. He loved this place. He knew the reputation of Glasgow crowds, hell he had played here many times now and it never failed to be a classic.

He looked at his developing beer belly and wished he was in better shape. He sighed.

The pictures on the TV screen.

Bombings, murder, death.

He remembered the peace marches he had gone on. He flicked through his phone at the pictures. He felt he was just another voice to help.

But those days were gone.

He walked out to the balcony and looked over the city.

And So It Does

One
The day fades out like a bleeding man. All oranges and reds behind the tree line. Last gasps of light.
Last breathe.
Before night.
A dog barks in the distance, but otherwise silence.
I can’t even hear the main road now. Rush hour must be over. The shift change at the prison must be past now.
Not too many have reason to be out this way.
The road only runs past Mackie’s and Mackie’s will be shut by now. The staff home, everything backed up before they open for breakfast in the morning.
You ever tried finding a late-night diner around here?
You’ll be lucky.
It’s never been a thing. I guess this town likes its late-night eating deep fried and dripping rather than eggs over easy or some apple pie.
I’m sitting here, I can see the streetlights flow like a river back into town. The streets will be quiet now. The regulars at graces will be watching the football, moaning about the council or the young ones.
No doubt.
A week ago, that would have been me.
And I’d have been perfectly happy.
But a lot can change in a week.
Hell, a lot can change in a day.
And so
It does

Two
The car door open
The car, in the middle of the street.
Engine running. The door open. Lights flashing.
Sirens
The body. The body. No longer a person, no longer a life.
Just a body.
Not moving. Not breathing.
Ami.
Shopping bags down at her side. Eggs smashed. Milk all over the road.
The people, standing, watching.
The ambulance got here quick, but it seems to me that they are moving in slow motion.
The policemen, holding me back.
‘Mr Douglas, let them work….’
Looking at the paramedic. The shake of the head.
Everything changed.

Three
The abyss. The void.
The day we met, in the warm sunshine, her voice, her laugh, her perfume.
The house. Our house.
A home.
Light, laughter, music.
Her playing guitar like Jimi Hendrix.
The bad movies that made us laugh.
The bench out back that we never got fixed.
I sat out there, yesterday.
I couldn’t sleep in the bed. Couldn’t sleep on the couch.
So, I went outside.
I was there when the sun came up.
Just me, the leaves falling from the trees and the birds trying to start a chorus.
I put my headphones on, couldn’t tell you what it played.
Just silence.
Like ear plugs.
Home isn’t home.
I had to touch the wall, to make sure it was real.
I phoned her mum; she was living in a retirement home on the coast.
She didn’t remember me.
She couldn’t remember much.
Alzheimer’s.

Four
They tell me it’s hit and run.
The police took a statement. The detective was all business.
Looking tired, drawn. I guess this is just one of his cases.
Not much I could say.
They had forms for me to sign. They could get me a liaison. Was there anyone I could talk to?
I asked them who it was.
They didn’t know. There’s CCTV all over this town but it didn’t bring any clues.
No witnesses came forward.
They would keep looking.
They would keep me informed.
They left and I was alone.
In our house.
I walked to the window and watched them go. In the kitchen I boiled the kettle and made a cup of tea.
I sat on the couch.
I sat on the floor.
Heard the old clock ticking. Your picture on the wall.
The silence.
Pushing down on me.
The unbearable silence.

Five
I went to town this morning. My brother is coming down from the city. Stay a few days before the funeral.
All I’ve got is out of date chicken.
I just walked into town.
Shades on in in the weak morning sun.
Hoody up till I got to the shop.
Sympathetic looks, but no-one said much.
No-one said much of anything at all.
What was there to say? I’m sorry.
Not your fault.
I planned to buy something for a stew.
Comfort food
But there’s no comfort food for this.
I just got milk, tea and those biscuits mum used to buy when we were kids.
As I walked home, I hoped it would rain.
Slow
and soft
and steady.
But the sun shone.

Six
I woke up in the middle of the night. Sheets soaked with sweat.
I called.
Ami
Before I realised
Before I remembered
The house just creaked.
I thought about going to the fridge.
having a beer.

But I didn’t trust myself.
So, I sat. on the bench.
I watched the day I had feared, dreaded drift in.
Funeral.

Seven
The whole day was numb.
I welcomed it.
I knew it wouldn’t last forever.
But maybe it could get me through today.
I got the plot like we had chatted when all this seemed like some faraway problem.
Now here it is.
Half the town was there. Your friends from college and work. Your mum came with a carer and your little brother.
They were all so kind to me.
They played your favourite song.
Thunder road
in the church
Out in the graveyard
The earth was open.
We laid your body down.

Eight
The reception passed.
I bought a round of drinks.
Spoke to everyone.
Don’t remember a thing.
What was said?
Who I met.
Sat out the back of the hotel.
Flipping through my phone.
Pictures.
Your messages.

Nine
Everyone started leaving.
There were babysitters to pay.
Work tomorrow.
I didn’t want to go home.
Me and Eddie went to the pub.
I drank.
To you
To us
I said too little.
I said too much.
I didn’t say anything.
I sat.
In silence.
The words.
Escaping me.

Ten
So I’m back here.
The sun bleeding out.
The light escaping.
The silence descending.
One more time.
The TV is on at home.
The lights shine.
But the house is empty.
I look out to the tree line.
And watch a fox dart between the trees

Desert Songs

*** Trigger Warning, contains violence ***

Desert Songs

Music playing through the night.

Leonard Cohen. Thanks for the Dance.

Whose tape is this? No one speaks.
Do they still play it on the radio? Do they still play the radio?

Who is going to cut the earth? Who is going to dig the grave?

The car moves. Forward. Are we all in that car?

Four wheels disappearing into the night. Into the darkness. Into the cool desert. The wild north. The windows down, the smell of cigarettes drifting into the night. Steady, but irreversibly forward. The road wearing down from four lanes to two. Lights thinning out.

To the dirt road.
To dust.
Dark shadows rolling by.

Driver

Are we sitting up front in the driver’s seat?

Sunglasses on, drawing on that cigarette, one hand on the wheel as the car starts to bump over the dusty path.

Believing we are right.

Calling ourselves Bones. It sounds harder than Simon. Desperate to escape ourselves and bury the past.

Trying to ignore those memories: Playing on the grass. Running with his brother. Looking at the scar on his face in the mirror.

Fucking brother. Slashed him. Slashed mum. Knife cuts skin, spilled blood like it was nothing. He’ll be doing the world a favour.

That old killer, soul eater.

There is a six-foot bit of desert with his name on it.

Forward. No stopping to think about it or to consider the next move. Taking a swig from a bottle of vodka and looking down at the tattoo. He never had got it removed. He wished he had now.

It simply read: Brothers.

Passenger

Or are we in the passenger seat, watching all this unfold?

Not sure what is going on or what has happened to the person driving, but going with them. Thinking we can still turn this around.

We’re a steadying influence.

We feel the sweat begin to roll. Conscience stirring. But what can we do?

We see the gun tucked into Bones’ jeans. Running options in our head. Blade in our boot. Knuckles turning white. Options getting thinner the further we go.

Janie.

Danger had always been her thing. She thought she would have something interesting to write about after. By god she was going to be a writer whatever it took. He seemed like a bit of a hothead. She liked that.

Now it seems he is something else entirely.

Reaching into her pocket she thought to record a little voice note for later, but thought better of it.

Backseat

Or are we in the back seat, a little worse for wear. Sipping on some booze, to top up our blood alcohol level?

Too far gone to fight. Just rolling with motion. C’est la vie.

The smooth back seat. The slight smell of vomit, from when we spewed out the window. Janie’s old pal, here to make sure she doesn’t go too far, but the mission already failed. Weezy.

Inhaler in one hand and a bottle of spirits in the other. Trying not to think about how far off the plan they have got. Trying not to think about what’s in the boot.

“I didn’t know you even had family,” she slurs, drawing a look of death from Bones.

Boot

Or are we in the boot?

Tied up, taste of blood in the mouth, feeling every bump, the bruises forming? The little knife we smuggled, tight in our hands. Our last possible hope on a desperate night.

“I’ll give you more than a scar this time.”

The killer.

Same since they were kids. He ran his hand over the tattoo he had never got rid of. It simply read: Brothers.

And now, go quietly or roar one last time. The car’s momentum rolls further into the night. The knife cuts the ropes.

Desperate.

Blood spilling in the boot.

The boot breaking open as the car rolls. And out into the night. Rolling, holding tight to the knife.

The killer finding the shadows.

Weezy

We hear the car stop. Sweat. Swearing. The ground rough below.

Weezy, the worse for wear, sent stumbling by Bones. She takes a few steps. Moves into the darkness and out of sight. Pulls up the inhaler, takes a puff and then stops.

“I’ll protect her, I’m older, tougher. I’ve got this. I promised her sister.”

A step into the shadows. An arm around her but she slips away and starts running through the scrub, away from the road at first. She looks over her shoulder and sees the headlights.

There’s no sign of the person.

She shouts: Janie. Janie.

Suddenly a movement behind her. Her shouts for help cut short.

The blade tearing skin. Tearing flesh. Blood pouring. Death. In a moment, the back seat has one less passenger.

Weezy is gone.

Janie

The blood wiped from the knife.

Janie’s scream from the roadside, pleading to go back to the car. Bones, gun drawn, sends Janie forward to investigate.

The gun invites no arguments.

The ash falls from his cigarette. Her breath, deep and panicked. She tries to talk him round, smiles, “We’re good, right… Bones?”

But he sends her on.

She takes a deep breath. Looks back and, then in a moment. Feels like slow motion. She leans down, and pulls the knife from her boot.

Takes a step forward. And turns.

Running toward the driver. Sweat flying from her hair as Bones sees the eyes. Like something from another world. Bloodshot and desperate.

He hesitates, for a moment. A shot rings out.

Blood. Brain. On the desert floor.

Bones, mouth dropped open, hand shaking. The moon cutting through the clouds. The prisoner still in the shadows. Knife in hand. Bones stumbling forward.

Looks down at the blood. The brains.

“Fuck.”

Bones

It wasn’t meant to be like this. He kneels down and examines her knife. Looking around but sees just the car and the desert night. He turns back to the car. The door is still open. The boot still open. Engine running.

The music is different now.

Everybody Knows.

No-one sees the killer moving across the rough ground. Bones gets there first. He pulls himself across the seat. Fumbles with the keys.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He slams the door. “How the fuck do you turn that music off? These aren’t my songs…” He leans back for a second, takes a deep breath before smacking the gun off of the steering wheel. There was a deafening bang and the windscreen smashing. Bones looking up in shock as it disintegrates. He sits there, suspended. Mouth dropping over.

In a moment, it changes.

A shadow moves in the back seat.

One motion, the knife along the neck. Cutting through flesh, as the blood begins to pour.

A moment.
Moments.

Panic.

As the driver looks in the rearview.
Then. It’s over.

“I told you, brother,” whispers the killer. “I fuckin’ told you.” He lights a cigarette, the ash falling on the back seat and runs his hand over Simon’s scar. Still listening to that same old shit, eh?

He takes the tape out of the player and puts it in his pocket.

Who is going to cut the earth? Who is going to dig the grave?

Out on the horizon. What’s that?

Headlights through the front window. Siren cutting the silence.

Fuck.

The desert closing in, one last time.

44


44 years old.
Still growing,
Still learning about myself,
Still a pain when I have a drink.

No doubt.

Though it's been a while,
Not long enough.
I can still feel the hangover
Across the weeks and the months.

But we are only human,
Capable of greatness,
Of fucking up,
Sometimes in the same breath.

Every morning we get up,
We’re piling up the days.
We hope for another one,
Don't turn them away.

What would I say
To my younger, thinner self?

Crack a smile sometimes,
Look after your health,
And for fuck's sake,

Relax.

You are everything
You need.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon