I was dreaming last night. About you. And me. We were walking to our house, under the Scottish sun. Its warmth. Light.
Ayrshire light. Leading us home.
We walked hand in hand.
The house sat on its own. In a clear, empty field. An endless sky above, clouds rolling across its deep blue. A gravel path. A garden alive with colours. Up the step.
The door open, we crossed the threshold together.
The house is warm. A fire burning. I poured us a drink. We sat together. Smiles, Laughter. The music played. You ran your hands through my hair.
This is some of the writing from my story ‘Follow the Light’
And we are off, bleary-eyed, into the Ayrshire morning. Emmy looks gorgeous, her short blonde hair and a smile that I would never tire of seeing.
My car sitting on the street coughs up a cloud of exhaust fumes as I turn the key. A few commuters on their way to the station do a double-take, but we breeze past them, leaving them choking in our wake.
We get a good run of lights as we hit the dual carriageway. I light up a smoke, and she flicks through the radio until she finds something she likes. The radio crackles to life with one of those old songs you know but can’t quite place.
For a moment, it’s like we aren’t ghosts at all.
We sing along to the chorus. She looks at me, and I look straight back. The engine opens up on the dual carriageway and we are cutting through the Ayrshire morning.
We’re analogue in a digital age; we’re radio in the streaming age.
We are the words written on the page.
And we don’t give a fuck if that’s good enough for you.
The pub holds promise, but I need to stay sober. If I can.
The underground just keeps going. Loops. All day long. For the price of one ticket.
Got time to kill. A cold winter day. It keeps you warm. No ticket inspector. Just one ticket on, one ticket off.
People, faces, quiet, loud. All day long you see them, looking awkwardly at the adverts, avoiding eye contact. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Ride on, ride on. I’ve got some soul on the headphones. I’m not alone. Mavis Staples, “We’re Going to Make It.”
Or the library. Heat and all those books. Good company when you’ve got nowhere to go. A mind revolution, walls broken down, different lives, different perspectives. Changed, alive, brain firing.
Or the nights the library is closed and you can’t find peace. When you’re too tired for books.
Then it’s music and walking and burning a hole in the soles of your shoes. It’s city streets, dreams, hopes, angels in the cracks of the pavement, the river bridge, smoking a joint in the car park.
With an old friend, or a new friend.
Then through the crowds, all these people with places to go. Just keep moving.
Check the clock. 8pm.
Into the venue, grab a beer. Familiar faces. Smiles and warmth.
Across town, that same noise sounded like a hammer to his head as Hubie got back to his dressing room.
He picked up the open bottle of champagne and took a swig. The door behind him opened. “Thirty minutes to the meet and greet.”
Hubie threw the bottle at the door. It smashed on the wall with a crash. “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!” he screamed. “Tell the others to do the fucking meet and greet.”
He opened a bottle of vodka and took a swig. He thought of the ladies in the front row. Jesus. Could be fun. But he already had his own high priestess of pain and sex. He checked his phone. He thought of the smell of her perfume, her leather, her kiss. She would be here soon. He pined for her, for the oblivion she brought.
He looked at the itinerary. A thirty-date swing through Europe. Like a funeral march. Then he could bury this band. He would be free of this business. They have been fucking over rock and roll since the beginning. Anywhere you got art, talent, fire, you got some arsehole who thought it was his job to represent… himself, mostly. Well, fuck ‘em all.
He thought back to the early days, when they were hungry, confident. The rush of playing and recording music, meeting people. The connection at the shows. Even before all this, music has been everything. Up in his room. Learning old songs, discovering the classics. Writing his first songs.
It was simple then. He didn’t have much. But he had the music. He looked at all the crap in his dressing room: like a police report already written out, it was just missing the handgun. His ears rang, but he could still hear music and voices from the hallway.
He felt like breaking the TV but couldn’t muster the energy. He looked at Terry’s smug card on the table, it was on everything, all over town. Bring Your Ghost to the Fire, presented by Terry Anders.
Whose fucking band is this?
He felt his anger rise but didn’t move. He just had to stay alive. So many ways to lose yourself, and he was barely hanging on. He picked up the acoustic guitar and it took all his effort to strum a loose A minor chord.
‘One day, some way, we’re going to rise up…..sing my song’ He sighed. ‘My song… My song’ Fuck off Terry.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away.”
“It’s me,” came a voice from the other side. It was her. She didn’t wait; she opened the door and walked in wearing black boots, her hair high tumbling down. She crossed the room with confidence, slipping off her coat revealing a tight leather dress. “Did you miss me, bitch?” she smiled, and they kissed. She held his face close.
“I brought you a present,” and she put a few pills in his hands, which he quickly swallowed.
‘Good boy,’ she smiled as she took off his shirt.
Hubie forgot about the fans, the music. He forgot about the guitars, just another part of the business
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 