The choice grew ever
starker. On the one hand, Brendan could stop performing his own songs, except
in pedestrian malls, for voluntary donations, and instead play songs modern
diners and drinkers wanted to hear, or he could go back to selling luxury bathroom
fixtures, usually to the supercilious rich. He decided on the former, and set
about learning the several Ed fucking Sheeran songs for which he received so many
requests. He set up shop right across from the big Bentall Centre in Kingston
on Saturday afternoon and discovered — to one part delight and four parts
dismay — that a great many more people paused to listen than when he
sang his own stuff. As he’d hoped would happen, the proprietor from a local pub
invited him to pop over for a chat one evening, and the next thing he knew,
Brendan was playing three nights a week at the Goose and Syringe, for a fifth what IT would
have paid, but enough to keep the fridge full and the heating on.
Mostly he sang for
himself. Occasionally, he’d start one of Ed’s songs, and a few drinkers or
diners might click the pause button on their conversations to savour the first
verse and chorus. When he sneaked a couple of his own songs back into the
repertoire, no one seemed to mind. And during the second set of the
evening, a pair of white van types with thick tattooed necks, nothing like as
genteel as the rest of the place’s clientele, seemed actually to enjoy one of
his own songs. He’d have preferred the pair of young women who favoured Keira
Knightley and an adult-sized Kylie Minogue, but one takes what he can get.
The two geezers, Nige
and Roy, insisted on buying him a pint during his second break. He was afraid
they might ask if the original song that had got them grinning was a Sheeran.
It turned out they hadn’t really noticed the song, but Bren’s guitar-playing.
Their employer wanted to learn to play. Did Bren offer tuition? Bren had never
either received nor bestowed a guitar lesson and said, “I’m flattered, but I’m
not the right person for the job.”
His two new friends
smirked at each other. Nige said, “Well, we think you are, sunshine, so your two choices are
teaching the boss to play, or having me and Roy stomp on your fucking hands
until they look like fucking crepes, and if I was you, I’d teach the boss to
play.” Bren had to admit that seemed by far the more attractive option, told
the Syringe’s governor that he was poorly, and unable to do a third set that
night, and allowed his two new friends to drive him — in a gleaming BMW 5
Series that smelled two weeks out of the showroom — up to Richmond Hill,
where The Boss lived in a 5th-storey penthouse with a view of the river.
He had a troubling scar on
his left cheek and a gorgeous replica of The Fool, the psychedelic Gibson SG
Eric Clapton had played with Cream, except The Boss, who sounded Welsh, said it wasn’t a replica,
but the actual instrument. Trying to bond with him, Brendan mused that it must
have cost a fortune. The Boss snickered. “Let’s just say that its
previous owner insisted have it.” Nige plugged him into a
Marshall 2525C Mini Silver Jubilee Combo. He played a little blues lick,
clumsily. Roy marvelled, “Fabulous!” under his breath, and Nige looked very
impressed too.
Brendan thought he’d teach
The Boss E7, A7, and B7 chords. “Learn these three,” he said, trying for chirpiness, even though The Boss’s unmistakable lack of aptitude made him worry for his
hands, “and you’ll be able to play literally thousands of blues and rock and
roll songs.” The Boss grunted sceptically, and then, over the next 10 minutes, made
no progress whatever and growled, “Fucking hell!” in frustration 750,000 times.
He reverted to playing his one little blues lick, glaring at Brendan as he did
so, as though to demonstrate to Brendan that their lack of progress was
entirely to do with Brendan’s deficiencies as a teacher.
“Not much bloody use then, are you, sunshine?” Nige growled at Brendan, who was pretty sure
he wasn’t going to be playing the guitar very well himself anymore. But instead
of stomping on his hands, Nige and Roy dropped him off The Boss’s balcony. His neck
was broken, and his left leg, and several ribs, but his hands were undamaged.
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