Romeo's Tune (1990) by Mark Timlin Read Free Book Online Page B

switches with the toe of his boot.
    ‘Drum machine, bass synthesizer,’ he intoned. ‘Algy, is the computer link switched on for the Hammond?’
    ‘Check,’ said Algy, suddenly the pro.
    ‘Tape machines?’ asked McBain.
    ‘Check,’ repeated Algy.
    McBain walked from microphone to microphone tapping them with his fingernails. As he hit each one an electronic crack sounded in the room from the PA system.
    ‘All systems go,’ said McBain.
    ‘Check,’ said Algy.
    McBain went over to the centre mike and whispered, ‘One, two, test, one, two, test.’ His amplified voice filled the studio. From the pocket of his overcoat he carefully withdrew a long, fat joint and poked it into the corner of his mouth. He lit it with a wooden match that he struck with his thumbnail. Very Clint Eastwood, I thought. Then he picked up the tiny guitar by its strap and slung it over one shoulder. Algy tossed him a long curly lead the same colour as the guitar with silver jack plugs at each end, which winked under the spotlights. McBain plugged one end into the jack socket on the guitar body, and the other into the smallest of the amps arranged around the room.
    ‘AC 30,’ he said. ‘An original, and still the greatest.’ Then he picked up a sawn-off pool cue that was lying on one of the shelves and stood in the middle of the room with long, leather-clad legs astride.
    ‘Ready, Al,’ he called.
    Algy went back to the controls and the hum from the amplifiers increased.
    ‘Check, McBain,’ he said for the last time. ‘Ready to roll.’
    McBain turned and his coat swirled around his legs. He looked good in the beam of the spotlights. He appeared to come alive in the electronic hum and the years seemed to drop from his thin frame. As he stood there poised with the pool cue raised I flashed that I had seen him before, on some TV show, but I couldn’t remember exactly where.
    The atmosphere in the room began to get to me and as I waited for his song I could feel the skin on my back begin to shiver. He stood for another moment with the cue held aloft. Algy watched him like a hawk.
    Suddenly McBain spun and smashed the cue with all his strength on to the Chinese gong and it rang like a perfectly pitched church bell. Before the echoes began to die he hit the guitar strings with the cue and ran it up the frets until it reached his left hand which was gripping the strings at the top of the neck of the instrument. Without a glance he flicked the cue at Algy who caught it one-handed. McBain brought his right hand down and hit a power chord on the guitar. The noise was intense. As the first chord burst from the speakers Algy bent over the console and suddenly it was if there were another five or six instrumentalists in the room with us. The reels on the tape machines began to turn and the keys on the Hammond organ began to move up and down as if a ghost was playing the keyboard. Although the sound was deafening in the confined space it was crystal clear. Algy must have been a genius at the controls.
    McBain took the joint from his mouth and passed it to the big man without missing a beat. Then he swung round again to face the mike and began to sing. His voice was deep and powerful and I recognised the melody at once. The song had been high in the charts the previous summer. Then it had been performed by some American pomp-rock outfit. I hadn’t liked it. But McBain’s version stripped the song to the bone and I realised that with the orchestration removed it was indeed a great tune.
    He was smashing a lead break from the little guitar and he moved away from the mike and, lost in the music, began to dance on the carpeted floor. He duck-walked back and forth, jumped, spun until the lead from his instrument wrapped around his legs and threatened to trip him. He extricated himself with a grace I hadn’t expected. He strutted and posed as he played, ripping notes from the guitar and soon I too was lost in the music.
    Even in the cold room, sweat