The Rotters' Club by Jonathan Coe Read Free Book Online Page B

home, her mother had seen enough of him to form a distinct impression, and found him shy, courteous and appealing. He kept his thick, vinyl-black hair at a respectable length, his beard was well trimmed and his wardrobe ran to nothing more outlandish than a rust-coloured corduroy jacket worn over a fawn cheesecloth shirt and flared denim loons. He called her ‘Mrs Trotter’ and his intentions towards her daughter seemed entirely honourable. To the best of her knowledge (and the best of Benjamin’s), her daughter’s dates with Malcolm comprised nothing more racy than a few hours down at The Gun Barrels or The Rose and Crown, huddled in smoky conversation over pints of Brew and halves of bitter shandy. Very occasionally, they would branch out by attending musical events to which Malcolm referred – indecipherably, at first – as ‘gigs’, and which sometimes conjured up, to Sheila’s worried mind, images of pot-crazed teenagers gyrating to the thrashings of hirsute guitarists and drummers in an atmosphere thick with sexual abandon. But her daughter seemed to return from these fancied orgies well before midnight, and looking none the worse for wear.
    The sing-song chime of the doorbell announced Malcolm’s arrival shortly after seven o’clock. Lois was running late, detained in the bathroom by the mysterious ablutions which invariably occupied the three-quarters of an hour before one of her dates, and her parents were busy too, smartening themselves up for their visit to King William’s. It fell to Benjamin, therefore, to entertain the hopeful suitor as he hovered awkwardly by the living-room fireplace.
    They nodded at each other, and Malcolm’s muted greeting – ‘All right, mate?’ – was accompanied by a reassuring smile. A fair start, on the whole. But Benjamin still couldn’t think of anything to say.
    ‘Who’s the axeman?’ Malcolm asked. He pointed at the nylonstring guitar which had been left leaning up against one of the dining chairs. It was Benjamin’s, a birthday present: his mother had bought it two years ago, for nine pounds.
    ‘Oh. I play, a little bit.’
    ‘Classical?’
    ‘Rock, mainly,’ said Benjamin. Then added, hoping that it would sound impressive: ‘Blues, as well.’
    Malcolm chuckled at this. ‘You don’t look much like B. B. King. Are you a Clapton fan?’
    Benjamin shrugged. ‘He’s all right. He was one of my early influences.’
    ‘I see. You’ve gone past that, have you?’
    Benjamin remembered something he had read in Sounds, a quote from some willowy prog-rocker. ‘I want to push back the boundaries of the three-chord song,’ he said. He didn’t know why he was suddenly confiding in this person, sharing ideas about music which he normally kept under close wraps. ‘I’m writing a sort of suite. A rock symphony.’
    Malcolm smiled again, but said, without condescension: ‘This is the right time for it. The scene’s wide open.’ He sat on the sofa, his hands clasping at the knees of his loons. ‘You’re right about Clapton, though. No real ideas of his own. Apparently he’s doing Bob Marley covers now. That’s pure cultural appropriation, if you ask me. Neo-colonialism in a musical setting.’
    Benjamin nodded, trying not to appear baffled.
    ‘Are you in a band?’ Malcolm asked.
    ‘Not yet. I want to be.’
    ‘If you’re serious about this,’ said Malcolm, ‘I could lend you some records. There’s some pretty far-out stuff being laid down out there. Freaky times on the event horizon.’
    Benjamin nodded again, more and more fascinated the less he understood.
    ‘That would be great,’ he managed.
    ‘There’s a guitarist called Fred Frith,’ Malcolm continued. ‘Plays with a band called Henry Cow. Does amazing things with a fuzz-box. Imagine The Yardbirds getting into bed with Ligeti in the smoking rubble of divided Berlin.’
    Benjamin, who had no experience of The Yardbirds, Ligeti or indeed the smoking rubble of divided Berlin, might well