“You gotta keep it fucking steady, man!”
The annoyance in Jazid’s voice all too clear for everyone, including Romesh.
“What do you mean ‘steady’?”, Romesh barked back pointlessly and hit a rimshot on the snare. “I am keeping it steady. Mobbe, get the fucking metronome!”.
Mobbe was their sound boy. He’d been with the band since their formation two years ago.
“All I am saying is that this is a 20 minute song, you know that! And the first 10 minutes is at 110 or so BPM and we raise it in the second ‘movement’”, Jazid made inverted commas with his fingers then, “to around 140 during the guitar solo!”. He looked at Charlie, the bassist - his buddy from school - for support.
“Mooovement!”, mocked Romesh with a roll of his eyes.
“Rom, man, we gotta get this tight or we won’t make it. You know that right, buddy? Right?”, Charlie said as he cradled the bass guitar to his chest like it was the child he was trying to reason with.
Mobbe brought the metronome and handed over to Romesh who fiddled with it for a few seconds, plugged in an ear phone and pushed the left ear piece to his ear. “Alright, let’s go one more time! One, two, one, two…”
Twenty minutes later, after the final note was played, Jazid glanced at each member of the band, relieved, a look of ‘see? It’s cool!’ on his face.
“That’s it! We have it in the pocket!”
Charlie, unstrapping his bass, made a raspberry at Romesh who pretended to throw the drumsticks at him.
Mobbe clapped from the mixing desk. He rarely spoke.
“Hello.” Pause. “Hello?”. Longer pause. “He…hello?”
Jazid looked at the screen of his phone to make sure he was connected. It was.
“Hel…”
“You guys ready?”, the voice on the phone said.
“He..hey! Yeah, I think so.”
“Yes, you are.”, sound of ruffling around was heard and then, “you will be.”
“Ugh yeah. Thanks for setting us up man.” “You gonna need some stuff.”
“Yeah, what st…”
“Someone will deliver the stuff.”
“What’s stuff?”
“You’ll need it for tonight.”
“Ok?”
“And be there on time!” The line disconnected.
Housed in the basement of the new building where the original Odeon cinema from the 70s and 80s stood, was The Odeon - a club and bar that had become the haunt for the rich, famous and the powerful.
It was 8pm. Inside the air was thick with hazy smoke and the smell of perfumes, liqueurs and cocktails, the music thumping and deafening. Rows and rows of high resolution display panels lined the walls upon which visualisations played. A glass dance floor stood in the centre over a deep blue pool of water - something the club was famous for. Facing the entrance, adjacent to the dance floor was the stage. Charlie, Romesh and Mobbe were there.
Jazid was in the toilet. In there the music sounded muffled. He retrieved a clear plastic packet from his back pocket, looked at its contents against the light. Embossed on the packet were the words, “The Sauce”. He flipped it. It said the same on the other side. Inside was what looked like clear gel like substance. Jazid looked at his watch. 8:17pm. They were on at 8:30. He poked inside, scooped the gel on his finger tip and sucked on the finger. He looked at the packet again as he waited for something to happen. Nothing.
On the stage, Charlie plugged the bass guitar in and adjusted the settings on his amp. Romesh turned a key on one of the tom-toms, striking it intermittently whilst listening on his in-ear monitors. Just then Jazid walked on to the stage with his guitar. Charlie looked nervously at Jazid and then at Romesh. The silhouette of Mobbe could be seen checking some controls on a panel in the back.
The DJ announced the band to the packed house. The house lights went dark except for a spotlight each on the members of the band. The room applauded and then there was silence in anticipation.
Romesh tapped the drumsticks. One two, one two ….
Jazid started an arpeggio on open D minor, the tone of his Fender Strat clean, like crystalline water, processed through a delay and a reverb effects units. Each note sang and flew from the amp on whimsical wings, reaching the walls, the ceiling, the lights and the shadows, turning and returning, moving the haze against the beams of the few lights as the notes enveloped the silhouettes beyond.
Romesh started with a simple four on the floor bass-drum only pattern, quietly at first but raising in amplitude in tandem with the strength of the notes from Jazid. Steady, unwavering booms of the bass drum ever increasing in intensity and then entered the snare charging at and corralling the winged notes up and up.
At the twenty fourth bar, with the crash of a symbol, Charlie struck a low D. The room shook. On their way up the notes just then lost their wings and now fell in a torrent of sound. Wet, inescapable and all-consuming. Charlie continued, thickening the downpour. The guitar, the drums and the bass now voluminous, a twenty thousand feet deep ocean of sound and everyone, Jazid, Romesh, Charlie and Mobbe had their eyes closed as they surfed the currents within.
And the room…the room did not matter.
Jazid opened his eyes. Blinked a few times and looked around. It was Charlie’s place - a small studio apartment in Henveiru. He patted the front pockets of his trousers, retrieved the phone. There was one message. It was from “Unknown”.
“You are on at 8:30 tonight at The Odeon. One chance. Ready your set and call.”