Continued from Second Suns – Novel
George slammed the door of the van shut, stomped into the house, slammed the front door, then stomped up the stairs towards his room.
“You’re back early.”
George stopped and stared angrily at his mum.
He grunted unintelligibly but stopped stomping up the stairs.
“Coffee with a drop of something in it?”
George exhaled like a stabbed bagpipe.
His mum disappeared and came back waving a nearly full bottle of whiskey. “Or you could forget about the coffee and just have the drop of something?”
She poured out two generous shots and handed one to her grown-up son. He downed it in one, and emitted a frustrated sound like a cross between a groan and a roar.
“I take it the gig didn’t go as well as you might have hoped?” She poured another large shot.
“They kicked me out of the band.” He took a more leisurely sip.
“Oh. Well… You’re still in Cthulu though?” She was one of those supportive mums that people who don’t have supportive mums would wade through burning napalm, and throw puppies into a shredder, to have. But when you’ve grown up with constant positivity and encouragement it can get astonishingly annoying.
“Cthulu haven’t played a gig in months. Not having a drummer will do that to a band.” He paused to savour the single malt, briefly. “That bitch Sandra!”
“George, I would prefer you moderate your language at home please?”
“Sorry mum. But she is. She’s got her feet under the table and Mike wrapped around her little finger. She said, ‘If you love Surrogate Suns so much why don’t you start a tribute to them?’ ”
“Well, why don’t you?”
“I don’t love them that much. Anyway, I’ve had it with bands. Too much grief.”
“Last time you said that you spent six months getting more and more depressed until you joined three bands in one week. I’d sooner you focussed on your job, made some money, and bought a place of your own. How many twenty-year-olds still live with their mum?”
“Price of houses these days, I’d say nearly all of them.”
“Well whenever you’re not in a band, you turn into the most insufferable moron. Would it kill you at least to put an ad on that band-maker website?
“Oh blooming heck mum. Don’t go on… Alright, I’ll stick an ad on, for all the good it will do me.”
* * * * *
“Any joy with the website?” his mum asked a few days later.
“Had some loony call me saying he’s been planning on putting together a tribute just to play the ‘Ra’ album in its entirety.”
George’s mum looked both shocked and sad at once. ‘Ra’ was almost universally acclaimed as Surrogate Suns worst album, although there were a small minority of fans who believed it was the greatest work of recorded art ever produced.
She said, “Care in the community has got a lot to answer for. My dad had that album, but I only ever listened to it once. He played it to us as a warning about what would happen if we ever started using drugs. Scared the willies out of me and your uncle. I think it ended up being melted down in the oven to make a plant pot holder.”
“Mum! An original vinyl of that is worth a fortune now!”
“Not to me it isn’t. Now, anyone touches my copy of ‘Sol Invictus’ they had better like hospital food.” She opened her laptop. “What did you put in the ad anyway?”
“Can’t remember.” He flipped open his laptop and sipped his whisky while waiting for the site to open. “Here it is. I wrote ‘Anyone up for putting together a Surrogate Suns tribute? Singer with own PA and van seeks band.’ ”
“Well, no wonder you just got one loony. Who’s going to jump at that awful effort? You got to make it enticing. Like this one. ‘Singer wanted for Surrogate Suns tribute. Must have own van and P.A. Paid gigs waiting. Only serious applicants. Professional attitude required.’ ”
“Yeah right, that’s on the band builder site right now is it?”
She turned her screen around. “See for yourself.”
“So? You gonna apply then?”
“I dunno. What if I don’t get it?”
“Oh for pity’s sake! Show me a man who’s never been turned down and I’ll show you a man who’s never gone for anything.”
George uttered a non-committal grunt. Having a helpful mum was a right pain in the bum.
“George! At least give it a go. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“It says professional, paid gigs waiting. They’ll have a queue of blokes round the block with the right hair and top-quality gear and a van that isn’t falling to bits.
George’s mum stood up. All five feet of her. “Now you listen here. I’ve put up with you and your bloody music because I believe in supporting my kids in achieving their dreams. But there’s only so much a mum can do and if you won’t at least call the bloody number on here then I’ll wash my hands of you, I really will.” And with that, she handed George the phone.
“Arrgh!” Cornered, George dialled the number.
“I’m phoning about the ad for the Surrogate Suns tribute band on Band-Maker?”
“Yeah man, great stuff, you a big fan of the Suns?”
“Yeah love ‘em. Apart from maybe Ra? Not the greatest album. But Sol Invicta, and Seventh Son?”
“By far the best album is Supernova in my opinion. Massively underrated. That and Second Sun are the best two.”
“Really? I haven’t listened to them that much but yeah. I mean ‘Wild About Love’ I do that in my current band.”
“Cool well what are you up to next weekend? I can book the rehearsal studios and we can get together and play some stuff. Email me on that address on the advert, and I’ll email you over the details and a list of songs to have ready.”
“OK.” George ended the call and smiled weakly at his mum.
“There that wasn’t so difficult was it?” She topped up both glasses and lifted hers ready for a toast.
“To Surrogate Suns!”
George added, “Tribute.” And the glasses clinked.