Little Big Things

Sam Gregory ripped through his guitar solo as the crowd clapped and cheered. His fingers moved like lightning, dancing up and down the frets. He started at his hands. Sometimes when he played, it felt as though his fingers belonged to somebody else. There was nothing like these magical moments, of being on stage with his band-mates, his best friends. As his solo ended, Billy, the singer, picked up the vocals. 

Sam grinned at the others. The drummer, a lad called George, from Birmingham, saluted with his drum-stick, before returning to pounding the drums. The venue may only have been a local social club, but they were rocking it. The place was packed with family and friends, and their loyal, local fan-base, that they had acquired from their performances across the North West.

He had been in the band for just over three years, having met the others at college. Now, he worked the 9-5 behind a desk at a shipping company. He, like his band-mates, worked a job he hated to pay the bills, but he lived for the band. They dreamed of making it big. 

They band had decided to call themselves The Rain. They felt the name was perfect for a Manchester band. The North West of the UK, and their city in particular, was renowned for its bad weather. They said there was two types of weather in Manchester, raining, and just about to start raining. The band name was a statement, that they were proud of where they came from. 

As the gig came to a close, Billy thanked everyone for coming, telling the crowd that they rocked, and bid them all good-night. The audience applauded, cheered and yelled. George threw his drum-sticks into the crowd, and then joined his band mates, filing off the small stage.

Half an hour later, the four musicians were having a well-deserved pint of beer at the bar. They clinked glasses and toasted to the band. 

‘We were banging tonight.’ Sam said.

Billy nodded and clutched his throat.

‘I won’t be able to speak until Wednesday.’ He said.

As George was explaining a drum into for their latest track, a woman came over. She had shoulder-length dark hair, and was wearing a leather biker jacket. Sam noticed the jacket was in pristine condition, not a crease or a mark on it. Sam was tempted to ask if she’d ever had a pint spilled over the jacket. That was a rock rite of passage for any leather jacket. 

She took a swig on her bottle of beer and spoke.

‘You guys killed it out there.’ She said.

‘Cheers. Thanks a lot. You talk funny. Where are you from?’ George asked.

‘I’m actually from London.’ She said.

‘You poor thing.’ George replied.

Sam and the others laughed. They always found that people from London, the capital, always regarded their city as the centre of the universe, and assumed that the rest of the country was as obsessed with London as they were. A clothes store had recently opened in Manchester, boasting of the latest London fashions. The store hadn’t lasted very long. Whereas the southern owners of the shop had thought that the London trends would be a selling point, the northerners stayed away, being put off by the connection to the capital, rather than impressed. 

Before Sam could ask how much a pint of beer was down in the capital, the woman spoke, addressing them all.

‘My name is Alana McGee. I work for a record label.’

The jocular smiles fell from the guys’ faces. This was music to their ears. This was the moment they had dreamed of since forming the band.

‘I think we’d interested in signing you. You could be the next big thing.’

When Alana had left, Sam rushed to the bar, to get the celebratory drinks in. He quickly re-joined the others. They sipped their beers and stared at the business card she had left with them. 

‘Did you hear what she said? We could be the next big thing?’ Billy said.

‘I bet she says that to all the bands.’ George said.

‘To be fair,’ Sam said. ‘nobody else is rushing to sign us. Even the fact that we’re talking about a record company signing us, is giving me goose-bumps. I always dreamed of it, but never thought it would actually happen.’

The next morning, still nursing a hang-over from the celebrating the night before, Sam called round to his parents’ house. When they were seated at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in front of each of them, Sam explained how the band had been approached by a record company exec. He details how they could be wanting to sign them, and that they could be big. His mother hugged him and congratulated him.

‘I’m absolutely thrilled for you, Sammy. I mean, it’s not my kind of music, but they must know what they’re talking about.’

‘Thanks, I think.’ Sam laughed.

‘Well done, son.’ His father said. ‘But, I hope you’re going to get a haircut. They won’t want a load of scruff-bags in the studio.’

‘The Rolling Stones had long hair, dad. And so did you, back in the day, I’ve seen the photos.’ Sam replied.

‘Aye, fair enough. How about a drop of whiskey to celebrate?’ 

Sam gave him a thumbs-up.

Just over a week later, Sam and the others booked the day off work. They were to travel down to London to the record studio. The meeting, Alana had explained over the phone to Billy, was quite informal, just come down to the studio, play a few songs and they would see where they went from there. As they climbed on the coach heading for London, George explained that work had refused him the day off, so he’d phoned in sick. 

‘They will sack you if you get caught.’ Sam said.

‘Who cares? We’ll be packing our jobs in to become full time musicians any day now.’ 

‘Geez,’ Sam said. ‘I hope you’re right.’ 

‘This will be like when the Beatles auditioned for Einstein.’ George said.

‘Epstein, Brian Epstein.’ Sam corrected.

‘Yeah, that’s the feller.’ George nodded.

Alana met them on the steps of the entrance to the studios. She smiled warmly and showed them inside. She led them down a corridor and into the studio. The large open room was full of instruments, and had banks of recording equipment and a booth in one corner. Sam gasped. This was just amazing. The Beatles had recorded in a studio just like this. Just imagine, he thought, this could be their big start. 

They were introduced to one of the bosses of the record label. He was called Terry and was somewhere in his mid-thirties and had long hair and a beard. He reminded Sam of the actor who played the pirates in all those films he’d seen. He spoke in vague terms to them, and nodded a lot, saying the word cool over and over. 

Sam and the guys set themselves up at the equipment, while Alana and Terry, looked on with interest. The band ran through some of their songs. They played well, Sam thought, despite the nerves. Maybe the adrenalin and excitement carried them through it. They smashed it. Billy’s vocals were soaring, and George’s drumming was perfect. Sam weaved through his guitar solos as though he was Jimi Hendrix at the Isle of Wight festival. The Rain had done themselves proud. As they left the studio, Billy spoke, saying what they were all thinking.

‘If they don’t want to sign us, after that audition, then it’s their loss.’ 

Back in his parents’ living room, Sam detailed how the audition had gone, how they had performed brilliantly, especially considering it was their first audition. 

‘I’ve got a really good feeling about this.’ Sam said.

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ His mother said, his father nodded in agreement.

‘The lads and I were saying that, if it doesn’t work out with this label, then we’ll try order labels. If they don’t want us, we’ll start promoting ourselves with the Manchester record labels. This could be the start of something special.’

A few days later, Billy called round to Sam’s flat. Sam grabbed them a beer each from the fridge and they flopped on the sofa. Billy took a swig of lager before speaking.

‘I’ve had a call from Alana. They want to sign the band, but they have a few conditions.’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ Sam said.

‘They want us to change our name. No more The Rain. They want us to be called Sad Labrador.’ Billy said.

‘Well, if that’s what they want. I’m sure we’ll get used to the new name.’ Sam said.

Billy stared at the carpet at his feet for a moment and then spoke.

‘There’s one other thing. They want to sign us up, but they don’t want you in the band.’ Billy said.

‘Very funny. You can’t have a band without a lead guitarist.’

‘Sorry, mate, it’s not a wind up. They have a couple of guitarists in mind, they are insisting we use them. I am so sorry, we all are.’

Sam didn’t ask what the band had decided. If he had to leave the group for them to be signed, then so be it. Sam checked the time on his watch. He had nowhere he had to be, but he got to his feet.

‘Right, mate, I need to make a move.’ Sam said.  ‘Congratulations on the record deal, though. Tell the lads I said congrats and good luck.’

The next evening, still reeling, Sam visited his parents again. The tone of this evening was more sombre than his previous visit. He filled them in on how the label wanted to sign the band, but replace him as guitarist. He was out of the band. Of course, the lads had gone along with it. What else were they to do? His parents raged about how his former friends had stabbed him in the back, asking where they loyalty was, what about friendship. 

Sam was still in shock. Not only would he not be part of the new direction the band would be taking, the new adventure with the London-based record label, but he was no longer part the band he’d been playing with for the past few years. It was that, more than anything, that really hurt. Before they had been approached by the label, before that night, Sam had seen his future with the band as going along the way it had done for ages. They would write new songs, rehearse and gig across the North West, playing to family, friends and die-hard fans. He had gone from that, to nothing. No band, no music. What was the point in playing the guitar without the others? 

Back home, he stared at his electric guitar on its stand in the corner of the living room. The guitar had meant so much to him, it had been a distraction, an interest, a passion. When he played at home, with the amplifier unplugged, it was practising for the rehearsals and for gigs. Without that, what was the point? He shook his head and turned away from the instrument and tried to concentrate on the cooking show on television.

Over the next few weeks, while Sam was trying to distract himself from his sudden lack of direction, he would see the band’s posts on social media. Mutual friends reposted and commented. The newly rebranded Sad Labrador were in London and doing well, by all accounts. Sam tried to forget all about music. He watched sports for the first time in his life. He tried to throw himself in to watching football and rugby, tuning in to the televised games. He would go to the pub and have a few beers and watch the big matches. The pub atmosphere was good, the crowd packed in to catch the game. They cheered and clapped at the action on-screen. At first the idea of reacting vocally to a match that was going on in a stadium miles away seemed rather bizarre, but over the weeks, and after a few beers, he found himself joining in. 

One Friday evening, after a busy week at work, he headed for the pub. He needed to get out of the house, have a few drinks. Maybe the pub would have some entertainment on. The local pubs ran all kinds of events to try and get people in and buying drinks. A mid-week quiz night was one thing, karaoke nights were another. Sam always found the karaoke nights went one of two ways, either the singers were so good, almost semi-professional performers who would follow the karaoke circuit across the city, or the singers were completely tone deaf and would make even your favourite song utterly unlistenable. 

As he arrived at the pub, Sam noticed the chalk-board advertising the evening’s entertainment. Open mic night. Maybe the difference between karaoke and open mic night, was that tonight those that couldn’t sing, were also badly playing an instrument. Sure enough, as he ordered his beer at the bar, he spotted the musical instruments on the small stage on the other side of the room. An acoustic guitar and an electric keyboard were on stands next to the microphone. 

Sam perched on a stool at the bar and sipped his pint of beer, surrounded by the Friday night revellers. Groups of people, and couples chatted and drank, glad that the weekend had finally arrived. The landlord, a stocky guy called Keith in his forties, with a thick beard and glasses, took to the stage. He welcomed everyone to open mic night. The crowd clapped half-heartedly.  Keith announced that first up, would be Beverley, who was going to play the keyboard. Beverley waved to everyone and crossed the pub with all the excitement of a game-show contestant making their way to the stage. To be fair, she could play the keyboard but her singing reminded him of the way his childhood dog would howl at the moon. Sam smiled, that’s why we had a lead singer in the band. A pang of sadness hit him at the thought of the band. He shook his head and ordered another beer. Next up were a couple, Esther and Denis, with their ukuleles strapped around their necks. They smashed out Bring Me Sunshine with such gusto, that by the time they finished the song, everyone was singing along.  

A couple of hours later, everyone that had come to perform had taken their turn. The crowd called out for more. Keith shrugged and waved his hands, asking if there was anyone else who wanted to perform. Anyone? Anyone?

The woman at the bar next to him, gave Sam a nudge. 

‘You play the guitar, don’t you? I’ve seen your band play in the social club.’ She said.

‘I’m not with the band anymore.’ Sam said.

‘What’s your name?’ She asked.

‘Sam.’ He replied.

She turned towards the stage, and called out.

‘Sam will give us a song. He plays the guitar.’ She pointed a finger at him. 

He waved his hands in protest, saying he didn’t play anymore. His protestations were drowned out by the revellers chanting for him to Do it! Keith pointed a finger at him.  

‘Put your hands together for Sam.’ 

Everyone clapped. 

It was the last thing he left like doing, he was done with the band, done with the guitar and done with music. He really had no choice. Everyone in the pub wanted him to play. He wondered if they wanted him to be rubbish, give a dire performance, for their amusement. If he tried to walk out, he’d be heckled all the way out the door. He downed the last of his beer and nodded.

Standing in the spotlight, with the pub looking on expectantly, he slipped the guitar strap over his head. He sighed. One last song. He would play this song and then he was done, even if that meant drinking in another pub. This was his farewell performance. He closed his eyes. He performed the House of the Rising Sun with a blend of the Animals, and Bob Dylan, while also putting his own twist on the song. He finished with a fiddly guitar solo and when the song ended there was silence. 

He opened his eyes. Everyone started clapping and whooping the way only a Friday night pub crowd does. Sam nodded awkwardly and placed the guitar back in the stand and stepped off the stage. Keith threw an arm around him.

‘That was fantastic. Would you do a weekly slot?’ Keith asked.

‘I really don’t know.’

‘I’d pay you the going rate, and you could play whatever you wanted. Listen to that crowd, they really like the way you play.’

He looked around the pub, everyone was looking at him, clapping and cheering. He may have been out of the band, but that didn’t mean he had to be out of music. He didn’t have to be done with the guitar. Would this scratch the itch? Would it be enough to play a regular set in his local pub for enough money to keep him in beer and takeaway food for the week? As his grin tuned into a laugh, he decided that it would be more than enough. It sounded just perfect. 

‘Alright, yeah, go on then.’ Sam said.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom