Douglas tried to pull the paper through the letterbox, but it was jammed. So he opened the front door and pulled it from the other side, trying not to tear it. He felt the crisp, North Sea air bite him as he stepped from the warmth of his luxurious home. His well deserved and hard earned castle by the sea. The fresh autumn air comforted him, because he knew it breathed cleanliness and calm. It was a far cry from the tough Glasgow tenement, where poverty, harsh hardship, and cold brickwork breathed only damp air of human suffering. Only affluent people could afford to live in Frinton, and Douglas felt he had every right to live among Stockbrokers, retired Bankers and City high flyers, because he had earned every thing the hard way. This weekend he had the house to himself because Sandra was visiting her mother up in London.
He walked across the deep pile carpets, planted himself on the sofa and opened the paper. Green, red and blue patterns danced on the pages through the stained glass of the windows, making him feel sleepy. But sleep was the one thing that Douglas had needed for years, but it had alluded him through chronic insomnia.
It had begun about fifteen years ago when he had quite suddenly found fame through playing the drums in Denis And The Dunderheads, one of the new wave blues bands that had emerged almost overnight, sweeping through the well established, safely commercial and horrendously boring rock scene. This daring band of brothers who made up about only six main bands had swept through the music scene like a whirlwind for about two years, then faded and died like a powerful wind that had blown itself out. Denis And The Dunderheads were the first to go, mainly thanks to its founder Denis Mackay who had lost the plot when the band, by sheer incredible luck, got a lucky break. They had been a pub and small club band, mainly playing around Glasgow and towns around the West Coast of Scotland. Denis Mackay, Jimmy Moody and himself had all grown up on the same bleak estate, where even the off licences counter areas were guarded by thick mesh. It had the reputation as one of the toughest estates in Glasgow, but it had been a breeding ground for raw talent, and the one group that emerged above all the rest from those rough, austere streets were, Denis And The Dunderheads.
The first real break came when they had put on an exceptionally good show in a Paisley pub, where a small following they had from the Glasgow circuit had come down to cheer them on.
The atmosphere had been electric as Denis on his Gibson, Jimmy on bass and Douglas on his bastardised, or rather customised drum kit thumped out their own brand of blues, which made the whole house fly into a frenzy. Little did they know that Peter Purvis and Billy Giles of Peter And The Perverts, who had just finished a show at the Glasgow Apollo, had stopped off for a drink. The famous London boys were completely awe struck by the Glasgow wild men and asked them to support them on their next tour. They had been particularly impressed by the six feet four Denis Mackay, with a body that resembled a three hundred-pound beer barrel perched on a pair of legs, like two shuddering tree trunks.
But of the three of them Denis was the one that was least prepared for their sudden meteoric rise to fame, and he was the prime mover in their disastrous crash back to earth just over two years later. He was to die tragically three years after their demise, the two bottles of Black Label whisky and fifteen pints of heavy that he was putting away every day, had finally killed him. Supporting one of the most influential rhythm and blues bands for years and having to live in their shadow had affected Denis’ mind, and he had begun to feel resentful to their mentors. Towards the end of their last tour they had really lost the zeal and the enthusiasm they once had and even the unflappable Moody couldn’t stand Denis’ drunken and abusive behaviour.
The last straw came when Peter And The Perverts got three encores and a standing ovation and Denis And The Dunderheads got booed off. Douglas knew it was all over when a completely drunken Denis jumped on the stage and put Peter Purvis’ head clean through the base drum. He then punched Jimmy Moody, who had climbed on the stage to try and stop him, nearly taking his head clean off. In his heart Douglas believed that Denis never really left the estate, his body had, but his mind was still wandering those bleak streets. He had also been racked with guilt, because he knew that he should have defended Jimmy Moody more. The problem was that Denis and Jimmy had been childhood friends and Douglas, who was two years younger, had only got to know them when he joined the band.
Those were heady days and Douglas had been astute with the money he had earned, and the royalties from their four hit records kept his Bank account in good order. The past few summers he had been playing in an amateur group called, The Mike Rogers Trio, that played around the many caravan sites that decked this once bustling East Anglia peninsular.
Mike Rogers could do a superb rendition of Matt Monro songs and the orchestration that the keyboard player could produce with his various keyboards was quite impressive. All Douglas had to do was tickle his skins lightly with his brushes and daintily hit his symbols and high hats with his sticks. Although he didn’t need the money it had kept him amused and his mind occupied. It was also a means of trying to escape the terrible insomnia that would not allow him to sleep.
The coloured patterns from the stained glass, which reflected from the newspaper, had sent him into a deep reflective trance. This often happened to him and he assumed that it was a side effect of sleep deprivation. He would probably go for a walk along the sea front later, either up to Walton, or down to Holland marshes. He suddenly remembered the sleep capsules that the doctor had prescribed him, as he sighted them on the sideboard. He went over to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of Grouse into a tumbler. Sandra had pointed out that he had developed a taste for whisky, which he had never had before. She was a good wife, but she didn’t seem to realise that coffee, which he had always been addicted to, made his insomnia even worse. He opened the packet and was surprised at the size of the ten yellow and purple capsules in the blister pack. They were over double the size of the red ones that the doctor had previously prescribed, the ones that hadn’t worked. He popped one in his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of whisky. He felt it slip down his throat and could actually feel it burst open inside his stomach.
He topped the tumbler up with Grouse and sat down on the sofa again. He opened the newspaper and began to casually scan the regional news, not really digesting the mundane information. Glancing over the classified ads, one suddenly caught his eye and almost jumped out at him – Veteran Blues band needs an experienced drummer, phone. – He could feel the old adrenaline rush and his mind immediately flashed back to the euphoria he used to feel when the applause and encores would encourage them to give the audience what they wanted. Yes, he did miss it, yes, he did have a great time and yes, why not? He leaned over, picked up the receiver of the phone and keyed in the number. The phone rang several times, but there was no answer. Just as he was about to put the receiver down somebody obviously picked up another receiver and judging by the clatter must have dropped the phone. He waited for a while to give the person on the other end time to pick up the phone.
He could hear grumbling and garbled muttering, then a deep male voice said,
“Hello, Bob Deeming speaking, can I help you?”
For some strange reason Douglas felt perplexed and slightly anxious as he replied,
“Yes, I hope you can. I’ve just opened the local rag and found an advert saying you need an experienced drummer. Do you still need one?”
There was a pause and the voice, which sounded if it had come from a deep sleep said,
“Yes we do, in fact we need one urgently, coz we were about to go on tour.”
“Well, without trying to sound arrogant, I am a very experienced drummer and blues is what I do best. Blues is your mode of playing, I see by the advert.”
There was another pause and the voice, which now sounded more alert replied,
“It sure is, it sure is. Rhythm and Blues from my head to my shoes.”
“Well if you’re interested maybe I can visit you and show you what I can do.”
“Sounds good to me. Have you played in any good bands, I mean real good.”
“Well, I was playing with, Denis And the Dunderheads, right from the beginning, until it all went horribly wrong. Have you heard of them by any chance?”
There was another pause and the voice spoke to somebody in the background, then said,
“Wow, Denis And The Dunderheads! That sure was a real, and I mean real good band, I’ve seen you twice, when you were supporting, Peter And The Perverts. And if my memory serves me well, you had a reputation of sometimes upstaging them.”
“Well, that became one of our problems. Glad you saw us, I hope it was well before we started losing it and began just going through the motions towards the end.”
“That happens to a lot of bands, unless they are motivated purely by money of course.”
“Has your band got a name by the way, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, of course not, we are none other than, Deeming And The Demons. When you were touring with the Perverts we were usually across town, in particular the Midland circuit, Birmingham, Sheffield, Coventry and Nottingham. Have you heard about us?”
Now it was Douglas’s turn to pause because he had never heard the name before.
“I am sorry, but the name is not familiar. Were you a support band by any chance?”
“You bet we were, the best supporting band ever. The Blue Tycoons, Underhand Bung, Wop-Your-Copout and Morbid Theatre, what do you think of that?”
Douglas did not know what to say, because all of those bands were as big as, The Perverts. How come he had never heard of, Deeming And The Demons? He was becoming more intrigued as the conversation progressed and wanted to meet Bob Deeming in person. He did not have to wait long before Deeming cordially said,
“Well, if you’re not doing anything, why not come over? Have you got a car?”
“Yes I have, where are you?”
“Do you know St. Osyth?”
“Yes, that’s only about fifteen minutes away, I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“It’s easy enough to find, just head to the centre and turn left before the Priory. Head down towards the beach and about halfway along the road you’ll pass a big oak tree, and just past that you should see a battered sign saying, Bleak Cottage. We’ve already got everything set up in the barn, coz we were rehearsing before, well, before our last drummer left us. You won’t need your drum kit coz we’ve already got one set up, just bring your sticks. Let’s see if you feel, I mean really feel, the Blues.”
As he put the key in the ignition and gunned the engine Douglas wondered what Deeming had meant by his last remark, really feel the Blues. After all, didn’t everybody who played the Blues really feel them? He was also puzzled why he had not heard of this band, because he had been familiar with most of the better support bands of the period, The Spoilt Brats, Lazy Lob, Bad Bomb and Thunder-Pants Thompson. He had no doubt his own ability; he had played as session drummer with so many diverse popular bands, that he’d lost count. Yes, he did miss playing in a good, raw Blues band, yes he did miss a good audience, yes he really missed hammering his skins and symbols with a vengeance, and yes indeed he missed the buzz and excitement of touring. Hopefully, Deeming And The Demons would bring these things back into his life.
As he turned his car into St. Osyth and drove through the ancient village with its picturesque old buildings, he wondered about its history, steeped in tales of witchcraft and tales of persecuted witches. A wry smile crept across his face when he looked at his ginger hair in the rear view mirror. Well, he sure was glad he wasn’t passing through here a few hundred years ago, he might be deemed as a witch and burnt at the stake. How could anybody believe such twaddle? But then again those were different times.
The high wall of the Priory loomed before him and he indicated to turn left. He soon found himself driving along a country road that he had only been through in the pitch dark, when he was going to and from a show with Mike Rogers to do their act. Eventually he passed through the caravan sites and found himself looking out over the empty beaches. He must have missed the sign, or taken the wrong road, but Mr. Deeming had been precise with his directions. He turned the car around and slowly drove back the way he came. Then about halfway back to the village he saw it. Under the shade of a big oak tree and barely visible through a tangle of brambles he saw the sign, Bleak Cottage. No wonder he had not seen it, driving past from the other direction. As he turned into the narrow country lane the bracken and brambles licked at the sides of his BMW, giving the impression that the lane never saw much traffic. A tunnel of trees lined either side of the lane and the lane was extremely uneven and overgrown with weeds and stinging nettles. If Douglas had been more alert and his mind not so focused on meeting Mr. Deeming, the condition of the lane would have told him that the lane did not endure many pedestrians, let alone vehicles.
As the car bumped and jerked along with Douglas negotiating each hazard as it confronted him, he began to wonder how far away was this cottage. Then, as he turned a bend and entered an open gravelled area, enclosed by a ring of trees, he saw it. The brand new black, double wheel-based Ford Transit van, with blacked out windows. On the sides in bold, gothic red letters was the name, Deeming And The Demons – Ghosts Of The Blues – Douglas immediately thought that that was rather bold, if not somewhat pretentious. If he had not been so immersed in the sight of the van, he may have noticed that there was no tyre imprints in the gravel around the van.
Bleak Cottage looked more like a semi derelict shack, and the roof looked as though it was too heavy for the building, making it bulge out at the sides. He climbed out of his car and walked towards the front door of the cottage.
As he passed the back of the Transit, the rear door swung open and an extremely tall and slim figure jumped out, holding some electrical equipment. His black cowboy boots crunched as they hit the gravel, but his jet-black hair did not even appear to be ruffled by the impact. Only when the figure straightened his legs out did Douglas realise how tall he was. Douglas was nearly six-foot himself, but found he was having to look up into the face of the man. The man had small, slit like eyes and the pupils were like darting pieces of shining black coal as he looked down into Douglas’s face. Douglas began to wonder if this was Mr. Deeming and cautiously asked, “Good afternoon! Mr. Deeming I presume. My name’s Doug Mc Murray, I believe we spoke over the phone about the advert. You need a drummer urgently I believe.”
“Yes, bet we do. Bob Deeming, really pleased to meet you.”
The north sea wind suddenly rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees, and for some strange reason it didn’t seem so inviting as the same wind that he’d felt the same morning. Bob Deeming posed a very impressive figure. He stood at least six-foot six and was wiry in build, erring on the side of athletic rather than underweight. He was dressed completely in black, his jeans, leather waistcoat, boots, belt and T-shirt were all black. Only the big silver buckle with an emblem of a wolf howling at a moon was different. As they shook hands, Douglas was surprised at Deeming’s very powerful grip.
Just as Douglas was taking stock of the countenance of Deeming, the front door of the cottage opened and a big, bearlike man with a shaven head swaggered onto the porch and looked over at them. When Deeming saw him he shouted over.
“Hey Gordon, come and meet our new drummer, that’s if we all connect well.”
Where as Deeming was impressive, Gordon Ewell was frightening in appearance, but, thankfully to Douglas’s relief he was congenial and good humoured.
“You’ve cut it fine mate, we’ve got a real big show tomorrow night and that don’t give us a lotta time to rehearse and see if you’re in key with our style,” said Gordon.
“Let’s grab a coffee and have a chat inside. Must say I was an admirer of the Dunderheads, too bad when it all went wrong for you,” said Deeming.
“Yeah, I’ve always thought we never reached our full potential. Never thought I would miss the buzz and pleasure of putting on a really good show, like I do.”
“That’s why Gord and I have never really split, coz we’re both married to the Blues and divorce is just too horrible to comprehend. The only problem we’ve got is keeping a reliable drummer that can stay the course and keep up with our work ethic. As far as we’re concerned anybody that doesn’t measure up has to go. Dereliction of duty is deemed as a sin against the Blues and they have to go,” he then laughed and said,
“The last drummer we had was very good, but he did not like touring.”
“What happened? Did he leave, or did you fire him?” asked Douglas cautiously.
This time both Deeming and Gordon laughed as Deeming said, “He went missing in action, like a lot of good soldiers.”
Douglas had begun to wonder what he had let himself in for as they entered the cottage and noticed the sparsely furnished rooms and bare floorboards. But when Deeming brought three mugs of coffee from the dirty kitchen and planted himself down on the threadbare sofa next to Gordon, his demeanour became business like and frank.
“I’ve seen what you can do live, many years ago. What we have been looking for, for many years is a drummer who not only feels, but also has the spirit of the Blues in his soul, in every fibre of his being. That’s why we have to test every drummer to the limit.”
Douglas was anxious to prove himself and show these two pretentious clowns just how good he really was. They certainly had a lofty and high opinion of themselves.
“Okay, you said you had your equipment set up for rehearsals. If you want, I’ll grab my sticks from the car and let’s get down to some Rhythm and Blues.”
Both Deeming and Gordon seemed delighted at this suggestion and Deeming said, “Great, grab your sticks and we’ll boogie over to the barn, everything’s ready.”
Douglas followed Gordon round to the back of the cottage, with Bob Deeming leading the way, Gordon looked more like a construction worker with his work boots and tatty, hole-ridden jeans and T-shirt.
A tattoo of a fist holding a red rose on the back of his thick, bull-like neck seemed to be clutching the rose as he trundled along. As they entered a small overgrown garden, Deeming slipped through a gap in some un-pruned hedges and Gordon followed, almost flattening the hedges as he blundered through. Only when he had passed through the hedge Douglas noticed the big ancient barn in the middle of a gorse and bracken-riddled field. The gorse pulled at Douglas’s jeans and the weeds were so high and thick that they had to almost swim through them. Deeming opened the barn door and Douglas noticed with some trepidation that it was pitch dark inside. But as Deeming flicked several switches on the wall, lighting the inside, Douglas felt relieved when he saw the big Marshall speakers, and the Bass and Gibson guitars propped up against them. And what a superb drum kit sat between the speakers on a makeshift wooden stage. They were easily as good as his own and he could barely hide his excitement as the tapped his drumsticks together, just raring to go. Deeming plugged in the big old Gibson, switched the mike on and loudly spoke into it, “Testing, testing, meet our new found drummer. Hope he don’t do a runner!”
Gordon plugged in his bass and grinned at Douglas as he turned around. This goaded Douglas into really letting them have it as he sat down at the drums. Gordon began to pump out a rhythmic bass line and Douglas instantly got the feel of it and used his sticks on the skins, high hats and symbols like a precision bomber. Deeming’s face lit up with sheer delight as he got the message and began to probe around the bass line and canny drum work with his Gibson. Then Deeming and Gordon began to sway, bob and move around as if mesmerised. Deeming started dropping clever riffs into the bass and drum lines. Then he glided up to the mike in one sharp swoop and began to sing with a powerful and grizzled voice, the likes of which Douglas had never heard in his life.
“How, how, how, how I’m gonna’ change right now,
I caught the Blues and it’s hit me ‘cross the brow
I left my wife I left my job and I don’t care at all,
The time is nigh for me to fly, the Blues can never die!”
Incredibly Douglas easily picked up the whole plethora of songs that were tried, and Deeming and Gordon nodded in approval. Never before had he played in a band anything like this, they were absolutely magic. Even at their peak, the Dunderheads could not compete with this.
They jammed and improvised for nearly three hours before Deeming decided that they had tried enough. He leant his guitar against a speaker and peered through those slits for eyes and grinned at Douglas.
“Congratulations, you’re what we’ve bin lookin’ for, for many, many years.”
He then strode over to Douglas, who was still perched on his stool and shook his hand with a hand that was icy cold. He looked at Gordon and then at Douglas.
“Welcome to Deeming And the Demons, hope you never, ever leave.”
Gordon unplugged the guitars and carefully put them in their cases, then said,
“Well, what can I say? Your playin’ told us everythin’ we needed to know.”
“Let’s go over and grab a coffee and we’ll tell you about the gig tomorrow night. Our loyal and faithful audience are comin’ and we cannot let ‘em down,” said Deeming.
When they arrived back at the cottage Douglas now realised that he had completely underestimated the skill and professionalism of these two. When Gordon brought the coffees in, put them on the table and sat on the sofa next to Deeming, Douglas asked,
“Wow! How many years have you guys bin playin’ together?”
“For many, many years. Who cares, the Blues is our life blood,” said Deeming.
“You’ll have to forgive me, I just wasn’t expectin’ anythin’ like that,” said Douglas. Deeming and Gordon just looked at each other and laughed.
“It’s okay, we know what you were thinkin’. You thought we were amateur bums. A lot of drummers think that ‘til we show ‘em what we’re all about,” laughed Gordon.
“Well without trying to sound conceited, I’ve played session in a lot of bands over the years. Heavy Metal, Hard Rock, Reggae, Pop and through the whole mill, in the studio and live, and in truth I’ve been just going through the motions,” said Douglas.
Deeming quietly digested what Douglas had said, then replied, “That is what we were trying to weed out. Do you just go through the motions, or do you really feel and live the Blues…With every fibre of your being?”
Douglas felt the urge to promote his own opinions, views and beliefs of the Blues.
“The Blues is a spiritual being, born in the hearts and souls of the black race, transformed into a form of music, which us whites can only borrow and try to imitate.”
He was surprised at Deeming’s reaction and noticed Gordon become agitated.
“We stole it from the blacks. The Blues is their property and every time a white band takes this stolen property on stage and tries to sell it, they’re handling stolen goods.”
Douglas was slightly disturbed by this, but felt he must try and state his case.
“The whites were so awe struck by this art form that they borrowed it, improvised on it and tried to make it their own. Acknowledging this debt of honour.”
The black pupils of Deeming’s eyes darted and probed around, as he laughed and said, ”Well I’ve got to hand it to you, that’s a real elaborate way of saying, stolen it.”
Douglas became riled. He was not going to take the remark lightly, and hit back.
“We borrowed it from the blacks.”
“We stole it from the blacks,” snapped Deeming.
“Borrowed it!”
“Stole it!”
Gordon suddenly interrupted and said, “Come on Gentlemen, let’s not bicker and fight before we start, we’ve got a gig to do.”
Deeming grinned and became more conciliatory, realising he had been unreasonable.
“Let’s face it, we all love it, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We are like disciples keeping the faith alive. Only some are far better preachers than others.”
This put Douglas at ease and he thought to himself that he should not have snapped back.
“Yeh, I’ve seen a lot of bands that sincerely believe they can play Blues. Their hearts are in the right place, but to deliver the goods, they just can’t measure up,” he said.
“The Blues always comes to collect their true Prophets in the end. That wild and lonely spirit sweeps around its true messengers and always grabs ‘em back. Take Robert Johnson, one of the original Prophets. The spirit came for him at a lonely crossroads, in the middle of nowhere. Only in death he became a Blues legend,” said Deeming.
“Then came Rock & Roll, the angry baby brother of the Blues,” said Douglas.
“Yup’, a baby we cradle-snatched from the blacks, just like we stole their Blues. Only with Rock & Roll it is more like Bank fraud, rather than the smash and grab raid.”
This time Douglas thought that it was probably better to keep his opinions to himself, when he noticed that Deeming was silently waiting for a reply to his last comment. There was a brief period of silence and the atmosphere became cold. The silence was broken when Gordon spoke, and Douglas was not prepared for what he proposed.
“Let’s be completely open about this. We’ve got the biggest show that we’ve had for years tomorrow night. A lot of our fans that have been following us for years are gonna be there. We’ve bin stressed out like mad, wonderin’ where we’re gonna get a drummer. Now you’ve come along and solved the problem and we wanna pay you up front some money, like a retainer, and after the show a bonus. How does that sound?”
Before Douglas could even digest what Gordon had said, Deeming leapt up from the sofa as if he had suddenly remembered something, and went to a cupboard and produced a wad of brand new twenty-pound notes, secured by elastic bands. He lobbed the packet to a surprised Douglas, who caught it and was thinking, this show must really be important to these guys. He stood up, handed the wad back to Deeming and said,
“Look guys, I answered the ad coz I’m hungry to play live again and what I saw today is the stuff I’m really in love with, a passion that defies description. To prove I’m a man as good as my word, pay me after the show…Let’s really sock it to ‘em!”
The two Demons could not conceal their delight. Gordon slapped Deeming on the back and Deeming began to hop about the room whooping like a cowboy.
“That’s the spirit…We’ve got to go out and set things up. It’s gonna be in an old warehouse a few miles from here. You’ll never find it, coz it’s right out in the sticks. We’ll pick you up at the crossroads in St Osyth at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow night.”
It was already dark when Douglas parked his car and walked towards the centre of the village. He found himself walking beside the high priory wall and for some strange reason felt as though he was being watched. Yellow and red leaves were occasionally dropping from branches of ancient trees that had stood behind the priory walls for generations. A light wind rustled the branches, whispering the first chilly winds of autumn. He was wondering if Deeming had managed to set everything up in time, as he had said he was going to do when they had spoken the previous afternoon. He was thinking, would it not be better to employ a road crew to do the hard, and time consuming work that was part and parcel of touring, when he saw the black Ford Transit slowly cruising towards him. When it pulled up along side him, the slide door of the passenger side slid open and Douglas saw Deeming’s distinctive cowboy boots.
“Jump in, sure glad you made it. I know it’s a devil to park in this village,” he said.
Douglas jumped in beside Deeming and the van slowly pulled away. Deeming appeared to be very chatty and excited about the gig, saying the acoustics and the echoes that the high roof and walls produced, would be much better than the effect produced in the barn. Gordon occasionally put a word or two in, but he was consumed in his driving and appeared to be concentrating on the road. The inside of the van smelt of brand new leather, but there was also another smell, something akin to a mix of incense and Brut. Douglas had not bothered to notice where they were going and it wasn’t long before they were weaving along pitch dark country roads. Gordon, who was finding it increasingly difficult to see the angles and bends of the road in front, finally flicked on the long beam.
After about half an hour they turned off into a narrow lane that could only have been nothing more than a dirt track, judging by the way that the van began to pitch and roll, like a tugboat on a rough sea. Branches licked at the roof of the van and bracken lashed the sides. Douglas was wondering how on earth could all of the fans find their way out here, let alone even bother, when he saw some dim lights high above. Then a dark silhouette grew around the lights and took the shape of a large warehouse. They had arrived, and as Gordon drove around the side of the building and pulled up, Douglas could hear the muffled and garbled sound of a large group of people inside. Both Deeming and Gordon were quiet as they all filed in through a darkened door and climbed a short flight of stairs.
They passed through another door and Douglas found himself in what looked like a makeshift, dimly lit dressing room. As Deeming sat down on an old wooden chair and stretched his long legs out, he said,
“Just listen to that, they musta’ come out by the bus load, we’ve really gotta deliver.”
Gordon dropped into an old armchair and dust flew into the air on impact.
“Right, everythin’ is ready, there’s sticks in that cupboard over there, take your pick.”
Douglas picked a pair of long, heavy sticks and thumbed the tips. He felt the old surge of adrenaline and the familiar feel of excitement, as he heard the roar of the crowd.
“Okay boys, I’m ready for action, if you are? Let’s boogie!” he exclaimed.
Deeming and Gordon looked at him, then at each other and grinned with sheer delight. Deeming led the way through a narrow stage door, followed by Gordon, who had to turn sideways to slip through, and then Douglas. Douglas was temporarily blinded and dazzled by the white lighting that was focused on the speakers and equipment. The lighting suddenly dimmed and was replaced by many coloured strobe lights and laser-like beams that crossed each other’s paths. Before they could arrive at their instruments the black curtain separating them from the audience flew up and the roar of approval was deafening. Douglas felt his legs turn to jelly and adrenaline clasp his solar plexus like an ice-cold spectral fist. Deeming And The Demons had arrived on stage.
Deeming and Gordon hopped and skipped over to their guitars and plugged them in. Douglas made his way over to the drum kit on his wobbly legs and gratefully sat down. He had never witnessed a reception like this in his whole career. Not even Peter And The Perverts and Underhand-Bung could cause euphoria like this, even at their peak. Deeming strode over to the front of the stage on his long, yet powerful legs and grabbed the microphone. He paused and let the near hysteria calm before he said,
“Friends Demons and countrymen, lend me your ears!”
The explosion of approval was staggering. He let the noise die down again and shouted, “You all know us and who we really are. We’re DEEMING AND THE DEEMONS!”
This time the noise was so loud that Douglas thought he was going to be blown clean off his stool. Deeming then gave a long sweep of his free arm and grinned strangely.
“My sweet lost children, my misunderstood spirits of a lesser God…. I am here to deliver another beautiful child into your lovin’ arms. I know I’ve let you down in the past and you have graciously forgiven me. Tonight I will deliver… I am here tonight to invoke the spirit that breathes life into our lonely souls… The spirit of the blues!….”
The wall of sound that vibrated through the ether sent shock waves through Douglas’s whole body. Suddenly Gordon began to thump out a rhythmic bass line. He started bobbing up and down like a power-lifter doing half squats, with his shaven head taut with concentration. Boom, boom, Boom, boom spoke his bass. Douglas soon got the message and found an opening to craftily slip in with a drumbeat. Deeming glanced back in approval and began to move around the stage like a man possessed. Then came the deftly planted licks and cunning riffs on his big old Gibson. Deeming had been right, the sound effects in the barn paled by comparison compared to the echoes in the vast chasm of the warehouse. They thundered into song after song and Douglas knew every one intimately, controlling his drumming like a rally driver in key with his vehicle at high speed.
The crowd was now going berserk and Deeming’s voice was echoing round the buildings as if it was descending from all sides. A low cloud of dry ice swept across the stage, which made Deeming and Gordon appear to be hovering in the air. Suddenly the dry ice cleared and the strobe lights scanned the audience, casting different colours across their pallid faces and Douglas noticed that they were all so young. Then Douglas thought that his eyes must have been deceiving him as short, stubby horns began to sprout from their heads like germinating mushrooms. Slowly Deeming and Gordon turned to face him still thumping away on their guitars and Douglas realised to his horror that he could not stop his drumming. Cold fear clasped Douglas’s spine and rocketed up to the base of his skull as Deeming and Gordon began to sprout long, ivory coloured horns from their heads. Douglas knew the next song was for him.
“My name is Deeming and I ain’t dreamin’ ‘bout you,
I don’t need love and I don’t need blue suede shoes,
I play an ace of a rollin’ bass that helps me pay my dues,
Don’t ask me why I tell you lies, I ain’t gotta clue.
My soul can’t rot, I’m getting’ hot, I’m gonna blow a fuse,
Orders stand to work my band and burn a demon fuel,
My new drummer ain’t no bummer, makes me blow my cool,
He ain’t no fool who broke the rules… HE REALLY FEELS THE BLUES.”
The stage around Douglas and his drum kit began to break and slide away, like a melting iceberg. He tried to stand up and jump towards where the stage around Deeming and Gordon was still in tact, but his legs became paralysed.
Slowly the piece of stage that Douglas was stranded on began to slant backwards and he began to slide away from the main stage with his drum kit. He desperately tried to climb over the drum kit and leap towards where Deeming and Gordon stood, leering at him, but his legs simply would not function. Then the tiny islands of boards that he was precariously perched on began to fragment and break up. He was falling backwards and was powerless to stop himself. Deeming and Gordon were now peering down on him, with their horns changing colours as the strobe lighting glanced over them. Now he went into free fall and his arms and legs that had suddenly regained their ability to move were flaying around wildly. Then he heard the blood-curdling roar of a form or being that was not of this world. Thousands of feet below he could see what looked like a gigantic furnace, throwing up tongues of spiralling flames. The roar grew louder and sounded as if it was trying to articulate garbled words.
He was violently awoken by the sound of his own screaming. Sitting bolt upright he frantically tried to gather his senses and claw around his mind to grasp his memory. Slowly it began to dawn on him that he had just snapped out of an extremely lucid nightmare. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and glanced up at the clock, and much to his surprise it was nearly midnight. He had been asleep for sixteen hours and he realised that the only lighting in the room was flooding in from the streetlights outside. He remembered the sleeping pills and picked up the packet.
Unfolding the instructions the first words that struck him, because they stood out in thick, dark print – Not to be taken with alcohol. He told himself that he would rather suffer insomnia than go through that again. Wow! What a terrible way to grab some sleep! He picked up the local rag, which was lying on the carpet and checked the classified ads. Nope, nobody was advertising for a drummer for a Blues band or any other band for that matter.
The nightmare plagued him through the rest of the night and despite thumbing through the television channels and twiddling around with the various radio stations all night, he had subconsciously made up his mind to drive out at first light to see if there was any foundation to the nightmare. It was almost too real in its clarity despite the pills.
The drive out towards St Osyth in the early morning light was uneventful. The only vehicles he saw were the occasional taxis, ferrying people home from a Saturday night out. That is what he loved most about this Essex peninsular, the feeling of safety and timeless harmony, with only the North Sea wind to whisper its chilly breath in your ears. He followed exactly the same route as he had done in the nightmare, turning right in the centre of the village and down towards the bleak coastline. Driving back he saw no sign saying Bleak Cottage, and no lanes leading off to ghostly buildings. Only recently harvested fields and farmland skirted by hedgerows and trees in their autumn mode.
He was wondering if he should tell Sandra about his rather mysterious sixteen hours sleep, as he arrived home and parked his car. No, he would let it stay a secret, and she probably did not want to listen when she arrived back late in the evening. After all, she may think he was cracking up. He pulled the Sunday papers through the letterbox and opened the front door. As he sat down on the sofa and opened the first bulging Sunday extravaganza, bursting with smut and vulgarity, a free classified ads pamphlet of local matters fell out onto the sofa. Glancing down on it, the icy fist of cold fear clasped his heart and soul as he read an advert, an advert that he knew all too well. – Veteran Blues band needs an experienced drummer, urgently. Phone….