The Cabaret Voltaire

When Jack first pictured the Cabaret Voltaire, he imagined a classy place full of intellectuals and cosy discussions on politics and philosophy over cheap red wine and beer. He thought of Paris and Prague, literature and rebellion. It’s why he’d opted to wear his coolest suit, a thin lapelled Italian grey, with a narrow tie and a pair of stylish brogues.

He stepped off the bus, remembering this part of town from family holidays and trips to the castle.

The building actually looked old enough for Voltaire to have visited. Outside, the cobblestones of the street shone in the misty rain and the arc of a rainbow coloured the sky above. It reminded him of Aisla’s hair, all ribbons and bows and good cheer. The thought of seeing her again made his heart flutter.

At the entrance he made sure that he avoided the stare of the bouncer, a man too big for his black turtleneck and too fierce to gaze upon for long. He dipped his head and went through the door. Ahead of him was a flight of stairs that went into down into the basement. The queue was made up of a healthy number of young folk. They all seemed intimidatingly happy and extremely under-dressed.

Jack took out his book from his shoulder bag and pretended to read. It seemed far easier to do that than to get involved in a conversation about pop music or fashion or anything else that he knew practically nothing about.

The book was a Hemingway. For Whom The Bell Tolls. Jack had read it in school and was enjoying it just as much this time around. He might have worked his way through a couple of pages as he stood there if he hadn’t become so engrossed in the chat of the girls in front of him.

They went at it like a flautist’s fingers attacking the great Rimsky-Korsakov interlude. She said this and they said that and then she said it again, only on Facebook, and there was a Twitter backlash and the texting got out of control and Instagram was on fire and before anyone knew it was World War One all over again.

By the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, Jack felt like he knew the girls in front fairly intimately and could have written them a CV for a dating agency if they ever needed one. He thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t know anyone like them and put his book away.

Behind a table, a young guy with pebble-specs and a goatee beard looked up. He could easily have been a classic jazz man if one ignored the huge holes he was sporting in his earlobes. The holes made him look tribal. Whatever tribe he belonged to, Jack was certain it wasn’t his.

“I should be on the guest list. Jack Swallow.”

The man ran his pen down a printed list then turned the page. His name was handwritten with a big smiley face drawn next to it. Jack pointed at it just in case it had been missed.

“Cool, man.” The guy lifted a stamp and pushed it into an inkpad.

Jack put out his hand and a tiny brown dog was marked onto his skin.

“Thanks for coming along. Enjoy the gig.”

The words were almost hidden by an explosion of drum machine from the speakers.

The music that followed was an excruciating blend of synthesiser and bass. Jack had a premonition of a headache and a double dose of Paracetemol before bed.

The crowd at the bar was already four deep. Maybe Aisla’s band had a real following. She’d told him that they were going places and he’d put it down to her general optimism. He should have given her more credit. If the A&R team were there to see this, it could be their big night.

Even at six foot seven, getting served was practically impossible. No sooner had he got close to the bar than some young thing squeezed in beside him and shouted out an order or waved money at the bar staff until they came over. How crass they all were. Surely someone should have taught them the basic rules of etiquette. They’d get nowhere running about behaving like savages. They would, however, have drinks to sip while Jack remained standing on the spot.

The barman with the Hitler moustache looked right at him. Jack opened his mouth to speak when a young lad elbowed him right in the ribs and shouted out and order. “Two pints of Star mate. And a couple of double Voddies.”

Hitler set about pouring beer into a plastic beaker as instructed.

“Excuse me, but I was here first.” The indignation escaped Jack’s lips before he could stop it. He stared down at the offending tyke and recognised the pudding-bowl haircut with the pink tips immediately.

“Sorry bro. I know it’s mobbed, but we’re playing in half-an-hour and we need some fuel to get us in the mood.”

“Of course.” Jack was about to apologise but decided against it. He found himself wonder if Dave Brubeck had got hammered before he went on stage instead. “You get whatever you need.”

“You come to see us or Flamingo Pink?”

“I’m definitely here to see you.”

“Sick. You stick around when we’re done and I’ll give you a CD or something. To make up for getting in ahead of you and everything.”

The barman set two pints of lager down next to a couple of glasses of vodka that Jack hadn’t even noticed appearing.

“Cheers bud. That’s on the rider, yeah?” The barman nodded and the guitarist twisted his way out into the crowd without spilling a drop.

Jack took a ten pound note from his back pocket and waved it like a flag. It clearly wasn’t enough. The barman went straight to a young woman whose makeup made her look like a porcelain doll.

“Sod this.” Jack hadn’t been in the place more than ten minutes and he’d already had enough. He stood out like a flashing beacon in his clothes and was never going to fit in at a club like this. It was time to leave. The band could stand losing one member of the audience and it didn’t really matter if he never saw Ailsa again. Who was he kidding, anyway? They were totally incompatible. She’d be listening to her indie-pop all the time, wanting to go to pubs and clubs, looking after puppies from the animal shelter whilst drinking herbal tea. Whatever flame she’d ignited in him, it was clearly more to do with him being on the rebound than on any chemistry. He’d cut it dead right now, just leave the place and never see her again.

He turned his shoulder and a young woman filled his space as if she’d been pulled into the vacuum by his movement. “Would you be into my grave as quick?” he asked. She didn’t seem to hear and just leaned over at the bar as far as she could without falling over to the other side.

He negotiated his way through a group of lads with fringes that flopped over their faces and whose beards looked pathetically thin. The exit and freedom were only a few steps away.

“Couldn’t get a drink?” A firm hand grabbed his elbow and turned him back in the direction of the bar. “That’s shocking. Let me help you out.”

Jack looked down and saw a middle-aged man with a gold front tooth and a week’s worth of stubble patterning his face.

“Yes. I mean I’m just...”

“What’s your poison?”

“A gin and tonic please.”

“Ice and slice?”

Jack nodded. He’d bought into it now and was trapped. At least he would get his lips wet. The guy was served before anyone else. It was a small miracle.

“There you go, pal.” The old guy passed over Jack’s drink and took a gulp of his own pint.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Have this one on me. Call it a welcome to the city.”

“How’d you know I’m a visitor?”

“English accent. Can’t get a look in with the barman. Wearing a suit to the Cabaret Voltaire.”

“I see.”

“And I’ve not seen you around. I know most people on the scene. Which part of London are you from?” The guy was a regular Sherlock Holmes.

“Islington.”

“Monopoly board stuff. The Angel, Pentonville Road and all that. Always go for that set first.”

“Not that you’d get them at those prices these days.”

“I wish, pal.”

The pal thing was becoming irritating. How quickly could he drink his gin without seeming ungrateful, he wondered?

“What do you think of the venue?”

He hadn’t really paid it any attention. The walls were bare stone and there were metal poles everywhere which seemed to be holding the ceiling up. The music thumped like it was angry all of the time and there were posters of people Jack didn’t recognise on the walls. He tried to think of a word that might sum up his impression without causing offence. What was it that the guitarist had said earlier when he seemed pleased? “Vomit,” Jack said.

The man’s forehead furrowed for a minute and then he switched his smile back on. “Know where you’re coming from pal. I’m Calvin by the way, but you can call me Stitch.”

The pair shook hands. Stitch’s skin was rough and hard. His grip was way too enthusiastic. “Jack.”

“I manage the band. I’m glad you could come along.”

“Me too.”

“How did you hear about them?”

He wasn’t going to give anything away to this guy. Who knew what he’d do with the information. “Youtube.”

“Fab. And what do you do down there in London?”

“I’m between projects.”

“Playing it close to your chest, eh?”

Indeed.

“So which label are you with Jack?”

Label? “Come again?”

“No need to be coy, son. I can spot your type a mile away.”

Jack necked half of his gin and tonic and prepared himself to finish the rest in one giant swig. There had obviously been some confusion.

The swirl of music suddenly stopped. There was a moment of silence followed by a burst of applause laced with wolf-whistles and shouts. A discordant scream from a guitar called the audience to order. “Hello Edinburgh. We’re Flamingo Pink and we rock. One, two, three, four!”

The flamingos burst into action and sent a wave of chaos through the air. In spite of their name, all of the band members wore black. They seemed about as exotic as a pile of bricks.

Stitch beckoned Jack down and he stooped. “Come with me.” Jack felt flecks of spit land in his ear. “You’ll like these guys. Play your cards right and you might end up with two for the price of one.”

Jack knocked back the rest of his drink and followed his elbow in the direction it was being pulled. He soon found himself trapped into a corner behind a group of teenagers who were jumping up and down.

There was a speaker right above him. Every time Stitch shouted anything up at him it just came as a garbled mess. Jack just kept nodding and smiling.

The music was killing him. He stood there trying to find a way out of the situation. Just walking off seemed like the obvious thing to do.

Every journey begins with the first step, so he stretched out a leg and pushed one of the dancers on the shoulder and away from him by the shoulders so he could get by.

The kid turned abruptly and threw a punch that hit Jack in the chest. It took him by surprise and knocked him off balance. Before he knew it, he was on the floor being kicked by several pairs of shiny boots.

Within seconds the bouncers descended upon them. Jack recognised the scary one in the turtleneck. The young thugs stopped their kicking and melted back into the crowd. Jack felt himself being dragged up from the floor.

“Come on son. Fun’s over for tonight.” He’d been a son, a brother and pal all in the one evening. It was too much.

The security team frogmarched Jack towards the exit while the band played on. Another one, two three, four and everything continued as if nothing had happened.

It all taken place in moments. He was being dragged and then he was being thrown out onto the cobblestones that he’d admired earlier. He landed on his backside and wished his buttocks had more padding. The damp seeped through his pants at the same time as the pain travelled from butt to brain, hitting him as a double whammy of disaster.

“And don’t come back.” If ever there were wasted words, these were they.

Jack sat in the middle of the side-road and surveyed the damage. His pride had taken a battering for a start. His ribs hurt, his shins throbbed and his mouth was bleeding. He checked each of his front teeth and was glad to find that they were all still secure.

 

“Jesus, Jack. What the hell happened to you?” Ailsa’s voice managed to soothe his woes just as it had at the weekend. It was immediate. As if she’d dunked him into a bath of hot water and bubbles. She crouched down next to him put a hand on his shoulder.

He took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed it onto his bottom lip. “They’re completely crazy in there.” There were a few circles of red on his hankie, but he was going to live.

“My manager sent me out to persuade you to try again. He said you were a scout up from London. Typical of him to get his wires crossed. I don’t know why we stick with him.”

“Stitched together?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

Jack looked at Ailsa. Though she still had the beautiful face and the rock pool eyes, she looked completely different without the ribbons in her hair. Dark waves cascaded over her shoulders and over the super-tight dress she was wearing. The hem stopped right at the top of her thighs and it was only the black tights that afforded her any decency. A pair of red jade hearts set in silver hung from her ears. She was gorgeous.

“I must say,” she went on. “I didn’t have you down as a troublemaker. I thought you were a meek soul. My intuition usually works better than that.”

Troublemaker? “Now hold on a minute...”

“I can’t, I’m afraid. We’ll be on in soon. Flamingo Pink only get twenty minutes as a favour to Stitch and there’s still plenty for us to get ready. I don’t suppose you’ll get to see us tonight.”

Jack shook his head and dabbed his lip again. The bleeding had already stopped. “Those gorillas on the door don’t seem like the type to forgive and forget.”

“You should see the apes they get later on. You got off lightly.”

If it could speak, the chilly water seeping through his pants might have something to say about that.

Ailsa stood up and put out her hand. Jack took it and let her pull him gently from the floor. He stretched his legs and stood up, a pain in his stomach suddenly adding itself to his list of injuries.

“Nice suit,” Ailsa said, looking up at him. The way her head was titled, it looked as if she wanted him to kiss her. He knew from hard experience that he was probably wrong about that and quickly disregarded the thought.

“Thanks.” He brushed himself down and checked the fabric for new holes. He didn’t find any. “I guess I’ll see you some other time.”

“In Portobello no doubt.” She stood up on her tiptoes, reached her hands up around Jack’s neck and gently pulled him down. Her lips pecked him softly on the cheek and she ran off into the club, the clacking of her high-heeled boots a slight improvement on the music that came from inside. “Get in touch.”

“How?” She didn’t seem to hear. “Good luck,” he whispered into the night air.

Ailsa didn’t look back, just stepped into the club and disappeared, leaving behind a sweet fragrance and a huge hole where she’d been standing.