Carter walked into Contemporary Music History behind Austin, wearing the late night as if it were nothing. He was almost luminous, like he was in higher definition than everyone else in the class. I kept my eyes down as he brushed past my desk, but my hand trembled as I opened the textbook.
‘So the band’s off. Carter told me at breakfast,’ Verity said, sinking into the last desk beside me. ‘Apparently Marney got wind of it.’
My disappointment came crashing down, a reminder that I’d still been holding out hope against all the odds.
‘I thought your audition was sweet, you know,’ she added. ‘I guess Perfect Storm are pretty big in Australia?’
So much for demonstrating my versatility.
After class, Carter pushed a library copy of Great British Guitar Pieces into my hands. ‘You should read this. Cover to cover,’ he said, and I only bit back my acidic response because he seemed so earnest.
‘Thanks,’ I said neutrally, with no intention of ever opening it.
‘Really,’ he pressed. ‘In study period. Cover to cover.’
‘I’ll read it,’ I said. ‘How did Ms Marney find out about the auditions anyway?’
‘I guess someone tipped her off,’ he shrugged, not seeming at all bothered, and headed down the hall.
In study period, I glanced at the book. The usual suspects: the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Clash. No women, of course. There were never any women. Why would Carter have wanted me to read this? I could already play most of these. Was he having a go at my guitar skills?
Cover to cover, he’d said. I looked behind me, where he was sitting, but he was studiously focused on his homework. Feeling like an idiot, I peeled open the inside cover and a handwritten note slipped out.
Jimi – congratulations. We’re willing to overlook your questionable taste in music to offer you the position of frontman. First rehearsal is tonight, same time, same place. As the band has been officially cancelled, don’t tell anyone. Carter, Sam and Richie.
I chirped in surprise and, at the next desk, Verity’s friend Freya gave me the side-eye. I turned it into a cough, which probably sounded even weirder. Behind me, Carter stifled a laugh, but when I glanced back at him he was still staring at his textbook. He certainly had an impressive poker face.
I barely managed to stop myself from leaping out of my seat as I slid the note into my pocket. With my heart turning somersaults, I texted Ellie the news.
•
As I walked towards the riverbank I saw a speedboat tied to the bollard beneath the willow. I hadn’t heard it pull up, which was good – maybe the current would drown out the sound of our rehearsal, too. The smell of cigarette smoke seeped out of the boathouse door.
Inside, Richie was back on the beanbag as though he had never left. Two beaten-up Fenders with ‘Property of HOTMA’ stickers on their necks leaned against the amp Sam had brought last night. Sam was tightening a kick pedal at the drum kit while a girl used his shoulder for balance, stepping into a pair of zebra-striped heels. She twisted when I came in, her velvet skater dress billowing out from her body.
‘You must be the singer, then,’ she said, showing all her teeth as she smiled. ‘I heard you aced your audition.’ That was news to me, but I returned the grin. She strode over on the outrageous shoes and held out a hand, which left her a little unbalanced. ‘I’m Tish. Give me a girl’s opinion.’
I was wary of heels in general, but Tish was somehow pulling them off, and I was flattered that she’d asked – especially as I was in my usual uniform of black jeans, sneakers and an oversized boys’ T-shirt. ‘Can you walk in them?’
She laughed. ‘I can dance in them, which is what matters.’
‘Are you in the band?’ I asked.
‘I’m moral support. And social media manager, of course.’ She massaged Sam’s shoulders. ‘Just call me Yoko.’
Sam frowned. ‘You do know Yoko broke up the Beatles?’ he said.
Richie was tacking a poster of Iggy Pop onto the wall behind him. Iggy was one of my favourites, courtesy of Ellie, who’d made me an old-school punk playlist back when we were just friends. I’d played it over and over and fallen in love – with the brash, insistent music, and with her. ‘May Iggy bless the first rehearsal of Lady Stardust,’ I said, still smarting from being accused of ‘questionable taste in music’.
Sam laughed. ‘You like Iggy?’
‘Raw Power is one of my all-time favourite records.’
‘That and Perfect Storm,’ Richie snorted.
I decided to take this as light-hearted teasing. ‘I like a bit of cheesy pop,’ I admitted. ‘What about you guys – who are you into?’
‘I like the classic stuff,’ said Sam. ‘Usually prefer seventies rhythm and blues to punk, but you can’t go wrong with Iggy. Rich is into whatever Radio One refuses to play.’
‘And Carter?’
‘Carter basically thinks music was born with Origin of Symmetry.’
I laughed, partly because I knew a lot of people who seemed to think music was named after Muse, and partly because I appreciated the dig at Verity.
Sam took a seat at the kit and knocked out a single stroke roll, adding the kick drum in on the fourth. I waited for his warm-up to taper off before I picked up the Fender and thrashed out the beginning of a White Stripes song – ‘Fell in Love with a Girl’. The guitar was beautifully tuned and the hard metal sound slid out into the boathouse until it engulfed us. For a second I worried it was tempting fate to play so loud, and then I remembered the roar of the river and gave myself over to the music. Sam kicked the drums in and I stretched my voice into a whiny parody of Jack White’s. We ran through the whole first verse before Carter came in, shaking rain from his hair like a dog.
Tish held up her phone to take a photo of the band. ‘Lady Stardust – assemble!’
Carter scoffed. ‘We’re not calling the band Lady Stardust.’
‘We are,’ said Sam, stilling the hi-hat. ‘You’re outvoted, mate.’
I ignored Carter’s raised eyebrow and threw my support behind Sam. ‘Can’t argue with Bowie.’
He studied me for a second, then said, ‘You’ve got my guitar, Jimi.’
I handed over the electric, part of me wishing I’d sided with him. But I liked the name, and I dreaded to think what a Muse fan might suggest as a replacement.
Richie hauled himself off the beanbag and put his arm around me for the photo. He smelled of cologne, overpowering and woody. I hooked my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans, hopefully pulling off ‘aloof rock star’ and not ‘sad loner’. It would be good to have a photo to send to Ellie.
‘No, wait. We’ll just get one more.’ Tish tried again. ‘And one more …’
Carter’s lip curled. ‘Tish. We’re here to rehearse.’
‘Yeah, Sam, rein your bird in,’ said Richie. Tish dropped onto the beanbag. I was beginning to seriously dislike Richie.
I picked up the other guitar and we started to play. At first we sounded terrible. The guys were used to jamming together, but I found it hard to adapt. I didn’t know when – or what – to play, how to fall into sync with the others, and at first my frustration rose when they didn’t do what I expected. But gradually I got used to it, and then my nerves started to fade and I relaxed into the music and stopped feeling my blisters and the chilly April air. Playing alone in the rehearsal room and learning classical pieces in class hadn’t been enough: I’d missed this freewheeling joy where I was no longer a person holding an instrument, I just became the sound. Everything that had made me miserable over the last week – the distance from Ellie, and Verity’s attitude, and the rain-soaked English spring – would be bearable if I could just have this every so often.
Carter and Richie took a cigarette break, and then we tried to pull together a cover of ‘Naïve’ by the Kooks. Carter was determined to play lead so I hung back. Richie was easily annoyed and seemed like more of a newbie than I was. I tried to be patient and encouraging, but bass was the most basic instrument going. Sam nailed every roll he tried and even stopped every so often to help Richie out. He might have been a drummer, but he knew how to hold a guitar. Halfway through the song I caught myself watching Carter, and thought of what my guitar teacher, Trent, would say: that Carter was technically competent, but very focused on his fingering. I thought he lacked Sam’s stage presence, too. He needed to loosen up a bit and trust himself more, especially if he was going to play lead.
When we finally called it a night, Tish handed round a sixpack of Carlsberg. I didn’t drink mine, but held the can against my cheek and sank onto a milk crate.
As Carter took off his guitar, the strap pulled up his T-shirt, revealing toned brown abs. I tried not to stare, but he smiled like he was sure I’d been checking him out. I studied the words painted in Wite-Out on his guitar case instead: And we are the dreamers of dreams.
‘What’s that mean?’ I asked.
‘We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams,’ he said. ‘It’s from “Ode”. It’s a poem by Arthur O’Shaughnessy.’
Carter hadn’t struck me as a guy who knew a lot about poetry. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.
‘One man with a dream, at pleasure, shall go forth and conquer a crown,’ he said. ‘And three with a new song’s measure can trample an empire down.’ He crushed his beer can under his shoe. ‘I suppose we could expand it to include a woman.’
‘You want me to trample an empire down?’ I’d meant to sound sarcastic, but my voice was a little too high.
He smiled. ‘Sure, you can tag along.’
I laughed, and for a moment I let myself imagine it: the four of us, united, onstage in front of a crowd, the dreamers of dreams.