DARE TO DREAM
As our roadie unloads the van, we wander into the pub. It’s a cavernous joint with a long bar and a high ceiling. It could do with a fresh lick of paint and the stained carpet has seen better days.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a weedy guy standing behind a till.
‘We’re ‘The Flames’ and I’m Jack, the lead guitarist and vocalist,’ I reply.
‘I thought you weren’t going to turn up,’ he says, looking at his watch.
‘How big do you think the audience will be?’ asks Steve. His greyish ponytail is tucked into his collar.
‘Around a hundred and fifty.’
Disappointing but it’s more than we got at some recent gigs.
‘I hope you’ll be playing your old hits. The punters will want that.’
‘Of course,’ snaps Tim. The guy steps back at the sight of my six-foot, shaven headed bandmate.
Our roadie enters pushing the equipment trolley towards the small stage which has two spotlights above it.
‘When did the three of you last play in Leeds?’ asks the manager.
‘1970,’ I reply.
‘A lot’s changed in the last thirty years.’
Indeed. There was four of us then.
After getting off the train, we bounded across the station concourse towards the limousine chased by photographers. We clambered inside and were whisked off to the Metropole Hotel.
‘They’ve got a great cocktail bar there,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s hit it before dinner.’
‘As long as you’re paying,’ retorts Steve.
Ray gave him the finger.
Within a couple of minutes, the terracotta façade of the hotel came into view and we spied a group of female fans gathered outside. I got out first, followed by Tim and Steve, and when Ray’s high-heeled boots hit the pavement the murmurs of excitement turn into screams and a few girls rushed over, surrounded him and pawed at his Afghan coat. He was a good-looking guy with boyish looks and shiny black curls cascading onto his broad shoulders.
Arriving in the lobby, our path is blocked by the broad figure of our manager, Derek.
‘Ray, you’ve got an interview with a journalist now. The rest of you are free to do whatever you want before dinner.’
‘I’m sick of talking to hacks,’ groaned Ray.
That was the price he played for being such a gifted songwriter.
We had sunk champagne and were finishing our starters by the time Ray was free to rejoin us.
‘That reporter was a pain. He knew little about our music and asked me stupid questions. Then he started quizzing me about my love life,’ he said with a smirk. ‘I gave him a few titbits to chew on.’
‘Shut up!’ I said, filling his glass with fine, red wine.
Four waitresses appeared carrying plates of T-bone steaks and we tucked in.
‘While you guys were gassing on the train, I was finishing off the lyrics for that new song I’ve been working on,’ said Ray. ‘I’ve named it ‘Dare To Dream’ and I think it’s one of my best.’
We’d been working on a riff for the song in the studio before the tour.’
‘Let’s have a butchers says,’ said Tim. He sported a blonde mullet then.
‘I’ve given the sheet to Dave for safekeeping. Knowing me, it would probably end up in the bin otherwise!’ He was a disorganised guy and frustrating to work with but a genius none the less.
The sound check in the pub has gone well. The acoustics are surprisingly good.
‘Anyone fancy fish and chips?’ asks Steve. ‘There’s a place nearby.’
‘I think our budget can stretch to that,’ says Tim. ‘We can try and cadge some free beers here afterwards.” He could do with cutting back as his belly looks bigger than it was when the tour started.
Once we’re settled in the eatery, we order tea to go with the fish.
‘It felt strange travelling through those streets earlier,’ I say.
‘I asked myself why we’d agreed to include Leeds in the tour,’ comments Steve.
‘Yeah, we had a few fights last time we were here,’ recalls Tim. I remember him throwing me up against a wall and screaming in my face.
‘We all said things we later regretted,’ I add. ‘But now we’re the best of friends.’
‘Don’t push it,’ says Steve with a laugh.
The fish is barely edible and the chips are overcooked and we eat them in silence.
The rain is lashing down when we step outside and the three of us jog through the puddles, arriving back at the pub breathless and looking like drowned rats.
Our entrance the last time was more dignified.
After dinner, the limousine took us to the Queen’s Hall. It’s since been demolished but back then it was a huge venue holding five thousand people. Security staff formed a guard of honour letting us enter the building unmolested by the fans outside. We changed in the dressing room, putting on our lycra bodysuits which boasted every colour of the rainbow and showed off our skinny frames.
A roar of anticipation greeted us as we entered the dimmed stage. The decibels increased further as the bright lights came on, revealing us in our technicolour glory, and hundreds of fans rushed to the barrier at the front to see us up close and personal.
We got things moving with ‘Black Widow’ - always a crowd-pleaser – Tim opening up on drums, followed by Steve’s melodic, powerful bass, Ray picking up the beat with his rhythm guitar and me coming in on lead with the song’s killer riff. Ray and I leaned into our microphones and belted out the opening lines:
‘All
dressed in black so nobody sees you
Smile in the wings, tell me I please you’
Within seconds, the audience turned into an enormous choir singing along with us, taking the roof off the place and setting the scene for a tumultuous ninety minutes, during which our adrenalin soared sky-high and we worked up a helluva sweat.
Halfway through the set, a girl climbed over the barrier and got on stage and ran over to Ray and snogged him. The rest of us kept playing as security prised the her off him before he effortlessly rejoined us on the chorus behaving as if nothing had happened. He was a class act.
We were on a high when we got back to the dressing room.
‘Is everyone up for a visit to Tiffany’s?’ I asked.
There was only one dissenting reply, from Ray who had a leggy brunette sitting on his knee.
‘We’re going back to the hotel first. We’ll catch you at the club.’
That was typical of Ray.
Only one of the pub’s spotlights is working but we still start the gig at eight. Most of the audience have had a skinful by then and sing along loudly with me. I spot a few youthful converts to the cause among the bobbing grey heads out there. At one point, a drunk guy leaning on the stage suddenly slumps forward and the beer from his glass forms a big puddle which I step over and keep playing to the sound of cheers.
After performing for an hour, we leave the stage to an ovation and I make my way to the bar. As I’m sipping my pint, a young bloke approaches me sporting a T shirt bearing a photograph of us in our pomp. I hardly recognise the thin faced guy that was once me.
‘Do you mind signing this?’ he asks, brandishing a battered copy of a paperback about the band.
‘Sure.’
I take his pen and scribble inside the cover.
“I read Ray Hunter died in Leeds back in 1970. It was an overdose wasn’t it?”
‘Yeah, it was tragic.’
I found him in his hotel room, lying limp in an armchair with his head slumped to one side and his eyes wide open. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and weeping.
The tour was cancelled and we hung around until the post mortem. Much alcohol was consumed during those days and a break up of the band seemed on the cards.
‘You should have stopped him going back to the hotel,’ shouted Steve. ‘Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.’
‘I wasn’t his keeper,’ I snapped. “’the oldest here doesn’t make me a father figure.’
Thankfully, Dave got us to see sense and persuaded us to stay together.
‘It was brilliant that you performed ‘Dare To Dream’ as the encore’ says the young fan. ‘It’s my favourite.’
And our last hit.
‘We’d better get going,’ shouts Tim. ‘Our bed and breakfast locks up at eleven.’
‘Are we sharing a room again?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
We’ve hardly written a decent song between us since Ray died. Maybe our old music will come back into fashion or a number will feature on a film soundtrack and win us new fans. We can only dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment