Short story: The Master's Apprentice

The Master’s Apprentice

Paul Daley’s a middlin’ salmon living in a quiet little Yorkshire pond called Cragmount.
A bit of a star round town, those who don’t know him give him the nod down the supermarket or in the post office, cos they think they recognise him. They’re not sure how, but they know the face, they think.
Sunday nights, Paul sings and plays guitar at the Crown Inn in Tasman Street. This is where folk’ve seen him. It’s Entertainment Central in Cragmount is the Crown; the only game in town.
He’s no great shakes muso, but he’s keen, enthusiastic: possessor of a fair whack of natural charisma, too. Enough, so that when some wanker heckles as the bum notes fly like beer bottles, he can shut ‘em up without causing a fracas with B.A. Barracus.
Not that he’s too fussed: the gig only pays 30 quid and beer, but then, he wants to keep his good looks a while longer and they’re a tough mob in the Crown.
During the week he works as a driver’s mate on a Barrington Ales lorry.
It pays the rent.
Doesn’t satisfy his musical urges though, so when Steve, the driver, does the Dales run every Thursday, he pulls over for five minutes while Paul blasts his mouth organ over the open fields. Scares the crap out of the sheep but Steve enjoys it.
Paul does four spots in the Crown, Sundays. Starts early doors, 6.30, to kick the place into gear; spaces the other sets through the night when things need a lift.
Sunday’s his big night of the week, then. Usually it’s just him, an amped-up acoustic and backing tapes on the half moon stage in the corner of the tap room. Which is about as thrillin’ as it sounds, but he goes down okay.
The big time hits on those Sundays, every six weeks or so, when Micky Castle and Rick Lane, bassist and drummer in Broken Hands join him on stage and really set the place kickin’.
Broken Hands are the local dudes that made it: Hit the bigs, they have. They’re not rich yet, but they might have a shot if they keep up the initial oomph.
See, they signed this half-arsed two single deal last year with Fabtone, a backyard op in Leeds.
Then their manager, Bob Calvert, is at a La’s reunion gig and sees Radio One‘s Yorkshire hipster Dave Ecstatic. Shoves a copy of Broken Hands first Fabtone single at him and next thing ‘Commissionaire’s Sunglasses’ is a Number 37 smasheroonie. Big time!
Poached from Fabtone by JMCC, a much bigger label, they follow up with the top five ‘Time is Never Wasted (When You’re Wasted All the Time)’ and now they’re a week away from recording their first album.
Paul Daley was in awe of Mick and Rick at high school.
Even then, they were celebs in waiting; playing the school disco every three months, always a posse of chicks hanging off ‘em it seemed. They were two or three years older than Paul then; still are come to that, so it’s no surprise they didn’t hook up with him till more recently.
Rick and Mick, (or Mick and Rick, take your pick, as the hilarious joke in the NME goes), are the two out of Broken Hands who still spend any amount of time in Cragmount. The others moved straight to London as soon as the record company advance came through.
The occasional trio arrangement comes about when M and R get home to Craggy one Sunday following a Turin Brakes support slot at Leeds Uni.
Still jazzed from the gig and not yet ready for kip, they take a walk down the Crown where they used to do the Sunday night slot before fame beckoned.
They get a couple of pints in this particular night and sit down in time to see Paul give ‘Twist and Shout’ some serious humpty.
Diggin’ what they hear, with Paul’s assent, they get up to add some backing vocal and heavy tambourine on Paul’s traditional encore (He wasn’t gonna tell ‘em ‘no’, was he? These are serious rock stars, man!).
Presto! A partnership of sorts. It won’t replace Broken Hands for Mick and Rick, but it’s a change just to have a laugh these days. All the bleedin’ seriousness that’s crept into the day job drives ‘em mad.
Back live. Tonight’s a Mick and Rick night, the first for a while.
In their honour, landlord Rob Woodhouse has put up his regular comedy banner over the front entrance: ‘Tonight, live on stage’ (it reads), ‘Mick and Rick from top local pop group Broken Hands with guest vocalist Paul Daley’.
Brain dead, thinks Paul, eyeing the sign as he walks in at twenty past six.
He sketches a salute towards Tracey, Rob’s missus, behind the bar as he makes his way to the stage.
There’s a few punters standing round but it’s not sardines like it will be later.
Paul takes his coat off to reveal his regular stage clobber. Tartan I’m a lumberjack and a member of the Socialist Workers Party if you don’t mind work shirt, jeans, heavy work boots. Got a serious Springsteen thing goin’ on.
He perches on a stool at the edge of the stage, nudges up the mic volume on the house P.A. with the headstock of his guitar, leans into the mic and says quietly:
“Evenin’ Cragmount, I’m Paul Daley. Lovely darts”.
Launches into a gentle ‘Midnight Hour’. He’ll play it again later with Mick and Rick and it’ll be faster! Louder! More happenin’! Now he does it as a slow blues, paces himself, enjoys the moment.
The night’s young, like.
The crowd builds up. Paul plays a crackin’ six minute ‘Gloria’. Does his pretend John Lee Hooker growl in the middle cos the crowd gets off on it.
One of his own next, ‘Black Sheets of Rain’; bit depressing maybe, but fuck it. Introduces it: “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn”.
Does a couple of Merseybeat toons, then finishes with the next Broken Hands single, ‘Same Shit, Different Day’. Mick showed him the chords last week, only four of them. No one here’s heard it yet, so Paul gives the song a plug, getting it in the crowd subconscious. By the time it’s on the radio, so his theory goes, all the locals will think “Hmm, sounds familiar, top tune, must buy it!”
There’s a bass amp and two piece drum kit on stage, all ready for Mick and Rick. Half eight they come bouncin’ in. Bit cocky these days, bit of attitude about ‘em. Just back from a happenin’ session at Radio Aire.
Mick plugs in his Fender Strat bass, Rick gets behind the kiddie-sized kit and Paul straps on his black Hondo brand, Les Paul copy that he bought off his mate Andy Ham for thirty quid.
“Evenin’, once again” says Paul. “Like to introduce a coupla friends of us all. Big welcome, thankyou please, for Mick Castle and Rick Lane, lovely chaps they are. No, really”.
There’s a cheer, an ironic wolf whistle and some twat shouts, ‘wanker’.
On the four, BANG! And they rip the cord on the big version of ‘Midnight Hour’. Follow on with a rockin’ catalogue of play in a day 60’s fave raves.
They storm the room. Fuckin’ storm it! Always do. No one’s dancin anymore, there’s no room. Lotta foot stompin’ and big applause though, ‘specially when they have a go at the first two Broken Hands singles.
Paul notices his girlfriend Kathy come in the pub with her sister and make for the bar.
He’s been seeing her for a year and lately she’s been making engagement ring noises. Fuck that for a lark. Loves her though, he’s a romantic.
As the lads finish giving ‘Substitute’ a damn good kicking, he steps up to the mic: “Ladies, gents and them what’s undecided, this next ‘un were recorded by Buddy Holly before he died. Wun’t ‘ave been after, would it? This is for Kathy”.
Starts into Words of Love. Glances over at the bar, Kathy’s gone bright red. Smiling though, cos she’s a romantic. Just like him.