Big Feeling

This story is a work of fiction and so no offence is meant to anyone who is mentioned within it. You should be over 18 reading this. All characters in this story are over the age of 18, therefore are considered consenting adults.

Hope you all enjoy it and if you've any constructive comments to make please email me or PM me.

John Connors

*

'And her ways were free and it seemed to me,

Sunshine walked beside her.'

'Tecumseh Valley' – Townes Van Zandt

Big Feeling

I

It was under a sky the colour of gunmetal that I'd arrived at the town of Grange Villa in the North East of England. Grange Villa was the last night of a tour I'd started eight weeks previously as support to a superb English blues singer-songwriter called Johnny Dickinson. We'd travelled the length and breadth of Britain playing in small to medium sized venues in some of the bleakest towns in the country and Grange Villa was no exception. As I manoeuvred my way through the streets of the town it became all too apparent that like many small towns and villages throughout the country that the closure of the adjacent mines had savaged the towns' economy and decimated any lustre that it might have possessed. It seems that Grange Villa had once boasted a thriving coal industry until the 1980's when Margaret Thatcher had, in her infinite wisdom, closed mines throughout the country wiping out thousands upon thousands of peoples livelihoods. As I continued through the narrow cobbled streets, Elmore James blasting out of my CD player, I scanned both sides of the road searching out the venue where tonight's gig was. Out of the corner of my eye a sign caught my attention and there before me was the Working Man's Club. I grimaced when I saw it…..

The Working Man's Club was certainly not the most salubrious venue I'd played on this tour. Stepping out of my car, a battered red 1985 Ford Sierra, I screwed a cigarette between my lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. The club was a dimly lit establishment and like many of its ilk it had probably been built in the 1930's with functionality a premium and aesthetics but a minor concern. It was an ugly venue and on approaching it I noticed that the club sign was hanging at a crooked angle and was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. God only knows what it would be like inside. Wearily I went back to my car and started getting my gear out.

It came as no surprise that the main hall was in no better state than the club exterior. The walls and ceiling were coated with thick tobacco stains and a fetid stench of mildew mixed with stale smoke hung in the air. Off-colour white paint was peeling from sections of the walls which were also littered with large jagged cracks. The stage looked to be just a large piece of plywood perched on numerous plastic crates. It didn't look as if it would be able to hold an amplifier never mind a fully-grown man. I tell you the places we struggling musicians have to play! Looking at my watch I saw I didn't have long to get set up and sound check for the gig.

Less than two hours later I was climbing on stage to be greeted with a muted applause. I scanned the room. It was three-quarters full with a healthy mix of men and women. Most of them seemed to be middle-aged or older but I had noticed some younger people sitting in several places and as I played I noticed them nodding their heads or tapping their feet along with my playing. It was great to see younger people into blues and roots music.

Time flies by when you play live. As I stared out through the haze of smoke I caught sight of the sound engineer who pointed at his watch and held up two fingers. I'd played for nearly forty minutes and it was time to wind down the set. Nodding in his direction I struck the opening notes of the Scottish folk song 'The Lass of Loch Royale' the fingers of my right hand picked the notes the glass slide on the little finger of my left ghosted up and down the fretboard. Once I heard my own voice kick in I closed my eyes and became lost in the story. I imagined I was the sailor gone overseas leaving behind the love of his life pledging her his return, physically sitting alone on a makeshift stage in the North of England in the 21st Century but mentally traversing the South Seas on a frigate bound for the Indies in the 18th. When the last notes of the song had sounded I opened my eyes and was greeted with a warm applause with a few enthusiastic whoops and calls for an encore thrown in for good measure. I thanked the crowd profusely and made to get off stage only for the calls of encore to grow louder so I reached down beside me, took a quick swig from my pint, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and addressed the crowd;

"Thank you very much. Thank you…I'm going to play one more song and then get off the stage so you can all see the amazingly talented Johnny Dickinson who is guaranteed to knock your socks off."

Taking another quick slug of beer I reached for my lap steel guitar and positioning it across my knees adjusted the mike causing it to emit a high-pitched squeal of feedback. Grimacing I spoke as I tuned up:

"This next song is for anyone who has ever worked in a job and found one day that their livelihood had been taken away from them. I wrote it for my father who sadly passed away last year and who worked for thirty-three years in a Sheffield Steel Mill before being made redundant. This song is called 'The Mill', my name is Alan Rogers and I hope you've enjoyed the show as much as I have playing it."

Clearing my throat I began to sing…….

Ten minutes later I was standing outside the club smoking a cigarette and watching the first drops of rain splatter on the pavement debating whether or not I should try and drive back to Sheffield tonight. It was going to be late by the time this gig wrapped up and the weather forecast had predicted a sharp drop in temperatures tonight. Rain and a sharp drop in temperatures. There'd probably be ice on the roads then which meant that getting home tonight was going to be extremely hazardous. A night in Grange Villa? Great...

My train of thought was interrupted by the heavily digitised sound of Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries'. Reaching into my pocket I fished out my mobile phone and checked who was ringing. Raising my eyes to heaven I answered;

'PJ….how are you?

A heavy Irish accent roared down the phone:

'Alan…how are ye….it's good to hear from you boy…how are ye keeping. How is the tour goin'...any problems?'

It was my agent Patrick John Hennessy. A jovial giant of a Cork man in his early sixties with a shock of white curly hair PJ, as he was known to everyone in the business, was widely renowned as being one of the shrewdest agents on the folk/blues/country scene; and one of the toughest. He'd worked in Ireland managing Showbands in the 1960's and 70's before moving to America where he'd had great success managing Country bands. He'd settled in England in the mid-90's and had been my agent for the past 18 months. Since then I'd gotten a lot more work and my profile had risen steadily. Behind his ample girth and amiable demeanour was a character that possessed a steely hard streak. He worked hard to get his acts places and in return he expected you to work equally as hard. So this phone call was not going to be just a social call. Taking a drag from my smoke I answered;

'I'm fine PJ how are you?'

'Sure I'm grand….can't complain at all…and sure even if I did who'd listen?'

He let out a jovial little chuckle and then continued

'So how did the gig go…you were playing….where was it again...ah yes….the Working Man's Club in Grange Villa…Jaysus there's a mouthful for ya....so how did it go….did you manage to sell many CDs?'

Running my free hand through my hair I paced as I spoke;

'The gig was good. I got a pretty good response….a lot better than I'd expected. But the venue….'

I threw a glance over my shoulder and lowered my voice.

'The venue was a complete shithole though PJ. The stage was just a piece of wood on a couple of plastic crates. I thought I was going to fall through the fucking thing….and the sound was dreadful. They must have been using a mixing desk that was manufactured before WW 2.'

'But the gig was good apart from that. Did you sell many CDs?'

I glanced up at the sky and saw that the rain was now pouring out of the heavens. I pitched my cigarette hearing the hiss as it extinguished on the wet concrete;

'I suppose about a dozen. But I told them they could be bought on the website as well as through mail order. So with a bit of luck we might get some more sales.'

I ignited another cigarette and waited for PJ's reply.

'So a dozen there added to….how many have you sold so far on the tour?'

'I dunno….at a rough estimate a seven hundred maybe. Well that was at the last time of counting.'

After a pause of several seconds PJ spoke;

'That's not bad. Seven hundred CDs in eight weeks. 'Tis not bad. Could be better mind but 'tis not bad…..but you know that you have to work hard to promote……'

Sighing, I closed my eyes and shook my head. I was too weary to argue with PJ. Eight weeks of touring without a break had knocked the stuffing out of me. I desperately needed a few days off to recharge my batteries. PJ was still talking but I was barely listening. I had zoned out completely my attention drawn to a piece of plastic wrapping paper that was being tossed too and fro by the stiff breeze that had appeared out of nowhere. I was so fascinated by the trajectory of this inanimate object that I never heard what PJ had said.

'Alan? Alan? Are you there….did you not hear what I said lad?'

Awaking from my dazed stupor I mumbled;

'Wha'?'

The indignation in PJ's voice was palpable

'Jaysus you tell a man that he's been offered a chance to record an album in Paris and he doesn't even have the decency to pay attention.'

Now I was alert!

'What did you say? An album in Paris?'

'Yes…it seems some French Blues label got hold of your CD when you were playing in London a few weeks ago….what the hell is their name again….Ah yes…Cypres Records. For some strange reason they think you're good. Very good. They want to meet up with you to discuss the possibility of you recording an album for them. And they want to do it soon. Like the day after tomorrow.'

'Are you shitting me PJ?'

Hearing the incredulity in my voice PJ emitted a bellicose laugh and continued.

'I thought that might get your attention! No boy I'm not 'shitting' you. Sure why would I be wantin' to do that? Now listen to me Alan we need to meet up tomorrow because these boyo's want to meet up in London in two days time and I think we both need to be there. Now I've talked to them about it and they seem to be kosher….BUT you can never be sure so before we commit to anything we need to find out a little more about them and the kind of deal they're offering. So drop in to the office tomorrow around mid-day and we'll take my car down. We should be down in London by tomorrow night. Is that ok?'

My thoughts were racing at this point so all I could manage to say was;

'Sure PJ. I'll see you tomorrow. Midday was it?'

Another chuckle reverberated down the phone

'Hit you for six with that news haven't I boy?'

'Hit me for six…you could knock me over with a feather. Have you any idea when they want me over there should I sign.'

'No idea…I'd imagine as soon as possible.'

Lighting another cigarette I took a drag;

'Sure probably within a couple of weeks of sign…oh shit…PJ…the Tommy Emmanuel tour! That's in two weeks time!'

PJ let out another trademark roar of laughter.

'Jaysus boy don't be worrying about that….Sure I told them already about that. What type of an agent do you take me for?'

And so it came to pass that after I'd finished a six week tour with Tommy Emmanuel that I packed my bags and headed for Paris……

II

There wasn't a soul on the Avenue de la Belle Gabrielle when I emerged from the cavernous depths of Studio Deux dazed with fatigue. I shivered as the cool morning air permeated my clothing, seeping into my sleep-deprived form. Christ it was cold! Hard to believe that it was springtime in Paris. I looked up at the sky. Not a cloud there. The first rays of the new day's sun were starting to illuminate the gloom. It looked as if it was going to be another beautiful day.

Zipping up my jacket I screwed a cigarette between my lips, lit it and inhaled deeply savouring the sweet corrosive poison that billowed into my lungs. Closing my eyes I jetted short sharp spurts of smoke from my nostrils as I exhaled, a contented grin etched on my lips. Three vocal and rhythm guitar tracks recorded, with only lead and overdubs left to do. They wouldn't take much longer than a week to get done. I had over three-quarters of the album recorded and despite the fact that I hadn't slept properly in the month since I'd arrived in elegant sunny Paris from dreary, sleet soaked Sheffield I was feeling pretty damn fine. Picking up my guitar I sauntered into the fresh Parisian morning feeling a wave of giddy exhilaration wash over me. The thud of my boots on the pavement and the incessant chirping of the birds in the trees overhead were the only sounds to be heard as I strolled through the Bois de Boulogne. I smoked contentedly and as I walked toward the Metro I saw the Champs Elysees framed by the rising sun and grinned. Life just didn't get much better than this.

When I was seated on the Metro I slumped into my seat, stared out the window and thought about events after the gig in Grange Villa.

The meeting in London had gone without a hitch. PJ had found out quite a bit about the record label that he hadn't let on during our phone conversation. They were a decent sized Jazz/Blues/Folk label based in the centre of Paris. The head of Cypres Records, Sylvain Dutronc was a thin be speckled man with a ponytail and an absolute music fanatic. In his early forties Dutronc had grown up around music, his uncle being the legendary French troubadour Jacques Dutronc. Sylvain it turned out was a huge fan of American blues music, particularly Blues from the Mississippi Delta and had been so impressed with my performance of 'The Mill' when he'd seen me in London that he'd decided to sign me. It was a fairly straightforward arrangement; a two album deal with an option for another two. The budget was quite reasonable and the record label even sprang for the rental of a small apartment for me in Pigalle slap bang in the middle of the Moulin Rouge. Nothing fancy really just a small one bedroom place. My neighbours consisted mainly of young working class families, prostitutes and three Australian travellers who had decamped to Paris to work. It was not exactly the quietist place to live but the upside of this was that when I wanted to play the guitar late at night there were no complaints from my neighbours who were otherwise engaged in other nocturnal activities. Sitting there playing the guitar with a bottle of wine beside me looking out at the crimson sky as the sun sank over the city, listening to the hustle and bustle of Paris at night is something I will never forget.

The days when not recording were spent traversing Paris absorbing the history and culture of the place. However when the weather was good, and lately that had been with much more frequency, I'd take my lap-steel guitar up to Montmartre and busk close to the Sacre Coeur which afforded me not only a spectacular view of Paris but also a prime market for tourist cash. I had done it purely out of fiscal necessity. I even managed to sell some of my CDs too which meant that my financial situation was much improved. It was helped even more when after recording one day Sylvain had taken me aside and asked me to do a favour for a friend of his who owned a new Blues club called, very appropriately, Bottleneck (gotta' love that title!). It meant playing a couple of gigs at the weekend and was obviously a great way to promote my forthcoming album. There were several acts on Cypres who would be playing as well as myself so I guess Sylvain got to use it as a showcase for his labels signings.

As the train pulled in to Pigalle station I hauled my jaded form up from the seat and pretty much sleepwalked to my apartment.

III

Sixteen hours later I was onstage and halfway through my set. The venue was just over two-thirds full and extremely smoky, the seating literally on top of the stage. So close that even through the haze of the stage lights and cigarette smoke you could see the expressions on everyone's faces and so it was easy to gauge people's reactions. Throughout the set my gaze was drawn to a particularly attractive blonde haired woman sitting just in front of me. She was wearing an extremely low cut top thus affording me a great view of her impressive cleavage. Throughout the gig I had a serious fight on my hands to avert my gaze from straying down her top. She knew it too as she kept bending down anytime I'd look in her direction before smiling up at me. Being the consummate professional that I am (yeah right) I managed to finish my set without too many glitches and as I sauntered off stage and towards the bar I looked in her direction and smiled. She returned my smile with a sexy little grin and a wink.

'Yeah…Looks like you got an admirer there man.'

I turned around and before me was a tall young man who looked to be in his twenties. He was leaning against the bar a cigarette dangling between his lips, unkempt blonde hair, blue eyes, a faded grey Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, ripped blue jeans. An American too by the accent.

'Maybe…but I think she's probably taken. See the goon there with the brown hair….I think they're probably together.'

I pointed, discreetly I may add, at a lean longhaired man who had just arrived at the venue. The two of us stood in silence as we watched him begin to weave his way skilfully through the maze of tables towards where the blonde was sitting. On reaching the table he leaned down and kissed her passionately on the lips.

'Damn…guess you were right.'

Shrugging I turned and faced him again;

'Ah…easy come easy go.'

I ordered a beer and as I waited lit a smoke. It was my new acquaintance who broke the silence.

'That was a great gig. Real good. You can really fuckin' play. I loved your version of 'Red House', man. I've never heard it played on one of those slide guitar things before. Man it's a song I've always wanted to learn how to play properly.'

'You play?'

He grinned sheepishly;

'A little…when I can. It's a hobby though. I like playing stuff like Hendrix, Dylan that kind of stuff. I'm no good at that really wild guitar playing stuff you were doing. Much as I'd love to be able to do that stuff…'

Taking a swig of beer I shrugged;

'People prefer to hear songs though. If you just piss about with solos and that type of stuff people will get bored very quickly. The only people who can listen to that type of stuff all the time are other musicians. And believe me even they get hacked off with it.'

He nodded and we both took swigs from our perspective drinks. His looked to be harder than mine. From the smell of it, bourbon. I was the one who broke the silence this time. Stretching out my hand;

'My name is Alan by the way.'

'Michael.'

'Nice to meet to you Michael. So what brings you to Paris?'

For the next twenty minutes we talked, mostly about music. Michael was reticent to talk a lot about himself except that his full name was Michael Pitt and he was in Paris acting in a film by an Italian director whose name he refused to disclose. I on the other hand told him a lot about myself and how and why I had ended up in Paris. We were in the middle of a conversation about the merits of Bob Dylan's new album when we were interrupted by a reproachful female voice.