Silver Ch. 06-09

This was all hypothetical of course, for it relied upon the band taking off. By no means a certainty, the first three singles had failed to trouble the Top Forty and rumour had it that Rage might be dropping them soon. With nothing concrete still from the majors, they could find themselves on the fringe. Prior to Jan's news, Nick would happily have run down the insurance money, had a ball for a year to eighteen months and, if the band didn't turn out to be the next big thing, walk away satisfied that at least he'd tried. Now that was no longer an option.

Then there was his disintegrating relationship with Richey to consider. Having turned into little more than nodding acquaintances in recent weeks, matters had come to a head when the pair sat down to discuss new material. 'Like The Sun', a thinly veiled love song to Jan, had been dismissed totally out of hand by Richey who barked that if Nick wanted to record that kind of shit, he should join the Commodores. Their last words with one another, a chasm had opened up on stage. Hardly grounds for entering into a partnership based on camaraderie and team spirit, it all of course derived from Richey's unrequited love for Jan.

As the train passed towns and cities that, in the autumn, had been magical, far-off places on a nationwide tour, suddenly they were no more than rain-clouded stops between Nick and the end of the line. Opening the door, Jan's eyes held the accumulated tears of days of crying. Nick offered a thin-lipped smile and a clumsy hug that illustrated he wasn't designed for dealing with raw emotion.

For an hour they skirted the issue, catching up on each other's busy lives like it was just another telephone call on any old day of the week. Nick tried not to sound too enthusiastic about the band as Jan fought to hold back the tears. Eventually they had to tackle the inevitable when Jan appealed: 'So what are we gonna do, pet?'

Nick exhaled until his lungs were empty, a hollow feeling to match his head. 'What do you want to do?'

Jan sighed. 'Come on Nick man, help me out here?'

He paced the small room, reiterating that the decision was hers and that whatsoever she decided he would support and would stand by regardless. A total abdication of responsibility, what else was there he could say? Adding that he had no wish to see her give up university, she countered by insisting that he mustn't give up the band. But something had to give.

Abortion was never really an option, not even touched upon in conversation. An active pro-life campaigner, along with the other girls Jan had protested at abortion clinics during her time at university. Now that it was her agonising decision to make, the issue was far less black and white than in the pamphlets she'd distributed with carefree abandon. In any event it transpired she was over three months gone, the child having been conceived on the night of his birthday, the same night Liz fell pregnant. The only difference was that the father of Liz's child had no idea. But that was of little concern to Nick.

So, before a fourth release could be put out, Nick Silver arrived at the painful yet logical decision to return to the real world. The sad truth was that he never really stood a chance. Never specifically excluded, he didn't feel a part of the rock scene either. It was over, as simple as that, a brief call to Richey outlining the reasons. Good while it lasted, he conceded, being in an aspiring yet unsuccessful new wave band was hardly the foundation upon which to enter parenthood.

* * *

Nick paused from his reminiscences long enough for Pete to turn over the tape in the Dictaphone. 'This is going to make one hell of a book,' he enthused.

'You reckon so? You think it has any appeal outside this room?'

'Yeah I do. And who knows, if this latest comeback of Richey's comes off, the book could even become a best seller.'

Nick frowned. Why did it seem to need Richey to be hugely successful for him to gain a little success? It felt once more like he was riding on Richey's coat tails.

'Anyhow, you can't have done so badly,' asserted Pete. 'Everyone knows 'The Outsider'.'

Nick issued a wry smile. Habitually it was assumed by those that made his acquaintance that Nick's career, brief as it was, had set him up for life, and that the profits kept rolling in. In truth, whilst the occasional royalties' payment came along, it was only ever pin money. 'Unfortunately Pete, the song was only moderately successful.'

'But there were other singles, right...and an LP?'

Nick exhaled. 'There were the two more singles during my time but I struck a deal to waive the rights to those in return for sole credit for 'The Outsider'. That song is all mine, which is great and something to tell the grandkids, but it hasn't and won't make me a rich man. And no, it wasn't on any LP.'

Not even the Best Of, he thought bitterly, fists clenching. When Richey put together the retrospective in 2000, there was no place for 'The Outsider'. The costly omission in terms of royalties aside, the total airbrushing of his contribution to the Speeding Hearts' heritage angered him more than the money.

Pete rubbed at his chin and Nick had a fair idea of what was coming, the only surprise being that it hadn't come earlier. 'You must regret not staying the course?'

He had of course but, having fielded the question so many times in the past, Nick's response came like a politician's: 'Hmm, not really. The rockstar lifestyle isn't all it's cracked up to be.'

'Oh but it is,' responded Pete enthusiastically. 'I'd give my right arm...'

'Not when you've seen what I've seen. Yes I interviewed Mick Jagger, David Bowie and Bono among others, but I also interviewed Kurt Cobain, Freddie Mercury and Michael Hutchence.'

That latter trio added some credence to his denial. For all its plus points, rock stardom did lower life expectancy. 'And then there are the friends I've lost...'

'Yeah, I know.'

Nick paused, changing the subject. 'Richey's invited me down to his place this weekend.'

Pete's jaw dropped as Nick continued: 'I could really do with some company.'

'You mean...?'

'I don't see why not. Might be good for the book too...'

'Oh Nick, I'd be so indebted if you could.'

Nick smiled, his motives for offering to take Pete along not entirely charitable. He'd quite like Richey to see that he too was still sought after by the younger generation and still had something to offer. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't need to ride on Richey's coat tails after all.

Before he left, Pete sought out Kelly to say goodbye, finding an unresponsive subject. 'Maybe we can go for a drink one night...'

'I'll let you know,' the short and unenthusiastic reply came.

Pete felt a pang of disappointment. Perhaps he should have taken up those strippers on their offer after all. Oh well, who needed sex when he was off to meet Richey Osgood? 'See you tomorrow morning,' he called to Nick.

At that moment the telephone rang. Ambling back inside, Nick picked it up. On the other end he found son Joe in an insistent mood. Nick huffed and puffed, citing tiredness, the busy days ahead, their houseguests, anything to try to get out of it, but Joe wasn't to be put off once more. In fact, he argued, he was virtually outside the house and would be arriving to pick up his father in five minutes.

Time just to toss a layer of water on his face, brush his hair and put on a fresh t-shirt, Nick sighed as a loud horn outside interrupted the still. 'Nick, here' whispered Jan, gesturing furiously as they passed on the stairs. 'You'll never guess what...'

The horn was repeated. 'Can't stop; Joe wants me to see some new band. I'll try not to be too late.'

He issued a quick peck on her cheek before striding away purposefully. His son was waiting on the drive in a sleek new Mercedes. Dark over-long hair brushing his shoulders, designer shades perched atop his head, Joe was a flash little bugger. 'Take it easy dad, you'll give yourself a heart attack,' he warned with an impish expression, waving to the window in which his mother had become framed.

'So who's this band I've just got to see and why so secretive?'

'If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise.'

Nick climbed in, praying his hunch was wrong. If there was one thing he wanted less than another million selling release from the Speeding Hearts, it was his son getting involved in the music business. A web designer by occupation, most of Joe's work brought took him dangerously close, either helping to promote music venues or up-and-coming bands to get a foothold via the Net. In Nick's eyes it was a step away from being a wannabe rock star.

As the Merc glided down the lane like a puck on ice, shaving the grassy sides, Nick reflected upon how lucky Joe's generation was. In his thirties before he was able to afford a brand new car – and that was an Escort. Wealth was so much more easily attainable nowadays, and kids like Joe of the www. generation could become millionaires overnight and lose it all as quickly. Everything was on loan, credit or reliant upon someone else. It only took a single break in the chain to undermine the whole lot. Sensing his father's mood, Joe ordered him to lighten up.

The journey took them down ever familiar roads to the outskirts of Crossbow Hill but Joe remained tight-lipped, refusing to bow to his father's pleas, simply increasing the speed to scare him into silence. So like his sister and mother in that regard, everything had to be wrapped up as a surprise. Why couldn't they just be upfront and let him know what was going on? Why did they believe his life needed a constant round of tricks and stunts?

Joe pulled up opposite the Ship and Nick had to concede a hint of nostalgia, two decades on. There was something magical about the place, like a childhood den. But, as if to remind him of the bleak days of Crossbow Hill, a light shower began to fall. 'I've just got to nip across the road,' Joe stated, heading towards the barbers. 'Get me a lager top.'

Nick raised his hands. That was typical Joe to bring him all this way then disappear. Wandering inside the pub, he looked around, breathing in the past. The layout similar to his day, though modernised to appeal to a more discerning 21st Century clientele, the stage remained a reminder of the past. Bearing microphones and amps, drum kit, bass and lead guitar, it was primed for action.

A bunch of scruffy leather and denim-clad youngsters along the bar held court, a couple of dozen others spread around the wide, spacious pub in twos and threes. Ten minutes elapsed, marked by a silent curse, the nostalgia swiftly evaporating. Yet it wouldn't be easy disappearing. The tube station over a mile away, judging by the soggy hair of those venturing inside in dribs and drabs, he was incarcerated by the storm.

Another ten minutes elapsed and, as the storm brought down with it the grey of night, the pub began to swell with rain drenched rockers, the aroma of wet leather filling Nick's nostrils. As loud music spilled from the speakers, an excited pre-gig throng grew, and Nick felt sure some of the older ones cramming in at the bar were faces from the past. Some looked like fans of the band, going back to his day in 1982. Surely it couldn't be, could it? Yet the odd nodded head his way and raised hands of acknowledgement seemed to bring validation. It was as if a Speeding Hearts convention had arrived in town.

Within minutes they were three deep at the bar and Nick moved away, still no sign of his son. Pushing his way through the wall of sinew, he searched the walls for a poster that might reveal what was afoot, but there was nothing, not even a discarded flier. Feeling a tap on the shoulder, he turned around to espy the most familiar face from the past yet, old band manager Ted Perry. Pension age by now, the quiff had somehow survived the years though the ashen cheeks on his face hung like sacks. They shook hands warmly before moving into a premium space by the door. Finally having someone with whom to converse cheered Nick no end, though the music was loud enough to banish chit-chit. 'You see much of Richey nowadays?' he shouted, above the rising din.

'Not if I can help it,' Ted shouted back with a wry smile.

Nick was going to mention Richey's invite that weekend but it wasn't worth risking his voice for. Craning to see over the barrier of fans, the aroma of wet leather, stale tobacco and body odour was heavy. Yet there was no denying this band's popularity, whoever they were. As the lights dimmed, a push away from the bar towards the stage saw Nick carried unwillingly on the tide, separated from Ted who sought refuge at the back. Lights cascaded onto the stage as a tall spectral figure with dirty bleached hair crouched at the microphone, adjusting it upwards. Forced to do a double take, it was as if Richey had been reborn in a younger man's body.

It came as little surprise to see Joe follow on to the same stage that a quarter of a century earlier his father had graced. Nick guessed it was in the blood, the initial upset dissipating amid a sense of expectation and father's pride. With a freshly spiked head of hair, shorn to resemble his father's back then, Joe took up position behind the lead singer who was feigning the patented Richey snarl. Even the drummer and bassist had their hair like Kirk and Vaughn's: big, black and tangled, with retro leather jackets bearing massive collars and industrial sized metal zips. With twenty-five years behind them, Nick guessed it was time a Speeding Hearts tribute band was formed. Only, deep down he'd prefer it was anyone else up there but his son – today a tribute band, tomorrow the slippery slope into the real thing.

A very passable version of 'Edge Of Town' filled the pub, leading him to wonder just how long Joe had been doing this. It was indicative of the semi-coma in which he'd existed for so long, and one that he was determined to snap out of forthwith. Just how much else had passed by whilst he'd vegetated?

They did half of the 1982 set for starters, 'The Outsider' arriving like a hurricane just before the break to take his and the other punters' breaths away. The faces said it all: this was a real unappreciated gem, hidden away for so long it was easy to forget just how good it was. Nick glowed with vicarious pride and of knowing this was his song. An idea had formed in his head.

As the band traipsed off, Nick fought through the wall of sweaty bodies to find Ted at the back. Either because it had endured the test of time or had been closeted for so long, everyone had seemingly forgotten just how good 'The Outsider' was. There was a demand, of that Nick was convinced – it was just a case of meeting that demand, and he had sole ownership. Brain abuzz with ideas, he found Ted, taking him aside. 'Ted, you still have connections in the biz?'

Ted looked at him a little puzzled and Nick explained his dream. He wanted 'The Outsider' to be re-released on CD where it would soar to a new audience. He wanted the song to rise above the 48 debut slot. Ted, however, was less convinced. 'You might want to see how this new release of Richey's sells first. Word has it he's washed up.'

Nick blew in surprise. Richey washed up? A sobering thought yet somehow hard to believe, he had only to look at Joe's band to see how popular the music remained. He suspected Ted's claim came from the heart rather than the head, their parting all those years ago deep in acrimony and still hurting both his pride and his wallet. 'That new song of his will sell by the bucket load and you know it. And so could 'The Outsider',' Nick asserted. 'The timing's perfect – twenty-five years.'

Ted rubbed at his chin. 'Wish I could share your enthusiasm.'

'Oh come on Ted.'

'Okay, I'll make some phone calls, though I'm not promising anything.'

'Take my mobile number. Give me a ring when you hear something.'

The rumble from the crowd signalled the tribute band's return, half a dozen of the Speeding Hearts' newer songs thrown in before they retreated backstage, amid pleas for more ringing out. Returning for an encore of 'Winning Smile', finally they departed to a rousing cheer. As the lights came up, Joe appeared through the masses. 'Hope you'll come backstage, dad.'

As Nick screwed up his face, ears still ringing and adjusting to the relative quiet, Joe shouted: 'What did you think?'

Nick hesitated. 'You were, um, good...'

'You sound unconvinced. I know, I know – we ought to be doing our own stuff...'

Nick raised his hands. 'No, no, it's not that all...'

Neither the time nor the place for a father to son lecture on the pitfalls of the music industry, Nick kept his tongue in check. Certainly there was no denying the genuine pride within him, but he'd seen so many lives wasted, so many friends cruelly cut down by rock excess that he had no wish to see his son to join the statistics. Joe put a hand on his father's shoulder. 'It's okay, dad, I think I understand.'

The backstage door opened and Nick inhaled the familiar surroundings as Joe announced: 'Our first celebrity fan, everyone.'

Nick blushed as the rest of the band, along with a pretty young girl called Kate who might or might not be Joe's girlfriend but who appeared enchanted by him, were introduced. One thing was clear from running his eye over the other teenaged girls that hung out with the band, rockstars rarely lacked female company. So different from his era though, these were sassy, smart and sanitised young ladies with posh accents and designer labels. The dirty groupies of yesteryear seemed to be a distant memory. Soon running short of conversation, taking his son aside, Nick said: 'Look Joe, I really must be getting off.'

Joe nodded. 'Okay, well thanks for coming, and don't make it so long next time.'

Nick promised he wouldn't before meandering back through into the clearing pub. As he trudged down to the tube station, the dream of getting 'The Outsider' in the charts compensated for the rain. It would be some coup if it could steal Richey's thunder and outsell his new release, some coup indeed.

Little did Nick realise what surprises the weekend at Richey's held in store.

End of Part One.