SOHO, LONDON, ENGLAND | 1964
Simon Wilkie leaned his lanky frame against the brick archway of the Marquee Club’s new Wardour Street location and smoked. He was splitting his time watching girls running in and out of the boutiques and scanning the crowd for the rest of his band. The National Loaf had finally secured an opening slot for the latest Fab Four-wannabes and the group was primed to cut them to ribbons, if the rest of them showed, that was.
“Oi, Si!” The voice of an ardent voyeur called from down the street. “The birds are certainly out today, eh, mate?”
“Cornish, about time you slipped yer nan’s clutches,” Wilkie needled the one person in the band he felt close enough with to take the piss out of. “I thought I might have to do an extended bass solo, and I don’t know if this lot is ready for it.”
Pianist Koda Cornell forced his focus away from a young woman in a raspberry A-line shift dress that danced above her knees as she walked. “Where are those wankers, anyway?”
“Where were you?” Wilkie pitched his fag end into the street. “I feel like I’m the only one serious about this gig.”
“Steady on, mate,” Cornell finally pulled both wandering eyes into focus on the situation. “You know those two, probably drunk as lords. I don’t know how Jere keeps up with that punter. He’s got a wooden leg, that one.”
“Wooden leg?” Wilkie snorted. “Cole’s a bloody Trojan horse, he is. Seeing how those two prolly have a head start, buy you a pint?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Did Simon just say he was buying?” Cole called from up the block, Woodrow in his wake, proving that he hadn’t yet burned out either his hearing or love of a free pint.
“Fuck me,” Cornell bemoaned. “Mention the Devil and he appears.”
“Cheers, good fellows,” Cole beamed. “Are you ready to tear this pile down? Mark my words, people in the future are going to lie and say they were here tonight just to sound gear.”
“Let’s hope the room isn’t all phantoms,” Cornell spoke up. “Hard to shag a ghost.”
“Fear not, my thirsty friend,” Cole mollified. “While you two were holding up the bricks, Jere and I were busy getting the word out… and here they come now.”
The entire National Loaf turned to see a crowd of fashionable young women coming up the street.
Jere, here, knows a secretary who works around the corner and just so happens has a lot of beautiful friends looking for something to do this evening.”
“Cor, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” Wilkie gave Woodrow a nod. “Well done, mate.”
“All right, that sorted, let’s talk setlist,” Cole got down to business. “I thought we’d open with ‘On the Lash!’”
We had better get drinking, then,” Cornell exclaimed. “We can’t very well play that one sober.”
Román Leão 