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“Whaddya think, pretty flash huh?” Stewart modeled his shiny beetle black trousers. He had to admit he looked good studded up like that, long muscular limbs taut under leather casing. Not that he’d ever admit it to him.
Sting shook himself slightly, refocusing his attention, “Whu- oh, sure whatever. Where’d you get those anyways, you look like a queer.”
“And you look like a school teacher- you’re no fun. Just because you’re on the dole doesn’t mean you have to dress like it. I arranged a photoshoot for tomorrow, you Cannot come dressed like that.”
“Never had to put on some fruity costume for the jazz band,” Sting grumbled as Stewart preened.
“What about that sweater that made you look like a bee? Oh wait no that was /Gordon/, his… sartorial chrysalis before he emerged fully formed as the artist- currently known as Sting.” Stewart splayed his hands at him hammily. “Punk, is about making a statement. It’s about optics.”
“You sound like your brother,” he sniffed not buying in, times like these he really wondered why he’d put his hat in with this lot in the first place. He didn’t belong, it didn’t matter how you dressed it up, people could see through some put upon facade. This was all supposed to be about things that were ‘real’, hypothetically. When they saw through you, they were through with you. “Why can’t we just call it a rock and roll band and call it a day. I’m sure this whole punk thing will blow over soon enough, you’re just trying to capitalize on the zeitgeist.”
“Well just because that’s true doesn’t mean it’s right. They said the same thing about rock and roll.” Stewart scolded, crossing his arms. “You’re acting like you don’t wanna be in this band.”
“No,” Sting sighed defeated, “I do… It’s just, what are we doing really?”
“Making punk music, like I said,” he rotated his wrist.
“Except we’re not. Because none of us are really punks.”
“You wound me!”
“No, I’m right; you’re a diplomat’s son, you went to some posh school, up until recently you played with a progressive rock band- are You really going to lecture about punk credibility?
“...Henry’s a real punk!”
“Henry’s on the way out,” Sting said soberly. Summers, the classical guitarist while lacking in even less street cred than Stewart, was good. Real good. And he liked him with his sardonic wit and level-headed experience with the drama that bands promised on the road or at home. It didn’t hurt he was easy on the eyes too, he could pass for ten years younger than he was. Under the bright lights no one would notice he’d been on the scene since the early 60s. “Were you here yesterday? We can’t go on as a four piece- strike that, a three piece with a hanger on in leather pants. He can’t play, can’t sing, can barely speak English.”
Sting bit his lip considering his words more carefully as he delivered this ultimatum. “I know he’s your friend. And you don’t want to betray him, but it’s for the best- Summers stays, he goes.”
Stewart balked at this, absolutely feeling betrayed. He’d thought there was a stronger sense of camaraderie between the bassist and him, they’d toured together, cut a single, relentlessly whored themselves out to their oh so discerning audience. Had their bout yesterday in a real studio with a real producer making a real album gone so badly Sting felt necessary to start lecturing him about who were real musicians or not? They had their really moments. That felt real enough to him.
The whole point of punk was you didn’t have to know how to play more than three chords to strike a chord with the kids listening or to make it big. Sure, he had to admit Summers was good, like really good and made them sound better than they really were, but… “Cale likes him,” Stewart crossed his arms standing his ground. The ex-Velvet was one of the original ‘punks’, he’d already been the mid-wife to a number of verifiable punks’ debuts and had a pretty good track record and sense of things as far as he could tell. Hated Andy for some reason, though he thought they were contemporaries, of not friends or friends of friends. Maybe he just had a bug up his ass that day-
“He’s a foul-tempered drunk.” Sting spat.
“He’s a genius!” Stewart protested feeling personally wounded by all these attacks. He was totally right about John but, but it was still rude! Phil Spector was no darling yet no one cared about that when their albums went gold.
“Get your head out your arse no he’s not. And don’t give me any more shite about ‘image’ or ‘credibility’. I have a say in this band too, I don’t want to be playing dives forever. And Andy agrees. It’s your choice ultimately, him, or me.”
Stewart bristled, pacing and running his hands through his fluffy platinum blonde tow. Ugh. Brat. Make him choose. It really wasn’t much of a choice at all. He’d suffered the slings and arrows of a struggling band of brothers with Henry, but he’d done the same with Sting. He’d started this with him, and there was No Way he was gonna give him up. “Fucker.”
Sting raised his brows, knowing he had him. Stewart turned and faced him pointing, “I’m not gonna be happy about it though!”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be. Go on, take your anger out on me,” he dared, relishing, a little hypocritically, in some of that delicious fury that ‘real punks’ thrived on. Waiting for a fist, a kiss. Teasing.
“...Did you really have him join just because he looked good in leather pants?”
“Well...”
"Twat."
"Cunt."