Chapter Text
Tuesday, 25th April 1972;
Hastily assembled in decent enough attire – John had earned a stern look from Freddie when he’d entered the flat in his corduroy’s, saved, Brian’s sure, only by the rich, dark jacket so admired by the frontman – Smile depart into the evening for The Crown.
“Explain to me,” Brian insists as they hurry down the road, “just why you think this lot’ll be able to help.”
“They’re only playing the gig,” John agrees serenely, apparently following Brian’s train of thought but happy to get out of his own place and leave his Uni work behind for a few hours. “Not organising it.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Freddie tsks. “Criminally Underrated have ties to Dagenham. Why’d you think they deign to perform in the Town Show?”
“Bit naff, is it?” Roger wonders curiously.
“Let’s just call it stomping ground for new bands.”
“Then why’re we interested in it?” Brian wonders.
“Honestly, Bri,” Freddie tuts.
“Didn’t think we were still that green, is all.”
“We’re not. Naturally. All the same,” Freddie admits, “it wouldn’t harm us to put our name about in all manner of places.”
“You’re taking me swimming in nefarious joints again, aren’t you?” John remarks casually.
“Have your armbands at the ready, Deacs,” Brian snorts.
“Be that as it may,” Freddie sniffs. “There’re plenty who go see the show – plenty that don’t know yet that they’re Smile fans.”
Finally accepting what Freddie’s driving at, Brian nods. Bringing in more from surrounding areas is what they’re all about, currently. Building that fanbase, the one that he’s yet to really see, disappointingly.
“Your mate, Dinesh,” John pipes up as they near the pub. “If he’s from Dagenham, why’s the band based in Kensington?”
“The other lead singer – Gary, do you remember him? Lovely hair, abrasive personality – felt Kensington had a better scene. He’s not wrong, either,” Freddie muses. “They’ve done very well for themselves out here.”
Better than us goes unsaid but by the way the man’s expression pinches, Brian would imagine Freddie’s thinking it also. Still, despite the setbacks they’ve endured recently, Brian would also judge Smile to have grown in reputation a bit in the past month or so. And miles yet to go, he reflects, but that’s part of the fun. Would be boring if they got their hearts desire at the outset.
“We’ll get there,” he assures his best friend, as he has so often. As Freddie has for him too many times to count.
“Of course we will, darling.”
“We’re brilliant,” Roger nods without any self-consciousness that Brian can discern.
There’s a slight pause and they look to John.
“Deacy?” Freddie invites.
“Why not?” John says, amusement twitching his lips. “We’re going to set the world alight.”
“Just not like The Black Swan,” Brian snorts.
“In fairness, that weren’t us,” John replies.
The Crown is bustling for a midweek night, proving droves of Criminally Underrated fans have turned out as expected. Thinking back to the knees up Freddie had organised at the old pool hall, Brian reminds himself his own band’s not doing too shabby either as they make their way through the small throng to the bar. Trish nods a welcome, lightly glowing as if a maiden of spring, a member of the fae folk momentarily visible as she stirs the world into waking from its winter slumber in a sleeveless yellow dress with long-sleeved cream top beneath, wide tan belt cinched about her waist.
“You look like a ray of sunshine,” Freddie compliments and Trish raises an eyebrow.
“Still looking for work, are you?”
“Always, lovely.”
“Sorry to say, we’ve nothing for the next while.” She gestures to the band getting set up. “They’ve robbed us blind as usual.”
“All the more reason you should book us instead of giving all your hard-earned coin away to that bunch of ne’er-do-wells.”
“You telling me you’re cheap, Freddie?”
Brushing a hand down his expensive spring jacket, drawing the eye to the luxury garment as intended, Freddie smiles brightly. “Hardly.”
“Just hungry for work,” John adds. “And hungry, mostly.”
“I should set up a jar,” Trish sighs, nevertheless turning to grab a few packets of crisps. “With a sign. Help me feed the starving musicians that loiter about my pub.”
“Bit long,” Brian tells her, thanking her for the packet she thrusts at him. “You’ll need to shorten it down for it to get catchy.”
“You want crisps or not?”
“You’re a saint, Trish lovely,” Freddie soothes, handing his off to the eternally starving drummer at his side.
“’Sides,” Roger pipes up, casually brushing a hand through his hair in an uncontrived fashion. He smiles sweetly and Brian can almost feel Trish melt despite her expression barely changing. If only the boy knew what weapons he has at his disposal, Brian shudders. But then, that’s the charm isn’t it? The fifteen-year-old continues earnestly, “We walk your dog.”
“Not for a while you haven’t.”
“I’ll do it this week,” the teenager promises. He rummages announced in Brian’s larger jacket pockets for the toy he’d cajoled him into holding for him that evening. “We got her this. Well, Deacy got her this.”
He squeaks the rubber pork pie and Brian, whose ear happened to be closest to it, winces. Not to be outdone, a scrabbling is heard from behind the bar, accompanied by an excited yelp.
“Oh bloody hell,” Trish mutters. “Rosie, you daft thing. Calm down.”
“She’s down here?” Roger asks unnecessarily as the large red dog scampers from beneath the hatch. Bounding at the boy, she nearly jumps as high as his chin, eager for play and the toy he holds.
“You take her outside if you’re thinking of throwing that thing,” Trish demands, and Smile lose their drummer to the adventures of dog sitting instantly.
“That’s the small child occupied at least,” Freddie muses. “Pints in that case, I suppose.”
“Charming,” Trish tells him, reaching for glasses beneath the bar, one hand on their usual choice automatically. “You suppose.”
“Trish,” Freddie trills and Brian has to fight the urge to drag the man away, sensing one of his long-winded spiels. “Have no doubt we ventured into this night searching – thirsting – for the golden amber you pour. Only your delectable ambrosia would satisfy, for only yours is sweetened by the grace of your company.”
“Right,” Trish retorts. “Who’s paying?”
“Think it’s my round,” John steps forward. “Bri, why don’t you take Wordsworth here and go mingle.”
“Come on, you charmer, you,” Brian beckons his best friend. “Let’s get lost in the crowd.”
Brushing his hair over his collar in smooth confidence, Freddie leads the way from the bar. Shaking his head as he shares an amused glance with their bassist, Brian follows.
“Heathens,” Freddie tells him when they pause close to the small, tight space allocated for the band.
“Thought you liked this lot.”
“Not Criminally Underrated. You and Deacy.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve been told on more than one occasion I’m blessed by a silver tongue.”
“No doubt about it,” Brian agrees easily. Freddie’s not exactly unused to talking his way into getting what he wants. Nine times out of ten, it even works in the way he intended. “Right, we launching our attack now, or after they’ve played?”
“After,” Freddie replies firmly. “Let’s show them our faces first, however, let them know we’re out supporting them.”
“Ah, greasing the wheels is it?”
They turn from their contemplation of the band to find John doing the triangle trick with the three full glasses of beer. Helping him out swiftly just in case, Brian takes two from him, passing the second off to Freddie.
“Cheers, mate.”
“Thank you, darling.” Sipping from his pint, the singer watches the band out the corner of his eye. “Dinesh would be our first target, I think.”
The keyboardist, Brian recalls, pleased with himself for knowing. He decides not to dwell on the fact that he can’t remember any of the other’s names and that he only recognises Dinesh’s because Freddie mentioned it and instead congratulates himself on recalling that Freddie’s acquaintance plays the keys.
“Easiest target,” John nods sombrely, grey-green eyes dancing over the rim of his glass.
Ignoring the mild teasing at his decision on going for tactics instead of taking things naturally, Freddie moves through the gathering crowd towards one side of the band. Following, Brian and John end up close to the unseen line where the audience collectively refuses to cross. Boldly, Freddie steps into no man’s land.
“Dinesh,” he nods, perfectly at ease as the man’s attention swings towards him. He moves closer still, mingling amongst the band members and causing them to turn to him, this invader of their small space.
“Freddie,” the keyboardist replies. “Come for a gander?”
“Always inquisitive, you know me. No, darling, I simply wanted to wish you well for the gig. We’re all looking forward to it.”
“Kind of you,” the other singer, the guitarist, says with the sort of suspicion reserved for unexpected post. Or unfamiliar food, perhaps. He was the toughest to convince to join their Christmas festival, Brian recalls, and despite the event going off without a hitch, it would appear his caution regarding Smile hasn’t abated.
“Not at all,” Freddie beams cheerfully at him. “I’ll let you get back to it. We’ll catch up afterwards, yes?”
“Ah,” Dinesh says, dark eyes glittering with reserved mirth. “There it is.”
Freddie simply smiles at him, melting back into the crowd between Brian and John, letting any who follow his progress know that others from Smile are also present. Around them, the energy of the crowd buzzes frenetically with the building anticipation of the gig. It’s a big crowd for The Crown, Brian notes, his own adrenaline beginning to flow as the band perform their last minute checks and the lights flare upon them suddenly, ready for the gig to begin. As big as the ones drawn for Northern Freight, he reflects, comparing the turnout to what Smile had achieved the last time they played.
The night John had turned his ankle just before the tour, Smile had done quite well for themselves. Mind you, people who drink in The Crown know to expect decent local bands, and many of them have been watching Smile for years, in all its lineups. There’s a reason Brian’s always felt an affinity for the pub and its locals.
As they had during the Christmas festival, the two lead singers switch off on the frontman position, bringing an eclectic mixture to the performance. During the second song, Brian notices Roger at his elbow, returned from playing with Rosie and eyes aglow as he soaks in the music on offer. The boy shifts with the beat, clearly loving the drumming style on show.
“S’good,” the teenager announces between the song and the next, proving Brian correct.
“Aren’t they?” Freddie agrees on Roger’s other side. His eyes are intent upon the stage space, taking in everything the other band is doing. No doubt, Brian surmises as he too returns his attention to Criminally Underrated, and in particular the guitarwork, the frontman’s seeing what he can apply to his own performances and deconstructing the music to find out why the band’s so popular. Looking for that elusive secret to success.
John’s equally captured, Brian notes, turning his head to the younger man. His fingers have been tapping unheard on his pint glass the entire time, synching with the basslines as they switch from the fast paced electricity to the more thoughtful, slower paced heavy rock Brian remembers from before. Changing between main singers as well as styles, Dinesh takes the lead this time. His rougher vocals, that deeper tone holding a growling bite so unlike his speaking voice contrasts with what’s come before. The guitarist, who’d introduced himself as Gary at the beginning of the set, sets his vocals more comfortably in a higher register. Both singers, Brian thinks not for the first time, work well with each type of song they perform.
As before, the drummer and bassist synch wonderfully with each other, providing a solid base for the songs to be built upon. Criminally Underrated, playing their own original songs, have got something for everyone and provide enough changes and switch ups to keep the set interesting. For the next half hour, Brian forgets just why they’ve turned up tonight and simply enjoys an impressive show.
Adding his own voice to the loud cheering as Gary bids the audience farewell, Brian lets his appreciation be heard. As the noise begins to die down, however, his elbow is seized from across Roger.
“We should go speak –”
“Give them a mo,” Brian shakes his head. “Let them at least get their gear out back.”
“I don’t want them to leave before we –”
This time John interrupts the singer. “They won’t.”
“Oh, to have your confidence,” Freddie grumbles and Brian does a double take.
Freddie, who has enough self-assurance to fill a room by himself, complaining. This must mean more than Brian realised, this attempt to shoehorn themselves into the bank holiday concert, if he’s so concerned with missing their opportunity to get an in with those in charge. Whatever the reason behind it, something’s lit a fire in Freddie at any rate.
Accordingly, Freddie keeps a sharp eye on the going on’s before them as the band bustle about in familiar fashion breaking down their set. Fired up himself after the gig, Brian’s more in the mind of pulling his mates back to the flat and pushing them into a rehearsal. His fingers itch for his Old Lady, her sweet siren song compelling, urging him to play.
As the crowd begins to disperse, either for the bar or drifting amongst the tables, standing in groups and huddles, the buzz of multiple conversations flowing, Smile stay close to where the band had performed. Out of the hideous fear of looking like wally’s, they gather to one side, curled amongst themselves and adding to the general hubbub of the pub, discussing what they’ve just heard. One eye, at least, remains on the band’s movements, usually Freddie’s.
“Come on,” Freddie announces at last. He unceremoniously plucks John’s pint out of his hand, placing it on the nearest flat surface as the bassist, hand outstretched, blinks at him.
Brian’s arm is yet again seized and this time he allows himself to be dragged towards the back hallway, Roger and John trailing. Outside, Brian gently disentangles himself as Freddie’s fingers play a beat on his arm. The restlessness transfers itself into a quick pace as the frontman spots the other band, helpfully parked beneath a lamppost, putting their equipment into the back of their van.
Their movement captures the attention of the drummer, who elbows the closest person to him. The guitarist turns, wary expression sinking into one of resigned weariness.
Cracking start, Brian thinks unhappily.
“Here we go,” Gary notes, continuing to eye their approach grumpily. “Take it you’re not here to congratulate us on our gig?”
“Of course we are,” Freddie chirps.
“Enjoyed it thoroughly,” Brian tells them honestly.
“Some brilliant drumming,” Roger nods, directing his attention towards the man in question who remains, it seems, unimpressed. It’s a shame he’s not more receptive, Brian thinks. Roger would no doubt love to discuss techniques and inspirations with the man.
“Cheers,” the guitarist tells them flatly. “That all you wanted?”
“Ease up, Gary,” Dinesh quietly cautions. “They’re not here for trouble, remember?”
“Not at all,” Freddie smiles brightly.
“But you do want something.”
Chuckling lightly, charming instead of retorting in the acerbic way he can when affronted by an accusation, Freddie nods. “Now that you’ve brought it up, we do.”
“Fuck’s sake,” the drummer grunts.
“Might as well hear them out,” Dinesh suggests calmly, brushing his thick, dark, wavy hair away from his eyes.
“Why?” the drummer mutters sourly. “Always someone wanting something for nothing, isn’t there?”
“Hardly for nothing,” Freddie points out warmly. “We sought you out specifically for our Christmas do, after all.”
“Come on, Reg,” Dinesh adds, and he must be better friends with Freddie than Brian realised for him to keep stepping up for him. “Just see what they’ve got to say.”
“It might be untenable,” Freddie begins, hand straying to his hair. “But we were wondering just how close you were to the organisers of the Dagenham Town Show?”
“Bloody hell, don’t want much d’ya?” the bassist barks, laughing, always the most receptive to them aside from Dinesh.
“Can try for us, though,” Roger urges. His large eyes roam the other band. “Can’t you?”
“It’s just a matter of asking a simple question,” Freddie agrees nonchalantly. “Once done, no matter the answer your part is over and you don’t have to think about it again.”
“You got balls, I’ll give you that,” the bassist continues, shaking his head as he eyes Smile, impressed.
“We’re not above chancing our arm,” John allows, small smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
“As any band worth their salt should be,” Freddie adds self-deprecatingly.
“Won’t hurt us,” Dinesh shrugs at Gary, who sighs heavily.
“All right,” he agrees reluctantly. He pokes Dinesh hard on the arm. “You ask. Then we’re square, right?”
Nodding easily, Freddie smiles without showing his teeth. Not quite comfortable with the other band, Brian surmises and doesn’t blame him. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Appreciate it,” Brian agrees.
“Magic,” John smiles. He glances at Freddie. “Remember where you left my pint?”
“Goodness, no.” He smiles at Dinesh. “You’ll let us know?”
“I know how to find you.”
“Wonderful. Thank you, darling.”
“Right, your round I think,” John decides, nudging Freddie back towards the pub.
Lingering a moment, Roger addresses the drummer. Ron, Brian wonders. Rick?
“Really liked your technique,” the teenager tells him.
“Thanks,” the man replies grudgingly. He receives a shove from the bassist. “Uh, remember you from the Christmas thing. Not bad.”
Roger beams. “Cheers.”
“Look at you, Reg,” the bassist laughs. “Making friends despite yourself.”
“Fuck off, Earnie. Ain’t you got a milk float to get back to?”
“Only the fastest one in the west,” Earnie agrees cheerfully and begins to whistle the Christmas number one.
“Come on, you,” Brian snorts at Roger as the young drummer laughs. “The other’s will be wondering where we’ve got to.”
Back inside the pub, Brian is stopped by Trish.
“You better not be upsetting my band,” she warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Trish.”
“We’re behaving,” Roger informs her earnestly. “We’re mates with ‘em.”
Trish doesn’t look convinced. Folding her arms over her chest sternly, she frowns a little. “I know you – better yet, I know Freddie. He’s got that look in his eye.”
“Certainly does,” Brian agrees happily. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”
“Not for anyone in a five mile radius.”
“Ah, don’t be that way,” Brian chuckles. “You love us, remember?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” the woman grunts, her little nose wrinkling and Brian falls in love with her yet again. Her eyes are curious hazel green tonight, he observes, no doubt brought out by the yellow of her dress. “Go on, now. Keep a rein on Freddie before I regret allowing you into my pub.”
“You’re drooling,” Roger comments as the woman leaves to serve another customer.
Feeling the heat of his blush burn his cheeks, Brian turns away to search out the other members of their band.
“What d’ya reckon?” he enquires. “Think Freddie remembered to include us in that round?”
“If he did, doubt I got a pint outta it.”
“Wouldn’t have thought so,” Brian chuckles, his face calming he hopes. “There they are. Let’s go find out if your Freddie godmother’s snuck you a beer.”
Unfortunately for Roger there’s only a glass of orange juice waiting for him. He gulps it greedily down nevertheless, apparently having grown a thirst whilst playing with Rosie. They’re standing close enough to the bar itself for the dog, when she wanders out for a nose about the place, to recognise Roger and come say another happy hello.
Brian grimaces to himself as he sips at his pint, watching them. He would have brought the camera, if only he’d known.
Ruffling the dog’s sleek neck and head, Roger glances up at Freddie. “Think we’ve much of a chance?” he wonders. “Of getting into that concert?”
“They didn’t laugh us out of the gate,” Freddie muses.
“Got to be a good sign,” Brian agrees.
“Your mate didn’t seem like he thought it was a crap idea, either,” John points out. “Was only too happy to try for us.”
“Dinesh’s the sort to give anyone a helping hand,” Freddie replies warmly. “Quite the salt of the earth type, he is.”
“Why’s he friends with you, then?” Brian teases, earning himself a tut and a prod with a long, elegant, and ultimately harsh finger.
“Beast. I’ll have you know, I’m quite marvellous.”
“That mean you’ll sneak me a drink?” Roger wonders, large eyes sparkling playfully.
“I prefer my skin right where it is, sweetheart,” Freddie chuckles.
“Coward,” Brian accuses fondly.
“When it comes to the lovely Trish, absolutely.” The frontman raises an eyebrow at him. “Which is why, one might assume, you’re not leaping to the small child’s cries of salvation.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“You’ll just have to grow up faster,” John informs their little drummer.
“Don’t tell him things like that,” Freddie tsks. He reaches out to fondly run a hand through the boy’s hair, brushing his long fringe back from his face. “The little toerag’s far too aged for his own good as it is.”
“M’not gonna be fifteen forever,” Roger informs the singer loftily.
“And fuck help us at that point,” Freddie replies fervently, dark eyes glittering in fun. He shudders theatrically, causing Roger to roll his eyes at him. “No, Blondie. I think we’re quite happy to have you as you are for now.”