Chapter Text
Tuesday, 9th May 1972;
“Well,” Brian says to himself as he replaces the receiver on the telephone and glances once more at his image staring firm mouthed back at him. “You’ve said it now.”
It’s out there, living in the world, the idea. The promise. And now it is, Smile are just going to have to pull their socks up and get on with it. Brian’s declared them moving forwards, gaining success and if he has nothing to show for those brave words, then more fool him. His mum’ll continue to hesitate on supporting his choice, he won’t be the man his dad wanted of him – he won’t be a son to be proud of.
He is, Brian decides, tired of never being what people want. He tries not to add Becky into that list and fails miserably.
“No more,” he declares out loud and glances about the flat subconsciously. When he can discern no voices coming from Freddie’s room, he realises that not only did his friends leave him alone to chat with his mum, but they absconded from the flat altogether. That’s probably for the best; if Freddie caught him chatting to himself he’d have questions.
Instead, Brian leaves the telephone stand and the flinty eyed man in the mirror and goes to flick the kettle on. Next, he fetches an abandoned notepad and pen and settles onto the sofa. Leave the fancy diagrams to Freddie, Brian’s a list man.
A moment later he’s up and pacing under the watchful stare of Rex the purple lion and why the thing’s still knocking about the front room and not sent to a charity shop yet, Brian can’t fathom.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters as bright purple eyes track his movements and goes into the kitchen where saner waters, and Wilfred, reside. Finishing making his tea, Brian glances at the tall plant. It’s been doing quite well under their haphazard care, surprisingly enough. Would that they could do the same for the band. “That’s the trouble, though, isn’t it?”
Wilfred doesn’t answer, sitting serenely in the pot and waiting, Brian feels, for more.
“We’re far too haphazard about things. Leaving it to chance more often as not, going after small venues or far-flung places.” He sighs, picks up his pen and taps it on the counter. Stopping himself, he shakes his head. He’s getting as bad as Roger for banging on things. Only yesterday the boy had treated them to a six minute kitchen drum solo instead of attending to the washing up.
Bending over the notepad laying on the countertop, Brian pulls himself together. First things first, the complaint he’d noted to Wilfred. Focus, he writes and nods to himself. A good start even if he says so himself. No more of this wishy-washy bunch of maybes. Better venues, he puts down next and pauses. It’s all well and good declaring they want ‘better’, but so far anything a mite more known than their regular haunts has consisted of Morrigan’s a stone’s throw away from them and following Tim around to where Humpy Bong play.
“You’re not wrong,” Brian absently tells Wilfred, although the plant might not have said anything. He taps his pen again; this time leaving a few dots of ink and tuts at himself. Still, the idea bears looking into.
Wandering across to the sofa with mug and notepad in hand, Brian ponders their options. Making a sub list under Better venues, Brian begins to slowly make a record of desired places. He starts fairly small, pubs and Uni’s with the sort of reputation of Morrigan’s and The Friar’s Rest that in the past Freddie and Tim had expressed an interest in, and those ones Brian’s own music loving wandering has led him to on nights out. Then he gets braver and lists the really good ones. The more famous ones, like The Greyhound in Croydon where he and Roger had seen Electric Light Orchestra play, ones that attract bands in the public awareness, that have a reputation of either bringing a band to light or bringing in already known groups. To this second group of venues, Brian goes further afield; The Cavern Club in Liverpool naturally tops that particular wish list.
After spending several moments imagining stepping out on stage in The Beatles’ famous venue, Brian gets back to the main list again. Aiming for better venues isn’t all that much, when you get down to the nitty gritty. They need practical. Doable. Things that’ll allow those bigger, brighter places to want them.
They need, he decides, promotion, and adds it to the list.
He hesitates over the next one. Raymond’s not a big fan of their originals, it seems and that makes this next idea tricky. It’s just for now, he reassures himself swiftly, focusing on what he wants rather than the stumbling blocks Raymond’s presented. Build from the base up, he nods, and jots down the thought he’d been pausing on. Experiment, he writes. Break free from the crowd. What people love about Criminally Underrated and Northern Freight and even Tim’s Humpy Bong these days as far as Brian can see, is that the bands stand apart from the rest. They each bring something unique, and what was it John had said upon first hearing them … Smile, at least a little unique.
It'd be nice to keep that alive.
“We need to be known as us,” Brian murmurs and doubts the uniqueness should come from having a teenage drummer alone. All those bits and pieces they’ve been slowly adding into their songs over the past few months – the experimenting he had put down – the clever twists, the incredible high notes Roger manages with his absurdly good drumming, the eye-wateringly excellent bass John delivers, Freddie’s stunning vocals; any one of those things could do it by itself. “And we’ve got it all,” Brian notes.
There’s really no reason why they shouldn’t be swamped in fans and offers for gigs. Staring at his list, half dreams and half realisation, Brian pauses. It’s got potential. Looking up, he nods at Rex.
“No time like the present.”
Rising to his feet, he returns to the telephone. This time as he happens to glance at himself in their little mirror, he sees a man determined to make a difference. Just the way his parents had envisioned.
He catches Raymond at home, and once more Brian can’t help but wonder just what it is the man does all day. Pushing the thought aside, he gets down to business.
“Was thinking,” he begins and winces. Not exactly the forthright, certain start he’d hoped for. “We should move forward some more.”
There’s a slight pause. “You’ve got something in mind?”
“I do,” Brian nods, despite Raymond being unable to see him. He begins to list the first one on his list of grander venues, only to be cut off as soon as he starts.
“Right, I was on my way out. I can get to you tomorrow afternoon, how’s that sound?”
“All right,” Brian blinks, feeling the impetuous beginning to slip away. “Of course.”
“Better do this face to face,” Raymond continues.
“Right,” Brian says again. Biting his lip, he says goodbye and groans to himself.
Beautiful. Wonderful start to his more active, determined self. Cut off at the knees before he even takes the first step. Still, he reminds himself. There’s tomorrow. It just means he can prepare better for pushing Raymond to get them the places he wants. All he needs to do now is keep the impetus going and to that end, he puts his list away – no need to get the others excited without cause – and pulls out the Red Special.
He's going through Doing All Right and his second solo when the front door opens, bringing in his flatmates.
“It’s not Sympathy for the Devil,” Freddie remarks to Roger. “I think we’re all right.”
“Hello, Fred,” Brian smiles resignedly, accepting the light teasing. “Make yourself useful and come practise. You too, Rog.”
“Brilliant.” Large blue eyes shine immediately upon the command and before either of his older flatmates can stop him, Roger’s dumped his jacket and shoes in the centre of the small front room and made for his drums.
“Honestly, Blondie,” Freddie scolds mildly. “Pick up this mess, would you darling?”
“I can do it later.”
“I’ll be trampling all over it as we rehearse,” the singer threatens and this drags the little drummer back out from his kit. Freddie smiles in triumph. “We’ll have you trained eventually, angel.”
“Jus’ for this,” Roger retorts, kicking everything into a pile by the door. “I’m playing extra fast.”
“Rotter.”
Shaking his head at the pair of them, Brian can’t stop the smile. How can Smile fail with its current members, numpties the lot of them, he asks of himself. Certainly, all this personality and talent’s got to count for something. And he wouldn’t want them any other way.
Wednesday, 10th May 1972;
“I’m sticking around.”
Roger’s chin is tilted up, that defiant little motion he makes when preparing to stand his ground. Watching the teenager, blue eyes narrowed and brow drawn down, Brian shakes his head in exasperation.
“If you like.”
He’d have preferred not to have Roger potentially scowling and biting through this chat, but since it concerns the band, and Roger’s career, livelihood, and friends, he can’t precisely push the boy out the door. As tempting as the idea now seems.
Huffing, Roger continues to glare at Brian. “Why didn’t you say summat earlier?”
Brian knows what he’s really asking. Freddie and John are blissfully unaware of the scheme Brian’s hatched, and Roger would have been also had he not thrown the towel in early on his busking and come back to the flat for an extended session on the drums before the practise they’d scheduled. John’s due to finish Uni around half three and so they’d arranged to gather about four, ahead of their gig at Morrigan’s that evening.
“Thought I’d surprise you all,” Brian replies and it’s only half a lie so he thinks he gets away with it.
“Bollocks.”
Or maybe not.
“I wasn’t going to agree to anything,” Brian protests. “Not without bringing you lot into it. Just wanted to hear what the man had to say and get us going from there. Test the waters, as it were.”
His little drummer doesn’t look completely convinced, but he does ease up on the scowling.
“Suppose that’s not too bad,” he grunts and scuffs a hand into his hair. Peering up at Brian through his messy fringe, he sighs. “All right, what’re we doing?”
“We’re giving him a wish list,” Brian replies. “Just looking for somewhere to focus our efforts, goals to achieve, that sort of thing.”
Roger seems dubious on the vagueness of Brian’s plan and he almost offers to show him his list so the teenager can see where he’s heading with it all. He’d expounded his original thoughts with notations, highlighted the areas he’d really wanted to take note of, asterisked various bits. It’s turning into a proper plan of action and is indicative of the many years of paper writing Brian’s had in university.
“S’not the worst idea,” Roger allows grudgingly before Brian can go get it.
“Cheers. So much.”
“Wanker. D’ya think we can convince ‘im our stuff’s good?”
Brian bites his cheek. Roger’s been on a tear recently over playing their originals. Mostly, Brian suspects, because Raymond’s said they should pull back on them.
“He likes our stuff,” Brian declares, although the man hasn’t said much beyond urging them to play covers for the gigs he’d booked them. Which doesn’t sound like he likes their songs much, actually, but Brian thinks Raymond’s simply getting them to lay a firmer foundation for their future. Telling Roger so, Brian’s met with more scepticism than he’d have expected from a fifteen-year-old.
“Don’t seem like it.” Sighing again, Roger slumps onto the sofa. “S’fucking crap, this. Why the fuck can’t we play what we like?”
It’s not the first time Roger’s made the complaint and so Brian, since he and Freddie have answered more than once, takes no notice.
“Chin up,” he says instead. “Not long from now and we’ll have all of London at our feet.”
Roger’s scepticism shows through again. “Been listening to Freddie, ain’t you?”
“He’s not wrong,” Brian defends. He has, admittedly, been listening to the frontman for years and between him and Tim, Smile’s been dragged out of the gutter wash of London’s music scene and away from the messy, unheard beginnings of a band’s life. It’s only fair that Brian continues to put his trust in all that hard work, surely.
Roger snorts at him, meanwhile, deciding Brian on not sharing the past few thoughts with the boy. Instead, he shakes his head at his young friend. “What’s all this, mate? You’re normally so enthusiastic.”
For a moment, Roger’s expression shows all his vulnerabilities, all his hesitations and misgivings, before he does his best to clamp down on them. Biting his cheek on his smile, Brian waits the small drummer out. Well aware he’s hopeless at hiding his feelings, Roger ducks his head, letting his hair swing down to help mask his thoughts, but can’t seem to help peering up through his long eyelashes at Brian all the same.
That trust they’ve been nurturing is coming into its own, Brian thinks fondly.
“He really know better, you think?”
“Its what he does,” Brian nods quietly. Leaning back against the table, he eyes the teenager. “We’re not his first band, remember?”
“Yeah,” Roger sighs huskily.
Brian pushes the point, not for the first time. “He’s got Criminally Underrated a decent way, hasn’t he?” If he were Freddie, he’d reach out and brush a hand through that shining mass of blond hair, offering physical comfort as well as verbal. But he isn’t, and so Brian leaves the boy alone, trusting in his words to bring that comfort instead. “He can do the same for us. More, if Freddie’s to be believed.”
This earns a little huff of laughter and the lifting of Roger’s head. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
Concerned by the ongoing reservations Roger has over Raymond, Brian bites his lip. “He say something to you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
“Jus’ seems a bit dodgy, is all.”
Nodding slowly, Brian can’t dispute that. He doesn’t particularly look it, admittedly, but Raymond appears to have all sorts of connections and the ways he’s got Smile into gigs has been a bit … roundabout, really.
“He’s a band manager,” he says thoughtfully. “Suppose you have to be a bit able to bend sideways to get the deals you’re after.”
Roger hesitates a second, before dipping his head in agreement. Still, he appears troubled, and Brian can’t help but wonder if the life he had down in Cornwall’s somehow playing into his doubts. He’s still not entirely clear on what it is Roger’s dad does for a living, and the fact he’s not above guilting his teenage son into sending cash says a lot.
“Look,” Brian offers gently. “All we’re doing today is seeing what’s what. We don’t have to agree to anything – and shouldn’t without the others,” he adds, wincing in remembrance of John’s disappointment when he’d learnt Brian had made a band decision solo. He perseveres. “Nothing’s going to be set in stone, we’re just trying to get some ideas about where we’re looking next.”
“All right,” Roger agrees, sounding more certain to Brian’s relief. It’s just as well, too, since in the next instance there’s knocking on the door.
As Roger stands, as ever insistent on meeting people, especially those he’s not feeling great about, on his feet and unhidden, Brian goes to answer the door. He’s not sure where Raymond’s been this afternoon, if there’s a day job he has that he’s come from just to answer Brian’s questions, but he’s in a suit again. This one is a slightly lighter shade of brown than the previous one and includes a waistcoat.
Brian has the sudden thought the man might have dedicated suits for each day of the week and has to bite down on the snort that the idea provokes.
“Raymond, thanks for this,” he says instead, welcoming the man into the flat.
“It’s what I’m here for,” Raymond tells him, frowning a little upon seeing Roger.
“All right?” the teenager nods hello.
Smoothing his expression into one of benign interest, Raymonds enquires of them, “What was it you wanted to discuss?”
A flutter of excitement surprises Brian. Is this it, he wonders. The birth of Smile’s new focus. “We want more gigs.”
“Sounds about right.”
A little disappointed by their manager’s lack of jumping enthusiastically into ideas, Brian frowns. “No, I mean –”
“I know what you mean. Not the first time I’ve had this chat with a band, lads.”
“What happens next, then?” Roger asks.
“We stay on track. Let’s see how you get on at The Friar’s Rest, for example.”
Biting his lip, Brian shakes his head. “We want to get going –”
“Jump into too much too fast, you’ll burn out and people’ll get sick of seeing you.”
“Don’t sound right,” Roger protests. “More exposure, more fans, innit?”
Mouth flattening into a thin line, Raymond eyes the pair of them. “Appreciate your eagerness,” he says softly, hard eyes cold and at odds with his words.
“It’s more than that,” Brian replies. “We’re not dreaming pie in the sky, here. We’ve got talent, we’ve got music to share –”
“And we wanna get cracking on it.” This time it’s Brian’s small drummer that interrupts him, but he allows it. Roger’s got the right of it, after all.
Again, their manager hesitates. “At this stage,” he begins finally, “we’re talking cash. Upfront payments, quiet words in rather deaf ears. A lot of payments,” he elaborates. “You willing to spend what you’d be making on this? Perhaps more than what you'd be making?”
“Expected as much,” Brian says, although he’s a bit discouraged to hear Raymond thinks they still need to pay their way in now he’s seen a few of their gigs. He takes a bracing breath and steers himself back on track. “I’ve had some thoughts as to where we might want to look for work.”
“Have you now.” That raised eyebrow, Brian thinks, isn’t especially impressed.
Undaunted, he lists several of the more desirable venues that, after a long, hard think, he doesn’t feel is too far out of the band’s limited reach at present. The others, naturally, are several steps away on his list and he’s content for the moment to just get the ball rolling and make those first forays into deeper waters.
Roger, he notes, looks impressed at this forethought. Brian’s not sure if the boy recognises any of the places, although he might have visited one or two when he was doing the set up for Harry Briggs and Northern Freight back in the day. All the same, he can’t help but bask in the warm glow of his drummer’s approval, which makes a nice change from Raymond’s chilled stillness.
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” the man tells them. He holds a hand up to still the protests. “All I’m saying is, small steps, yeah? I’ll look into a couple for now, and when you’ve made a bit more of yourselves, we’ll see about getting you some others.”
“We’ll need to ask Freddie and Deacs first,” Roger warns, to which Raymond dips his head.
“I’ll still put feelers out.” He directs a look at Brian. “It’s a sound plan. I’m not trying to pour cold water over your ambitions, just trying to manage expectations here.”
That seems reasonable, and Brian nods his understanding. “Those first two, if possible,” he ventures anyway, “would be top of my current list. Sally Lane and The Keep and Candle.”
“Like I said before, they’ll cost you.” Raymond takes a moment to let that sink in. “Chances are, for the next month or so you’ll be spending more than you’re earning.”
“S’fine,” Roger tells him and no doubt, Brian thinks, the boy’s plotting to book themselves into their usual places some more to offset the cost.
Raymond might be thinking the same thing, if his low hum is anything to go by. “Got one or two things I’d like to suggest,” the man announces instead of remarking upon it, eyes on Roger.
Brian grimaces. If it’s the usual point of Roger’s age, he’s going to be bang out of luck. They’re not exactly possessed of a time machine.
“You might want to think about benching the drum solo number.”
“What?” Roger demands hotly. “Why?”
“You could do with a little less spotlight.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Roger snarls. “Why the cunting fuck do I –”
“Rog,” Brian stops him. Glancing at Raymond, he rephrases Roger’s question. “Any reason our drummer needs to step back?”
“Tends to highlight those lack of years,” Raymond replies, as serious as ever despite Roger’s thunderous scowl and unrelenting stream of swearing.
“It’s part of what we’re known for,” Brian says, reaching out to grip a small, thin shoulder as Roger continues to spit insults. “That’s enough,” he adds to the furious teenager, risking turning the ire onto himself.
“Got a lot of talent, this band,” Raymond answers, “but you won’t make it on that alone.”
“Fucking could,” Roger retorts, shoving both hands into his hair angrily.
Ignoring him, Raymond continues. “You look the part, mostly,” and here his gaze slides briefly to Roger. “Which is in your favour. But put your teenage drummer front and centre and you’re hurting that image.”
Brian chances a glance at Roger. They’ve lost bookings before simply on first sight of the fifteen-year-old, and Tim from the start had had reservations about how it’d look for Smile to have the boy in the band… All the same, they’ve always come out on top. There’s a reason they wanted Roger, and it’s got nothing to do with his age.
“He’s a brilliant drummer,” Brian defends.
“Not saying you’re not,” Raymond acknowledges to Roger. “Just suggesting you let the music do the talking for you for a while.”
“Hide in the back and pretend I’m not fifteen,” Roger grunts, interpreting swiftly.
If their manager feels even a bit bad about it, he doesn’t show it.
“Take out the drum number,” Raymond advises again. “And we’ll have an easier time getting the gigs we want.”
It’s a rough judgement. Brian bites his lip again and this time doesn’t dare to look at his young bandmate. “We’ll have a chat amongst us,” he says instead and feels like a coward. Firmer, he adds, “We like having Rog stand out.”
Raymond’s cold, pale gaze slices through him like a winter’s chill. “All well and good, for where you’re at. But you called me here to discuss getting serious about things. You want to move forwards, best to take some advice.”
“All right,” Brian quietly says. “We’ll talk it over.”
“You do that. I’ll see you boys tonight.”
For a few minutes after he leaves, Brian and Roger are silent.
“Suppose we can drop Moby for now,” Roger eventually says. He doesn’t sound happy, but shrugs at Brian. “S’not as if we need it anymore. ‘Sides, I’m still playing everything else, ain’t I?”
Nodding slowly, Brian tells him, “Let’s see what the others think, eh?”