Chapter Text
Wednesday, 24th May 1972;
For a moment there’s a ringing silence as the echo of the door shutting bounces off the concrete pavement and brick walls at the back of the pub.
“That utter bastard.”
Freddie’s voice is low, quiet, not the explosive fury Brian would have expected. Slowly, he turns to look at his old friend, noticing the dark glitter in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth.
“Suppose we should have predicted something like this,” he mutters, redirecting his gaze towards the door and the barring of their hopes and dreams of moving forwards into better venues.
“Predicted the cock would sabotage us?” John harrumphs.
“Just another thing to bring up when you meet with him,” Freddie growls. “When were you planning on that? Because on second thought, I think I’d like to join you.”
“Me too,” Brian seethes. “Fucking twat.”
Throughout, Roger’s remained quiet, head bowed and, Brian now notices, having taken a step back. Perfect. Either fearing ramifications for having brought this about, however much Brian and Freddie were on the same page as him, or simply uncomfortable with the amount of anger washing through the long, thin courtyard at the back of the pub, Roger’s sought to maintain a distance, to give himself a chance at protection should the need arise.
Biting his cheek, Brian frowns. He thought they were through this, yet still it can go either way it seems – either an eruption of formidable temper, or a full-scale retreat.
“All right, mate?” he asks quietly, setting aside his disappointment in order to sound calm. An attempt at it, at any rate.
It succeeds in bringing those large blue eyes up to him, at least. Roger trusts them enough not to lose the plot with him, surely, Brian hopes as he slowly puts down his amp and takes a step towards the boy. Conflict is clear in his young friend’s gaze; blistering fury, sorrowful disappointment, trembling uncertainty, brave resolve. Carefully, letting Roger decide if he wants to remain or retreat again, Brian lifts his hand and places it on the back of the teenager’s neck, the way his dad always showed he cared, that he loved, that he hadn’t been driven away by whatever Brian had done, or thought he’d done.
The way he doesn’t any longer.
“M’sorry.”
The husky grunt pulls Brian back to Smile’s situation and away from the sharp pain of his own, personal one.
“Nonsense,” he murmurs at the little drummer, as Freddie turns to them.
“We should have seen his dark side sooner, angel,” the singer declares, a mixture of soothing tones and swirling anger, strange and stunning as Freddie so often is. All the same, Brian can feel the tense muscles beneath his hand release a fraction.
“Suppose there’s nothing for it tonight,” John sighs, nodding to the gear they’re still toting. “Best get this lot packed away, eh?”
Glaring furiously at the locked door, Roger snarls softly, anger coming to the fore now he’s assured no one blames him nor seeks retribution. “Fucking wankers. Shouldn’t be able to jus’ give our night away.”
“If they’ve got the band manager telling them we’ve let them down,” Freddie bites angrily, “and that there’s a replacement they know and like waiting in the wings, I don’t suppose they care.”
“Fucking cunts. Coulda fucking checked.” Allowing Brian to get him moving, Roger turns with John to head back to the van. Not without a parting shot, however. “Wankers!”
The bellowed word echoes pleasingly and for a moment they pause looking at each other. Then, as if a lit line of gunpowder runs between them, one by one they start laughing.
“Wankers!” Freddie shouts, letting his voice ring out magnificently.
“Cocks!” John calls, and again they start laughing.
Naturally enough, Brian has to give it a go also. “Twats!”
They giggle amongst themselves once more, stowing the equipment they’d pulled out. There’s no chance anyone inside the pub could possibly hear them, but anyone passing by might take a second look at the rear of the building where the shouts are coming from and the thought, shared amongst them with a few more glances, sets them off again.
It’s a bitter disappointment, of course, and Brian has no doubt it’ll rankle and chafe for some time yet, but at least no one’s breaking fingers thumping the van. Thank fuck, with the tour looming ever closer. The fact they’ve got it to focus their energies into is a good bit of luck, for a change, Brian considers as he climbs into the Green Beast after Roger. It allows them something to turn their attention to, lets them come back to the issue of The Friar’s Rest after a spell to settles themselves, rather than throw their fury against a brick wall.
As obstinate as they are, still it wouldn’t be likely to get them anywhere.
He’s about to shut the sliding door when he realises Freddie’s made no move to join them in the van.
“Walking home?” John enquires mildly, leaning out the driver’s door.
“I think I should at least speak to Bernie.”
“No,” Brian refutes instantly. “Not when you’re this angry.”
“I’m bloody furious,” Freddie responds darkly. “Still, Bernie should know the truth and sooner rather than later.”
Biting his lip, Brian glances at the others. “I suppose.”
“You three get along home,” Freddie tells them, waving them off with a swiftly moving hand, frustration evident in his movements. “All I’m going to do is let Bernie know the reason we’re out here and not on stage at present.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No, Blondie. You go home, talk Bri into digging out the biscuits or something.”
They hesitate, dubious someone shouldn’t stay with Freddie. Not that they don’t trust the singer to keep his cool or explain the situation rationally – and it’s not as if it’ll likely take long, unless Bernie’s too busy for a chat. Still, there’s this nagging feeling that two heads are better than one.
Beginning to clamber back out, Brian shakes his head. “I’ll stay with you.”
Shoving him back inside, Freddie tsks. “Honestly, Bri, I’m perfectly capable of speaking to the man myself. Besides, I rather feel as if I want the time alone.”
He doesn’t give Brian chance to protest again, pulling the door shut after him. Through John’s open door, he hears the man call out.
“Off you pop now. I’ll see you later.”
“Best do as he says,” Brian grunts, rubbing his elbow where he’d banged it on the unexpected way back into the van. “Bloody tosser.”
“Brian says he loves you,” John reports to Freddie. Shutting the door, he twists to smile at Brian. “Do you want to know his response?”
“Think I can guess.”
Smirking, John turns back to start up the engine, waiting for the second catch as always. It’s in this odd mood they go back to the flat, missing a limb it feels and fighting emotions, not quite able to let go just yet. Roger in particular expresses it in constant motion, roaming through the flat’s little front room like a caged tiger, occasionally giving vent to his anger. John hovers, not ready to be with his thoughts it would seem, and unsure what to do with himself, plucking at the few bits and bobs lying about the room. It takes Brian a good ten minutes before he realises all of Roger’s usual mess is getting tidied.
“All right, this is no good.”
“Fucking isn’t,” Roger agrees, likely thinking he means The Friar’s Rest booting them.
“No,” Brian stresses, “this.” Gesturing to his younger bandmates, he shakes his head. “If we’re not going to relax, we might as well be productive. Rog, nip in and grab Freddie’s record player. Deacs, give me a hand getting my records.”
Decisive isn’t usually what Brian does, so faced with the unexpected commands the others obey without hesitation. It’s rather nice, Brian muses, but contingent on it being done once in a blue moon. Handing a pile of LPs to John, he smiles at the quizzically amused expression on the student’s face.
“Come on,” he directs, grabbing the rest.
“What we need all that for?” Roger asks as they return, already setting up the player.
“We got a few ideas for Crashers earlier,” Brian replies, setting his load down beside the player. They’d gone over to Alan’s earlier that day, where Crasher’s rehearse, and grilled them on what they know, what might suit and how well they could learn new songs. It’d been a bit rough in places, but generally productive. “Might as well see if we can pick out one or two others to see if they want them.”
Pulling a stack off the table, Roger drops to his knees on the floor, flipping rapidly through them. “S’not a bad idea.”
“Cheers, mate,” Brian snorts.
Noticing the albums the teenager’s pulled, John taps him on the shoulder. “Remember, things that suit Crashers, not what you happen to enjoy most.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Cos I don’t see Becky doing much from the Easy Rider soundtrack.”
“Cracking stuff,” Roger defends, but reconsiders nevertheless.
“I don’t know,” Brian says. “Think she could do a decent job on Bob Dylan.”
They collectively pause to try and imagine Crashers performing It’s Alright Ma, (I’m Only Bleeding).
“Might and all,” John relents, taking the album from Roger. “We want to give them another older song, though?”
“Probably not,” Brian shrugs, taking the album in turn and sliding the vinyl out. Setting it on the record player, he offers a smile as Steppenwolf start up with The Pusher. “Still, we could keep it in reserve. Just in case nothing else comes up.”
“Next one’s better,” Roger opines, reclaiming the album sleeve and scanning the list. He’s not wrong, Born to Be Wild was attention grabbing from the start and might have been on Smile’s setlist back in the day.
“Fuck, I enjoyed playing that one,” Brian reminisces.
“Me too,” Roger nods, although he hadn’t, of course, been in the band at the time. Expectantly, they turn to John.
“Yep,” he agrees. “Used to do this one too.”
“She’d do all right on it, wouldn’t she? Becky?” Roger muses as the LP catches up to them and the song starts.
“Would,” Brian says, and wonders if he’ll ever find something he doesn’t think she can excel at.
“Shame it’s all so old now,” John points out. He’s not wrong; three years isn’t particularly old by most standards, yet in terms of music it’s ancient.
Nudging Roger with his leg, Brian gets them moving on. “What else did you pull out?”
Brian’s rather extensive collection of Beatles albums are skipped over, he notes.
“Bit old again,” John comments, noticing his frown as he crouches to sort through them.
“Fuck it, most of this is gonna be old,” Roger sighs, sitting back and scuffing a hand through his hair. “Ain’t you got anything recent?”
“Got The Who,” Brian points out, standing again and taking Who’s Next from the stack remaining on the table and brandishing it at his friends.
“Old,” Roger proclaims.
Protesting, Brian waves it again. “It was only released in September.”
“Might work,” John shrugs, taking it from Brian and scanning the songs on offer. “Here, take that off and let’s have a listen.”
They do as suggested and grimace amongst themselves as Baba O’Riley starts. While a banger of a song, that synth isn’t going to be replicated by a band with only three members and no keyboard.
“Suppose Alan could do what you did,” Roger suggests, a fan of The Who and clearly reluctant to let the song slip away. “When we played it here.”
“Suppose so,” Brian nods, glancing at John to explain. “I took the riff on the Red Special.”
“Did it work?”
“Yeah, Rog hit the drums good and hard, giving us that depth,” Brian remembers. It’d only been a mess about early on in knowing the little drummer, but he’d quite liked what they’d done. Listening now, he muses on the prospect. “Becky’s got the bass, Graham’s drumming’s up to the task and Alan can switch out to the usual guitar line after the start can’t he?”
“It’s a contender,” John decides, hunting around for his little book. Scribbling inside, he offers a lopsided smile when he notices Brian and Roger watching. “In case we forget what we’re thinking of suggesting.”
“Cos you’re so old too?” Roger asks, giggling. It’s good to hear and Brian smiles also, pleased his distraction’s worked.
“Cheeky,” he hums.
Giggling again, Roger goes back to digging amongst the LP’s before him. Something catches his eye and he raises The Moody Blues. “Bit much, or doable?”
Mentally reviewing Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, Brian hesitates. Smile had done The Story in Your Eyes previously, so they’d be on hand to do a spot of teaching. Crashers haven’t, after all, got long to learn anything before the tour kicks off and when Smile had descended upon them earlier that day, had had a wild, frantic look about them. Any way they can easier pick up stuff, the better, really.
Nodding to John, he directs the younger man to put down the song. “Before your time, wasn’t it?”
“Mmm,” the bassist agrees, looking up from his writing only to be confronted by Jimi Hendrix’s Experience. “Hello.”
“Too ambitious?” Roger wonders, again waving it at John.
“Probably,” Brian shrugs. “They’ve not got long to get to grips with it, have they?”
Amused grey-green eyes turn his way. “That’s diplomatic.”
“We could always drop Stay With Me, or something like that,” Brian says, hastily moving on. “Let them play it instead.” It’s another they can teach the other band having played it often themselves, and not essential to Smile’s own setlist, so John pops it down with the other suggestions.
“M’putting Moby Dick back in, ain’t I?” Roger asks, abandoning his look through Brian’s record collection. “Now that wanker’s gone.”
“Yeah,” Brian agrees. They’ve not really decided on how long each band is playing yet – there’s been talk of twenty or thirty minutes each, with the various venues they’ve secured looking for different sets. The uni’s for example, are more accustomed to slightly longer acts, while the pubs tend to go for shorter. Either way, Roger’s Moby rendition should certainly have a place in Smile’s own tour.
Before they can get into what else each of them would like to make sure gets played on tour, the front door opens.
“Hello, darlings,” Freddie greets, and Brian bites his lip. From the tone alone, he’d hazard a guess things with Bernie didn’t go spectacularly well.
“No joy?” he asks softly.
“Bernie couldn’t give a rat’s arse what happened, or how Raymond’s stuck the knife in,” Freddie reports. “As far as he’s concerned, we’re unreliable, let our personal matters affect our gigs and won’t be booked for some time, if ever.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Roger snarls, fury welling once more and Brian despairs. He’d just gotten everyone calmed down, hadn’t he. As if proving his point, Rex goes flying across the front room, landing with an unsatisfactory little thump beside the drums.
At least he’s not chucking records.
Deciding to let the boy vent for a moment, Brian instead turns to John. “You make sure you get back any backhand Raymond gave Bernie,” he instructs firmly. “Since he screwed us out of the booking, it’s not valid anymore.”
“I’ll do more than that when I see him,” Freddie declares and Brian grunts unhappily.
“Let Deacy deal with it. Rog, you throw that shoe, I’m not taking it to be repaired.”
Roger does throw the shoe, but aims it at the floor rather than the far wall. It is, after all, one of his beloved white ones and he’s already had to smooth out the scuff marks on them twice before.
Sensible to the last, John both takes a sidestep away from the angry little drummer and proffers their evening’s work to Freddie. “Been taking a look at suggestions for Crashers.”
“Marvellous. Are you about tomorrow? We could do with your help getting them in line.”
“Finish at half three,” John shrugs. “Leave the gear in the van, I can meet you there.”
Thursday, 25th May 1972;
Persuading his friends to stick to their usual routine, Brian had managed to get Roger and Freddie to set up their respective jobs in the market. When big blue eyes had turned to him, fractious and still spoiling for a fight, Brian had offered to accompany the young busker and spend the morning with him. It’d cheered Roger up nicely, made Freddie jealous to be left out, and been a lot of fun and full of music.
All in all a decent morning, if he does say so himself. Brian had thought he’d seen Raymond’s car close to the market, but neither of the others had and the consensus had been he’s having paranoid hallucinations.
“Rotters,” Freddie accuses later, the moment they step into his stall to help pack up that afternoon. “Here I am, earning a hard crust while the pair of you’ve been mucking about all day.”
“Give over,” Brian snorts. “You love your stall.”
Sighing, Freddie tosses his hair over his shoulder. “That’s besides the point.” Finding Roger in close proximity, he soothes his ruffled feathers by brushing a hand through the teenager’s fringe. “Tell me what you played, darling.”
Roger starts up a list of their exploits, such as they are, nattering happily as he helps his older friends work on closing the stall.
“You’re chatty today,” Freddie remarks, finalising the shut down.
“Don’t knock it,” Brian mutters out the side of his mouth and grimaces at the way things could have gone if Roger wasn’t possessed of such a naturally cheerful demeaner. Once the tempest of fire abates, that emerging phoenix is quite a sweet little creature.
They’re a touch early when they get to Alan’s, and so only have Roger’s acoustic with them. It earns them a bit of a look from Graham when Roger opens his guitar case.
“Going unplugged today?”
“Deacy’s got our stuff,” Brian tells him. To Alan, he adds, “While we wait for him, how’re you fixed on Baba O’Riley?”
It turns out Alan’s never played it, considering the heavy synth at the beginning and Brian, wishing for the Red Special, nevertheless goes over what he’d done before on the Dreadnought. Mirroring each other, Alan nods, eyes intent on Brian’s playing and easily mimicking him.
“There, that’s it,” Brian smiles. “What do you think?”
“Shoulda brought the album with us,” Roger notes, catching the rest of Crasher’s dubious glances. Apparently, neither Becky nor Graham are familiar with the playing of the song.
Pursing his lips, Freddie takes stock. “Right, we’ll do our best to teach it,” he decides. “And for the first couple of nights, you’ll simply have to play your usual setlist until you get to grips with it.”
“Fuck,” Graham swears. “Sorry, we thought we had decent stuff.”
“Gig goers are fickle, at times,” Brian commiserates. “Turn from you in an instant, unless it’s a song they’ve come to expect from you.”
“Must be nice to be past that,” Becky smiles and no one corrects her assumption. An artist’s ego is sight to behold, Brian reflects, himself basking in her admiration.
Puffed up proudly, Freddie leads the other vocalist through the lyrics, while Roger demonstrates the drumming for Graham. Into this mix of musical education, John arrives, lugging his bass as a first thought as he leaves the van.
“Good, you can take Becky through the song,” Freddie declares, stepping back.
“Baba O’Riley,” Brian tells the student. “If you hadn’t guessed.”
“Right you are.”
Watching John settle next to Becky, seeing her pale gaze seeking the other bassist’s and her sweet smile directed his way, a surge of irrational jealousy runs through Brian. It’d been all right with Freddie, a touch of distance between the two, but with the way Becky ducks her head close to John’s as if sharing secrets or simply wishing to draw closer to the man, Brian finds his jaw clamped tight enough to ache.
“Go make yourself useful, for pity’s sake,” Freddie hisses at him, elbow sharp in his side.
Feeling the blush flow across his cheeks, Brian takes a quick breath to calm himself. There’s nothing in it, he tells himself, making for Alan once more. Becky’s not flirting or signalling a preference for John; she’s simply attempting to soak up the song he’s taking her through.
Brian’s never felt more like he chose the wrong instrument than he does right now.
Noticing Alan’s expectant glance, he summons a weak smile.
“Let me go get the Fireplace. Make life easier.”
“Why don’t I help you, darling?”
Freddie at his heels, Brian leaves the suddenly too warm, too small flat. Outside, he pauses at the Green Beast, leaning his back against its side, grateful for the support holding him up.
“Fuck’s sake.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Don’t start.”
“Don’t you start. Good grief, you looked as if you were going to offer poor Deacy a beating.”
“I’d never.”
“I know, honestly, Bri,” Freddie tuts. “You’re not a violent man.”
Grunting, Brian doesn’t answer.
“You are, however,” Freddie continues, “quite the romantic. You daft sod, I highly doubt fair maiden’s going to appreciate being fought over. Duels are last century, darling.”
“I’m not fighting anyone,” Brian mutters. “Besides myself.”
Tsking, Freddie relaxes with a smile. “You have the soul of poet, did you know that? The good and the bad.”
“Wonderful.”
“We’ll just have to direct this lovelorn self pity into something productive.”
Eyeing his old friend, Brian’s lips twitch in spite of himself. “You want me to write.”
“Naturally. Pity we don’t really have the time for something new, we’ll never get it complete before the tour’s over.”
“Pity,” Brian echoes with a snort.
“All the same, you’ve a couple of weeks to continue suffering,” Freddie notes cheerfully.
“Beautiful. Cheers, mate. Just what I wanted to hear.”
“It’s either you use this pining constructively, or you make a determined effort to move on,” Freddie shrugs, pushing Brian out of the way of the sliding door. “Entirely up to you.”
Grabbing Brian’s guitar case, and leaving Brian with the heavy box amp, Freddie offers a smile and turns back to the flat.