Dream On Read Free Page A

Mass came on one of
these days. Shane had got talking to this guy called Kieran who was looking
for another guitarist/vocalist for his new band.
    "He doesn't want me 'cause I haven't got the right
image, but I gave him some of our tapes and he likes your voice, man!" Shane
said. "Here's his number - give the dude a call!"
    So Dave Bentley became the front man for Critical
Mass, a band so heavy in its metal that it bordered on thrash, not something Dave
had embraced before.  But he was out there, playing in pubs and student bars
again; it wasn't quite the 'arena rock' of which he dreamed, but at least his
face was back on the local music scene. Dave loved walking into the pub and
setting up, then standing at the bar; he was sure he could see people nudging
each other and saying, "he's in the band."
    Janice wasn't so keen. Band practice and gigs took
him away from home too much. She hardly ever came to the gigs; she was a mother
now; she didn't want to bounce around in some mosh pit with a load of eighteen
year olds, she said.  Besides, that would mean forking out for babysitters,
taxis and drinks as well, she said, and money was tight enough as it was. 
Dave mentioned one day, idly, that his Tokai Telecaster was now worth more than
his parents had paid for it; people had started to realise what good bits of
kit they were. Janice had actually suggested that he might think about selling
it. Selling it, indeed! Had she no soul?
    Dave's stint with Critical Mass lasted eighteen
months. The beginning of the end came when they were voted last in a 'Battle of
the Bands' contest in Peterborough; a week later they were booed off stage at a
local outdoor festival in the middle of one of Dave's own songs.
    "Tell him to piss off home and listen to his
Whitesnake CDs," he heard the bald headed, heavily tattooed drummer saying to Kieran. "We need someone who can write proper music, not this LA rock shit."
    Dave picked up his guitar and went home.
     
    Dave didn't like to think too much about the period
that followed his expulsion from Critical Mass.
     
    That Friday afternoon, then, he left the pub after just
two pints, just as he sensed Ritchie warming up to another anti-women rant. He
wanted to walk home, slowly, take a bath and think about his New Idea, before
presenting it to Ritchie and Shane.
    Thor!
    A few evenings before, Dave had arrived back at
Ritchie's after a session in the pub, and fallen into a beery sleep on the
sofa. He'd woken up at about two in the morning, and, instead of going to bed,
started watching a documentary on some obscure channel about the Viking
invasion of the east coast of England. The programme included dramatic re-enactments;
Dave lounged on the couch, still a bit drunk and wondering whether to make a
cup of tea or have another can of Stella, thinking how cool it must have been
to be a Viking, leaping off the sides of the long ships, charging up the
shores. Of course, he wouldn't have gone in for the rape bit (and he didn't
really want to burn people's houses down), but the rest of it must have been
pretty exciting at the time - and that was when the bolt of lightning hit.
    He and Shane looked like Vikings. They were both
tall, fair and athletically built; they probably had Viking ancestry,
especially as they both came from East Anglia. That was who they were. Vikings.
Shouldn't their music reflect that?
    As he watched, the first few lines of their first
song started coming together in his head. Dave felt he was having some sort of spiritual awakening; the music and words were flowing through his mind
as if someone or something was putting them there, just like when he first
discovered he was a songwriter. He started to visualise the band. Thor! Ritchie
had only been talking the other day about this bloke called Boz who he'd met at
a jam session - Chris Boswell, he thought his name was. He was a professional
drummer, did session work and everything.  Boz was currently in some middle of
the road