The Sound of Broken Glass Read Free Page A

gave a little tap on the snare for emphasis. “So where’s this mysterious producer who’s coming to see if you can play with a girl .”
    â€œJust shut up, will you,” Andy hissed. He could see Tam pushing his way through the crowd, an expectant smile on his face. Their manager’s real name was Mick Moran, although few remembered it. He was a Glasgow Scot, and had acquired the nickname courtesy of the wool tam he wore, winter and summer, to cover his balding pate. The hat was so old that its red-and-green Moran tartan had long since faded into clan neutrality.
    â€œLads,” said Tam when he reached them. “All set, then? Looks a good crowd.” He rocked on the balls of his feet, grinning at them.
    â€œRight, Tam.” Andy forced a smile, restraining himself from saying that the crowd looked the sort that would shout over the music and request the lamest covers imaginable. Neither Nick nor George responded, and when he glanced round, both looked mutinous.
    Right, then, Andy thought. If that was their attitude, so be it. He ran his pick across the strings of his Strat to check the tuning one last time, then launched into the distinctive opening chords of Green Day’s “Good Riddance.” He usually sang backup, but this was one of the few songs where he rather than Nick sang the lead.
    The evening went downhill from there. Nick and George were off on their timing, and when Nick took the lead he mumbled and slurred the lyrics. Glimpsing Tam’s worried face in the back of the room, Andy played faster and louder. If his bandmates were determined to bugger this for him, they were doing a bloody good job.
    Then he saw another man with Tam. Tall, with close-cropped hair and beard and wire-rimmed glasses. Caleb Hart, the producer who had asked Tam to book them here. The producer who had discovered a promising girl singer, and who needed a guitarist to record with her. Caleb Hart and Tam went way back, and when Tam had told him he had a good session man, Hart had suggested this gig and a practice session the next day in a studio he used in Crystal Palace. He’d wanted to hear Andy with the band, and Andy had made the mistake of telling Nick and George the reason for the booking.
    Now Hart said something in Tam’s ear and shook his head.
    The band shuddered to a halt at the end of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Andy felt the sweat of desperation. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Mumford!”
    A joker on the other side of the room shouted back, “‘Stairway to Heaven,’ you wanker.” A groan went up. “‘Stairway,’ ‘Stairway,’” the joker’s friends began to chant, and a rumble ran through the room. The temperature in the bar had risen along with the alcohol consumption and Andy knew things could turn ugly fast.
    â€œStairway” topped most bands’ hated-cover list, and Nick couldn’t sing the Robert Plant vocal to save his life. But Andy could play the hell out of Jimmy Page’s lead, so he hit the effects pedal and launched straight into the guitar solo, giving it a bluesy-reggae twist that had the crowd stomping within a minute.
    When he knew he had them, he segued into Dr. Feelgood’s “Milk and Alcohol,” playing Wilko Johnson’s lead and singing Lee Brilleaux’s husky vocal, which thank God was simple enough that he could play and sing at the same time.
    It wasn’t until he hit the last chord and gave a bow to the audience that he realized he was bleeding. He’d cut his left thumb and the bright blood had splattered, almost invisible against the Strat’s red finish.
    â€œTime for some of that alcohol,” he said into the mike. “We’ll be back in a few.”
    He scanned the audience. Tam and Caleb Hart were nowhere to be seen. But then he caught a glimpse of a profile, just a flash of a woman’s face in the back of the room as she