It was half past five, and the band was due to start at six to draw in the after-work crowd. Not that anyone Banks could see in the audience looked as if they had been at work, unless they were all students or bicycle couriers. Brian stood on the low wooden stage along with the others, setting their equipment up. Maybe they were making money, but they clearly couldn’t afford a crew of roadies yet. The mountain of speakers made Banks a little nervous. He loved music, and he knew that rock sometimes benefited from being played loud, but he feared deafness perhaps even more than blindness. Back in his Notting Hill days, he had been to see just about all the major bands live – The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors – and more than once he had woken up the next day with ringing ears.
Brian waved him over. He looked a little nervous, but that was only to be expected; after all, he was with his mates and here was his old man coming to a gig. They would no doubt tease him about that. He introduced Banks to Andy, the keyboard player, Jamisse, the bassist, who was from Mozambique, and the percussionist, Ali. Banks didn’t know if Brian had told them he was a detective. Probably not, he guessed. There might be a bit of pot around, and Brian wouldn’t want to alienate himself from his friends.
“I’ve just got to tune up,” said Brian, “then I’ll come over. Okay?”
“Fine. Pint?”
“Sure.”
Banks bought a couple of pints at the bar and found an empty table about halfway down the room. Occasionally, feedback screeched from the amps, Ali hit a snare drum or Jamisse plucked at a bass string. It was a quarter to six when Brian, apparently satisfied with the sound, detached himself from the others and came over. Banks hadn’t realized until now how much his son had changed. Brian wore threadbare jeans, trainers and a plain red T-shirt. His dark hair was long and straight, and he had a three or four days’ growth around his chin. He was tall, maybe a couple of inches more than Banks’s five foot nine and, being skinny, he looked even taller.
He sat down and scratched his cheek, avoiding Banks’s eyes. Banks didn’t want to launch right into the midst of things. The last thing he wanted was another row. “I’m looking forward to this,” he said, nodding toward the stage. “I haven’t heard you play since you used to practice at home.”
Brian looked surprised. “That was a long time ago, Dad. I hope I’ve got better since then.”
“Me, too.” Banks smiled. “Cheers.” They clinked glasses, then Banks lit a cigarette.
“Still got that filthy habit, then?” said Brian.
Banks nodded. “’Fraid so. I’ve cut down a lot, though. What kind of music do you play?”
“You’ll have to wait and hear it for yourself. I can’t describe it.”
“Blues?”
“Not straight blues, no. That was the band I was with a couple of years ago. We broke up. Ego problems. Lead singer thought he was Robert Plant.”
“Robert Plant? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have heard of him.”
“Why wouldn’t I have? You were always playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’ when you weren’t playing bloody operas. The long version.” He smiled.
“I don’t remember doing that,” Banks complained. “Anyway, who writes the songs?”
“All of us, really. I do most of the lyrics, Jamisse does most of the music. Andy can read music, so he arranges and stuff. We do some cover versions, too.”
“Anything an old fogy like me would recognize?”
Brian grinned. “You might be surprised. Got to go now. Will you be around after?”
“How long’s the set?”
“Forty-five minutes, give or take.”
Banks looked at his watch. Six. Plenty of time. He was a short walk from the Central Line and it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to get to Leicester Square. “I don’t have to leave until about eight,” he said.
“Great.”
Brian walked back up to the stage where the others looked ready to begin. The pub was filling up quickly now, and Banks was joined at his table by a young couple. The girl had jet-black hair, pale makeup and a stud in her upper lip. Was she a Goth? he wondered. But her boyfriend looked like a beatnik with his beret and goatee, and Brian’s band didn’t play Goth music.
Matching the fashions with the music used to be easy: parkas and motor scooters with The Who and The Kinks; Brylcreem, leather and motorbikes with Eddie Cochran and Elvis; mop-tops and black polo-necks with The Beatles. And later, tie-dye and long hair with Pink Floyd and The Nice; skinheads, braces and bovver-boots with The Specials; torn clothes and spiky hair with the Sex Pistols and The Clash. These days, though, all the fashions seemed to coexist. Banks had seen kids with tie-dye and skinhead haircuts, leather jackets and long hair. He was definitely overdressed in his suit, even though he had put his tie in his pocket long ago, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Maybe he was just getting old.
The next thing he knew, the band had started. Brian was right; they played a blend of music difficult to pin down. There was blues underlying it, definitely, variations on the twelve-bar structure with a jazzy spring. Andy’s ghostly keyboards floated around it all, and Brian’s guitar cut through the rhythms clear as a bell. When he soloed, which he did very well, his sound reminded Banks of a cross between early Jerry Garcia and Eric Clapton. Not that he was as technically accomplished as either, but the echoes were present in his tone and phrasing, and he got the same sweet, tortured sounds out of his guitar. In each number, he did something a little different. The rhythm section was great; they kept the beat, of course, but both Jamisse and Ali were creative musicians who played off one another and liked to spring surprises. There was an improvisational, jazzy element to the music, but it was accessible, popular. For a few songs they were joined by a soprano saxophone player. Banks thought his tone was a bit too harsh and his style too staccato, but bringing the instrument in was a good idea, if only they could find a better player.
They paused between songs and Brian leaned into the microphone. “This one’s for an old geezer I know sitting in the audience,” he said, looking directly at Banks. The girl with the stud in her lip frowned at him and he felt himself blush. After all, he was the only old geezer in the place.
It took a few moments for Banks to recognize what the song was, so drastically had the group altered its rhythm and tempo, and so different was Brian’s plaintive, reedy voice from the original, but what emerged from Banks’s initial confusion was a cover version of one of his favorite Dylan songs, “Love Minus Zero/No Limit.” This time it swung and swayed with interlaced Afro rhythms and a hint of reggae. Andy’s organ imbued the whole piece, and Brian’s guitar solo was subdued and lyrical, spinning little riffs and curlicues off the melody line.
Dylan’s cryptic lyrics didn’t really mesh with Brian’s own songs, mostly straightforward numbers about teenage angst, lust, alienation and the evils of society, but they resonated in Banks the same way they did the first time he heard them on the radio at home all those years ago.
Before the song was over, Banks got a lump in his throat and he felt his eyes prick with tears. He lit another cigarette, his fourth of the day. He wasn’t feeling emotional only because his son was up there on a stage, giving something back, but the song also brought back memories of Jem.
After Jem’s death, no one came to the bed-sit to claim his belongings. The landlord, whose musical taste ran more toward skiffle than sixties rock, let Banks take the small box of LPs. Being more into Harold Robbins than Baba Ram Dass, he also let Banks take the books.