Curtains | It's Curtains for Mike the bassist

A short story about female friendship and being in a punk band.

Candi, with perfect eyebrows and a snarl, is sitting in bed watching Laura Kidd (She Makes War) and Tanya Donelly (Belly, Throwing Muses) performing ‘Slow Dog’, a Belly track, on YouTube. Three plays in a row now, ignoring the stench of an empty juice carton, a plate of half-eaten toast and the fact that she is still hungry.

She knows she should practise her drumming but it’s hard when you live in a flat with paper-thin walls and neighbours who bang on them more loudly than you’re banging on the bass drum. She isn’t even the official tenant – drawing attention to herself would get too many people into trouble. But how will she ever become amazing if she doesn’t practice? It’s exasperating.

When she gets overwhelmed with a lack of solutions, Candi gives it up to the universe and has a nap, and on waking she automatically seems to know exactly what to do. This is a brilliant skill but she cannot do this at work properly, or when in company – situations which are often overwhelming for her.

The name doesn’t help: Candi are you sweet? Candi, can I lick you? Candy is good to suck!

She makes a mental note: use these for songs.

************************************************************************

Candi is awake now and working on Solution 1: setting up a drum kit with books and empty, cleaned condiment jars. It’s becoming an art project; the book choice is a crucial part of the process.

She’s A Rebel, Gillian G. Gaar, a fuck off big book because an anthology of women artists was decades overdue at the time of writing (1992). It’s good for a base drum pile but needs to be at the bottom because it’s a gross pink.

Next, Women, Sex and Rock’N’Roll In Their Own Words by Liz Evans, a book that digs deep and so needs to be part of the base drum with She’s A Rebel. At the top of the bass drum pile: Madonna Like An Icon, by Lucy O’Brien. It is a thick book with a beautiful black and white cover, Madonna in her maiden, confident phase, but that changes to O’Brien’s She Bop new edition, even chunkier. It makes a deep thwack. Next, from the bottom to the top of the pile, Kim Gordon, Girl In A Band, Viv Albertine, Clothes, Music, Boys, and writings from the girl zine Revolution A Girls Guide to Taking Over the World, and finally the fabulous Girls to the Front book by Sara Marcus. Women Make Noise, edited by Julia Downes makes a cymbal, with an empty jar on top - the cover is bright yellow with black and white images on the front that are inspiring to Candi (The Slits, Pussy Riot, Lilian Levesque from Trash Kit).

Now pleased with her drum kit in terms of context but only with the thwack of the Be Bop book – she decides it’s still sufficient for working on skills: coordination, and timing.

Her favourite drummers are Caz Hellbent (Desperate Journalist), Jennifer Denitto, who was once in Linus and now in many bands, and a man called Tom from a brother and sister alternative rock duo called Th’ Hysterical Injury. She loves how Annie uses her voice in ‘Visions Of Trees’, an old one but never stale. It makes her feel joyful, and determined. The song reminds her that it's safe to veer off the path and into the woods. They have a song dedicated to Sister Rosetta Tharpe, the guitarist pioneer who inspired Jimi Hendrix.

*************************************************************************

Solution 2 is ready: use my stupid name for angry songs.

Candi Facetimes Jo.

“Let me hear the first one!” she squeals.

Love you, Jo. Everyone creative needs a friend like Jo.

Candi spits the lyrics like a spoken word piece so Jo can find a rhythm and a beat.

“Wow,” she says. “We are gonna become Bikini Kill.”

“Really? You say that like it’s a bad thing. I heard no squee. It may have been the way I said it?"

“It's amazing,” says Joe hastily. “Better than I could do.”

“Better than you could do but not brilliant?"

"Brilliant!"

"Did you get the lyrics?"

"Of course!"

"I'm saying the shit things people say to me because of my name! I'm holding a mirror up to the bastards."

"You could always change your name, that’s proactive,” Jo perks up.

Quiet

"I think it's a powerful song," reassures Jo. "You can talk about how the songs are in the feminist tradition of reclaiming names. Well done!"

It's the "Well done!" which truly pisses her off. Candi puts the phone down and circles the room, with heavy paces, and big sighs.

“I can’t wait to hear the rest,” says Jo, to no one.

“What was that?” says Candi, picking up the phone and putting it to her ear. Jo repeats.

“Oh piss off,” she snaps, disconnecting Jo and throwing the phone at the sofa.

************************************************************************

When Jo puts the phone down she realises that she wants to tell Candi she’s a bully. She seems to think she’s the only one equipped to be a feminist, which is of course ridiculous.

She rings Mike for reassurance and to check he remembers they’ve got a rehearsal at his place later, and a gig in a week.

"She's a pain," agrees Mike. "If it weren’t for her great songwriting skills she wouldn't even be in the band. She's a shit drummer."

**********************************************************************

Candi realises that she is a bully and a bitch for not respecting Jo’s opinion. Feminists need to agree to disagree for the common cause. No diversity = boring = insipid popular music, nowhere fashion. It’s a well-known equation and leaves the powerful canons ruling the roost in the art and media world.

She decides to ring Mike and tell him all about it. His phone is busy.

****************************************************************************

All art is a journey. Candi draws a massive spider diagram on her flipchart paper and works quickly to The Ethical Debating Society's ‘creosote ideas’.

It occurs to her she should apologise to Jo. Ring her in a minute she thinks, and continues with the diagram.

*****************************************************************************

“Hey,” says the boy.

“Hey,” says Candi back.

“Good sound check.”

“Thanks, shame about the sound engineer."

"Tony? What do you mean?"

"He completely ignored what we said. Treated us like idiots!”

"Oh he's alright, you've just got to have a bit of a joke with him.”

“He only talked to Mike, our bass player, so that would have been impossible."

"He was totally on the ball for our soundcheck. Did you hear it?"

"Sorry, no, we went to get something to eat."

“Just as well or you would have peaked too soon,” he gloats.

Ew, she thinks and moves on despite the boy’s outer cuteness.

“Excuse me, gotta find my mates.”

“You an all-girl band then?”

“What does that mean? That one day we’ll leave all this silliness behind us, after the babies?”

“Ay?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she sighs.

“Right,” he says, wishing he’d never tried to make conversation with the hot girl.

****************************************************************************

The hardcore largely male audience loves Candi’s songs with choruses that go: Let me suck it! Can I lick it? You’re so sweet, baby. They sing along with raised fists and crazed faces, and absolutely no irony. Parody is beyond them.

Candi and Jo (guitarist) share a stare. It says: Shit.

“Holy fuck!” mouths Jo to Mikey, bass.

Mike grins with an amused expression. “Milk it,” he mouths back.

A boy in the audience spits at Jo.

“What do you ya think this is 1976!” screams Jo.

Next comes a half-full plastic cup of lager.

Jo picks it up and throws it back.

“Rayyyy,” the audience shouts.

The sound engineer half snoozes. He should never have had that joint.

“Show us yer tits,” they shout.

“I’ll suck, you blow!” shouts another. 

Jo gives him a V sign.

“Rayyyy,” the audience shouts.

The boys mosh hard and shout loud. More plastic cups. More lager dregs. More V signs from Jo.

“Dirty cows!”

Lesbians!” (It's the boy from the band that talked to Candi.)

"Ha! You think that’s insulting, don’t you? What an idiot!" Candi growls, pacing towards the boy.

“Rayyyy,” the audience shout.

Suddenly filled with enormous strength and purpose Candi leaps over the drum kit and throws herself into the moshpit. People need to die and it needs to be today. Jo and Mike, open-mouthed although Mike is thinking: fucking brilliant, best gig of my life. We're gonna be famous.

“You fuckers!” screams Candi lashing out with her fists and feet as she crowd surfs.

Boys grab at her crotch, her breasts. Her pants are up her arse crack. Jo throws down her guitar, grabs Candi’s outreached hand and tries to haul her back to the stage. Candi hears her dress rip. She lands back on stage, tattered and bruised, even more indignant.

“Rayyyyy” the crowd shout in unison.

And Mike is still slapping that old bass, doing a little dance. He looks at Candi, ready, waiting for her to get comfy again at the drum kit.

“What the fuck Mike?” gestures Candi.

Jo hits a chord.

“I’m gonna tell on you,” roars Candi.

No one else in the band has heard that song before but they jam along. The audience is so loud and the sound system is awful so it hardly matters.

**************************************************************************

“Great gig!” enthuses Mike. “I reckon we’ll get a review out of that.”

Jo, who is packing up her guitar, ignores him. Snaps goes the case as she secures the clasps.

Candi sits, stooped forward, elbows on thighs, arms dangling, a drumstick still in each hand. She does not have to ignore anyone because she is not there. She is in a far-off galaxy; a place she goes in the event of an emergency when it's impossible to nap.

The promoter comes in, “A great gig I reckon you’ll get a review out of that.”

“Thanks,” says Mike.

“The songs are a great angle,” continues the promoter.

Jo kicks Candi and gives her a look.

Candi, back in the room.

“Angle?” she quips.

“It was brilliant what you did there girl.”

“Candi,” she flatly corrects him.

“Your punters are pigs,” says Jo.

“That’s rock and roll,” says the promoter man.

“Is it?” said the girls in unison.

They are ready to leave. There is no way they’re staying in that place another minute. Mike is comfortable.

"Is there anyone out there we should be talking to," says Mike, putting his now- packed bass under the bench seats. 

“Worth a shot,” the promoter shrugs. Taking a big sniff and checking his nose for cocaine bogies with grubby fingers.”

"Are you joking Mike?" says Jo.

Mike reddens. Fumbles.

"We have to watch the headline act, those are the support band rules," he says.

"Did you understand what was going on out there?" asks Jo.

"You haven't even asked me if I'm alright?" says Candi.

"I can see you're alright," retorts Mike.

"Really," mumbles Candi, low, fuming.

"You didn't even help me."

Mike stays silent.

Promoter man: If he'd helped you he would have got his head kicked in.

Girls raise eyebrows. Candi rubs her head. There is a massive black and blue bruise forming.

Promoter man, hand in pockets, checking his cock is still there (it's so small): You've got to play the game. Get out there.

Mike is shaking his head in agreement. “All in hand,” he lies.

“Bloody good job all,” he says, patting Mike on the back on his way out.

“Thanks,” says Mike, without glancing once at the girls.

"Invisible," says Jo to Candi flatly. Candi nods.

“Your fucking house drum kit is shit,” shouts Candi after him.

*****************************************************************************

It’s curtains for Mike.

"Mike is not representing feminists," says Jo. "He was out of order there."

"He's a slug, not a man," quips Candi.

“Mike's gotta go," they say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

Candi and Jo are walking down the High Street on their way to the overground. It's busy here, a mix of takeaways and restaurant smells, grubby Internet cafes and cab offices, and shiny estate agents.

"Where will we rehearse if not at Mike’s place?" asks practical Jo.

"We'll put the word out. Put notices up. We'll practise at mine, acoustic, till then.” 

They walk on. Their pace and rhythm matched step by step.

"I'm gonna learn the bass and we'll look for a new drummer."

"A woman drummer?"

"It doesn't matter as long as they get it. As long as they're a team player."

"And they can play," reminds Jo.

"Not necessarily," laughs Candi. "More important that they're a feminist and want to be the best drummer ever."

They laugh. Give each other kisses on the cheek.

"You have to be nice."

"I know."

"Yes, it's easy to say but are you going to do it?"

"Yes," affirms Candi.

"But are you gonna do it?"

"Yes!" she puts her arm into Jo's. "Yes. Definitely."

"Even on the days when you've got a period and all the bills have come in and someone’s been mean to you at work and a boy was a pig on the bus?”

"Yes! Even when you say stupid things and make assumptions..."

"Candi," warns Jo.

"Yes! For fucks sake!" she bawls. "Er.... sorry."

"Sorry for everything?"

"Well, no, I'm not sorry for my amazing songwriting skills or my most excellent version of a vegetarian lasagne and for telling Mike it was curtains for him.