vocals aren’t up to much, partly I think because Cherish seems to be trying to out-harmonise Sarah and partly because Angel is…well, Angel isn’t around.
Finally, the band’s version of Girl from Mars – which the original band would be hard pushed to recognisefrom that performance – grinds to a halt, with Salman managing to finish a few seconds ahead of anyone else. Oops.
A drumstick, chucked in anger by Sal, skitters along the wooden floor of the stage and slaps Cherish on the ankle. I watch her turn and glower at Salman, but that’s nothing new. This Tuesday night’s rehearsal has been a ramshackle mess of bad performances and bad vibes since the start.
“And we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’,” I can just make out Salman muttering blackly.
“What did you say?” Cherish storms over towards him. “Do you want to say something, Sal?! ‘Cause if you do, there’s no point mumbling, like a pissed-off, six-year-old kid!”
“I said,” Salman roars, extra loud, “we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’! Right?!”
“You got a better idea then?” Cherish challenges him. “‘Cause we’ve been through lists and lists of stupid names for the band and all you can do is moan about them. Not once, not once, have I heard you come up with anything constructive!”
“You’re just on your high horse ‘cause I said no to calling ourselves after you, Miss I-want-to-be-a-star!!”
“Listen, I did not suggest ‘Cherish’ as a band name– Sarah did! So don’t you dare start yelling at me about that!”
Sarah, I notice, isn’t even looking at them; she’s hauling her guitar off and heading over towards an amp at the side of the stage.
“I’m not the only one who doesn’t want a poxy, girly name for the band!” Salman barks at Cherish. “Ask him! Ask Conor! You don’t want to go out in front of all these other schools with a name like ‘Angelic’ or ‘Cherish’, do you? We’ll get laughed off stage!”
“I don’t care,” Conor shrugs.
“Well, you should care!” Cherish rounds on him now. “What’s the point in entering this damn thing if you’re the lead singer and you don’t even care?!”
“That’s what I’m asking myself!” Conor snaps back at her, dropping down on to his knees and furiously twisting the machine-heads holding his broken string in place.
Then suddenly they’re all silent, the storm that whisked up so quickly between them now abating to stony sulks.
“For God’s sake!” I hear a weary sigh close beside me.
Ben is losing it. That’s Mr Fisher to you – and me. I just get a certain thrill using his name in my head, since I spotted it in his Filofax when he was flicking through itnext to me during one rehearsal. I know it’s crazy, but it’s always somehow strangely surprising when you find out that a teacher has a first name.
“Er…anything I can help with?” I ask tentatively, as Ben leans forward in his chair, sticking his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands agitatedly over his head.
I’m not sure whether to sit down next to him in the row (too matey?) or keep standing (more professional?). In the end, I compromise and perch my bum on the back of the row of seats in front, with my back to the stage and the non-speaking band.
For a second, Ben says nothing and I find myself agitatedly drumming my fingernails on the clipboard and notes that go everywhere with me these days, and stare down at the top of his head, where, I notice, there is a large, hairless, pink patch. Ah…so that’s why he goes for the to-the-bone crop. It’s not a fashion statement, it’s to hide his failing follicles. How funny. And how sad that Sarah can have a bit of a crush on someone going bald! God, the girl’s got no taste. She had Conor on a plate, but she prefers drooling over old guys and flirting with strangers at parties while the cutest, coolest guy slips right through her fingers. And speaking of Sarah and the boy she let slip away,
Finally, the band’s version of Girl from Mars – which the original band would be hard pushed to recognisefrom that performance – grinds to a halt, with Salman managing to finish a few seconds ahead of anyone else. Oops.
A drumstick, chucked in anger by Sal, skitters along the wooden floor of the stage and slaps Cherish on the ankle. I watch her turn and glower at Salman, but that’s nothing new. This Tuesday night’s rehearsal has been a ramshackle mess of bad performances and bad vibes since the start.
“And we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’,” I can just make out Salman muttering blackly.
“What did you say?” Cherish storms over towards him. “Do you want to say something, Sal?! ‘Cause if you do, there’s no point mumbling, like a pissed-off, six-year-old kid!”
“I said,” Salman roars, extra loud, “we’re not calling ourselves ‘Angelic’! Right?!”
“You got a better idea then?” Cherish challenges him. “‘Cause we’ve been through lists and lists of stupid names for the band and all you can do is moan about them. Not once, not once, have I heard you come up with anything constructive!”
“You’re just on your high horse ‘cause I said no to calling ourselves after you, Miss I-want-to-be-a-star!!”
“Listen, I did not suggest ‘Cherish’ as a band name– Sarah did! So don’t you dare start yelling at me about that!”
Sarah, I notice, isn’t even looking at them; she’s hauling her guitar off and heading over towards an amp at the side of the stage.
“I’m not the only one who doesn’t want a poxy, girly name for the band!” Salman barks at Cherish. “Ask him! Ask Conor! You don’t want to go out in front of all these other schools with a name like ‘Angelic’ or ‘Cherish’, do you? We’ll get laughed off stage!”
“I don’t care,” Conor shrugs.
“Well, you should care!” Cherish rounds on him now. “What’s the point in entering this damn thing if you’re the lead singer and you don’t even care?!”
“That’s what I’m asking myself!” Conor snaps back at her, dropping down on to his knees and furiously twisting the machine-heads holding his broken string in place.
Then suddenly they’re all silent, the storm that whisked up so quickly between them now abating to stony sulks.
“For God’s sake!” I hear a weary sigh close beside me.
Ben is losing it. That’s Mr Fisher to you – and me. I just get a certain thrill using his name in my head, since I spotted it in his Filofax when he was flicking through itnext to me during one rehearsal. I know it’s crazy, but it’s always somehow strangely surprising when you find out that a teacher has a first name.
“Er…anything I can help with?” I ask tentatively, as Ben leans forward in his chair, sticking his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands agitatedly over his head.
I’m not sure whether to sit down next to him in the row (too matey?) or keep standing (more professional?). In the end, I compromise and perch my bum on the back of the row of seats in front, with my back to the stage and the non-speaking band.
For a second, Ben says nothing and I find myself agitatedly drumming my fingernails on the clipboard and notes that go everywhere with me these days, and stare down at the top of his head, where, I notice, there is a large, hairless, pink patch. Ah…so that’s why he goes for the to-the-bone crop. It’s not a fashion statement, it’s to hide his failing follicles. How funny. And how sad that Sarah can have a bit of a crush on someone going bald! God, the girl’s got no taste. She had Conor on a plate, but she prefers drooling over old guys and flirting with strangers at parties while the cutest, coolest guy slips right through her fingers. And speaking of Sarah and the boy she let slip away,
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