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astonishingly long arms emerged from the shadows. “Which one
of you lads has been fixing to make a fool out of my virtuous Cousin Becky?” I
reluctantly raised my hand in response.
    The
enormous German chimed in. “Should we shank him now or after we smash his
guitar into splinters?” This was a bloody ambush! Becky wasn’t really the
forgiving sort but had sent us to Cousin Lincoln’s garage to die. I looked over
at Skeffington. His fists were clenched. He wasn’t going down without a tussle.
    “Hold
off, Frisby. Let’s ice his mate first.” One of Lincoln’s long arms disappeared
into the darkness. He was likely reaching for his zip-gun. Skeffington might’ve
been terrified of his dad, but he didn’t flinch here. I was prepared to dive
behind some six-strings when two shots rang out: “Boom! Boom!” Had I taken fire
somewhere on my person? Was Skeffington dead? I’d nearly sparked out when
Lincoln and Frisby broke out in laughter. “We’re just messing with you, man.
It’s just my kick pedal.” He tapped it a couple more times for good measure.
“Let’s start fresh. I’m Lincoln, and the giant Viking is Frisby. We’re your
rhythm section.”
    Skeffington
wasn’t amused. “You’re a cheeky lot, but I’ll bet you’re all show. Why don’t we
see if you can’t pass our audition?”
    “Audition?”
Lincoln sat down behind his kit and effortlessly twirled a drumstick between
his fingers. Frisby surveyed the collection of bass guitars before settling on
a Rickenbacker. They shot each other a confident affirmation prompting Lincoln
to tap his drumsticks together: “One, two, three, four…”And they were off. It
became evident rather quickly that Skeffington would eat his words. These
blokes were like two Jump Jets burning through complex tactical maneuvers
before unloading hell on unsuspecting plonkers. It was scorched earth in the
garage. I could feel the pounding in my chest even after the bombardment stopped.
“Did we pass your audition, boss?”
    “Not
bad…and we are desperate.” This was my introduction to snarky Skeffington. He
acted like an uptight barrister involved in high-stakes negotiations, only we
were desperate and had zero leverage.
    “Right.
He’s just being a cheeky bastard. You’re hired.” I chimed in to massage egos
and diffuse tensions. Skeffington constituted just one piece of the puzzle
after all.
    “Well,
not so fast. Why don’t you hotshots sing your arses off and we’ll see if you
can pass our audition.” This sure-thing that Becky orchestrated out of sheer
kindness had turned mostly hostile. Our former rhythm section forced us to put
our money where Skeffington’s mouth was. We huddled up for a moment to discuss
strategy.
    “You’ve
really gone and made this more difficult now, haven’t you?”
    “Sorry,
mate. But we don’t need charity and we’re not pushovers. Let’s thread this
sodding needle.” Underestimate Skeffington at your own peril. Our band was
going to be a mutual respect society or nothing at all.
    We
decided to let it ride on a mid-tempo rocker entitled “The Sophisticate’s
Flat.” The song was mine conceptually, but Skeffington smoothed out the edges
with his pop sensibilities. It was raucous enough to make your stomach churn
but melodic enough to keep you humming along. We upped the torque by trading
off on vocals. Skeffington’s velvet tone massaged the verses while my howl
punctuated the chorus. The time had come to let this three-minute opus out of
its sleeve.
    We
were celestial bodies laying waste to the brick and mortar of the Muswell Hill
garage with rock n’ roll flamethrowers.
    Then
there was a rumble from inside the smoldering dust. It started with a tap here
and a tap there. It grew into a sporadic pulse. Before long it was a steady
beat intertwined with intermittent flourishes of crashing metal. Seconds later
a series of sonic thumps joined the fray. The Jump Jets were flying sorties
behind us in earnest. “The