Chapter 4

Everybody Loves Birthdays

Laurie MacKintosh was one cool cat. Owner of the biggest sideburns the fifth year had ever seen and how he could beat those drums - boom-badda-boom-badda-crrrshh-boom-crrrr! As the people would shake their hair, stomp their feet and clap to whatever beat they could keep up with, lost in a chasm of infuriating rythmic terror as he would rattle that Tama kit around like his own abused soulmate. His aspirations of stardom thus far had been hamstrung by his involvement with ambitionless, talentless cover bands around the school - Barroon Barreed, Ronald Raygun, Flame-Fingered Friends - the list read more like a list of charges than the pedigree of a bone jarring beat master.

His companion in so many of these ill fated ventures, one Graeme Devlin, a like minded but similarly misguided individual, sat across from him chewing a sandwich he had stolen from a deaf kid. It was that or the communicator, he told him. The kid knew the score by now.

"Boy, can that boy play guitar." Laurie thought to himself as he stroked the stubbly blonde growth on his chin.

"Thanks. Not so bad yourself." Dev replied telepathically as he stroked the stubbly growth on his newly shaven head.

The harsh light transmitted by the goudily painted windows of the Eastwood High School common room threatened to obscure their vision of the coolest cat of them all, one Chris Fullerton, who had just entered the room.

Coton had tried to suppress his style by forcing him into rigid uniform rules to which he payed no heed. In his 1970's suede jacket, non-regulation sweatshirt, unfastened shirt with no tie, black jeans and Docs, he strolled over to his usual haunt, where he kept his friends and a collection of the least broken chairs in the common room.

Today had been a good day for Chris - having slept till eleven he'd avoided a report card which he had no desire to take home, got a forced apology from the sweaty librarian De'Ath for commenting out of turn about his sartorial elegance and missed his solitary class to boot.

His stomach rumbled with the evil hunger that threatened to stifle his art, but he wouldn't give in - how could he buy the latest releases by Sparklehorse, Arab Strap, Urusei Yatsura and Sonic Youth if he spent his lunch money on lunch?

His pedigree was less suspect than Laurie and Dev's. A founder of Late Night Foreign Radio and a collaborator with Peptone, Side Project and Hai Karate, he was a veritable Eugene Kelly of the southside.

They'd all seen him with his Les Paul, tearing at strings, searching for that elusive thirteenth note that he knew dwelled within him. Hempstead and Wright has tried to drill that music, that art from within him. They dismissed his work and taunted his handedness. The neds and the schemies and the cashies tried to beat it from him mentally and physically in order to steal his unique gift for themselves, trying to find purpose or worth with every blow,but how he held on.

Michael and he conversed in a string of obscure bands into which Gordon would occasionally interject 'Counting Crows' or 'Pearl Jam'. Lisa and Karen talked of the boys. Morton and Paul were off somewhere on prefect duty. Mark ,resplendent in his trenchcoat and fedora practiced his chat-up technique on Arlene and Naomi. Messer was long stoned by now in Uplawmoor.

Chris knew of Dev and Laurie and their skills. Lisa had expressed an interest in staging the show to end all shows - LNFR, Side Project and Chris - would he rope in some of the guys from the other bands to act as a backing band or perform solo? Could he play that note with a random selection of mates and comrades?

He would start a band.

He rose from the table, but Laurie and Dev were there already.

"You people want to be in a band?" A silly question, but verbal confirmation seemed to be a regularity in this world.

The three embraced like brothers.

"I'll play bass!" wept young Dev. They nodded approvingly.

Though that moment lasted but a few short hours, every second of the lives of those in the common room have been at that moment to some degree in all the years since. They weren't to know the gig would never happen or that Mark and Kirsty were to leave as quickly as they joined. For that moment, drenched in psychic tears of a thousand angels, every song they'd ever write played in unison, and within the symphony of bastardfucknoise, everybody heard it - everybody heard that thirteenth note.

Chapter 9

A Rush And A Push

The Miracle Pills was now like a jigsaw. They had the complete picture, yet it was somehow fragmented. Chris found his inability to play the augmented guitar parts he had arranged for himself while singing distressing. The spikey haired waif thought hard.

Laurie had moved to Dundee to study Architecture. This had seemed like a good move at the time but Chris was growing increasingly disgusted with his course and knew he'd soon retreat to Glasgow to regroup. His personal life was a mess. He'd managed to alienate all his flatmates bar one - Marty McComb.

Marty liked a drink. Chris liked a drink. They took an instant liking to each other. And he could play. And sing. Near broke Chris's heart with that rendition of that old Christy Moore song.

Marty and Chris had previously tried to start a hobby band with their flatmate Alan, but found his lack of tuning ability and short temper frustrating. Chris had never particularly been interested in the set up. He kept all his better riffs and ideas for the pills, letting Alan contribute mainly sub-Pearl Jam renditions of Sweet Home Alabama.

Them was rotten days. Unable to bear all the turgid cockrock, Chris gradually pretended to be asleep any time anyone came in to ask to jam on 'the new stuff'.

Dev was back in the great green place. He worked in Next wearing a suit and sporting a sensible haircut. A far cry from the feiry sixteen year old who cost the band £70 for three missed reheasals at Carlton studios after swallowing his tongue after a booze and drugs binge.

The Dundee University Bands Society had already brought the world Snow Patrol and Laeto, but Chris and Marty didn't hold it against them.

After two days of practising along to a cassette tape of 'Oak Smoked Beats', Marty could deliver note perfect renditions of most of Dev's basslines. The fragmented but sonically accurate lineup took the stage after a woeful performance by Mercury Tiltswitch ("We get played on Radio One.", "All I want to do is play, in a band, with decent musicians, and decent tunes.", "You can't use my bass, it's got a tension bridge on it.")

They borrowed Andreas' doomed bass for quick renditions of 'Old cops never die' and 'Second hand star'. A ragged blanket of feedback engulfing the stage, two Spanish kids got up and sand an acoustic ballad. Man, it was beautiful.

Infernal, spiritual counterparts of the pills in most ways, took the stage next. In what seemed like a moment later, but was actually more like: two months, a broken amp and a flitting later, they were playing a free gig together at Drouthy Neebors in Dundee. Complete with Dev and all kinds of crazy machines Chris had picked up over the years. All they needed now was someone to work them...