The tiny dance hall/pub was filled with teenagers, all done up in tarty little mod outfits, the boys too. Mopeds lined the outside of the pub and the taxi driver muttered something about bloody hooligans.
Gabby was intrigued, but at the same time felt suddenly very old when a fifteen-year-old girl and her young boyfriend walked hand-in-hand into the dance hall.
“Oh, come on! It’s all bloody teenagers,” Catherine whined, kicking at the pavement. She didn’t hold her liquor very well, and was bobbing and weaving into Eric.
“Do you reckon I’ll have a better chance at getting a shag with her in this state?” he asked Jeremy.
“Wow,” Gabby dared to utter as the band launched into the first song. Or at least they attempted to launch. It was more like a faltering sputter before the lead singer, a man with lips Gabby mused could probably swallow her whole, started bitching at the guitarist. A few minutes later someone threw a shoe at the drummer.
Gabby grinned; it was almost as good as the Hamburg audiences. Teenagers were great.
“Right,” the Cockney singer slurred into the microphone. He hiked his pants up over his skinny arse and yelled, then swaggered away from the microphone to retrieve his drink.
“Why don’t you cut yer hair ye fairy!” yelled one of the stiffly bartenders, who did not want this band on their stage at all but could in no way deny the kind of crowds they drew.
The singer glared for a moment at the bartender, who was balding. He pushed his fringe off his face and it flopped back defiantly. “Why!” he shouted/slurred, cocking his head to the side, and grinned. “And look like you?”
Gabby laughed. “What’re they again?” she asked as the band started up their set at last.
Eryn grinned. “The Rolling Stones,” she said.
Gabby laughed. “What’s with everyone having long hair all of a sudden?"
Jeremy snorted and draped his arm around her. “Those who haven’t copied the Beatles yet will soon…everyone wants to be the fucking Beatles!”
“I like the Beatles,” Eric protested. He turned his voice falsetto. “Paul is just dreamy!”
Gabby winced. “Oh yeah,” she nodded.
Catherine laughed. “No, my favorite is John.” She then commenced to doing the official John Lennon invalid impersonation. Gabby bit her lip. This was strange. Absolute strangers knew her best friends.
“No,” Jeremy sneered. “I think they’re a bit fake, you know. With the suits--this is where its at. The Stones, and that New York Scene. Joan Baez and Bob Dylan.”
“Oh god not that moaning git!” Eryn sighed.
Gabby snorted. “ Actually, Bob doesn’t say much at all.”
“Oh yes, Gabby’s quite a good friend of Mr. Dylan.” Eryn rolled her eyes. “Come on, he doesn’t even sing properly.”
Despite not being thrilled with the latest Bob Dylan albums, Gabby felt compelled to defend Bobby. “Well…it’s an artistic thing…symbolizing pain and that and also all the old Appalachian singers, and that...” she racked her mind for anything all the bleeding folkies had ever told her about folk music back in New York. Usually she’d just tune them out and get high…
But Jeremy was quick to defend Bob too. “That’s right, it’s symbolic. Not everything is as clear cut as teenage girls and Beatles.” He then launched into a very long speech about folk music and raunchy bluesy Stones music that only a Cambridge college pudding could come up with on the spot.
The Rolling Stones started a new slower song. Girls started shrieking at the lead singer, whom from the shrieks, Gabby gathered was named Mick. Mick thrust his pelvis at the microphone stand and danced around, his hair flopping into his face as he sang at the girls.
“He’s pretty damn good,” Gabby nodded. “Not as good as the Beatles...”
“Definitely not as good as the Beatles,” Catherine agreed.
Another shoe flew up on stage. Mick deftly swung to the right and put his arm around the guitarist’s shoulder. Now he was very cute. They were all cute in some way…except perhaps the drummer, who resembled Ringo in a slightly pointier manner.
Eryn and Catherine insisted they join the flocks of teenage girls for screaming. It was a new experience for Gabrielle. Especially to be ignored the lead guitarist of the band…
Then something quite spectacular happened. Gabby was neck deep in screaming teenage fangirls, and Mick dropped to his knees, screeching out his sad love song. He pushed his fringe off his face and stretched his hands out into the girls. They practically devoured it. When he stood up he was looking at Gabby. He quirked his eyebrows and she shut her mouth. She had been standing with her mouth opened trying to appear like she was screaming but not bothering to stretch her lungs.
She blushed and looked away. When she looked back, a guitar solo was raging on and Mick was looking at her with amusement. He winked and swiveled his skinny hips and moaned into the microphone. The girls' screaming rose a bit. Gabby raised her eyebrows, and Mick raised his back. She waved at him a little bit and he waved back, then started laughing and beckoned her with his fingers.
Gabby shook her head, blew him a kiss and staggered backwards to the bar where Jeremy and Eric were drinking beer and munching on twiglets.
“How was it?” Eric asked. “Rush of a life time?”
“Eh,” Gabby shrugged. “It was ok.”
