the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 106: The Roundhouse

Buddy you're a boy, make a big noise,
Playin' in the street, gonna be a big man some day!
You got mud on yo' face, you big disgrace,
Kickin your can all over the place, singin'—
We will, we will rock you!
We will, we will rock you!

- "We Will Rock You" Queen, 1977

Sunday 6th May 1979

The first time Remus had ever laid eyes on the Camden Roundhouse it'd reminded him of a wary and dilapidated version of Albert Hall, or perhaps a more industrialised rendering of some ancient Greek pantheon. Since then its exterior had changed very little, what with the chipped pavement and worn-out car park all chockablock with rain puddles and potholes. Piles of old roofing tiles had been mixed in with abandoned stage pieces at the far end of the property, all discarded from the venue's previous life as a performing arts powerhouse. It was a huge building, originally built to house turntables for steam engines—but like the telephone box in Marlene's beloved Doctor Who, its vast cement walls gave very little indication of the sort of volume it contained within. Now standing in the middle of the annular hall, Remus stared up at the surmounting set of glass windows at the roof's peak and imagined a fall from that height would kill anyone. And they were supposed to play there, he thought? He wasn't confident his ruddy little amp could fill a room half this size, let alone be heard over an entire crowd. But there they were; no going back now.

"You'll be happy to hear that I've made the executive decision to have Marauders round out the show," said Gideon. "Get it? Round as in Round-house? God, I just kill myself."

He sniggered as he strolled over to them, continuously tapping a clipboard against one hand. He'd yet to write anything on it, and Remus got the feeling he just held it to look professional. Not hard. His suit was pure-white with a navy shirt underneath and he looked a bit like a ginger-fied Marlon Brando, minus the cigarette and Sicilian accent.

"Also, just as a little tidbit," Gideon threw in, "you should know that it's a sold out show. Turns out Gaz was feeling generous. He put out a little advert in last week's edition of 'Sounds'."

He said all this very keenly. The Marauders, meanwhile, had yet to pick their jaws up off the floor. Even the girls, who'd come early to witness their soundcheck, hadn't a single quip to split amongst themselves.

In a shocking turn of events, Moira had turned up to show her support for Peter, making up for the loss of Lottie, who was still off on her glowing honeymoon with Roger. Lottie had managed to find the time to send a postcard though; Congrats! Guess you idiots managed to prove Dad wrong after all. Love from San Sebastian!

"The Do Nuffin's will warm-up the crowd—get everyone nice and loose," Gideon said, pausing long enough to direct a set of stagehands rolling in a soundboard the size of their bathtub back home; "You'll be following Modern English at nine-thirty. Show ends ten-to-eleven. Any later and the city'll fine us for violating noise limits. Considering you lads don't have much in the way of a cab fund, I wouldn't risk it."

"Cool—Cool..." James stammered, acting decidedly not cool. "Any other advice then?"

"Yeah. Don't fuck it up."

That was what they got: a wink and a warning not to ruin their first ever chance before it even started. Remus knew that by putting them up at the Roundhouse, Gideon had effectively given Marauders his personal stamp of approval, which meant that any chance of failure also ran the risk of marring his own industry name. And yet Remus couldn't help but feel that they still stood the most to lose.

Despite Gideon's warning, the soundcheck was a disaster. News of a sold out audience had turned any budding anticipation into full-out dread for the four concert-newbies. Thanks to the Roundhouse's tiny modular stage, there wasn't enough room for each of the band to have their own set up, which meant that sharing was the only way forward. They'd agreed to use Peter's drum kit, but the amps and pedals were being provided by Modern English, a new-wave band from Colchester that sounded more akin to Genesis than they did Aerosmith or Led Zeppelin. Hearing their soundcheck, Remus thought the songs went too bad—no different from the verse-chorus-verse one might hear on the radio those days—but something about the band's stage presence or general lack thereof felt unnerving. Mostly they just swayed ahead of their synthesisers, a style Sirius later mimicked during their own practice. He paired it with a droll rendition of the band's only single, "I'm Drowning", shambling ahead of his microphone like a zombie;