For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 12

Dylan Dorian

There were no menus at the restaurant, what they served for the day was based on the luck of the haul they found in dumpsters. In London, the place would have been crawling with hipsters and probably cost something around £80 a head- but here it was cheap and cheerful, quiet but for a few elderly, unwashed types. We were served some tabbouleh type creation, mostly vegetables and a lot of buckwheat which I proceeded to launch into ravenously. Jon just looked at it and demanded a good black coffee. So black and thick he could taste the grounds between his teeth.

"It's not bad," I told him, speaking with my mouth full. I almost instructed him to eat something, but stopped myself. If he wanted to eat, he'd eat, right? No point fussing over him like a mother hen, it didn't suit us.

Since we were kids, Jon was more like my older brother than my cousin. I suppose I actually kind of looked up to him. Seriously, you might not know it from Rivers and Rocks with the whole catchy chorus and the indie pop hook and flourishes (stuff we knew would be popular, somewhat cynically I suppose- but we wanted to make money,we wanted to give the people what they wanted and what's so wrong with that?) but Jon can play. Jon can play like he was born in the deep south of america by the bayou, like he was stuck in on a picket line when Thatcher was shutting down mines, like we were somehow at the end of the world and music was the only thing to filter the pain of imminent destruction into. What kid doesn't think that's cool?

I could never be as good as him, actually to be fair I never really gave it much of a chance. Sitting still and mastering something is not one of my strong points. Maybe you've noticed from our album that I tend to do my vocals in a couple of takes, after that I kind of lose interest and start fucking about. 'You haven't got the discipline for it', Mum always told me . But I can sing. And I look right. And I can do things Jon can't; like come across as actually likeable in an interview. But he was the one keeping the band together. Was I worried he was going to blow it for us with cocaine benders and black coffee and being late? Yes. Terrified out of my damn mind about it actually. Was I genuinely worried for him as a person more?

Yeah, obviously. I'm not an asshole.

"So Spirit and I had an interesting night last night," Mum started, when the food had arrived.

"Oh?" Jon asked mildly. "Why's that?"

"Mum brushed off the old Stratocaster for an open mic night. And she absolutely crushed it," I said quickly. Hoping if we stayed on that part of the evening then we could just brush over the other, less pleasant parts of it. "Seriously, you should get together an EP or something."

"So I can shake my geriatric tits on MTV?" Mum snorted. I snorted too. As if MTV was still a thing anymore. "I'm not a sell-out like the two of you. I wouldn't sell for a start," she continued.

"You see how she calls me a sell-out but still lives on the houseboat the proceeds pay for," I shot back, sticking my tongue out at her. "Sponge."

"Scab."

"Scrounger."

"Corporate Slut. Anyway I wasn't talking about just that. We met a- what's the opposite of a fan? A...a detracter? An unbeliever? A termagant or a frondeur?"

"They call them haters now, Ma. And it's not exactly a new thing. I don't bother to look at my direct tweets," I screwed up my face and tried to recall some of the milder ones before relating them in a nasal whine. "You untalented c-word, you look like you smell bad, you look like a girl, why don't you crawl back into the festering turd pile from which you emerged? Honestly, Mum you should teach them a thing or two about insulting me- seriously lacking in any kind of creativity."