Radiohead

This is what I remember. Others may have different stories but I stick by it.

As I was walking along Grassmarket in Edinburgh, towards The Cowgate, I spotted a blackboard outside. Written in chalk, it promised ‘Radiohead, Wednesday night - £2’

Subway.

I trundled home in the rain, soaked as usual and mentioned the discovery to my friend, Chris.

“I reckon it’s a local tribute band, but for two quid, why not?”

The first EPs had come out as had Pablo Honey. The Bends was in the making.

“What else are we going to do on a Wednesday night?”

It could have been a Sunday or a Thursday. We did not care. Chris loved the day and night. The sun shone or it did not.

We made our way down through the wind. Edinburgh is cursed and it will not leave you alone. Ghosts and wind tell you not to brush the bedevilled black stones. Georgian bricks warn.

The floor was piss-filled and the stench was intoxicating. Cheap beer filled the gaps. A gorgeous girl behind the bar sold knock-off t-shirts between pulling pints. We talked and a biker took umbrage. He was drunk. He did not like me at at all.

My friends stood in the background, laughing, as I was pinned against the wall. He grabbed me by the throat and lifted me to off my feet. He mimicked slicing my throat in drunken heroism. The friends laughed and I gasped for air. Comical and terrifying. The t-shirt girl went off to serve pints. My chance was gone.

The biker got bored, I think. I did not offer a fight and his double vision distracted him. He dropped me like an afterthought and concentrated on his next beer.

Relieved, I gathered. “Thanks a lot.” 

My friends knew him. I think they did. He disappeared and the gig was on.

Such a stupid hat. I got it from a charity shop. 

Again, everyone was laughing. Chris smashed a pint glass over my head and I picked up shards. 

Confused, I reassembled the mess and worried about the barmaid.

“Didn’t you feel that?”

I did not and the charity hat did its job.

He smashed a glass over my head. My friend. He would not get away with it.

Thom Yorke shuffled onstage and we were silent. Radiohead. Colin, Ed, Philip and Johnny were ready to go. The band were complete and our two pounds turned to gold.

“This is ‘How do you’`”

Chunky guitars ripped the room open and Thom belted the frames from the doors.

Chris was overly excited. Smashing glass wasn’t enough. He scudded across the room and left us to the dregs.

The stacked speakers were impressive. Loud enough to shake the neighbours.

“Please don’t do that, it’s silly.”

Thom.

I looked up to see Chris, jubilant and fearless, perched upon a speaker. One shout to the heavens and he launched himself. Beer glasses were not enough. Be caught or break bones. Saved by the devils and angels of music.

There was Dell, suddenly. Imposing with his long, blonde hair and black overcoat. A terror with a glorious heart. Bend his ear and he would give you his world but cross him and and you would suffer timeless horrors.

Our saviour.

Drunk and sprawling after the final chords, two members of the band approached us. Chatty. I offered one a leaflet for something or other for which he thanked me. Off he scooted and we were dazed. Drunk and swimming in piss.

Dell carried us up the stairs. One under each arm. Chris was solid but floppy wasted.

We had witnessed something special. I had not forgotten the glass.

Stumbling like a 1930s goon, I pretended to fall asleep but the frying pan waited.

“Chris, come here for a second”.

“OK.”

I hid behind the wall and he shuffled across. Both hands on the handle, I would have my revenge. His grinning drunken sloth begged for friends.

I hit him squarely across the forehead and his body launched horizontally.

The pan was dented and I thought I had killed him.

He laughed as he hit the ground.

Tom and Jerry.

Bruises heal. Friendships are violence and blood soaks into nothing.

Years go by and the essence of connection leaves us wondering.