Not a "Single"Girl (a short story)

This one took on a bit of a life of its own. Initially, I just had the 'red herring single' angle but as it unfolded, I saw a new direction I could take it.

I

Not were.

Are.

Nine Lives are the best band on the planet.

I love Liz, but she can be so damn arrogant about her age sometimes. Five years separate us. So what? For the first five years of your life, you’re playing with blocks and shoving dirt in your mouth half the time anyway. Hardly productive hours.

We’re up in her bedroom. It used to be the family attic. There’s an empty room on the ground floor that’s not being used—bed made up and everything—but she insisted on moving up here two years ago. Liz has her quirks, she’s cool though.

The sun cutting through a small skylight leaves a yellow triangle on the floor which gets skinnier and skinnier the later into the afternoon we get. The attic’s slanted roof is plastered with band posters. Joy Division, Television, The Birthday Party.

Liz’s going through a post-punk phase.

Post-punk is back in fashion at the moment. Heaps of throw-back bands are getting airtime on the radio. But she swears her new penchant is a coincidence. Won’t be caught dead buying any CD newer than 1987 right now. Don’t even bring up digital tracks around her…

The CD in my hands is about three hours old. On the cover there’s a cartoon cat clutching the side of a building while an angry dog barks from below. Tom and Jerry style. My belly lurched when I first laid eyes on the cover, I dry heaved when I put it in the CD player.

It’s still playing on repeat while we talk. A vocal melody clinging to the main riff like its life depends on it—but not in a cool Ozzy Osbourne way, just a lazy top of the head way. And the riff itself has been lifted right out of a “learn to play guitar today” book—"I, V, VI, IV till the sun comes up!”

Liz and I never used to talk like this. It was only after she moved into the attic that she started inviting me to hang out. If I remember correctly, Mum was out at book club that first evening, so it was just me, Liz and Big T in the house. I was reading a comic book on my bed when she appeared in the doorway, smiling like the witch out of Hansel and Gretel, beckoning towards her rickety ladder.

My suspicions carried me all the way up to her record player—Liz buys records whenever it’s an option, even though one of those things costs the same as a two year Spotify subscription. Thankfully, all she did to me was sit me down, clamp a set of headphones over my ears and demand, “don’t come down until you’ve got to the end of the whole album.” That album was Pink Floyd, Animals.

  

II

We’re on the ground inside Liz’ vinyl shrine this afternoon. Piles of all her favourites form walls around her record player and my two-speaker stereo. I’m repeating to myself, “no great song sounds good on first listen, you’ve got to do the work, give them time, let the depth sink in.”

The Nine Lives single doesn’t even make it to the first chorus before Liz lets me feel her opinion. Not hear. Feel.

 Erugh! Her full body rejection vibrates through me. She glares at my stereo like it’s responsible for what she’s just been forced to hear. But this fades and an oh-no-I’ve-seen-this-before wincing replaces the frown. She stares at me like a schoolteacher preparing to impart some regretful, sage knowledge.  

She knows I hate it when she does this. Never gets to the point of what she’s disgusted by. Always drags it out, forcing me to wait. Just another opportunity to remind me that “she’s been around longer than me.”

However, before she gets the chance to deliver her eulogy on “the best band on the planet.” I cut her off. “Look I’ve got a theory about what this is.” I hold up the made-for-kids cover art and straighten up my cap for maximum credibility. “Just look at this compared to the Modern Blasphemy EP.”

I hold up Nine Lives’ previous breakthrough album, and tilt my head. It shows a pair of Amish men pouring vials of paint over a pile of iphones (the cover doesn’t overtly show it, but they’re iphones) It’s beautiful. I got a tingling in my fingers the moment I saw it in the shop window, I confirmed it when I heard the first notes on “I’ll make you my martyr.” So complex, yet not too busy. I fell in love at age eleven and I’ll always have that.

Once this juxtaposition has had sufficient time to sink in, I grow more confident. “See I reckon they’ve put out this shitty song—” wow I voiced that out loud…I’d better be right— “to throw us off the trail of their upcoming album. A masterpiece that’s gonna be so good they won’t need a marketing package.”

Liz shakes her head, squinting sympathetically. “Sorry to break it to you Bill. But eight times out of ten, the single is the best song on the album. If that turns out to be a flop, the best thing you can do for yourself is prepare for bad news.”

She brings every liquid in my body to a simmer. The worst part is her sympathy. At least call me naïve or dumb. Something that I can reasonably sulk about! Don’t do this. Show me that you’ve felt this disappointment; been through this exact pain. Who wants that?

Taking my CD in two hands and looking at it fondly, she makes a slow turn over her shoulder in the manner of a master chef contemplating which knife to use on a fresh rack of brisket. Her black and white T-shirt has The Fall stamped across its back. She hums for a moment while she searches before releasing a squeal of delight. She uncrosses her legs and pulls a vinyl sleeve that’s poking unevenly from the bottom of a pile.

“I remember the exact day I found this out the hard way.” She flips the vinyl to show a four-panel cover with four men—presumably band members—and what looks like an eagle/owl merging between the three of them. “The first red flag was ‘Your sex is on fire.” Her jaw clenched as she said the song title. “I heard it on a bus radio on the way to a summer festival.”

I let a smile cross my lips. “Kings of Leon? C’mon that’s not a bad album.”

She nods, knowingly. “It’s not terrible. But it’s got a very poppy chorus. The band also cut out a lot of their trademark quirks in a way that had me worried.”

 I look down at the cover Only by the Night and shake my head. “You’re only saying this because Big T loves that song. What’s it called?” I slap my thigh as I try to resurrect it.

“Closer,” answers Liz without a half-beat delay.

“That’s the one!” I point to her with a huge grin. We both know I’m on the money with this one. Big T is Mums boyfriend of about two years and counting. I personally get along with the guy like a house on fire. Liz not so much. I guess a few extra years can’t teach you everything.

Liz raises a finger and briskly waves it in an attempt to regain her lost ground. “No! You were too young to appreciate the other albums when they came out…that’s why you can’t see this.”  

Of course, she managed to slip in another reminder….

“Sex is on Fire” was a warning shot for where the band was headed.” She crunches up her eyes and looks towards the ceiling. “Tired southern tropes, weak pop choruses, a parody of what they once were.” She drops her head. “From the band who put out Aha Shake Heartbreak, Youth and Young Manhood?” She voices these names like fallen soldiers.

I let her mourn until the death rattle of my Nine Lives single fades out for the umpteenth time. She lifts her chin. “Use somebody was one redeeming song on that album, but even that didn’t carry enough edge to keep the sales at bay…” she reaches out and grips me by the collar. “Girls from my P.E class started wearing Kings of Leon t-shirts after that. Do you understand what a dire sign that is?”

Before I have a chance to rebut, she’s back sifting through her piles. She pulls out two black and white album covers, both in the cult aesthetic of the first season of True Detective. My heart rate picks up. I know this one. Royal Blood.

Liz nods and mercifully presses stop on my stereo system. She lifts the needle on her record player and we’re both treated to the heavier-than-a-mortgage-loan bassline of “Out of the Black.”

I bob my head along, lips pushed out. But she lifts the needle with the trigger-happy touch of a pilled-up D.J.

I glare at her as she turns and without saying a word pulls out a second album from the pile. Her head chef mastery is back in full force as she handles the pressed vinyl in a blur of rapid yet gentle movement. This time a pink and blue cover by the same artist lands on the turntable.

I’m already laughing as she lowers the needle and we’re treated to a cheesy, “ahhhhhhh” leading into the watered-down opening bars of “Trouble’s coming.”

The bass is still here, but it’s more in line with a dance-club number than the not-a-coloured-t-shirt-in-the-whole-room aesthetic of the former albums. The frontman’s bass is accompanied by a bubble-gum synth line and a “fun” dance rhythm.

“I heard this song featured on an episode of Love Island….” She raises her eyebrows as she stares at me. “Love Island!” She repeats. “I’m not joking, look it up episode 8, season 7.”  She curls her lip and genuinely looks like she’s going to be sick. “Royal Blood is the type of band that should draw a scowl out of the prettiest girl at the party, quickly followed by a ‘who the hell put this on?” Liz’s uneven, self-cut hair hangs over her face as she shakes her head. “These days, that same girl is just as likely to jump up and release a ‘whoooo’ at the sound of a Royal Blood song!”

Before I get a chance to ask her why she’s been watching Love Island in the first place, gravel crunches in the driveway. Liz’s only-half-serious scowl falls and is replaced by a genuine look of concern. She slaps a hand on each thigh and begins looking around. “Hey Bill, did I ever play you a Pixies album? Now there’s another solid bass player, female of course…” she winks as she starts inspecting her piles.

“Wait, you’ve gotta hear me out on my theory about this Nine Lives single…” I protest.

Liz’s answer comes in the form of a hand on my shoulder. She finds the album she was looking for “Doolittle,” hands it to me and feeds her legs through the hatch. When she gets down to chest level, I’m treated to a big-sister rank-pull in the form of a finger stabbing my way. “Listen to it Bill. We’ll talk later, but don’t you come out—”

I roll my eyes. “Until the last song’s finished playing.’ Yep, I know the drill, Liz”

III  

I never gave much thought to what Liz gets up to while I listen to her albums. I’ve got this vague picture of her sitting at the kitchen table with a slice of plain buttered bread in front of her, staring up at the ceiling with a smile on her face wondering which parts I’m going to like, thinking of things to say about the band.

This time I’m a bit distracted though. The music is good, but I can’t get past the poor case I made for Nine Lives’ flopped single just now. I pull off one of the headphone cups—which I know is a big no no—and begin to practice my speech for when she gets back.

“Look Liz, I know you’ve been burnt by bands in the past, but both examples you gave me were from artists who were yet to realize huge commercial success. Nine Lives is different.”

I throw out my hands as I’ve seen the presenters do on the MTV music awards. Liz’s stacks of albums are my audience.

“See Mikey Cinders already toured the world with The Goons and the Karpinsky twins walked away from that offer to become the next supergroup out of America’s Got Talent. These are people who have tasted fame and decided it’s not for them.”

The album stacks don’t give me much by way of feedback, but they’re a mid-west crowd, I can hardly expect them to “get it.” I turn to Liz’s bed and lift one eyebrow.

“Now that’s not to say a band that’s seen success is out of the danger zone. There’s always the risk that the front man picks up a pet love a la the Arctic Monkeys and the piano.” I wipe my brow with all the drama of a stage actor. “You can never rule out that a Tranquility Base hotel and Casino may be waiting in the pipeline or worse, your favourite band’s lead guitarist could incur a come-to-Jesus moment and suddenly you’ve got Nick Cave putting out album after album of what are essentially hymns! Nick Cave. The same man who cooked up, “there’s a devil waiting outside your door.” That Nick Cave!”

I catch myself sweating after this last exclamation and in my head-nodding excitement, my other headphone slips from around my neck.

Weird. I can hear muffling downstairs. Voices and screeching chair legs.

I creep over to Liz’s hatch—deadbolted from inside for privacy—and press my ear against its wood.

“Is there somebody up there?” Big T’s voice.

I make a face. I can’t remember the last time I heard he and Liz talk. For the last six months they seemed to have come to a “mutual-avoidance” agreement.

She says something inaudible. He gets louder. “If you’ve dragged one of your little boyfriends into MY HOUSE!”

He sounds like a different person. I decide to break Liz’s cardinal rule just to keep the peace, but their footsteps approach the hatch before I’ve had a chance to move.

Liz pleads. “Don’t open it!”

Is she speaking to me? Why does she sound so desperate? Jeez, of course Big T’s going to be suspicious now! Why doesn’t she just tell him it’s me? He’s got no reason to be mad about that. I guess to hold a library of bands in your head like Liz does, something’s got to give on the practical logic front.

Big T sounds maniacal now. I’ve never heard him like this. “What’s the matter Lizzy? C’mon let’s go up and meet him together. I’d love to introduce myself to this strapping little shit!”

I shake my head and slide open the deadbolt, laughing nervously. “Guys it’s just me. What in the world is going on?—”

There’s something seriously off about Big T. He’s standing crooked. His belt is unclipped. He doesn’t bat at an eye when he sees my face poking out of the attic. He lunges for the fold down ladder and that’s when I see Liz.

Her The Fall T-shirt is nowhere in sight. She’s wearing one of Mum’s button-down tops and is holding the top three buttons together as if they’ve been torn off.

Big T starts to climb.

Liz shouts. “Bill. The record player.” She seems to be just as paralyzed by all this as I am. “Use the record player!”

None of this makes sense to me. But, as I’ve learnt to do so many times in the last two years, I put my faith in Liz. I fight through my initial reservations and trust she knows what she’s talking about.

The record player threatens to give me a hernia as I lug it off the ground. It leaves a clean square of dust on the floorboards as I crouch-shuffle my way over to the hatch. The headphones come unplugged as I move it across the room, but an extension chord keeps the record playing. The speakers erupt into life and the oddly tranquil, surf rock vibes of “Here come’s your man” serve as the backing track to my point of no return.

Liz is out of the way. Big T is too inebriated to even duck.

The record player hits him in the chest. He falls twelve rungs and slaps flat on his back. Liz’s turntable follows close behind, continuing to play music for its entire descent before screeching to a rib shattering standstill and pinning him there. I clutch my hands to my ears as ungodly sounds from the speakers signal the death of Liz’s prize possession.

As with all of Liz’s recommendations, I don’t feel immediate gratification afterwards. A swirl of new information wraps itself around my mind. The new data that’s entered my ears leaves me in a dissonant state. I don’t know what to feel just yet. The not-quite-clicking variables wait to be joined as I process it all.

I look down at Big T’s wheezing chest. Eyes inflated as he makes a weak attempt to shift the turntable off his injured body. Even from the top of the ladder I can see this is hopeless. He’s going to need help.

I climb down and throw my arms around Liz. She’s shaking. It still hasn’t sunk in. But I have faith. As she’s proven to me on countless evenings, locking me away with nothing but a pair of chunky headphones and a great album: Truly great music is always waiting there with answers for you. If you can’t access them right now, just trust you will eventually. As Liz has demonstrated me through her actions, through her sacrifices: when the ugliness of the world tries to get in you can always rely on humanity’s universal language to sweep you out of harms way and keep the ugliness at bay.

I’m sure some manage to stumble across this fact on their own, but it usually takes someone who’s been there before to show it to you.

It was actually harder to find one of these than I expected.