Mogwot

It starts with a low hum, a chord played in B minor, like the first flush of shy blue light on the horizon as dawn breaks. Sustain. I add the same chord, but two octaves up. Then rays of light as the single notes – B, D and G – prick through the darkness.

I smile to myself and take a swig of my coffee. I’m liking this. It feels good. Moody. Right. And it’s all mine.

Early morning, or perhaps I should say very late night, is my favourite time to work when I’m in a fit state for it. It’s that silent time before the garden’s dawn chorus starts tugging at the edges of night’s blanket. One of the few times I can fill the void with something that comes from me, and me alone.

Scra-scra-ttcch-tcch-scra…. 

Spoke too soon. A rasping from the corner of the room signals that he’s here, uninvited as usual. Bloody attention whore.

“Bugger off, Mogwot. I don’t need you right now.”

The scratching stops, for a moment, and is replaced by a tapping that makes a little more sense. A small grunt and some hurried shuffles, and he climbs up onto the desk. Small, barely the height of my coffee mug, dark, and far from handsome. His squat body looks like a badly drawn cartoon and his eyes glint greenly as me.

I reach over to the bulging bowl of jelly babies and pick out a black one, his favourite, and hand it to him.

“Just let me get on with it. Keep quiet.”

In a few wet chews the treat is gone. Mogwot stands, hands on hips and looks at me like a defiant three-year. Raps the side of my laptop in an erratic rhythm. Settles into a pattern which, despite myself, I realise will work perfectly with my dawn break sounds.

“OK, OK. I know. Percussion. I got it. Now sit down and shut up.”

++++++

I can’t remember a time when Mogwot wasn’t in my life. He was there when I was a lonely only child, making my mother’s life difficult when I threw a tantrum if she failed to lay a place for him at the dinner table or we missed the bus because we’d left him at home.

She’d humoured me at first. It was a phase, she figured. It would pass. But I saw the first flickers of concern in her eyes after my baby brother was born. I was no longer alone, yet Mogwot was still around. She didn’t realise that with Sam such needy baby, I needed my ‘imaginary’ friend more than ever. He wasn’t going anywhere.

But I hated to worry Mum, so I stopped talking about him. We only spoke at night when sleep had settled on everyone in the house but me, and I could hear his soft breathing from the top of my wardrobe.

Mogwot only revealed his true nature when I started playing music, declaring himself my ‘muse’. In the process, he became a giant pain in the arse. A tyrant. A dictator. But a part of me, as surely as my fingers, my nose and my toes.

++++++

The tablets helped. Quietened the chaos clamouring for attention in my head. Slept ten hours straight for the first time ever - deep, dreamless sleep.

But that’s not all they did. They numbed me, fed my lethargy, turned me into a useless slug incapable of anything more than plodding workmanlike through a few chord changes. I felt like I was sitting outside myself, bewildered, incapable, confused. The umbilical cord linking me to my creativity was severed, like chemical castration.

Mogwot was gone.

I missed the little bastard. And the music dried up, like a lonely slice of cheese forgotten at the back of the refrigerator. Still usable, at a stretch, but tasteless, unappealing and curling up at the edges.

So, I stopped taking the meds. On the quiet, of course. No-one could know. I couldn’t handle the endless well-meaning nagging that would start if they found out. Instead of dutifully chucking them my throat, they went down the toilet pan. And quietly, secretly, I welcomed back Mogwot and all the tumultuous, chaotic creativity that came with him.

No-one suspected. I become an expert at presenting a calm, functional exterior to the world as I embraced the maelstrom within. Like a manic orchestra tuning up every morning, with Mogwot on the podium waving the maestro’s baton about like a newly discovered Pokemon on speed.  

++++++

We’re really getting into it now, Mogwot banging a chewed pencil against the desk, stamping his feet, grunting and snorting with excitement. My fingers race to keep up. It’s coming to a crescendo – a fabulous, cacophonic swirling of noise. Better than sex – or at least, any sex I’ve ever had. Building, building, getting there, oh, yes, really, yes, yes…

‘Barp!’ the intercom buzzer rudely breaks into our mutual musical masturbation. Talk about chorus interruptus. Mogwot flashes me a look of fury like a spurned lover, throws down the pencil and stomps away to sulk behind a pile of papers.

“Whaaa…?”

Unsure of where I am, who I am, or why we stopped. Then I remember. Some hack from one of the Sunday supplements, come to interview me as a rising young star of the music world. Mogwot bares his teeth, snarls softly and pulls a page of scribbled notes over his head.

I get up, close the workroom door, lock it behind me and pocket the key. Just to be sure. It’s one thing to be considered a quirky prodigy, quite another to be revealed as a raving loon who takes orders from a pint-sized demon with a penchant for jelly babies.

I open the apartment door. Wide eyes smiling from under a short blonde crop greet me, all eagerness and enthusiasm for a job she hasn’t got cynical about – yet.

“You must be Alex,” I say, waving her through to the living room, undisturbed since Elena the cleaning lady from Hell gave it her magic touch over at the weekend.

“Maybe we could talk where you work?” Alex says, looking around the immaculate room.

A slither and a soft flump sound through the locked door.

“No can do. Tempo, my cat, is in there. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Or friends. Or anyone.”

She shrugs then holds up her phone, her exquisite eyebrows forming a silent question. “Mind if I record?” I nod my agreement.

“So, how does it feel to be one of the 30 musicians under 30 to watch?”

(God, I hate this. So bloody embarrassing. If I hadn’t been mates with George, who’s sleeping with the producer’s assistant on the surprise indie box office smash of the year, no-one would have ever have heard of my work…  But it’s gotta be done.)

“It’s humbling, of course, to be included in a list of so many great musicians.” (Like hell it is, at least half are talentless, overhyped idiots churning out tripe to feed the mainstream appetite for mediocrity. But you can’t say that, can you?) “But what really matters to me is knowing that my work resonates with people, moves them, expresses something inside that we all have in common.”

(We all have our monsters. Don’t we?)

And we’re off. The same old copy-paste interview I’ve seen with countless up-and-coming wunderkind in pretentious middle-class magazines. Written for people who want to seem arty-farty, without having to put in the sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled frenzies, crippling self-doubt and the temptation to just give up and settle for playing covers at weddings and second-rate festivals in muddy fields. 

But I behave myself. The interview goes well. It should go down nicely with the quinoa salads and stripped pine of suburbia. She’s sweet, easy to impress. No harm in giving my ego a little massage, is there?

Scree-scraa-scre-scratch…  right on cue, just as I’m about to bask in the glow of my own self-satisfaction. Mogwot isn’t having any of it. Perish the thought he’d let me take all the credit.

Floomph, booph, bang! The smack of wood against wood as the piano lid is thrown open. Random notes, jarring discords, track his way across the keys.

Alex looks alarmed. “Maybe you should go and check on your cat?”

“Nah, he’s just acting up. He’ll settle down when he gets bored.”

And he does. The rest of the interview is a breeze. For once, I’m feeling good about myself.

(Maybe I should ask her for a drink?)

“Just one last question. In one sentence, where do you get your inspiration?”

(Oh sweetheart, if I told you, you’ve never believe me.)

“Good question” (Yeah, if you like the all-time most clichéd things to ask any artist.) “I suppose it’s something that’s always been part of me.”

A thump and hum of reverberating strings echo from within as my favourite acoustic guitar hits the floor.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

(Pathetic. Say something else.)

“But if I did, I’d have to kill you.” 

The Last Round

A laugh of surprised triumph escapes my lips as the ball soars into the sky then falls to exactly the right spot on the manicured greens. I stand there for a moment, the wood still resting on my left shoulder, admiring my unexpected handiwork. It’s been years since I’ve been on a golf course and I certainly hadn’t expected to send the ball straight down the middle from the very first tee-off. 

“Looks like I’ve still got it."

I look around the calm greens of Eight Elms golf course, embarrassed that someone might catch me talking to myself as I play my solitary round. I shrug my shoulders and smile, grateful that at 5 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, most regulars were still chained to their desks or running those never-ending errands on their To Do lists. 

I’m alone – almost. A woman stands at the edge of a small thicket, hacking away at the undergrowth. She’s dressed like Central Casting’s idea of a lady golfer from another age, in tweed plus-fours, leather brogues and a pink and yellow sweater. Makes me feel an imposter in my Mum jeans and sweatshirt, like an uninvited guest at a society party. I wave hello, but she’s too intent on getting her ball out of the rough to notice me. 

I slide the heavy club back into the battered leather bag and shoulder it, ready to walk up the greens and take my next shot. It’s much weightier than Bill’s new bag filled with fancy carbon fibre clubs, but I enjoy the heft of history that almost a century gives mine. What stories of past glories would it tell if it could speak? 

A breeze tickles the nape of my neck and the low autumn sun warms my cheeks. Somewhere, a dog barks and a pair of rooks take off from the branches of a dead oak. All around, trees are changing colour for their last flamboyant shout-out before they drop their leaves for winter. A whiff of bonfire floats in the air, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. 

I feel good. Alive. More than I have in an age.

“Beats online shopping any day.” I’ve spent too many empty hours trawling the bargain sites since Mark left for college, trying to fill the void he left. But that’s what’s landed me here, playing the best game of golf of my life on a glorious late October day, with no-one to cheer me on. 

I’d been thrilled with my latest find. The 1920s golf bag was offered free to anyone willing to pick up. I clicked without hesitation and collected it that same day from a sullen old man in a neglected house on the edge of town. At best, I’d clean it up and sell to some hipster vintage-hound for a tidy profit. At worst, it would become a conversation piece to fill the corner of the living room where Mark’s guitar once stood. 

But, as it turned out, it got me back on the links. Reawakened my love for the game that brought me and Bill together, before marriage, motherhood and the menopause got in the way. I gave up years ago, when Mark was just an overgrown jelly bean in my belly wriggling to be born. Bill carried on, of course, never missing his weekend round while I took care of chores or chauffeur duties for music lessons, football practice and play dates. Who knew that I would still know how to handle the woods, irons and putters after all this time? Next time Bill heads for the greens, I’ll grab the old leather bag and join him for a game.

A few satisfying slices take me within feet of the first hole, and I nudge the ball in with a neat, satisfying plop. After the next five holes, I feel better about myself than I have for a long, long time.

A movement in the bushes catches my eye as I sink the ball at the sixth. It’s Madam Plus Fours again. She’s got company now. Her bag is propped up against the trunk of a tree, and there’s the shape of a man in the shadows. Alright for some. Others have to caddy their own clubs round the course.

I pick up my bag. There’s a dark stain at the bottom I hadn’t seen before. I hope it's just the turf's evening damp leaving its print on the leather and make a mental note to give it another rub down with saddle soap when I get home. I look up to watch the woman and her caddy as they head to the next green - but they’re nowhere to be seen.

I spot them again at the eleventh hole. The man is silhouetted against the pinkening sky. I can’t make out his features. He’s much closer to the woman now, holding one of her clubs. They're arguing, but I only hear notes of anger pricked with pleading through the evening air. 

Probably some petty argument about which club to pick for her next shot. Some people really need to lighten up. It’s just a game, after all.

It’ll be dark soon. Better finish my round. The stain on the bag looks bigger now. Probably a trick of the light - dusk has a habit of throwing up visions of things that aren’t there in the sharp glare of morning. 

Shadows like skinny giants loll against the landscape as I reach the sixteenth hole. I’ve played the best round of my life and I’ll definitely be back tomorrow. 

But in the morning. The evenings are drawing in way too fast now. 

Right now, I just want to reach the eighteenth hole and get back to my car. There’s something about the rustle of the leaves in the dark that sends chills down my spine.

The garish diamonds of Madam Plus Fours' sweater glow ahead of me through the growing gloom. She and her caddy are leaving the seventeenth hole and she’s gesticulating wildly, shouting at her dark companion. What a bitch, blaming the poor caddy for her bad game. He still has her bag on his shoulder and a club in his hand, waiting for her to finish her tirade, get it all out of her system. Poor guy, I bet he can’t wait to see her finish her round, get paid (no tip, for sure) and wind down with a drink at the bar. 

I tee up for the last hole, look up to see where I’m aiming for, and drop my wood in shock.

The caddy is holding the club over his head, threatening the woman. In a panic, I stumble and knock over my bag. The dark stain spread all the way along one side.

Gotta do something, Stop him, Help her. 

The lights of the club house twinkle invitingly, but the eighteenth hole is closer. I scramble to my feet, yelling. Maybe the commotion will scare him off.

I’m running as fast as my middle-aged legs can take me. Panting hard and looking down for fear of tripping on something. Blood pumps in my ears. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Red starbursts play at the edges of my vision. 

The dark and my panic are playing tricks with me. The denim on my pumping knees looks like tweed, and they seem to have bunched up mid-calf. 

Keep going. Stop him. 

I reach the green and stop, facing the dark figure wielding the club. 

“Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”

He looks at me, smiles and he steps towards me. I turn to tell the woman to run. She’s gone. Already on her way to get help, I pray.

It’s just me and the caddy. I’m exhausted. Frozen with fear. Menace flows off him like sweat. With every step he takes, a little piece of my sanity deserts me. 

Just two paces away from me now, I see his face. 

It’s Bill. My Bill. The man I’ve shared the past twenty years with. The man I lost somewhere along the way. The man I wanted to get back out onto the greens again. But it’s not my Bill leering down at me. It’s a warped version of his slightly flabby, once-handsome face. Twisted with malice, intent on harm. 

He raises the club. It’s one of the heavy vintage woods from my bag, which is now lying on its side next to the last hole. Clubs, tees and other paraphernalia have spilled out in a growing pool of dark liquid. 

I raise my arm to cover my face. In a surreal split second, puzzlement banishes panic as I see that, instead of the deep red of my sweatshirt, my sleeve is clad in pink and yellow diamonds. 

My world explodes, and everything goes black.

Read all about it!

Read all about it, the headline news.

The latest gossip, we aim to amuse.
Who’s dating who, who’s got fat,
On the screen right where you’re sat.

Just what you want, no need to think.
Coming at you now. Please don’t blink.
Headline news to keep you at bay
Ask no questions, or stay away.

Tabloid dreams in electric ink.
Cartoon clichés that don’t make the link
Between them and us.
Not really human, why make a fuss?

Words as weapons to stir up hate.
Pull at your emotions to agitate
tension and serve their agenda.
Reject it, wrap it up, return to sender.

Divide and conquer, or unite and thrive?
Choose what makes you feel alive.
Despise your neighbour, swallow the lie,
Got to save your slice of the pie.

So, go on, paper your fort with pages
that proclaim the “other” your enemy of ages.
Ignore what you can’t accept is true,
that to some, the “other” is you.

Unlucky in love

“Life is like a box of chocolates.” Is that really what your mama told you, Forrest, me old mate?

Well, I’ll tell you something. I’d trade this whole Deluxe Selection box – even if it was filled to the brim with my favourite Hazelnut Caramel Crunch Clusters – for a little bit of the old rumpty-pumpty.  

Speaking of hazelnut clusters, don’t mind if I do…   Hmmm. Lubbly, jubbly.

It’s not easy being me, you know. One look and everyone assumes I’ve got the whole romance deal sorted. The rosy, chubby cheeks. The bouncy blonde curls. My wide-eyed innocent gaze to the heavens. The half-arsed bow and arrow. Even those stupid lumps of feather flapping about on my shoulders (as if a pair of pigeon wings could lift my un-birdlike frame).

I know how you all see me. How you imagine I spend my days. You’ve got this image of me flitting from cloud to cloud, shooting darts of romance here and there, infecting the unsuspecting with love (with a capital L) and chucking hearts, flowers and rainbows around like nobody’s business.

You know, the whole vomit-inducing shebang. 

Guilty as charged. 

But did any of you ever stop to wonder if good ole Cupid ever found love, had someone warm and welcoming to go home to at the end of a long day? No, of course you didn’t. Not a single one of you ever gave a thought to the state of my poor, bleeding, unrequited heart.

Yuck, Strawberry Dream. Not my favourite. Too mushy by far. Any of you fancy it?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The bitter sweet irony of the God of Love never having got his end away.

Yes, you heard me right. Never. Not once. Not even close. Since ancient times - and I mean real ancient times. Romans and Greeks, togas and intrigues, and the like.

So, next time you’re crying into your beer ‘cos Little Miss Sharon McTottie won’t look your way, instead of chucking a few choice swear words in my direction, stop to consider what it’s like to be an eternal virgin whose day job is all about connecting people to do the horizontal samba. 

Thing is, no-one really goes for the cherubic look, do they? These big baby-blue eyes and pouting lips may make broody wannabe mums swoon and croon over pushchairs, but when it comes to the business of getting the kid implanted, forget it. No way, Jose. 

They want butch, macho or, at the very least, darkly sardonic. Not an easy ask when you look like this.

So, there you go. Chaste and untouched for millenia. Not by choice, in case you missed my hint. 

Now, what’s this one. Espresso Delite (American spelling if you please). Could be good. Let’s see. Just a little bite to try….  ….oh no, no, no.

Too bitter for me by far, thanks to thirty years living over a Billericay café where the tea's fit for builders but the coffee's not much more than dirty water.

Funny thing is, lately, I have been feeling a little bit dark and sardonic now and then. It might just be my imagination, but I could swear that there’s a touch of Roger the gargoyle rubbing off on me. 

Roger? Oh, you don’t know him? 

Seriously, you didn’t think I was the only random mythical creature walking the streets with you humans, did you? There’s loads of us, everywhere you look. Vampires, warlocks, goblins, the occasional ogre, elves, not to mention naiads and dryads searching for their spirit streams and home trees that were cemented over years ago. 

People used to notice us, steer clear, shake pitchforks, light torches and chuck the occasional cup of Holy water in our direction. These days, they don’t bat an eyelid. I’m not surprised really – these days most ‘ordinary’ people are scarier than a legion of demons.

Me and Rog have been hanging out a lot lately. Bit of an odd couple. Him all dark, charred and leathery. Me, well… you know. This. But we get on well enough, and he does make me look cool.

I’ve been teaching him the words to Celine Dion’s entire back catalogue. And he’s helping with my Alice Cooper and Ozzy impersonations. All good clean fun. Unfortunately.

But I’ve noticed something. I’ve started feeling a bit… how can I say it?...  different. My toenails are getting longer and tougher, my feet are getting bonier, like claws. My cheeks are sinking, right down to the bone structure I never knew I had. And I swear I saw a dark red glint in one eye when I looked in the mirror the other day.

Roger says I’m imagining it. I’m just seeing what I admire in him in myself. Sort of wishful thinking. Arrogant git. 

I mean, would I really want to look like a hobgoblin on speed after a week of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll? 

…Too bloody right I would.

Like we said, no-one wants to shag the fat roadie with a face like the Gerber baby. 

Pineapple crème. I’ll save that for Roger. He has the weirdest tastes for a gargoyle. There must be a Walnut Whirl somewhere in here for me. 

So, like I was saying. After all these centuries I can feel something stirring, changing, solidifying. And no…  …it’s not “that”. Not yet, at least.

I don’t think I’m the only one to notice. I got a look today from the girl with the nose ring in the café. Not the usual can-I-pour-my-heart-out-about-my-pig-of-a-boyfriend-before-leaping-back-into-his-bed look, but something that might – just might – hold a hint of an invitation to join her in the sheets myself.

At first, I thought it was for Roger. But no, it was definitely me Tanith stared at for just a little bit longer than necessary when taking the same order I give her every day. I ran a cocky hand through my hair, smoothing it down against my scalp instead of letting the ringlets spring like a halo, as I murmured “One tea and an Eccles cake, please darling”.

When she came back, she gave me two Eccles cakes and an encouraging wink. 

Is that a Rum and Raisin Swirl I see hiding there in the corner? Not any more. There you go. Very nice.

The only downside is the smell. It simply won’t go away. Again, I thought it was Rog, but his usual air of brimstone seemed to linger much longer than it should after he’d left for his weekly meeting with the Dark Overlord yesterday.  

I shower, scrub myself in all those important little places (especially now that I’m getting those signals from Tanith), but when I raise my arms to check my pits, I’m still getting a whiff of sulphur oozing out of me like lava. 

If I’m honest, I secretly relish it. It’s much cooler than the cloud of baby powder that used to follow me everywhere.

So, yes. I’m changing. A kind of ridiculously overdue puberty is transforming me. At long bloody last. 

I can hardly wait. I go to sleep, excited to see what new transformation awaits me when I wake. I walk down the street with a new purposeful stride, Queen’s ‘Find me somebody to love’ pulsing through my head at full volume. My wings have folded flat against my shoulder blades and I think the feathers have all dropped out. 

I can’t remember the last time I saw my bow, let alone shot one of the arrows. The world doesn’t seem to notice. Carries on. Maybe it just doesn’t need me anymore?

I reckon Roger took the arrows. I saw him messing with them over his coffee. Could be he’s already handed them over and sent them to the depths of Hades? Or not. Who knows? Who cares?

Just a few chocs in the box now. I should have saved the bottom layer for Tanith, now that I know I might be in with a chance. But I can always buy a fresh box in the morning, can’t I?
I wonder what that one is? Don’t think I’ve seen it before. Small, round and very dark.
Probably some fancy super-pure Peruvian cocoa…  Let’s see…  …Nope. Not cocoa at all. Small, hard, vaguely smokey. A lump of rock charred at the edges, fizzing slightly at its centre. Surprisingly tasty.

Yep. I’m changing. And fast. My time has finally come. Tanith is giving me that special smile and nodding towards the side door. I’ve waited long enough.

Question is, can you lot handle my metamorphosis? Are you ready for a world without love? 

Suck it and see.

“London Isn’t Burning” but Fuzz Skyler set Athens ablaze

A packed rock bar in downtown Athens. It’s late, close to midnight. The crowd has been warmed up by sterling performances from local favourites, and they’re curious to see what the headline act will bring to the show. Five London-based musicians take to the stage. They are Fuzz Skyler, and this is their first ever gig outside the UK.

The clarion call from their opening song – “Oh, what we do for a minute or two of fame” - rings out, and the crowd roars approval. Even jaded bar staff who’ve heard it all raise their eyebrows in delighted surprise.

It’s the start of an energetic set of piano-driven rock supported by dynamic dueling guitars, passionate yet precise percussion, and a bass line delivered by the epitome of cool. The charismatic lead singer and keys player is all big hair, big eyes, big stage presence and a big voice reminiscent of Freddie, but more – there’s something else that’s all his own.

The crowd isn’t fazed by the fact they haven’t heard their songs before – Recall, London Isn’t Burning, Greed and Fortune, the more reflective Solitude and other Fuzz Skyler originals are all welcomed with red-hot Greek passion, whilst a handful of covers including the band’s take on the traditional Greek Misirlou, Muse’s Hysteria and even Adele’s Rolling In The Deep are welcomed like old friends.

It’s after 1am by the time the band finishes their set, but the crowd wants more, chanting “Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzz, Fuzz” until the sound engineer nods permission for a full-throated reprise of Recall which most of the audience seem to have learned by heart already.

On stage, the band are hot, sweaty, stripped to the waist, and grinning like maniacs. Their Athens debut has been everything they’d hoped for – and then some.

Fuzz Skyler was formed just over a year ago. Its members are all former or current students of the Institute of Contemporary Music Performance (ICMP) in North London. The band is a real melting pot with five different mother tongues - Persian, English, Greek, Portuguese and Lithuanian - but it’s the common language of music that provides the chemistry that produces their unique sound.

Piano and a strong narrative element form the backbone of most of their songs, with guitars playing a dynamic supporting role with energetic riffs to drive home the melody and the message. It’s a “big” sound supported by first class musicians who are passionate about what they do.

If forced into a genre, Fuzz Skyler would probably sit in the same box as some of their key influences such as Muse, Queen, Keane, Coldplay, Elton John and David Bowie. It’s a theatrical genre of rock of enduring popularity, grand, anthemic and packed with personality.

Fuzz Skyler have a lot to say. They have the vision, the energy, the musicality and the sheer talent to say it well. And if their international debut in Athens is anything to go by, it’s a message that audiences beyond their home fanbase want to hear.

Gig Details
HOT FUZZ
Where: The Crow Club, 27 Sinopis, Athens
When: 1 September 2018
On stage: Fuzz Skyler
With: Wash of Sounds, Konstantinos Tourlis and Friends, Heavenblack and Dimitris Gasparatos & The Double Vision.

Follow Fuzz Skyler at:
www.facebook.com/fuzzskyler www.youtube.com/channel/UCmD2oJ7BeHew9pampRI8kfg
www.instagram.com/fuzzskyler/
www.twitter.com/fuzzskyler 
www.soundcloud.com/fuzzskyler

Darkroom

That’s where it started. In the darkroom. I’d spent the afternoon taking pictures of a sixteen-year-old with the wholesome teeth and unchallenged confidence of a future beauty queen.

Sarah. That was her name. You know the type. Clear-skinned, bright-eyed, conventional little blonde. Aced her exams, dating the captain of the cricket team, raised on a diet of praise as she swanned her way to adulthood. Almost certainly head prefect material. Pretty, polite, practically perfect for the niche carved out for her. And dull as ditchwater.

What could I do? Pampered little madams like her paid my rent. Picture perfect portraits of good girls that never betrayed the small cruelties they inflicted on the outcasts at school. Studio portraits for the yearbook, doting grandparents, distant aunts and uncles, whatever – that was my bread and butter. After the strikes and shortages of the “Winter of Discontent” the papers had been screaming about, I couldn’t afford to turn good business away, could I?

I’d posed her prettily in front of the backdrop and started shooting. Brushing a hair off her cheek, adjusting her collar, sweet talking her to get the most flattering shots. Snap. Snap, Snap. Now one for grandma, sweetheart. Snap. Snap. Think about David Cassidy. Snap.

Yawn.

Mother sat in the corner, smiling stiffly and watching me like a hawk. No need, of course. Even if I was that kind of sleaze ball, her little princess just wasn’t my type. I decided to butter her up. Massage her ego. Put her mind at rest

“Come on, Mum. Let’s get a nice one of you both together. I can see where she gets her looks from, though you look more like sisters to me.” Snap, snap. Dear god, save me from this tedium.

After the goodbyes and thank yous, I locked the front door and went to the darkroom. Small, cramped, reeking of chemicals, its womb-like familiarity welcomed me like family. The warm glow of the safety light pushed fingers into the corners, shining off the smooth plastic bottles lined up next to the developing trays.

A sudden movement in the corner. I peered into the dark. Nothing but shadow, lurking where the orange glow couldn’t reach. But it seemed to be breathing, in and out in a steady rhythm. My own breath. I held it. The movement stopped. Of course. I shook myself out of foolish imaginings. After all these years, should be used to the weird shapes that form in the dark as I pour and dip, swish and pull prints from their warm baths. Shadows dancing past the lines of smiling faces pegged up in the gloom, hung out like the weekly wash. 

But, as I pinned the final print of Sarah and her mother, grinning like idiots in a washing powder advert, the darkness nudged my arm and reached out a dark finger to stroke the image. I felt nothing, heard nothing. But I knew. It wasn’t just the fumes.

I never did get paid for that studio session. Sarah and her mum never got home, thanks to a driver who’d had a few too many. The local rag used one of my shots with the screaming headline “Star pupil and mother killed in drink-drive horror”. No credit though. So much for the exposure the photo editor said I’d get. I mourned for them, in my way. How could I not? But if I’m honest, I mourned my lost fee more.

I used to do school photos. Spent the day in pale green painted classrooms, trying to organise kids who’d arrived scrubbed and combed to pose in awkward groups of siblings. Class shots too. Not anymore. Not since the shadow stroked my handiwork again. Two weeks before a freak avalanche wiped out most of Class 2B on a school ski trip.

Even then, I didn’t admit the connection. Couldn’t. Those horrible random accidents were just that – random. Nothing to do with the shadow in my darkroom.

But then there was the winner of the Bonny Baby contest who simply stopped breathing one night, in the safety of her cot, for no apparent reason. Every mother’s nightmare. Waking up after an uninterrupted night’s sleep, thankful for the rest, only to discover death staring from their child’s mattress.

And the local rugby star, stabbed in the guts when he got caught up in a pub brawl he had nothing to do with. Three weeks they had him on life support, hooked up to a beeping machine. His big toothy smile replaced by a lifeless drool. His beefy body getting weaker and more useless before someone poor sod had to make the awful decision to pull the plug.

The Victorians used to photograph their dead babies. Did you know that? The ones who could afford it, I mean. Waxy faced toddlers already stiff with rigor mortis posed for immortality, sometimes propped up by bereaved mothers with faces covered by tablecloths. I swear in all those pictures I can see the hand of a shadow man, caught in the folds of the cloth or creeping over the shoulder of the dead child. Like it’s afraid of losing what it already has.

Strange lot, the Victorians. Melodramatic and obsessed with gadgets. We’re far more sensible these day, aren’t we?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. Well, that’s why I stopped doing school photos. Weddings and christenings too. Semi-retired, I suppose. I make just enough to cover my rent and feed myself as the official photographer for the local council. You know the sort of thing. Mayor in his official chain opening some new factory. Shaking hands with visiting businessmen and the like. No sign of the shadow man there. I suppose local dignitaries aren’t his cup of tea. Not mine either, but it’s better than the alternative.

My boy came to see me the other day. Haven’t seen him for years. Not since his mother left all those years ago. Fair enough, she kept in touch, let me know how he’s doing, sent me a snapshot every time he blew out a new lot of birthday cake candles. But they’d moved a way off, up north, and there was never time, money or courage for a visit.

But there he was, large as life, and twice as handsome in the doorway. Decked out in uniform. Royal Military Police, he said. Took me a while to stop seeing the eight-year-old boy in the man in front of me. Stumbled over my guilt and embarrassment for not being the father he’d deserved.

He wanted his photo taken, he said. Surely there were army snappers who could do that? Yes, but he wanted me to do it. He’d never asked anything from me all these years. What’s the point of having a photographer father if you can’t get your picture taken?

I tried to put him off, I really did. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Got to admit, he did look splendid against the sky blue backdrop, with his metal buckle and buttons gleaming in the glare of the lights. Got some grand shots of him. Twice the man I’ve ever been.

He told me he was off for a tour of duty in two days, so could I please send the photos straight to his mum by post? She wanted something for her mantelpiece while he was away. In Belfast.

That night, in the darkroom, he was there again, after all this time. I could feel him. A cold clamminess, waiting in the corner, slowly inching its way across the room. Waiting, hungry, greedy. I watched out of the corner of my eye as I developed the prints. Into the developing solution, then the fixer, then hung out to dry on the line.

The shadow shifted and darted to the workbench. I blocked its way. It would not have my boy.  

....It’s cancer, they say.

Too far gone to do anything except “keep me comfortable”.

I’ve seen the pictures. Lifesize negatives of my skull and what’s in it. A big black shadow leaking across frame, eating me up, blotting out reason some of the time, soon to blot out my life.

The doctors have their theories. Their favourite is all those years of exposure to the fumes in my tiny darkroom. But I know. It wasn’t the chemicals. I’d denied him the sweet bloom of youth, so now he’s taking me. Slowly, painfully, stripping me of my dignity.

But I won. That’s how I see it.

Wherever there is light, there’s shadow. I saw another one this morning, slipping along the wall in the corridor outside the Children’s Ward. Called out to the nurse, a sweet overworked girl with a soft Derry accent. “Ah, it’s just a trick of light” she said and rushed off in a flurry of efficiency and exhaustion.

It’s here. Come for me. Can you see it? Creeping around the walls. Getting closer.

My time is done. I see it now. Closer than ever. Standing right behind you. Can’t you feel its cold fingers on your shoulder?

I swear it’s grinning at me. Smiling for the camera.

* * * * *

This story was one of six featured in the Cast Iron Theatre's 'Dukeanory: Ugly Tales for Beautfiul Souls' on Thursday 19 October 2017, as part of the Brighton Horrorfest.

Inside the mind of a Modern Mental Rebel

Nikos Kapralos, a.k.a. Deejay Nic, buzzes with nervous energy, his eyes constantly dancing around restlessly. 

Part of the breed of Greeks caught up in the country’s financial crisis, he is no quitter. He’s the man behind the decks for Deejay Nic The Band, a genre-breaking group which features a signature Rockstep style combining sampling with live rock and dubstep performance. He’s also one of the leading lights of the Modern Mental Rebels™ (MMR), a non-profit organisation which promotes the independent Greek rock scene.

MMR taps into a rich seam of modern musical talent that does not fit comfortably into the country’s mainstream music scene. It cemented its reputation with its successful staging of the Greek finals of the Global Battle of the Bands (GBOB) in 2015, and again 2016. The MMR concerts started in 2014, and continue today. For each show, 4-5 bands share equal billing, giving audiences a multiple artist experience at an affordable price.

We asked Deejay Nic for his thoughts about MMR, Greece’s independent music scene, and how bands can take control of their own future.

Explain the concept of the Modern Mental Rebellion concerts.

There are no headliners. The bands have equal billing and help make the gigs happen. It’s collaborative, not competitive. We draw on the expertise of MMR volunteers to apply management methods to the organisation and promotion of concerts, and through that joint effort we provide bands with a great platform to showcase their music and, hopefully, the audience a night to remember.

Can artists outside the Greek mainstream to make their mark?

Greece is a small market, where most people favour mainstream Greek pop or folk music, Even if you make it “big” here as an alternative band, you won’t be BIG in the Greek market. Nonetheless, to attract labels or managers from overseas you have to make a buzz in your local market. That’s what our MMR stablemates, Coretheband from Crete, have done through their own efforts and with the support of MMR. They’re now preparing to take their first steps beyond Greek borders. Remember their name. You heard it here first.

How are things going for Deejay Nic the Band? What have been the highlights so far? What are your future plans?
We’ve only be going for a little under two years but we already done a lot. Our first CD, featuring two original tracks, came out recently,and we’re very proud of it. In terms of live performance, our 2016 appearance at the Zeytinli Rock Festivali in Turkey is hard to beat – our first time outside Greece and we played to 130,000 people.
This is just the beginning. I always have my eyes open for opportunities for the band. The sky’s the limit!

What advice would you give young people considering a music career?

Being a great musician is not enough to secure success. Promoting yourself is vital. Aim to excel at both.

For more about the Modern Mental Rebels™, go to www.modernmentalrebels.com or www.facebook.com/mmrfest

++++++++++++

The first in a series of United MMR concerts will be tomorrow, Friday 31 March 2017, at the Crow Club at Sinopis 27, Ambelokipi, Athens. The music starts at 10.30pm and goes on til the early hours of the morning. 

For just €5 you'll enjoy the exprience of four bands live and loud. On 31 March, the line-up is:

Caught Art Delusion

Entropy Devine
Heavenblack

Sin By Four

On 28 April, Deejay Nick The Band take the stage, together with Perfect Denial, Smolderhaze and Wash of Sounds.

The 26 May gig will feature Amantes Amentes, COUNTOWN, Ganzi Gun and Termatikos Stathmos.

BE PART OF IT NOW!

(Photos by to LensMan-Nick, Nikos Paraskevas)