Missing Parts
That Night
Studio Six; July 21st, 2003. 2:30pm
There were three of them and they weren’t what John had expected.
Quiet, at least at first; humble, at least outwardly; and refreshingly unpretentious, all of which called into question all of his previous understandings and expectations of such musicians. He cast his mind back to the post-punk scene of his youth – always in the background but not something he had ever been a part of – and tried to imagine these three being involved in such obnoxious misbehaviour as guitar-smashing, stage – spitting and piercing each other’s ears with safety pins. They didn’t look the type somehow, particularly the little one in the middle, who had his fingers wrapped around the neck of the guitar in his lap as protectively as though it were a product of his own loins.
Their manager had brought them in; Pat Magnarella. A softly-spoken, nervous-looking man who gave off the general impression that this wasn’t the first bizarre situation his wide-eyed band of scruffy-haired artistes had gotten him into.
“Mr Armstrong - ” Sherlock began again, turning away from the window, “Tell me about what happened on the thirtieth of June.”
A dark eyebrow arched.
“You mean the night before?”
Sherlock stared back.
“Yeees, I do.”
Armstrong took a breath.
“We finished up around six-thirty. It hadn’t been a great day. We laid down the vocals on the last three tracks and-”
“-The last three tracks,” Sherlock confirmed, “And the vocals… were they the last element to be recorded?”
“Yeah. We sometimes, y’know, put ghost vocals on earlier as a guide but then we take ‘em off right at the end and, y’know… put on the final vocals and that’s what we’d been doing when-”
“- Fascinating,” he interrupted, idly, holding up his hand. “You said it wasn’t a great day… why?”
The guitarist faltered for a moment, his eyes flicking over to John, questioning. John knew that look well and he knew what it meant: Is he always like this? He answered the only way he knew how, with a crooked smile that was part apology, part amusement, part sympathetic despair.
The bandmate on the left spoke up lazily.
“Billie and Mike had a fight.”
The drummer. He’d had the stick in his hand when he walked in and he had been using it to tap out a feverish rhythm on the arm of the couch since they had taken their seats. John saw Sherlock’s head tilt, ever-so-slightly. He was interested.
“Go on.”
Billie Joe tried to speak again but he was silenced with a wave of the drummers hand.
“Billie was trying to rearrange the last track, right… said he didn’t like the way it sounded. It had this bridge in it that sounded all, like, awkward and he wanted to find a way to make it flow better or something. Mike told him it was fine the way it was and then Billie said he’d , like, lost sight of his artistic integrity – right? Anyways, Billie was all ‘fuck you, it’s my song, I’m arranging it how I want’ and Mike was, like, ‘Eat shit, I’ve been here twelve hours and I’m going home’ and I was, kinda, ‘guys… let’s just go out… have a few beers, smoke some lettuce and chill on it’ but by that point, that big vein in the side of Mike’s head was all poppin’ out like pow, pow, pow…”
Mike scowled as Tre mimed the action by opening and closing his fingers in front of his left eye and Billie Joe took another sip of his water to disguise his smile.
“It was not doing that, Tre, and - ”
“- Do you have a problem coping with stress, Mr. Dirnt?”
Mike balked at John’s question, for a moment, then shook his head.
“What? No! I have a problem coping with him when he gets his head stuck up his own ass, pulls rank and starts acting like he’s freakin’ First Lieutenant… I was tired.”
Billie Joe lowered his eyes.
“I said I was sorry.”
“I know,” Mike mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “ I know… I just don’t get why we have to go over all this shit again. It’s done.”
“It isn’t done,” Billie Joe insisted. “Someone stole our work, man, our fuckin’… sweat, blood and tears. We wouldn’t have taken it in the past and we sure as shit aren’t taking it now. I called these guys because they’re the best… and they’re gonna figure it out.”
The three fell quiet and Pat stepped in.
“Uh, Mr. Holmes… what else was it you wanted to know?”
Sherlock had been pacing the perimeter of the room while the band mates bickered, and it was unclear whether he had been listening at all. He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and threw a glance back to the couch.
“What happened next?”
“I went home,” Mike recalled, a little sadly, “I don’t remember exactly what we said but, I was pissed and I left.”
“Via the front exit…” Sherlock confirmed, picking up the remote and rewinding the tape, “Six fifty-three.”
“Tre and I had a cigarette on the fire escape,” Billie Joe continued, with a nod, “He told me we’d listen to the track again in the morning, y’know, when we’d had some sleep. He said I should apologise to Mike before he told me I could, y’know, stick the whole project up my ass or something. Then we left the studio and went to Logan’s, y’know, the bar down the street.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong, that’s why I’m asking the questions.”
Billie Joe blinked.
“Huh?”
“You asked if I knew. Several times.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s a habit.”
“It’s annoying.” He aimed the remote at the TV again. Billie Joe frowned.
They watched two hazy figures slope out of the studio doors, one swinging a guitar case.
“Seven – oh – five. You left together. And you were at the bar until?”
“Around nine-thirty, when my wife called and wanted to know where in hell I was. I told her I’d be home by seven.”
Tre ran the drumstick in his hand through his unkempt brown hair, then stretched.
“Billie was too wasted to drive and Adrienne had to come get him. She was, like, batshit mad, too. I was basically the only guy that didn’t get yelled at that night. So I stayed in the bar till closing talkin’ to this chick named Jacinta who could touch her nose with her tongue.”
Billie Joe snorted and Pat rolled his eyes. Sherlock turned back to the tape.
“What was the album called?”
“Cigarettes and Valentines,” they chorused.
Tre continued to tap out his rhythm on the couch. Mike dropped his head into his hands. Billie Joe spoke the words as though they were the name of a dead relative.
Sherlock nodded.
“Interesting.”
There were three of them and they weren’t what John had expected.
Quiet, at least at first; humble, at least outwardly; and refreshingly unpretentious, all of which called into question all of his previous understandings and expectations of such musicians. He cast his mind back to the post-punk scene of his youth – always in the background but not something he had ever been a part of – and tried to imagine these three being involved in such obnoxious misbehaviour as guitar-smashing, stage – spitting and piercing each other’s ears with safety pins. They didn’t look the type somehow, particularly the little one in the middle, who had his fingers wrapped around the neck of the guitar in his lap as protectively as though it were a product of his own loins.
Their manager had brought them in; Pat Magnarella. A softly-spoken, nervous-looking man who gave off the general impression that this wasn’t the first bizarre situation his wide-eyed band of scruffy-haired artistes had gotten him into.
“Mr Armstrong - ” Sherlock began again, turning away from the window, “Tell me about what happened on the thirtieth of June.”
A dark eyebrow arched.
“You mean the night before?”
Sherlock stared back.
“Yeees, I do.”
Armstrong took a breath.
“We finished up around six-thirty. It hadn’t been a great day. We laid down the vocals on the last three tracks and-”
“-The last three tracks,” Sherlock confirmed, “And the vocals… were they the last element to be recorded?”
“Yeah. We sometimes, y’know, put ghost vocals on earlier as a guide but then we take ‘em off right at the end and, y’know… put on the final vocals and that’s what we’d been doing when-”
“- Fascinating,” he interrupted, idly, holding up his hand. “You said it wasn’t a great day… why?”
The guitarist faltered for a moment, his eyes flicking over to John, questioning. John knew that look well and he knew what it meant: Is he always like this? He answered the only way he knew how, with a crooked smile that was part apology, part amusement, part sympathetic despair.
The bandmate on the left spoke up lazily.
“Billie and Mike had a fight.”
The drummer. He’d had the stick in his hand when he walked in and he had been using it to tap out a feverish rhythm on the arm of the couch since they had taken their seats. John saw Sherlock’s head tilt, ever-so-slightly. He was interested.
“Go on.”
Billie Joe tried to speak again but he was silenced with a wave of the drummers hand.
“Billie was trying to rearrange the last track, right… said he didn’t like the way it sounded. It had this bridge in it that sounded all, like, awkward and he wanted to find a way to make it flow better or something. Mike told him it was fine the way it was and then Billie said he’d , like, lost sight of his artistic integrity – right? Anyways, Billie was all ‘fuck you, it’s my song, I’m arranging it how I want’ and Mike was, like, ‘Eat shit, I’ve been here twelve hours and I’m going home’ and I was, kinda, ‘guys… let’s just go out… have a few beers, smoke some lettuce and chill on it’ but by that point, that big vein in the side of Mike’s head was all poppin’ out like pow, pow, pow…”
Mike scowled as Tre mimed the action by opening and closing his fingers in front of his left eye and Billie Joe took another sip of his water to disguise his smile.
“It was not doing that, Tre, and - ”
“- Do you have a problem coping with stress, Mr. Dirnt?”
Mike balked at John’s question, for a moment, then shook his head.
“What? No! I have a problem coping with him when he gets his head stuck up his own ass, pulls rank and starts acting like he’s freakin’ First Lieutenant… I was tired.”
Billie Joe lowered his eyes.
“I said I was sorry.”
“I know,” Mike mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “ I know… I just don’t get why we have to go over all this shit again. It’s done.”
“It isn’t done,” Billie Joe insisted. “Someone stole our work, man, our fuckin’… sweat, blood and tears. We wouldn’t have taken it in the past and we sure as shit aren’t taking it now. I called these guys because they’re the best… and they’re gonna figure it out.”
The three fell quiet and Pat stepped in.
“Uh, Mr. Holmes… what else was it you wanted to know?”
Sherlock had been pacing the perimeter of the room while the band mates bickered, and it was unclear whether he had been listening at all. He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and threw a glance back to the couch.
“What happened next?”
“I went home,” Mike recalled, a little sadly, “I don’t remember exactly what we said but, I was pissed and I left.”
“Via the front exit…” Sherlock confirmed, picking up the remote and rewinding the tape, “Six fifty-three.”
“Tre and I had a cigarette on the fire escape,” Billie Joe continued, with a nod, “He told me we’d listen to the track again in the morning, y’know, when we’d had some sleep. He said I should apologise to Mike before he told me I could, y’know, stick the whole project up my ass or something. Then we left the studio and went to Logan’s, y’know, the bar down the street.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong, that’s why I’m asking the questions.”
Billie Joe blinked.
“Huh?”
“You asked if I knew. Several times.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s a habit.”
“It’s annoying.” He aimed the remote at the TV again. Billie Joe frowned.
They watched two hazy figures slope out of the studio doors, one swinging a guitar case.
“Seven – oh – five. You left together. And you were at the bar until?”
“Around nine-thirty, when my wife called and wanted to know where in hell I was. I told her I’d be home by seven.”
Tre ran the drumstick in his hand through his unkempt brown hair, then stretched.
“Billie was too wasted to drive and Adrienne had to come get him. She was, like, batshit mad, too. I was basically the only guy that didn’t get yelled at that night. So I stayed in the bar till closing talkin’ to this chick named Jacinta who could touch her nose with her tongue.”
Billie Joe snorted and Pat rolled his eyes. Sherlock turned back to the tape.
“What was the album called?”
“Cigarettes and Valentines,” they chorused.
Tre continued to tap out his rhythm on the couch. Mike dropped his head into his hands. Billie Joe spoke the words as though they were the name of a dead relative.
Sherlock nodded.
“Interesting.”