A Curious Story of Love and Hate

SEAN'S POV:
18th November 2010

‘You’re hovering horizontally, eyes fixed downward as you observe the tiny blue-green orb. You smile; a thin-lipped, right hook smile and your hand reaches out, longing to touch that pristine marble – so close, yet so far. You slowly fall, the nothingness hurtling past your eyes in waves upon waves of inexistence. The ground stands upright towards you – seven land masses and numerous pinpricks of islands. As you get closer, the seas grow wider, mountains taller, grasses greener. You rush towards an island; a small, triangular shaped place, bright lights already viewable in clusters similar to that of small constellation. You veer to the left, limbs stretched into an absurd star shape as the army of buildings, cavalry of cars and war path’s of roads twist and turn. This awkward, gawky city, this land of dreams and opportunity...’
I slapped my pen down; unable to continue the monstrosity I’d begun. I’d failed being an author, I’d failed being a student, and I knew I’d fail our band’s interview. I sighed to myself and rested my head against the van window, feeling the low vibrations fill my sleep deprived brain. I was 20, a young man but so much older. I’d skipped college, naturally, (this whole band conundrum seemed to command the lack of further education,) and now, at our first meeting with an offering record label, I felt as though I was back in Primary, struggling with my diminished mental capacity as I tried to tackle the dilemma of the day – whether to piss in the sandbox or lose precious fun-time.
I turned my attention back to my open notebook, marvelling at the abstract scrawls my pen had created as we crested the bumps in the road. These last ‘now or never’ moments had been the sole topic of our sextet’s conversations these past few weeks. Rhys had practically been ricocheting off the walls of Gavin’s sitting room when he told us. We’d, of course, screamed our lungs out and demanded he recounted word-for-word his phone call with Ian Watkins, of Dark Decay Records, quoting small portions of it for days on end. So, finally, we were leaving shitty Merthyr Tydfil to chase our dreams.
It was a rather ‘shocking’ idea, to be finally allowed to leave. For the two decades I’d lived, my parents, though kind, had been well known to hold a tight grip. The pair were both highly religious – traipsing off to repent their sins each weekend, dusting the gold-plated bible with such vigour and prestige that one would think Jesus himself was going to come call. I’d never been a holy man myself. Even as a younger boy, I’d find myself staring at the artistic, swirling lines that adorned the high church ceilings, tracing my fingers along the knots of the old wooden pews and questioning the sermons whilst my parents took them as law. At 14, they finally noticed my disinterest in the higher power, not a very well received observation, but an observation in its own right. They gave me the choice of the key to heaven or the steamy field of purgatory – and although I would never reach ‘eternal happiness’, smoking weed in the playing fields and bumming beer off of shady looking singles whilst the rest of Wales took it in their hearts to plead for my misdoings seemed a pretty good deal to me.
Merthyr Tydfil, a homage to all that is wet and windy, had never been any of our preferred places to settle down. The depressive looking drunks who hung behind numerous, graffitied walls, the unemployment offices chock-a-block with hopeless masses, all trying to leach onto that one job going and the neighbours. God, the neighbours were the worst of all. Our right side family with their constantly crying babies, dying relatives, howling dogs and over-loud TV shows drove the entire Smith family insane. And young couple who lived on our left kept us awake at night as they screamed insults until the early hours then had loud makeup sex. We’d pretend not to hear the man hit her, slap her about for fighting back – even as god fearing as my parents were, you kept your head down here and your mouth closed.
I’d met the other boys at high school when we found that we seemed to be having the same lives – overtly religious parents, hatred of everything human and the addiction to the sweet cannabis plant. Snoz’s brother would get it for us, he ‘knew’ people, so we all stuck together – outcasts at school and more so at home. More often that not we’d end up hiding in Gav’s basement, smoking and practising our music at the same time, only quitting when the thick pillows of drug got to heavy to see through or someone passed out from utter relaxation.
‘Ey up Sean,’ It was Gavin, his weathered face crinkling at the corners as he laughed aloud at my ‘deep thought’ expressions. ‘We’re almost at Mr Watkins’ studio.’ I sighed and nodded, rolling over in my seat to stare out of the window once again, using this lack of conversation to mentally prepare myself for what could be the biggest day of my life. I knew we were good, hell, we were better than good, but I had a tendency to let my mouth run away without my brain and my tongue waggle offensive nonsense without me instructing it to. The boys were counting on me, conducting me to not screw this up. We were going to get this record deal.