Reckless

 A STREAK OF SUNLIGHT comes into the rehearsal space through a slit in the basement window. The thin beam slants past the large Madnight poster that covers the only window in the room, and rests gracefully on the carpeted floor.

For a small moment, it makes the thick silence tranquil instead of chaotic.

I watch it for a second, sitting hunched on the sofa, but then my eyes travel up the wall and freeze on the wrecked poster.

Harry Smith—our manager—gave each of us an identical one after the recording sessions finished. We are dressed in black outfits on it, with a blank background behind us and a blazing green Madnight logo in front.

The photographer’s original idea was that we had to look menacing, matching the theme of the album, but we had been laughing in that photo-shoot from start to end. We didn’t end up looking menacing or even slightly serious. We ended up looking like friends.

And the label liked that.

They included a smaller poster to the Prisoners of Madness vinyls, gave the first fifty people that ordered the album from our website a large poster, and printed the photo on the whole second page of the CD booklets, with our names above our heads.

But that photo-shoot happened before the recording sessions started. Now it seems distant. Very distant. By the time we finished recording our third album we were already like we are now.

My Madnight poster is now in mum’s house in Bristol. It’s strange to look at it, so most of us made up excuses to get rid of it—giving it to their girlfriends or anyone, or hiding it under a mattress that keeps it flat because “tape would ruin it.”

My brother is the only one who kept his and never hid it. He put it in our basement—our rehearsal space.

The wrecked poster is here to remind us who we are and who we can be. It’s supposed to make us optimistic, but lately that seems impossible. Adam’s poster will possibly witness the end of Madnight today.

The pressure of having this band is slowly, but very effectively, making us go mad.

Michael breaks the silence by letting out a small scoff, like an emotionless chuckle.

“You know?” He parts his lips and shakes his head. “I simply don’t get it. Why the fuck did you do somefink like that?”

Under his glare, Glenn lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug.

He had written a new song over the weekend—one of those insanely good ones that Glenn writes and that made Madnight who we are now. As we played it, it almost felt like old times but it hardly lasted.

And then at the end of the rehearsal he told us about Saturday.

“Go on, mate! Why the fuck?”

Glenn arches his back forward and rests his heavily freckled forearms on his knees.

“Listen, man, I think you’re making a huge deal out of nothing. It’s not a big deal,” he replies. His eyes are on the sunbeam projected on the floor, though, not on Michael.

“It’s not—how can you fucking say that? Go on and quit looking down, you twat! You’re making these fucking decisions that should be ours, not yours. How can you say it’s not a big deal?”

He runs his hand through his blonde hair and ends up looking deranged. On the poster he is grinning broadly, crinkling his button-nose and side-hugging Glenn.

I remind myself that it’s the same guy.

“Michael, it’s not—”

“Not a big deal. Not a big fucking deal,” he finishes. “Let me just repeat what you just said, yeah? You guaranteed to some band that was playing in a pub that they’d tour with us in a world-tour, is that not it? A band that has no albums out, no demos, no fans, zero experience, and you did it just because they’re girls. Tell me how that is ‘not a big deal.’”

“I didn’t do it because they’re girls and I didn’t guarantee anything. I said, ‘give us a demo so we can consider you to be our opening band for this tour’, and I did that because I thought they were good.”

“I don’t care if they’re good or not! We had it sorted, didn’t we?”

With the firmest conviction, Glenn lifts his chin higher and shakes his head, “No.”

“Harry had it sorted, Glenn! The opening band was going to be either Pentacle or Hunterstrike!”

“Oh, Christ, if you’re still counting on that, man,” Glenn is still shaking his head, “you’re going to be up for your biggest disappointment, ‘cause Hunterstrike’s touring Japan in three months and they won’t cancel to be our opening band, and you fucking know that.”

“Listen, you stopped being the manager a long time ago, man! You’re just the guitarist now, so leave the managing issues to Harry, and stop taking this band’s decisions by yourself! Quit being such a selfish cunt, we matter too!”

Beside Glenn, Ian releases a tired breath.

He reaches out towards the side table, and takes the packet of cigarettes I had bought this morning and forgotten there.

He usually never smokes. It makes his voice hoarse, harder to handle. He cares about things like that. Smoking is Ian’s way of saying, ‘fuck it’.

Glenn frowns. “Michael, I include all of you in the decisions I make, but this is just… ridiculous. I’m being a selfish cunt now? Offering someone a chance to make it is fucking selfish?”

Michael scoffs. “Oh, please, Glenn, I think we all know your biggest concern now is having someone to please your crotch, ain’t it?”

“What?” Glenn screeches.

I manage to hold back a little chuckle because that sounds ridiculous.

Knowing Glenn, that’s unlikely. He’s the most ‘love, not lust’ kind of guy. The relative fame of our band did nothing to him. He’s still that same short and ridiculously talented red-head who had this same problem with Michael three years ago, when he insisted we owed Hawkeye a new singer after we ‘stole’ theirs: Ian Parnaby.

He ended up getting them that and a small recording session with our mixer, so they could send it to some labels, and he did that because he thought it was the right thing to do.

We’re not talking about some wanna-be rock star; we’re talking about Glenn Wickes—my best friend, whose biggest problem is having that urge to help whenever he feels he can, and that happens often. And sometimes, like this, I’m sure that’s going to end up being his downfall and maybe the band’s as well.

“That’s not true,” Glenn says. “I’m not you, you know? I don’t just help people to ask something in return right afterwards.”

“Look, I don’t give a fuck about your sex life or your wondrous acts of kindness. I give a fuck about my band. And I just know that what you just did is fucking irresponsible and inconsiderate towards us.” He presses a finger indignantly into his chest.

Glenn scoffs. “Oh, my God. I didn’t sign anything! I made a suggestion!”

“I don’t care! What is going to be the fucking point of touring with this band when no one’s even heard about them?”

“Isn’t it the same problem with Pentacle?”

Ian lets out a quick puff of smoke before speaking. “You know? I don’t think anyone could survive a tour with Pentacle unless they got rid of their bassist. I wouldn’t.”

“Well, then we’d find another band!”

“We’ve found it, man,” Glenn says, leaning forward from the waist, and rests his forearms on his lap. “Their name is Reckless. Stop all this for a minute and just give them a chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Glenn, listen,” Michael says through a clenched jaw. “That’s not the point. The point is there are supposed to be standards here. The opening band has to be someone who helps us in this tour, not the other way around.” He pauses and looks away briefly. “It’s time that you stop doing charity, you know? You can’t keep doing this forever. You’re fucking bringing us down, and you don’t give a damn.”

“Could I just say something?” Adam asks, his tone sounding suddenly calm, clashing against both of the guitarists. “I have no problem giving Reckless a chance, really. Y’know. No guarantees, Michael, but just... we could check out this band. We don’t even know how they sound yet.”

“Look, the problem here is that it’s going to be our first fucking world tour, and we could take total advantage of it if we played with a good band like Hunterstrike. Right? That’d be guaranteed success, Adam—”

Ian cuts him off, “We won’t play with Hunterstrike. Get over Hunterstrike.”

“—That’d mean filled venues and merchandise sold-out. We’re not going to let that pass just because Glenn might’ve had a fling with one of these girls or something, and now… what? Suddenly this has to be our opening band? I’m sorry. I’m not leaving this to something he’s doing for sex. It’s not going to happen. Have a fucking brain.”

I look into the poster and smile. Still the same guy.

“You know what?” Glenn stands up. “I’m really tired of speaking if you don’t even want to listen. Don’t waste my fucking time.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Michael snickers while Glenn crosses the room and closes his silver guitar case. “Is that a threat? Is that you saying, ‘I’m leaving’? Because, man, that would save us a lot of time. If you quit this band—”

“It’s my fucking band. I started this thing!”

“It’s not your band!” Michael’s voice raises an octave, indignant. “We’re a part of this thing! You’re completely forgetting that we’re part of Madnight too! It doesn’t matter that you started it, you can’t make the decisions on your own!”

“Who’s ‘we’, Michael? Look around! You are the only one bitching here over nonsense!”

“Okay, just shut up, both of you!” The phrase slips through my lips before I can hold it. Then silence returns to the room. “This can be solved. Just don’t… You’re going way over the top with this.”
“Oh, alright then, Jonas, tell us what we should do,” Michael says defiantly.

I look back to the poster, wondering what had happened since then. What had gone wrong, how could we fix it?

Michael has always been difficult to handle because he wants things to be done his way—he thinks they won’t work otherwise—but it had never been an actual problem, so why is it now?

Maybe it was just a matter of time.

Adam and I are fuck-all use in the song-writing process, Michael is an iron-fisted perfectionist, Ian is always reluctant about this, only siding with Glenn because he doesn’t like Michael’s ways, and Glenn is getting tired of this, doing things that are not right to do, whether they harm the band or not.

Maybe being too selfless could potentially make you selfish.

Michael breathes out and lets his hands fall to his sides, like this is pointless.

I point at the guitar case in Glenn’s hand.

“Put that down, man, you’re not going anywhere,” I say, but Glenn tilts his head to a side and clenches his fist tighter around the handle of his case. I frown. “Right, mate, what do you want me to tell you? You fucked up, but don’t just walk away now. We’re going to fix this. You don’t get to leave until we fix this.”

“I’m trying to do that, alright? But I can’t and never will when he’s around.”

“Well, this is never going to end, then! He’s a member of the band. We all are. He’s right to be pissed, mate.”

After hesitating briefly Glenn looks down to his case, dips at the knees, and places it onto the floor.

“I mean,” I say, “honestly, it was not okay for you to tell these girls something this important, especially if you didn’t know what Harry was planning for the tour.”

“Yeah, but Harry’s main problem isn’t who the opening band will be, Jonas.”

“That’s not your call. It definitely isn’t. You need to stop acting like you can speak up for us, both of you.”

“Well, Jonas, I think someone has to,” Michael says, glaring at the floor.

“I am speaking up now, aren’t I?”

“Tell you something, man?” Ian says, glaring at Michael and taking his cigarette between two fingers. “Tell you why none of us even bothers speaking now? That’s because when you’re talking no one else can. You never listen. Our opinions don’t matter to you and they never have. Don’t suddenly try to act like our advocate or something, ‘cause you’re only advocating yourself.”

“What do you expect me to do, really? You sit around and do nufink!”

“Want to hear my answer, then?” Ian straightens his back. “I say let’s go for it. Let’s try this band as our opening act. As far as I know Adam’s up for it, too, and you just fucking dismissed it.”

“No!” Michael’s voice raises an octave, like what Ian has said is far from making sense. “You know what? I’m not going to let some band ruin this tour. Are you forgetting how hard we’ve worked for this? Right! Maybe you have. You know why? Because I’ve done all this by myself. Me. I’ve done a crap-load of things for—”

“You’re so full of yourself, man.”

“No, Ian, I’m not! And it’s not fucking fair. What do you even do for the band?”

“Listen,” I hiss. “Stop fucking yelling and let’s just… talk, okay? We’re all fucking up. Right, Michael, maybe we don’t speak up that much, so let’s solve that.” I pause. “I think Glenn fucked up for not telling us about this band first, and you, Michael, because you’re going way over the top with this. Pentacle doesn’t work. On-stage or backstage, it just doesn’t work. We have to find another band, and who says this one won’t be the right one? We shouldn’t just assume it won’t work because they’re a new band.”

“And Glenn said they’re about to release an album, what’s the big deal?” Ian says; his eyes now firm on the grey ceiling board. “Just... sit back and give ‘em a listen. That really won’t hurt you.”

“Listen,” Glenn says quietly. He is looking at us, but talking to Michael, really. “I’m sorry if it came out like I wanted to decide this without you, but I had to do it. You have to trust me on this one. This band’s good, and I would really love to help them. If you give them a listen you’ll love them as much as I do. I know it.”

“I’ve said it,” Adam says, shrugging. “I’m up for it.”

I nod at my brother’s words. I’m not sure that matters, though. Our opinions often come as a package.

“Four against one, then.” Ian sits back and puts out his cigarette against the ashtray on the side-table. I take it as a symbol that the conversation is sealed. “That’s official.”

“Thank you for that.” Glenn nods.

After a few seconds of silence, Michael scoffs. “This is ridiculous.”

He strides towards the small coffee table against the side of the staircase to grab his jacket and backpack before leaving, clenching his jaw.

“You have to be here tomorrow, Michael,” Ian says defiantly. “You have to be here to meet these girls and hear their demo or you’re out, and that’ll be official too.”

Michael spins around briskly, a heavy frown on his face.

“How can you threaten to kick me out of the band when I’m the only one who knows what’s best for it, apparently? None of you give a damn about Madnight!”

“And you do? You care about the money that you can get from Madnight, mate, not about what’s best for it.”

“Bullshit, Ian.” He purses his lips. “That’s bullshit. I’m the one who writes the songs. I’m the one who makes sure we don’t get scammed after the gigs. I’m the one who got us the contract with the label, and the only one who dares helping Harry with the managing issues. You just stand there and look pretty and try not to miss a note when you fucking yell.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck off,” Ian yells. “And you don’t write all of the songs! Glenn writes everything that’s good and fixes your monotonic crap until it sounds half-decent. You’re only here trying to see where you can get more money for yourself!”

“Hey, stop!” Adam says before any of them can say anything else. “Just stop, both of you. Michael, see you tomorrow for practice. Ian, just… shut up. You don’t mean any of this, both. You’re just… angry. It’s—”

“No, Adam.” Michael puts his hand on the stair-rail. “I meant that. I’m the only one who gives a crap about the future of Madnight.”

There’s a brief silence when Glenn and Ian shake their heads and roll their eyes.

“And the rest of you boys,” Michael says, “wake up. If you think music is everything you’ll ever need to be in this business then you’re being truly fucking dumb and you clearly haven’t learnt a thing in these four years. That’s really pathetic. We’ve gone this far, that’s one thing. Staying where we are is the hard part. Every little aspect counts. If you don’t care about this too, if you don’t agree with this, then you don’t care about the future of the band. Simple as that.”

“You’re just scared we’re not good enough for this tour, aren’t you?” Glenn asks. “So what were you trying to do? Hide behind Hunterstrike?”

Michael stops mid-stair.

“No, I’ll tell you one thing I’m scared of, man. I’m scared that we end up splitting up after this. It’s a fucking time-bomb. And you know? I’m being logical here for the sake of the band. Any of these bands would bring more audience, however small it is. Reckless won’t do anything, no matter how good they are. They’re like, globally unknown. I’m sorry, but once again, Wickes,” his eyebrows go up, “you’re a fuck-up.”

He walks up the rest of the stairs, jaw set.

“Just know that if you want to fill venues because of another band’s potential that’s called plain and outright mediocrity, man.”

“Yeah? And when you want to make a girly band our opening band for the sake of getting laid, what’s that called, Glenn?”

He slams the door shut when he leaves.