Broken Birdie Chirpin by Tarsitano Adam

Author:Tarsitano, Adam [Tarsitano, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adam G. Tarsitano
Published: 2012-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Even Ollie Maserati couldn’t have delivered me to Muswell Hill fast enough. I carried tidings of enormous proportions. Mr. Surtees had telephoned the powerbrokers at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom and The Satin Vault to arrange auditions for Rip Churchill. These were premiere rock n’ roll venues frequented by next big things and their trophies.

Nepotism alone forged opportunities such as this. Oh, how my band mates would revel in the knowledge that my business acumen was as sharp as my musical genius. I pictured their adoring faces as their benevolent leader delivered them from obscurity. Kiss the outstretched hand that feeds lest ye be banished to the farthest corners of the kingdom. Respected and loved. Firm but fair. I burst into the garage with the heads of my enemies dangling from twine.

Mutiny! The sight and sound of it snatched my breath away. The four mutineers were muddling through some up-tempo jingle I’d never heard. Captain Angler had ringleader written all over his cheery fucking face. The cacophony grinded to a halt as my presence became known.

“Good news, mate. I penned a couple of songs last night. We were fooling around with them a bit while we waited. I think you’re gonna like what we’ve got so far. So, strap on your guitar.” Good news? I wanted to chuck up on his face. Since when did Skeffington bypass yours truly in favor of the rhythm section? If you can’t beat them join them of course; a tried and true philosophy for a backstabbing busker.

These blokes weren’t anywhere near ready for my news. I strapped on my guitar without any fanfare and listened oh so intently as the lads began to play. Their herky-jerky takeoff satisfied the worst in me. My ire returned, however, as the quality of Skeffington’s composition began to shine through. He’d succeeded where I’d been failing.

It didn’t take long for me to hatch a transformative riff that’d blast the bloody track into next year. Not so fast. A devilish delight upended me before my fingers ever plucked a note. Mail it in. Sack it. Skeffington didn’t deserve my best. I could easily riff off of the main melody without adding jack. Seconds later my lead guitar chimed in. Blah, blah, blah. I even tossed in an uninspired guitar solo during the bridge for good measure.

I may’ve won that battle, but I was losing the war. The others were arse over elbow about the ditty; mostly because it was a shiny new toy to play with. Skeffington called it “My Little Refugee Girl.” I felt like the bloody refugee, however, and he wasn’t even through. His second offering mostly topped the first. “A Soul for Wally B” was sure-handed pop rock with an inspired hook. I likely could’ve had a massive impact on the final product, but pulled off my konk instead.

There was only one true way to exact revenge: pen an enormous masterpiece and snaffle control back from the depths of Skeffington’s arse. I’d punish the turncoats in the meantime by withholding news of the auditions.

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