One Song by A. J. Betts

Author:A. J. Betts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan Australia
Published: 2023-07-07T06:10:14+00:00

With fresh coffees, the four of us gather. Ruby’s in the beanbag. Ant settles on a crate. I’m sitting on the couch beside Cooper. His right thigh touches my left thigh; his right shoulder bumps my left shoulder. The whole left side of me is a hotplate on slow burn.

Nothing has changed between us.

Without Mim here, the vibe already feels different. Easier. None of us is playing to her camera, or worrying about how we might look, which is good because we all look pretty rough, with tired eyes and mussed-up hair. I must look – and smell – a mess.

Ruby looks the worst, which is strange given she’s the only non-hungover person here. Her skin’s washed out, which is a feat for someone already so pale. Her eyeliner has smudged, giving her panda-bear eyes. Gingerly, she takes measured mouthfuls from her bowl.

‘Exceptional,’ says Ant, appraising the coffee. ‘I don’t know why instant gets a bad rap.’

‘So,’ I say, thinking about the lyrics that won’t write themselves. ‘“Plan B” –’

‘Is awesome,’ says Cooper.

‘Epic,’ agrees Ant, cradling his prized coffee. ‘More than a little bit.’

Ruby sips from her bowl before saying, ‘It isn’t terrible. “Plan B”, I mean,’ which makes the rest of us exchange glances. This is possibly the most positive thing we’ve heard from her yet. ‘But the outro is shit,’ she adds.

‘What was it?’ asks Cooper. ‘A fade out?’

‘A slower repetition of the chorus, then nothing. It should be punchier.’

‘A hard out?’ suggests Ant.

‘Yeah. Maybe the same riff with minor chords.’

‘So, like . . .’ Ant places his cup down before whipping the drumsticks from the back of his shorts to air-drum the rhythm of the chorus. He makes the sounds with his mouth. ‘Chicka-chicka chi-chi, chicka-boom chi-chi boom.’

Ruby makes the circling gesture in the air, then joins him the next time, sounding out her bassline. ‘Bom ba-bom-bom, ba-ba bom, bom.’

Cooper comes in with, ‘Moww-moww ma mowww. Meh-meh ma-mowww.’

The three of them attempt to end the bar at the same time, but miss each other’s cues.

There’s scattered laughter before they try it again. This time, I join in, too, humming the keyboard melody beneath them.

So this is what it means to be in a band, I realise. It’s the back and forth. The trying and improving. The talking things through. The laughter and the letting things go.

And it’s exactly the kind of scene Mim should be filming for her documentary, because it’s intimate and unselfconscious and . . . exhilarating. Here we are: sweat-stained, bleary-eyed, vomit-flecked but victorious. We’ve battled our way through the swamps of stagnation and come out the other side, afloat on a billow of euphoria. It’s a feeling that makes all the previous crap worthwhile and I wish I could capture these moments – the sounds and the laughter and the others’ blissful, knowing faces – and preserve them in a capsule that I could crack open anytime I need a shot of reassurance or optimism or joy. I’m part of something bigger than me now, and it’s something pretty special.

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