Grapefruit and Cake
Dear Friend,
The birds are exceptionally quiet. So much so that I opened the back kitchen door, popped my head out into the cold, diffuse morning, and was relieved to hear their symphony.
I’m at Ash’s place in Meersbrook, Sheffield—eating chocolate cake with segments of fresh grapefruit that Ayse prepared and left for me on a small wooden chopping board. My morning coffee is French-pressed in a light teal mug with a picture of a VW camper van. The van has the same coloring as the one Mam and Dad had in the 70s and early 80s.
The boiler for the heating is in a wooden cupboard with the head of a dinosaur mounted on it. I’m hoping it’s the hum of the heat pump that accounts for the quietness of the birds—not more of my upper hearing shaved off.
A wood pigeon comes to the rescue, cooing reassuringly, “all is well.”
The rehearsal was more nerve-wracking than I imagined.
Coming into a band dynamic where there’s a shared history and you’re this new guy who doesn’t know the songs—the safest approach is to do very little. Listen for the spaces in the music, contribute to the dynamics and texture. For me, at least. But I’m talking like I do this all the time. I don’t.
It wasn’t an audition, but my mind fabricated one.
There were moments when even the simplest riff or guitar technique slipped away from me—like running for the bus that will get you there on time, and the driver closes the doors in your face.
Ash was showing me an octave thing that you can drone under the song—it sounded huge—but I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t even work out where he had his fingers on the fretboard. But I’ve learned to trust him.
Ayse’s the vocalist, and she and Simon, the drummer, took a little break while Ash broke it down for me.
There’s a part of me that does not want to be seen.
The kid who got praised for being clever and quick—finding the stuff the other kids struggled with easy—that part wanted to run. But I’ve learned to breathe.
Just breathe.
By the end of the rehearsal, the magic thing that makes you want to do it happened.
On one song, my mind stopped and my body took over. The riff got inside of me, and my fingers played without me. There’s an energy that runs through you, and before you know it, you’re dancing, and it’s happening through you.
Climbing, running, walking, sticking images in a scrapbook.
Being in flow.
We’ve all experienced it.
Suddenly, the birds are coming through clearly. Someone, somewhere, is banging nails into wood. The morning light illuminates a glass of daffodils and an orange frisbee on the kitchen windowsill.
Ash and Ayse have gone into Nether Edge on a mercy mission for Ash’s car, which is overheating and making a dry, metallic roasting smell. He thinks it’s hard on cars to sit stationary in the ice and rain.
It makes me wonder about Lou, my Skoda.
Sitting outside our house in London.
I’m feeling ever so slightly homesick—missing Chiara and sorry to let down Luke. We were going out tonight in London, but the rehearsal went well enough that the band wants me to stay up here for a few days and prepare to go into the studio with Paul next week.
Paul’s the producer.
I’ve known Paul since we were kids in our twenties.
This morning when I woke up on the guest bed, I was facing a bookshelf. There’s a book there called The History of British Steel that Ash bought in Oxfam.
I opened the book to a page that had a picture of workers at the Sheffield plant, and beneath it, a picture of the foundry in Workington.
The place where Grandad and Dad worked.
The town where I was born.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey