A drummer
The lights lower on the stage, and the drummer knows that sound check is about to begin.
Playing at the Black Dog is a privilege.
And though they’re at the bottom of the bill tonight, though they’ll probably be playing before most of the crowd has even arrived, it doesn’t matter.
It’s their first gig, and they’ve got a whole lifetime after it.
In front of the stage, in front of the band, stands Smudge.
He’s a bit of a legend, the newly christened co-owner of this place, the guy who books all the right acts and puts them in front of all the right people.
The drummer goes about his duties, chatting diligently to the tech guy, testing the lead singer’s mic, getting the guitarists to play separately, then as one.
He only stops when the front door swings open, and in steps someone else about Smudge’s age.
Tall, tattooed, deeply tanned. This must be the guy he’s heard so many stories about, during the countless gigs he’s attended in the time that Smudge’s business partner has been away.
‘Here he is,’ Smudge bellows.
Behind the bar, Bea rolls her eyes. She runs her workstation like a pirate ship, orders barked over endless shots of rum.
The drummer is scared of her, of what she’d think if she knew how he felt.
He’s scared about tonight. About no one coming.
About embarrassing himself in front of everyone. In front of Bea.
‘Hey,’ says the co-owner to the drummer. ‘I’m Seb.’
The drummer looks around, as if he can’t believe he’s being spoken to. But Seb is indeed speaking to him. He must have climbed up on the stage while the drummer’s mind was drifting.
‘I used to be in your seat,’ Seb says. ‘I was fucking terrible at my first gig.’ He laughs. ‘Don’t think about them,’ he says, pointing towards the space where the crowd will be. To the bar beyond, and Bea. ‘Just you and the music.’
Now it’s the drummer’s turn to test his sound, so he thanks Seb, and Seb nods and slaps him on the shoulder, then jumps back down and takes his place beside Smudge.
The drummer looks at the pair of them, their arms crossed, a sureness behind Seb’s crinkled eyes. He hopes that one day he’ll have that.
The drummer presses his foot on the bass pedal, lets out the first thump thump thump of a rhythm that will build into a roar once the crowd arrives.
Seb nods along, taps his fingers against his forearm.
He looks like he’s home, like he’s in his rightful place.
Which is why the drummer is surprised when Seb turns to Smudge, when he points towards the door.
‘You’ve got this,’ Seb says. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’