Circles Of Fear Read online

CHAPTER ONE

  The wheels grind hard, as you learn the ropes

  Of a game that’s fun, but yields no jokes

  If time was money, then I’d be rich

  But who needs money, when you’re high on kicks

  All the people, who have done me wrong

  I want to touch them, with this song

  Of all their lies, tricks and deceit

  There’s no blood on my hands, but there’s blood on my feet

  Jason looked at the words he had just written. They just came to him; he didn’t know where from; as if a hand was guiding his; strong words from strong feelings, within his tangled soul, it happened about all things bright and beautiful, and all things great and small. He felt blessed as the pen passed effortlessly over the paper, so it shall be written, so it shall be done.

  He contemplated the melody he had matched the words to in his head. At the back of his mind were the years of experience that drove him on in his relentless quest for those magic poetic tunes. Many times he had sat and damned his life with song and this was just one more. A way to relieve his anger and the stress of life in the fast lane, at times his mind turned on the devil. His long fair hair flowed down onto the table and was getting caught in his pen. He looked up, as he tossed it to one side, revealing young facial features for a man of 32 years. His hair settled down his back, clinging to his tall wiry frame. Etched on his smooth, olive complexion was a look of pure innocence and a wear with all smile. He decided to try the words with the music and moved from the dark wooden dining table in the corner of his one bedroom unit to the lounge by the window, where his acoustic guitar was lying. He picked it up, sat down and began to check the tuning.

  He looked out of the window, to the park opposite the units and strummed away as he watched two children playing on the swings. The children caught his concentration as he wondered if he would ever have children himself. He sort of yearned for it, but was stricken with a terrible fear of not being able to provide for them. Thirty-two years old and with no trade except rock guitar and vocalist. On and off the dole between good times and bad had always led to no serious relationships and an endless string of loneliness on the road. His good looks and stage presence had always rewarded him with friendship, but now he was beginning to see no security for himself in later life. What really scared him was that he didn’t understand why he felt that way, and he really thought he should do something about it. There was a strange stirring within him he had never felt before. His last band had just split because of his affair with another member’s girlfriend and they were in the process of doing their last week’s gigs, which was a bit of a strain, even though he was no longer involved with her. He had thought long and hard as to why the guy had got so upset; it takes two to tango and he had just followed the chemistry of the moment and now they had to face the music. He felt one day soon his search for a soul mate would end, he glanced briefly a the sun, gleaming through the trees, it was always there, although sometimes hidden by storms and clouds.

  Jason still strummed and sang as he stared out of the window. His thoughts gradually came back to what he was doing as the children he was watching rode away on their bicycles. He realised the new melody he was playing fitted perfectly to the words, so he clicked the record button on his tape recorder, lay on the end of the couch and recorded a verse and a chorus. He then retrieved a pen and paper from the wooden table in the dark corner of the room and sat back down in the light of the window on the couch. He scribbled out an arrangement. Two verses, one chorus, solo, two verses, one chorus, solo. He scribbled frantically so as not to forget his new tune, then returned to his guitar to try the arrangement, only to find he had not written enough words. So for now he repeated the words he had. The key of E had been his original choice for the song, but he changed it to A and found he could put more attack into the vocals, a sign of the times amid electric mayhem. He scribed a large A on the paper at the top of his arrangement. Jason needed more words; he looked hard at the words he already had and began to write.

  And of the knives, that grace my back

  I’ll keep on rocking and will not crack

  And all the people, who put them there

  Have made my cross, so hard to bear

  I stand tall, across this smoke-filled bar

  My voice cracks, through the mic so far

  If they think, I have been so wrong

  Then I want to touch them, with this song

  Jason was still one verse short but could not muster an idea for the last one, his automatic internal guidance system shut down. He had spent the anger within him over his present situation, so he recorded what he already had, put down his guitar and went into the small kitchen area to make a cup of coffee. Jason was totally placid and unable to vent any emotion due to the constant requirement of being a cool musician and had found that it came out in his music. He didn’t smoke at all, so a coffee had always been a boredom breaker. When he was ten he had asked his father for some cigarettes for himself and his friend. His father obliged, advising Jason to take deep breaths when inhaling the smoke. Jason had then gone to his father’s bar and picked out a bottle. Unbeknown to him it contained port. On further advice from his father, he then took the cigarettes and port to the tree house at the bottom of the garden, as his father watched from the window of their Adelaide Hills home with a large smile on his face. Jason and his friend entered the tree house and began consuming mouthfuls of port and lungs full of smoke. After only a few minutes, Jason’s father rescued two very green looking and sick boys from the tree house. Jason has not smoked since. An early fork in the road from which he was given direction, or a commanding demand steering him from destiny, he still pondered the answer but accepted the outcome.

  Jason sat sipping his coffee on the lounge, studying his song arrangement and decided that was how it came out of him, so that’s how it should be. He dropped a verse and left it at that. He pondered on a name for his new song but nothing came to him, he left it knowing it would come to him in time. Maybe the band would have more ideas. He thought of the advertisement for his next band that was in today’s paper.

  Wanted: drummer and bass player for professional R ‘n’ B come soul band, no time wasters or junkies, work waiting, phone Jason 38233221.

  It was already two o’clock on that Saturday and nobody had called. Jason didn't expect any calls until late afternoon, as that was when musicians would be rising from working the previous night. He lay on the couch watching the shadows of the trees on the ceiling cast by the beams of sunlight across the sprawling Adelaide north parklands. It was quiet and warm and he gradually fell asleep. He dreamed that he was playing at his new band’s first gig and the large crowd he could see before him was screaming for more. As they began to leave the stage after their last song, he put down his guitar and walked around the back of his Marshall amplifier towards the band dressing room, when a voice behind him said, “I think we are really on to something with this band.”

  Jason woke with a jump as the phone rang, slipping off the edge of the couch on to the well-worn carpet, followed by his acoustic guitar which struck him on the nose. Being well and truly back with reality, he put his guitar back on the couch and clutching his now painful nose, made his way to the phone on the wall above the breakfast bar, between the kitchen and lounge area. He picked up the phone and in a hollow voice due to him still holding his nose, said, “Hello, Jason with the broken nose speaking.”

  “How did you do that?” a voice replied.

  “Do what.”

  “The nose.”

  “I fell off the couch when the phone rang, it happens to everybody.”

  “Yeah right. Listen man, I just blew in from Sydney and I’m phoning about your band ad in the paper today. I just finished a gig down the east coast with a disco cover band and I’m keen to get back into some R’n’B. I was visiting friends here and saw your ad. Any chance of trying out?”

  “What’
s the name of the band you were with on the east coast?” Jason asked.

  “Don’t ask,” was the firm reply.

  “Why not?”

  “No, that was the name of the band. We got fed up with people asking us for cover songs all the time, so we called ourselves ‘Don’t ask’.”

  “That’s original. Tomorrow afternoon, that’s Sunday, in my shed at my father’s place at Stirling in the Adelaide Hills. I have a PA there so it costs us nothing and noise is no problem. There may be a few people trying out but you’ll get your chance. Two o’clock OK with you?”

  “Yeah fine. I’m visiting a friend at the moment, I’ll borrow his bass and amp. What’s the address man? ”

  “It’s the only place on Holden Road Stirling, big white two storey house, you can’t miss it. What was your name anyway?”

  “Brad man, Brad Bishop.”

  “Ok Brad the bass player from Sydney, I look forward to hearing you play tomorrow and we can see what happens, bye.”

  “Catch you then man, ciao.” They both hung up.

  Jason had long given up having high hopes about forming new bands, as he had been disappointed so many times and took it as it came these days.

  He took more calls during the afternoon, all of which he turned down, as he knew the players and considered them to be unsuitable, for one reason or another. Most wanted to play with Jason, as he was considered one of the best players in town. Just to be in a band with him was a really big deal. Jason was still without a drummer for the session the next day and the guys he would like to use were all in working bands and unavailable but he had had enough for the day. He picked up his jacket on the way to the door. He was due to do his last gig with his present band and thought he would arrive early to give the crew a hand to set up, when the phone rang. Jason put his jacket back down and picked up the hand piece.

  “Hello Jason speaking,” his speech was hurried, as he wanted to leave.

  A strong voice made a sure statement.

  “Jason, it’s Vic Evans. I saw your name and number in the ad in the paper and thought it could only be you. I want in. I’m sick of playing top forty covers and want to get back to R’n’B. You interested?”

  “Vic! Yeah great. Sure you want to do hundred buck gigs again? You won’t earn as much as you are with ‘Smooth Mustard’; I hear you guys have been pulling a grand a week each.”

  “The money’s good but I’m a blues man and I just can’t handle it anymore. I just can’t express myself, even with our original stuff, and the record companies aren’t interested anyway. So I wouldn’t be in any different position playing what I really want to play. Anyway we should get together; we’re running out of time, I was thirty three years old last birthday. You know what I mean, could be our last band.” There were a few seconds of silence before Jason replied in a soft depressed tone.

  “Yeah I know exactly what you mean,” his tone picked up as he went on. “Tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock at the rehearsal room at my father’s place. You know where it is, you guys have used it.”

  “Yeah I know it, I’ll be a bit tired as I’m playing tonight, but I’ll definitely be there.”

  “Me too, catch you then.”

  “Look forward to it, bye.”

  Jason put down the phone slowly in disbelief at the luck he had just experienced. Vic Evans was who Jason considered to be the best drummer in town. He headed for the door as he put on his black leather jacket and contemplated the possibility of a new three piece, rhythm and blues band with just a touch of soul in town. He found it to be a very refreshing and exciting train of thought. Locking the door behind him he skipped down the stairs, two at a time, from his second storey one-bedroom unit in North Adelaide. He climbed into his battered Holden HK station wagon and made his way through the traffic on the busy streets, to his last gig with his present band. Heavy rain began to lash at his windscreen.

  “It never rains, till it pours,” he said quietly to himself as he turned on his lights and wipers and he was right. Neither of them worked.