Waiting in this coffee shop for the man who is supposedly going to rejuvenate modern rock seems like an exciting prospect, but given my first impression of him, this seems unlikely. He appears from the left side of the snow caked windows. Then in true comic fashion, he slips on the ice, cracking his head against the window. He jumps up straight away and pushes against the door, well, not open. It takes him a while to figure out which way the door swings, and when he does he strolls into the shop. He spots me and sits down at my table. With short cropped hair sticking vibrantly to the side, the white snow contrasts against the startling black. With a beard that is unkempt and poorly shaven, it somehow wouldn’t look informal in a suit. Well dressed in a morning suit covered by a jacket that’s not unlike what the Gestapo wore in WWII, his demeanour captivates his eccentric personality in a glimpse. Out of his pocket comes a pipe, which he pops in his mouth and promptly lights. The waitress looks over to him.
“Uh sir, we don’t allow smoking in here.”
He chuckles, then replies-
“Don’t worry sister, this ain’t tobacco.”
Wow. This guy certainly is something else. He looks at me for the first time.
“Right let’s get this show on the road then shall we?”
I start with the first thing that comes to mind:
“So how are you doing Kudos?”
“I’m pretty good thanks, got a bit of a headache though, not really sure why.” He looks back at the
window, where a nasty looking crack has appeared.
“So tell me, what is your great plan to revolutionise the modern world of rock & roll?”
“Well its quite simple when you think about it really. Me and my band, Kicking it BigTime, go from gig to gig, spreading our music and injecting it into many young people who may be lead astray by that load of bollocks R&B that is
shaping our world today.”
“I see. And how is this going to change the face of rock?” He takes a long drag of his pipe before answering my question; his eyes look more glazed than my donut.
“Unfortunately, R&B has become more popular than rock in recent years. And I reckon this is because it can be used in clubs for DJs to mix up easily. Why? Bass. A constant electric beat accompanies every track. And me and my boys are incorporating this with our music.”
“Sounds like clever stuff.” I gasp with genuine shock and interest. “Could you give me an example of what it sounds like, maybe any albums you’ve got coming up.”
“Imagine Muse combined with Kings of Leon, Arctic Monkeys and Pint Shot Riot. Then add Deadmau5, The Chemical Brothers and Daft Punk to the mixture. Finally sprinkle a dash of the Black Eyed peas with Pendulum as a cherry on top. All this together makes hard-hitting rock with a rejuvenated electric feel, quote MGMT, and a solid bass line to suit club music. Me and the lads have mashed together 14 of this new, if I say so myself, incredible sound, to make our album: Scientific Religion. I came up with the name myself.” He smugly says, winking at me.
Stunned, all I can do is sit with my mouth gaping open, looking like a bloody goldfish.
“To name a few of the singles are: Space in my Closet, Light Filled Black Hole, and Ultimatum, the last two being full of great guitar riffs and heavy drum & bass, although my favourite has to be Space in my Closet, just me, my guitar, and my cat, Pickle.”
Confused, I ask bewilderedly “Sorry, did you say cat?”
His face goes blank for a second, then his mouth breaks out into a wide boyish grin “Oh yeah I never considered that, I guess not many artists have used their cats in music tracks.”
“No I don’t think anybody has ever used any type of pet in their music.”
“The Beetles used a blackbird in Blackbird, why can’t I use Pickle in my song?”
Stunned for words, I just move onto another question before I get warped by his deathly stare and hypnotising voice. “So, uh, what kind of name for a cat is Pickle?”
“Well I don’t like pickles and I thought if I called my cat Pickle then maybe I would start liking pickles.”
I think to myself: is this guy always drugged up?
“And do you like pickles now?”
He looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “No of course not you nutter. What are you, high?”
“Ha ha, n-no of course not,” I finally stutter out, I’m getting a bit scared of him now “Are there any known gigs you’re playing at soon?”
“Yeah here’s a few you might have heard of.” He lists about ten venues on his fingers, some of which are Hyde Park, the O2 and the Royal Albert Hall, as well as Toxic Shouts, the spot down the street, capacity: 300.
“So let me get this straight; you’re playing at some of the biggest venues in England, but you’re also playing at the, pardon my language, shit hole down the road?” I ask, bemused.
He stands up sharply, knocking against the table and spilling my drink.
“DON’T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT THAT PLACE LIKE THAT YOU HERETIC!”
I nearly shit myself, forcing out a scared response “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”
His angry composure suddenly weakens and he doubles over laughing “Gotcha mate! Ahaha! Oh bollocks is that the time?” He glances at his wrist, no watch “Sorry man gotta run, catch you later, yeah?”
I know I’m never gonna talk to him again. Sadly, I watch him run out the door, and slip on the ice. Again.
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