Fic: Flying Lessons (9/12)
Flying Lessons (9/12)
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1238, this chapter (11603 so far)
Warnings: uh uh uh uh uh Dave Brown; magic
Disclaimer: I don't own squat. I'm just a squatter in this glorious universe.
Author's Notes: My left eye keeps watering, so I keep rubbing it, so it keeps watering. So now I'm pretty sure I only have eyeliner on under my right eye. So I probably look slightly more mental than usual. I'm about to go to a seminar class. XD
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Shit Mountain was, it turned out, rather small and rather dark. The toilets were almost impossibly filthy and the floors were sticky with Pabst Blue Ribbons past. In other words, it was just the kind of place where the best shows tended to happen. They loved it to bits.
While Jones and Howard began to set up, Vince was in the washroom, applying some last-minute eyeliner before soundcheck. All of a sudden, in a flash of blinding light, a smallish man in faded black skinnies, an old Jesus and Mary Chain t-shirt, and a black pinstripe trilby, arranged at a playful angle atop his pokey ginger haircut, appeared before Vince.
“Alright mate,” he said, which startled Vince, sending his eyeliner skipping a long smudge across his cheek.
“You scared the shit out of me! Who the hell are you? Are you some kind of bad dream?” he shouted, hands on hips in irritation.
“Do I look like a bad dream to you?” asked the gingery man.
“Actually, you look like a 32-year-old graphic designer from Newport,” said Vince. “Who are you?”
“I'm the Spirit of Noise,” replied the gingery man.
“You're sure you're not just a graphic designer? Because you really don't look like the spirit of anything other than maybe some innovative concert posters,” Vince observed.
“I'll have you know I bloody am the Spirit of Noise, you cheeky fucker,” protested the Spirit of Noise, with much irritation.
“Oh yeah? Prove it,” said Vince.
The Spirit of Noise simply raised his hand, and the space between them was filled with a cacophony of beats, feedback, and grating tones so massive that they sent Vince flying clear across the room. The Spirit of Noise lowered his hand, and all fell silent once more.
“Ooh, feel the power of pure noise, coming at you like a space ship... of noise,” he said.
“What the hell are you doing?” exclaimed Vince, checking his coiffure for critical injuries. “You could have completely fucked up my hair! Takes me bloody ages to get it to go like this, you know.”
“It looks fine, for fuck's sake,” said the Spirit of Noise. “Anyway. Vince Noir, I'm here to invite you to come with me on a journey through time and space, where you will - “
“Yeah that’s great, but do we have to do this right now?” asked Vince, with an apologetic smile. “Only I've got rather an important gig tonight and we're just about to soundcheck, so if I could maybe pencil you in for sometime next week?”
The Spirit of Noise rolled his eyes.
“Well. I was going to send you on a vision quest down a long desert road where you would meet Marc Bolan, who would feed you curry and tell you all the secrets of the universe, but seeing as you haven't got time, I'll just endow you with the gift of noise and be on my way. Farewell, Vince Noir!” he said, fading into nothing. Vince, realizing his folly, was horrified.
“Wait! Come back!” he shouted, searching frantically under stalls and behind radiators for where the gingery man had gone. “I want glam rock visions!”
“You had your chance, you little tosser!” came the gingery man's echoing disembodied voice. And that was that.
“Gift of noise? I don't feel any different,” Vince scoffed, giving his hair one last tousle before wandering back into the room. For a moment, he thought he could hear faint static emanating from someplace he couldn't quite identify. Must be the boys setting up, he thought.
Onstage, Howard was quietly plugging in his electric bassoon, his electric shoe, and his electric woodblock. Jones was bouncng, headphones on, backup headphones slung around his neck, draped with about a dozen cords and bits of equipment that hung off him like those impractical earrings that hung off of virtually every high school art teacher. Dan was curled up on a brown velvet sofa in a quiet corner of the stage, quietly napping.
“How's everything going, guys?” smiled Vince. There was that static again, though he still could not identify the source.
It was then that Howard and Jones stopped what they were doing, staring at Vince in wonderment. Dan, however, dozed on, oblivious to all else.
“What?” asked Vince, glancing confusedly around himself. “I know I look amazing, but you should be used to that by now.”
Static, again.
“Vince, your energy, it's all different... It's positively electric,” said Howard, awestruck.
“Oh, that'll be the gift,” said Vince, nodding in sudden understanding. “This graphic designer bloke just endowed me with the gift of noise in the toilets. So it's working, then?”
Howard's eyes widened in amazement.
“You mean you were visited... by the Spirit of Noise?” he asked.
“Yeah, that was him,” Vince nodded. “To be honest, I thought he was just some pervy ginger art school dropout. Thought I was gonna get roofied!”
“Spirit of Noise?” scoffed Jones. “What the hell have you two been smoking?” He lowered his voice slightly then, adding: “Is there any left?”
“Feels quite cool, actually,” said Vince, static crackling. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked Jones.
---
It was an early show, and as such was meant to begin at ten, which inevitably meant they would be starting at half past eleven. A handful of young hipsters in oversized glasses and video-game jewelry began shuffling into the room at around nine, while the boys scarfed down an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food dinner from an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food restaurant across the road. They wished someone had warned them. Everything - the noodles, the egg fried rice, the spicy broccoli and beef - was swimming in safety orange grease the colour of Jones’ safety orange shoelaces, and the crab Rangoon - which the menu proudly touted as HOUSE SPECIALTY! VERY GOOD YOU BUY! - tasted like it was made from a soggy shark's bottom.
But they all felt only mildly ill, all things considered, by the time the DJ at Shit Mountain faded out the only mildly lousy filler music he had been spinning and it was time to take the stage. Dan retired to his designated couch, and the others took up their microphones and instruments. Vince sparked like a firecracker, and ignited an avalanche of noise. He sang in dramatic swoops and giggles, transcending language, grinding and sighing, soaring and crashing like violent waves into a rocky shoreline.
Howard played shapes and colours, and Jones played tastes and textures; things that should not be sounds, but were. They sounded like universes being born, like planets colliding, like what cacophonous stellar phenomena would sound like, if there were sound in space. It was a night that ought to have gone down in history as one of the most legendary shows of all time: the kind of show that inspired a generation, the kind of show that revealed to all who attended a whole new level of consciousness, the kind of show that, in a week’s time, five times as many people will have claimed to be in attendance than were actually present, just to say they’d been there. And it would have, if the audience had known at all what to make of it. One day, perhaps some of those hipsters would regale their kids with the story of the time they saw Dancing Banana Trees play Shit Mountain. But not this night. This night, the world was not ready for Dancing Banana Trees.
Chapter Ten
by Me, doctorpancakes
Fandoms: Boosh/Barley crossover
Pairings: Dan/Jones and Howard/Vince
Rating: PG, this chapter
Word Count: 1238, this chapter (11603 so far)
Warnings: uh uh uh uh uh Dave Brown; magic
Disclaimer: I don't own squat. I'm just a squatter in this glorious universe.
Author's Notes: My left eye keeps watering, so I keep rubbing it, so it keeps watering. So now I'm pretty sure I only have eyeliner on under my right eye. So I probably look slightly more mental than usual. I'm about to go to a seminar class. XD
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Shit Mountain was, it turned out, rather small and rather dark. The toilets were almost impossibly filthy and the floors were sticky with Pabst Blue Ribbons past. In other words, it was just the kind of place where the best shows tended to happen. They loved it to bits.
While Jones and Howard began to set up, Vince was in the washroom, applying some last-minute eyeliner before soundcheck. All of a sudden, in a flash of blinding light, a smallish man in faded black skinnies, an old Jesus and Mary Chain t-shirt, and a black pinstripe trilby, arranged at a playful angle atop his pokey ginger haircut, appeared before Vince.
“Alright mate,” he said, which startled Vince, sending his eyeliner skipping a long smudge across his cheek.
“You scared the shit out of me! Who the hell are you? Are you some kind of bad dream?” he shouted, hands on hips in irritation.
“Do I look like a bad dream to you?” asked the gingery man.
“Actually, you look like a 32-year-old graphic designer from Newport,” said Vince. “Who are you?”
“I'm the Spirit of Noise,” replied the gingery man.
“You're sure you're not just a graphic designer? Because you really don't look like the spirit of anything other than maybe some innovative concert posters,” Vince observed.
“I'll have you know I bloody am the Spirit of Noise, you cheeky fucker,” protested the Spirit of Noise, with much irritation.
“Oh yeah? Prove it,” said Vince.
The Spirit of Noise simply raised his hand, and the space between them was filled with a cacophony of beats, feedback, and grating tones so massive that they sent Vince flying clear across the room. The Spirit of Noise lowered his hand, and all fell silent once more.
“Ooh, feel the power of pure noise, coming at you like a space ship... of noise,” he said.
“What the hell are you doing?” exclaimed Vince, checking his coiffure for critical injuries. “You could have completely fucked up my hair! Takes me bloody ages to get it to go like this, you know.”
“It looks fine, for fuck's sake,” said the Spirit of Noise. “Anyway. Vince Noir, I'm here to invite you to come with me on a journey through time and space, where you will - “
“Yeah that’s great, but do we have to do this right now?” asked Vince, with an apologetic smile. “Only I've got rather an important gig tonight and we're just about to soundcheck, so if I could maybe pencil you in for sometime next week?”
The Spirit of Noise rolled his eyes.
“Well. I was going to send you on a vision quest down a long desert road where you would meet Marc Bolan, who would feed you curry and tell you all the secrets of the universe, but seeing as you haven't got time, I'll just endow you with the gift of noise and be on my way. Farewell, Vince Noir!” he said, fading into nothing. Vince, realizing his folly, was horrified.
“Wait! Come back!” he shouted, searching frantically under stalls and behind radiators for where the gingery man had gone. “I want glam rock visions!”
“You had your chance, you little tosser!” came the gingery man's echoing disembodied voice. And that was that.
“Gift of noise? I don't feel any different,” Vince scoffed, giving his hair one last tousle before wandering back into the room. For a moment, he thought he could hear faint static emanating from someplace he couldn't quite identify. Must be the boys setting up, he thought.
Onstage, Howard was quietly plugging in his electric bassoon, his electric shoe, and his electric woodblock. Jones was bouncng, headphones on, backup headphones slung around his neck, draped with about a dozen cords and bits of equipment that hung off him like those impractical earrings that hung off of virtually every high school art teacher. Dan was curled up on a brown velvet sofa in a quiet corner of the stage, quietly napping.
“How's everything going, guys?” smiled Vince. There was that static again, though he still could not identify the source.
It was then that Howard and Jones stopped what they were doing, staring at Vince in wonderment. Dan, however, dozed on, oblivious to all else.
“What?” asked Vince, glancing confusedly around himself. “I know I look amazing, but you should be used to that by now.”
Static, again.
“Vince, your energy, it's all different... It's positively electric,” said Howard, awestruck.
“Oh, that'll be the gift,” said Vince, nodding in sudden understanding. “This graphic designer bloke just endowed me with the gift of noise in the toilets. So it's working, then?”
Howard's eyes widened in amazement.
“You mean you were visited... by the Spirit of Noise?” he asked.
“Yeah, that was him,” Vince nodded. “To be honest, I thought he was just some pervy ginger art school dropout. Thought I was gonna get roofied!”
“Spirit of Noise?” scoffed Jones. “What the hell have you two been smoking?” He lowered his voice slightly then, adding: “Is there any left?”
“Feels quite cool, actually,” said Vince, static crackling. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked Jones.
---
It was an early show, and as such was meant to begin at ten, which inevitably meant they would be starting at half past eleven. A handful of young hipsters in oversized glasses and video-game jewelry began shuffling into the room at around nine, while the boys scarfed down an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food dinner from an especially shitty fake-Chinese-food restaurant across the road. They wished someone had warned them. Everything - the noodles, the egg fried rice, the spicy broccoli and beef - was swimming in safety orange grease the colour of Jones’ safety orange shoelaces, and the crab Rangoon - which the menu proudly touted as HOUSE SPECIALTY! VERY GOOD YOU BUY! - tasted like it was made from a soggy shark's bottom.
But they all felt only mildly ill, all things considered, by the time the DJ at Shit Mountain faded out the only mildly lousy filler music he had been spinning and it was time to take the stage. Dan retired to his designated couch, and the others took up their microphones and instruments. Vince sparked like a firecracker, and ignited an avalanche of noise. He sang in dramatic swoops and giggles, transcending language, grinding and sighing, soaring and crashing like violent waves into a rocky shoreline.
Howard played shapes and colours, and Jones played tastes and textures; things that should not be sounds, but were. They sounded like universes being born, like planets colliding, like what cacophonous stellar phenomena would sound like, if there were sound in space. It was a night that ought to have gone down in history as one of the most legendary shows of all time: the kind of show that inspired a generation, the kind of show that revealed to all who attended a whole new level of consciousness, the kind of show that, in a week’s time, five times as many people will have claimed to be in attendance than were actually present, just to say they’d been there. And it would have, if the audience had known at all what to make of it. One day, perhaps some of those hipsters would regale their kids with the story of the time they saw Dancing Banana Trees play Shit Mountain. But not this night. This night, the world was not ready for Dancing Banana Trees.
Chapter Ten