CANON: The Year of Intelligent Tigers
I give you the Rally for Hitchemus rooftop concert bit, aka That Time Fitz Got To Be Monumentally Epic.
==
From the concrete rooftop, just four storeys high, you could see past the edges of the town to the horizon in every direction. The sky formed a brilliant dome, deep blue overhead, getting paler the closer it got to the hot ground. The roof was fenced in by a railing of crisscrossing metal poles, smooth and hot to the touch.
They had chosen the office tower because it was the tallest building in Port Any. A doorway in the middle of the roof led out from a dingy staircase into the open air. Two dozen musicians had followed Fitz up those stairs and out on to their improvised stage. Now they were tuning instruments, checking equipment. There was an electric string quartet, an old man carrying a didgeridoo and a palm-sized sampler, a flamenco guitarist, a Mbira ensemble, four gospel singers, a small taiko group, and all of Jam Tomorrow. A pair of muscular women were hauling Fitz’s amplifier out on to the concrete and positioning it next to the deck. One of the great things about being in charge, he thought, is that you can get someone else to carry your amps for you.
Fitz leaned over the railing. There were a few people in the street, hurrying from one place to another without looking up. He still couldn’t believe he’d pulled this off.
And he still hadn’t quite got used to the speed and ease with which these twenty-second-century bands could set up their stuff. A lot of the equipment was simply invisible, literally made out of thin air. The mixing board was a plastic sheet as light as a feather, supported by a lightweight frame. The hardest equipment to get ready and hook up was his centuries-out-of-date rig, but by now Ewegbeni the pianist had got the hang of all the cables and pedals. He gave Fitz the thumbs up.
The microphone was a soft shimmer in the air, marking its position. He picked up his ’53 Fender Telecaster - borrowed from the Doctor’s private collection - set the level on the distortion pedal, and twiddled the knobs on his magic dingus box just for luck.
He looked around. Everyone had stopped moving.
Showtime.
Fitz took a deep, deep breath and kicked into the low, rhythmic grind of a single power chord, sliding up to it on the one beat, laying a groove that could lead anywhere from the Ventures to the Who.
Two bars in, the drummer and the bassist from Jam Tomorrow picked it up. Then the string quartet piled on to the chord, and the didgeridoo rumbled in key. One of the gospel singers started a rhythm on the lagerphone. One by one the others joined in, following him (following him!), building up the tension as the single pair of notes swelled larger and larger... until he leaned towards the floating blur, took a deep, deep breath, and opened his mouth.
‘Hello, Hitchemus!’ he shouted, and his voice ricocheted from the buildings all around. ‘I’m Fitz Fortune, and these are the Fortunes of War, here to put a spring in your step and a twist in your tail, awwwright! Ja, ve are the first mit der hipsenschaken und der funkengrüven. So from our racks and stacks of tracks on wax, here’s the man with the axe with a special tune for all you hepcats out there - TWO, THREE! -’
And the whole band stopped on a dime as he launched into a riff that had fallen off the back of Chuck Berry’s lorry, and the drums blew like an H-bomb on the one beat, and they were off and galloping - the strings carving out chunky eighth-note chords like the fattest rhythm guitar ever, didgeridoo doing weird things under the other sounds’ feet, and, up top, him, playing for his life, the notes ringing straight from his brain to the strings without any sign of his hands being in the way.
Fitz leaned into the microphone and started to sing.Well if they use up all the ozone
We’ll say goodbye to LA
’Cause we’ll be surfing in the desert
The global warming way!
They’d had only about twenty minutes’ rehearsal time, and they’d never played the whole song through together. Any minute now a fuse was gonna blow. Or the drummer would lose the beat, or the horns would screw up their entrance, or any one of a thousand things would send the moment crashing in a heap. But, from the edge of the roof, he could see people blocks away stopping and looking up, and if they weren’t dancing in the streets they were at least staying in them, and he couldn’t help feeling as if they could outrun all the problems, outrun everything, just as long as they could keep on playing.
And they’ll be surfin’ in Vegas
Way down the Rio Grande,
Salt Lake City and Reno
And through the Indian lands,
All over New Mexico
And Arizon-I-A;
Yeah, we’ll be desert surfin’
In the U-S-of-A.
He launched into the guitar solo, cut-rate Dick Dale by way of the Yardbirds. From below there came a wave of cheering and applause. It stopped, surprised by itself, and then came back more strongly.
He leaned over the railing, stretching out as far as he dared, showing them the guitar. People were pouring into the street below. Dozens of faces were turned up to him. A couple of orange faces, too. But they seemed to be just watching, curious about the music.
He found himself thinking, I could stay here. I could be a hero. I could be a musician again. Even if the Doctor doesn’t come back. Even if he does.
They made it to the end of the song, crashing to a halt among a long series of chords. So what if the drummers hadn’t quite worked out when the song was finishing, or that the trumpeter had tried to turn the whole thing into jazz during his solo? So what if all those months ago Sam had told him that he’d mixed up everything she’d told him about global warming and the ozone hole was something totally different? Never mind the words, that was one hell of a sound.
‘We’re going to be doing more of these concerts,’ he announced as the string quartet began the intro to their piece, his voice booming through the city. ‘Auditions at the Albinoni Hall. If anyone wants to help bring the city back to life, just come and say hello. . . ’
==
From the concrete rooftop, just four storeys high, you could see past the edges of the town to the horizon in every direction. The sky formed a brilliant dome, deep blue overhead, getting paler the closer it got to the hot ground. The roof was fenced in by a railing of crisscrossing metal poles, smooth and hot to the touch.
They had chosen the office tower because it was the tallest building in Port Any. A doorway in the middle of the roof led out from a dingy staircase into the open air. Two dozen musicians had followed Fitz up those stairs and out on to their improvised stage. Now they were tuning instruments, checking equipment. There was an electric string quartet, an old man carrying a didgeridoo and a palm-sized sampler, a flamenco guitarist, a Mbira ensemble, four gospel singers, a small taiko group, and all of Jam Tomorrow. A pair of muscular women were hauling Fitz’s amplifier out on to the concrete and positioning it next to the deck. One of the great things about being in charge, he thought, is that you can get someone else to carry your amps for you.
Fitz leaned over the railing. There were a few people in the street, hurrying from one place to another without looking up. He still couldn’t believe he’d pulled this off.
And he still hadn’t quite got used to the speed and ease with which these twenty-second-century bands could set up their stuff. A lot of the equipment was simply invisible, literally made out of thin air. The mixing board was a plastic sheet as light as a feather, supported by a lightweight frame. The hardest equipment to get ready and hook up was his centuries-out-of-date rig, but by now Ewegbeni the pianist had got the hang of all the cables and pedals. He gave Fitz the thumbs up.
The microphone was a soft shimmer in the air, marking its position. He picked up his ’53 Fender Telecaster - borrowed from the Doctor’s private collection - set the level on the distortion pedal, and twiddled the knobs on his magic dingus box just for luck.
He looked around. Everyone had stopped moving.
Showtime.
Fitz took a deep, deep breath and kicked into the low, rhythmic grind of a single power chord, sliding up to it on the one beat, laying a groove that could lead anywhere from the Ventures to the Who.
Two bars in, the drummer and the bassist from Jam Tomorrow picked it up. Then the string quartet piled on to the chord, and the didgeridoo rumbled in key. One of the gospel singers started a rhythm on the lagerphone. One by one the others joined in, following him (following him!), building up the tension as the single pair of notes swelled larger and larger... until he leaned towards the floating blur, took a deep, deep breath, and opened his mouth.
‘Hello, Hitchemus!’ he shouted, and his voice ricocheted from the buildings all around. ‘I’m Fitz Fortune, and these are the Fortunes of War, here to put a spring in your step and a twist in your tail, awwwright! Ja, ve are the first mit der hipsenschaken und der funkengrüven. So from our racks and stacks of tracks on wax, here’s the man with the axe with a special tune for all you hepcats out there - TWO, THREE! -’
And the whole band stopped on a dime as he launched into a riff that had fallen off the back of Chuck Berry’s lorry, and the drums blew like an H-bomb on the one beat, and they were off and galloping - the strings carving out chunky eighth-note chords like the fattest rhythm guitar ever, didgeridoo doing weird things under the other sounds’ feet, and, up top, him, playing for his life, the notes ringing straight from his brain to the strings without any sign of his hands being in the way.
Fitz leaned into the microphone and started to sing.Well if they use up all the ozone
We’ll say goodbye to LA
’Cause we’ll be surfing in the desert
The global warming way!
They’d had only about twenty minutes’ rehearsal time, and they’d never played the whole song through together. Any minute now a fuse was gonna blow. Or the drummer would lose the beat, or the horns would screw up their entrance, or any one of a thousand things would send the moment crashing in a heap. But, from the edge of the roof, he could see people blocks away stopping and looking up, and if they weren’t dancing in the streets they were at least staying in them, and he couldn’t help feeling as if they could outrun all the problems, outrun everything, just as long as they could keep on playing.
And they’ll be surfin’ in Vegas
Way down the Rio Grande,
Salt Lake City and Reno
And through the Indian lands,
All over New Mexico
And Arizon-I-A;
Yeah, we’ll be desert surfin’
In the U-S-of-A.
He launched into the guitar solo, cut-rate Dick Dale by way of the Yardbirds. From below there came a wave of cheering and applause. It stopped, surprised by itself, and then came back more strongly.
He leaned over the railing, stretching out as far as he dared, showing them the guitar. People were pouring into the street below. Dozens of faces were turned up to him. A couple of orange faces, too. But they seemed to be just watching, curious about the music.
He found himself thinking, I could stay here. I could be a hero. I could be a musician again. Even if the Doctor doesn’t come back. Even if he does.
They made it to the end of the song, crashing to a halt among a long series of chords. So what if the drummers hadn’t quite worked out when the song was finishing, or that the trumpeter had tried to turn the whole thing into jazz during his solo? So what if all those months ago Sam had told him that he’d mixed up everything she’d told him about global warming and the ozone hole was something totally different? Never mind the words, that was one hell of a sound.
‘We’re going to be doing more of these concerts,’ he announced as the string quartet began the intro to their piece, his voice booming through the city. ‘Auditions at the Albinoni Hall. If anyone wants to help bring the city back to life, just come and say hello. . . ’