(Untitled)
The middle of a circus ring is a good place to give orders from. Mick supposed he gave a lot of them, but only what had to be given, in his opinion. He had a microphone and a megaphone, and used them both, but neither of them seemed to work out. The megaphone was too square for his taste, like some kind of school days phys-ed control freak. And the
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This - what - a sudden interruption, someone crossing his bleary vision and swimming into full focus as if through a fog - someone coming up through a curtain of water in a pool - what?
The slight backhand woke Brian up in an abrupt, slight sting that jolted him into unbelievable reality and made him take an uncertain step back with the rush of it all; he felt as if he had suddenly been dropped a full story to land on the ground of the now-clear gloom of the room behind the stage and the shock of it made him take in a breath sharply as he caught the tale end of Mick's request. "For fuck's sake mate, have a shave. Nobody has a beard nowadays."
The singer was holding a piece of paper towards him inquiringly, looking impatient - he wanted Brian to read it, was that it? Taking another slow breath, the slightly pudgy guitarist tried to clamp down on his wandering wits and focused on Mick's sharply-angled, rather feminine face as he took the proferred paper and glanced down at it. The change in perspective made the edges of his vision yaw dangerously into the fog once more, but he stayed balanced this time, now somewhat locked into what he was doing now that he had a task. Mick's handwriting, as usual, was quite illegible to most people, and although Brian could see the familiar spiky shapes of the letters, the words themselves were having a hard time holding themselves together on the slightly crumpled white page as he read them.
To pass the time it took to spell them out and fit them together, he glanced up at Mick with the words turning frantically in his mind, processing the last statement simultaneously and frowning slightly as he slowly looked back at the paper. "I do not have a beard," he grumbled, blinking hard and catching the last few words of the indicated sentence in a rewarding flash that left him feeling extraordinarily pleased for some reason. He grinned up at the singer suddenly, handing back the page.
"'That floody blute player first goes.'" Brian blinked again as the sentence bounced viciously back on his ears, striking wrong chords in his head. "Sorry, I mean...you wrote 'That bloody...flute player goes first." Why was it such an effort to get the words out right? They were perfect in his head, but the transition to his mouth was wrong, which immediately took away the feeling of happiness at the solved puzzle and sent the grin into a vague line.
He shook his head, finding the previous clarity he'd had after a moment's effort and gazing wearily at Mick again. "I'm sorry I'm not doin' anything to help," he mumbled, looking past the singer's shoulder for a moment. "I dun'feel very good."
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He watched Mick strut (strutting, even when not performing. Pete didn't know whether to be impressed or slightly pissed off) into the middle of the ring, calling everyone's attention.
"We can't have the Who performing in yellow ponchos and hats, can we? Or can we?" Mick glanced over in the Who's direction, where Pete's face must have looked very confused indeed.
"Uh... Moony?" Pete stood up straight and swiveled around to face the drummer, currently in the middle of making a few teenage girls alternately swoon and giggle hysterically.
"And anyways, I told him, I said... Yes, Pete, dear boy. What is it?" Keith's voice was amusingly posh and affected; Pete nearly cracked a smile.
"Are we playing now? I thought..." He looked back round to Mick, who had already left, no doubt to check the correct setlist order. "Er. Nevermind, then."
Keith had already gone back to his new friends, who were hanging on every grandiose word he said. Pete snorted, stood up slowly, uncurling impressively to his full height, and stalked away towards wherever Mick had gone.
He found him, standing with a clearly out-of-it Brian Jones, who looked like he wouldn't have been able to see but a few centimetres in front of his face, much less read the piece of paper Mick was brandishing in his face.
Pete approached slowly, waited for Brian to grin, waited for the grin to disappear, and then called out carefully. "Hey, lads... any idea as to who's on first?" He winced at his own words before they had even completely left his mouth. There was another thing to bring up with Mick - he was going to need booze, and he was going to need it fast if there was going to be any enjoyment on his part tonight.
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"Pete! Pete, where are you going?" reaching for his back and never quite touching it. "I was just going to show you something I did today. -- hello chaps," flicking an invisible cap toward Mick and Brian. "How are you? Lovely coat Brian, I could eat it!"
He pushed his face into the silver fur. Forgetting he was muffled he spoke a whole sentence into it, and, hearing no reply, lurched up to repeat himself:
"Pete, before you do anything you have to see what I did today." Keith urged his open journal forward toward Pete's eyes. "A whole page, Pete. Look, look, a whole page. And look what lovely big writing I used too."
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BIC:// Brian was finally getting used to the sudden appearance of others after waking up from a deserted dream - he was finding that as the company grew, he began to feel a little better and his vision was more consistent and steady, as if he was stepping off a ship's deck straight off the heaving ocean and making his unsteady way across the gentler rolling of the dock. His long lashes blinked once more as another familiar face appeared, this time in the large-nosed form of The Who's guitarist, Pete Townshend.
"Hey, lads... any idea as to who's on first?" Pete inquired, speaking slowly as if to compensate for his obvious-to-him-at-least emergence from the unsteadiness of drugged semi-consciousness.
Feeling suddenly much better although he was not particular friends with Pete, Brian smiled politely and drew himself up a bit, rolling his shoulders back out of their befuddled crouch and leaning his weight on one leg in a more comfortable stance as he angled himself out a bit to include the tall, lanky guitarist. "'That bloody flute player'," he repeated, mimicking Mick's nasally voice as a slight prod for the remark about shaving. "Jethro Tull, or whatever they're called."
Keith Moon was right behind Pete, something that cheered Brian up even more - he knew Keith well from various binges that had always turned out more or less happily, although they hadn't seen each other in a few weeks because of conflicting touring schedules - and prompted him to put an arm around the little drummer as Keith ambled over and stuck his nose appreciatively in his fur coat. "How are ya, Moonie?" he drawled, giving him a lazy one-armed hug as he controlled a sway and looked over the rest of the group with a contented grin. He could almost go for another round of those pills all of a sudden, feeling like this...
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Mick was both amused by and felt a little condescending toward Keith. There weren't too many people compared to whom Mick felt like an adult. He smiled a moment at the two Who and turned back to his pressing of the schedule.
"Jethro Tull, did you say Brian?" Mick turned the stapled mess back toward himself and squinted. "That looks nothing like a J -- but if you can get a Jethro Tull out of it -- " he frowned as he looked back up. "Fuck it, mate, I don't know if I can trust your reading, look at the state of you."
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"Er... Keith... this isn't quite what I meant when I said keep a journal, eh?" He looked back up expectantly, only to find Keith distracted by the Stones guitarist, who suddenly looked marginally better. Keith did have that effect on people, Pete knew that only too well.
Pete rolled his clear blue eyes in what he hoped would be an obvious sign, but not one person was paying too much attention to the (perpetually) irritated guitarist. Brian and Keith were grinning like a pair of maniacs at each other, discussing god knows what, perhaps an old party Pete hadn't been invited to, and Mick was pouring studiously over his scribbled, torn, and beaten little set list.
Pete turned towards Mick, peering over the singer's shoulder to assess the paper. "Dear fucking Christ, you put us on second, Mick? Are you angry at us or something?" He smirked to show he was being sarcastic, but in truth second wasn't sounding that preferable. Especially since he knew how Jethro Tull could perform; he had, after all, been the one who convinced the Stones to invite the quirky band.
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"Why not? Why isn't it? I wrote a whole pageful like you told me to! I think it's brilliant. And it looks so brilliant, doesn't it? I like this little loop on the P on your name. And look how large I wrote it -- PETE, I mean. I wrote PETE larger than everything else," he offered a wide grin.
Mick turned, as well, looked over Keith's shoulder at Pete a moment, and decided to leave him distracted by Keith. A handy lunatic -- distracting the question. Now that he thought, the Who WERE on second -- but he still didn't know if Jethro Tull were first or not.
He squinted hard at the paper and pretended not to hear.
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"Yes, Moonie, of course the Pete is very lovely. I don't see how it couldn't be. It's just... the journal is for you to talk about how you're FEELING." Pete stopped, abruptly, realising just how much he sounded like some grammar school motivational speaker.
Instead he tried the other route. "You're mocking me, Keith. In the journal. If you're not going to take it seriously... I mean, you don't have to, but I think it might help. Y'know?" He finished lamely. He really didn't know why he was arguing this at all, besides the fact that he really did love arguing. But arguing with Keith was something entirely different than arguing with, say, John. Or Roger. Or Mick. Or anyone else for that matter. It could only end with a slightly angrier Pete Townshend.
"Forget it though. You do what you want to, Moonie."
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He knew he was mocking Pete -- a little. But there was an earnestness in it too; he almost didn't know he was mocking Pete. His concentration had let him do what he could.
"Help what, anyway? What sort of help is this? Why do you think I need help?"
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Pete gave Keith a stern look to let him know that, for now, he was done discussing. It was a good look, a well-practiced one that, when executed right, could even have Keith silences for a few moments.
"Now." Pete cleared his throat importantly. "Have you seen John or Roger? If we're going on second," he shot a pointed look at Mick, "we should probably let them know."
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[b]BIC://[/b] Keith's sudden preoccupation with Pete was disheartening, so Brian kept a stubborn arm around him, suddenly feeling the need to have someone to talk to and be with as an anchor of sorts. The drummer was obviously in the middle of what was turning out to be a full-fledged conversation, however, so the guitarist turned his head to answer Mick's question, his thick blond hair dashing against his brow as he swung his gaze towards the singer irritably.
"It fuckin' says whatever you want it to say, Mick," he grunted, feeling a familiar swell of impatience at his friend's dismissiveness. "If you don't want it to say Jethro Tull, then it doesn't. I'm not runnin' this."
Looking rather forlornly back at Keith, who hadn't told him that story yet and was now edging close enough to the other guitarist to touch as they discussed the whereabouts of the other members of their band, he offered, "Hey, either of you lads fancy gettin' pissed?"
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"You don't need to get pissed, you can barely play as is. You get any more pissed than this and you're shaking the maracas in our set, mate."
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"Give the guy a fucking break, or he'll be off taking god knows what and disappearing under the bleachers for the remainder. Use your noddle, son."
He risked a glance at Brian, taking in his dishevelled state, eyes moving quickly to avoid making eye-contact. Best to avoid getting too involved, these days. Flashing a quick wink at him he cast a look around, noting his dark-haired girlfriend sitting in what at least appeared to be comfortable silence with his son. The boy didn't look too sure but then, in all honesty, he never did. John sighed, fishing about in his jacket pocket in search of a fag, or a pill. Something to do; he was anxious to get going.
"Where's your other guitarist then, Mike?" He grinned, slipping a stick of gum into his mouth as a poor substitute to calm his nerves. "Or, should I say, my guitarist?" The emphasis on the last two words was obvious.
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Mick had a very impressive pout.
"We haven't finished talking about Brian. You can't just have your say and bugger on to the next topic like that. You always do that. Think you can just -- " An irritated little wriggle.
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