Sympathy for the Devils, part 7
Disclaimer: If you still don't know, you haven't read fanfiction.
Summary: The band at the studio! Previous part here.
Alex Ferguson is sitting at the studio, watching the band record. He should be comfortable-the band is good, fucking good, but there is something that just can’t let him relax.
The so-called fucking bodyguard of the Dutchman, who’s sitting next to him, eyes fixed on the band as if he wanted to pierce the sound-proof glass.
Fergie sighs. Throughout his years as a manager, he’s grown used to every kind of strange characters. In fact, there’s this game he keeps to himself-see who brings the funniest cast of characters.
Rio was no problem. He’s always about the music-if anything, phone calls to the girlfriend in turn on speed dial, and to the pot dealer. It later turned out the pot dealer was this sexy, fat-assed girl and his girlfriend in turn as well-but no matter. Music always first.
Then, the Italian guy, Gigi, came in, dragging this blonde figure after him, so skinny Fergie had thought at first it was an anorexic girl. However, when he made out his features, he saw he was in front of a man.
He didn’t ask if he was his boyfriend-the pleading look on the Italian guitarist’s blue eyes was all he needed. And, anyways, he’d dealt with junkies before. And the blonde guy-Pavel, was it?-seemed to be a quiet one, just sunken deep inside his oblivion, and if he didn’t mess with the recordings Alex Ferguson had no complaints.
Until Gigi stopped bringing him to the studio, that was. Pavel’s frail presence was replaced by urgent mobile calls from the Italian every now and then. Fergie then asked him what was wrong, and Gianluigi only answered he was checking up on Pavel-he’d been asleep as a stone at their hotel room, and he had to make sure that he was awake now and at the hotel.
Fergie said nothing-one morning, Gigi arrived at the studio with a split eyebrow. That was when he had told him:
“Hey. If you want to, I can take your boy to rehab. He isn’t supposed to do that…”
“I told him so myself,” Gigi had answered, pointing at his eyebrow.
The elderly manager had dismissed Pavel then as a lost cause. He knew those as well: he had considered Eric and David lost causes once. One night he had asked them to go into rehab, they said no, he called a rehab center and just spat out their names-and he woke up to see his Bentley had been smashed all over with a baseball bat and, on top of the wreckage, the words No rehab Old Sport had been sprayed. So, either the Czech boy swam his way out of the mist himself, or died-though Fergie hoped it would be the first.
David always brought a different partner, whoever he had spent the night with, and that was all right. At least, the boy or girl in turn didn’t make a racket in the studio. They would just sit down and wait for Becks to come out, kiss them, and take them home. That was all.
Actually, the one who at first Fergie had thought was going to be the worst one was his protégé, Wayne Rooney. A 21-year-old kid with the attitude of a superstar, he arrived to the studio hugging two girls that were absolutely wasted-and it had been relatively early in the morning. The girls had just sat there and witnessed the recording, no problem-until a third one arrived, yelling the filthiest words ever at the young singer, and flapping a paper all over everyone’s faces. It turned out she had married Wayne during a night the youngster had spent in Vegas-and he had supposedly left her at their hotel room to go away with those girls, who were dancers… or, on the lady’s words, “filthy sluts”.
Pretty soon, there was a catfight all over the studio floor. Fergie tried to break it up, and got a slap in the process. Becks tried to calm the girls down, and succeeded: the girls could not believe it was David Beckham standing before them. As far as everybody was concerned the girls (all three of them) ended up on the drummer’s bed that night, but Wayne didn’t seem to care.
“I can always get some more pussy,” was all the vocalist answered. “And, if David Beckham’s the one who gets my seconds, I don’t mind. He played with Cantona, I’d be glad to share girls with him.”
David answered this statement enthusiastically: he tried to kiss Wayne, and he got a harsh shove from the youth.
“Hold it, mate! I admire ya, but I’m not into that, y’know!”
Fergie was about to internally give Wayne the prize of the strangest characters when he met Mr. Van Basten. A silent, nervous guy, who smoked one cigarette after another, and kept his eyes glued to Edwin, as if he was afraid someone would snatch him away at any moment.
Oh well. Perhaps he was just a very good bodyguard.
As Marco lights his millionth cigarette of the day, Alex decides to take his mind off him and concentrate on what he can listen to in the earphones the sound engineer is handing him. And, once again, he’s convinced of the wonder he has in his hands.
The combination couldn’t have been more perfect. Gigi, a natural popstar, creating catchy melodies that will obviously stay in the listener’s mind for as long as everybody can remember. David giving him the beat to follow, hitting the drums as hard as he can to create that strong rock sound; Rio, used to every kind of musician possible, handling his bass to every rhythm he’s asked to play-and both Edwin and Wayne, the cherry on top. The Dutchman, his long fingers a machine, creating memorable riffs that pretty soon every guitar aficionado would be trying to imitate, and turning Gigi’s pop rhythms into a rocking achievement. As for Wayne-hell, that kid could sing. The raspy notes of a bluesman, then the high-pitched howl of every good metal singer. That was what Fergie had noticed when he had met the kid, at a party his neighbors were having. The elderly man lived in a quiet suburban zone-that was why, when he saw his neighbors were youngsters who were going to have a noisy party, he felt angry-but he was angrier when the kids brought in a lousy band. For a rock band manager, that was a big offense…
Which was about to become the ultimate one when he heard, through his window, the kids were planning to cover Cantona’s “No Ordinary Bloke.”
Just the thought of them ruining the greatest hit of his best discovery made Fergie run to the window, ready to call the cops or to throw a bottle in the head of that idiotic vocalist-that was when he saw a young man, drunk, and ready to hit the floor any minute, clamber into the stage as well as he could.
“Move it, fookin’ lad,” the boy said, almost pushing the singer off the stage. “Y’ain’t singin’ Cantona with that voice; ya’re ruinin’ the song! It goes like this…”
When he had heard the boy roaring, Alex Ferguson had been delighted.
That was how Wayne Rooney had sung his way into the manager’s life: and he’d been singing in several tribute albums, till now. But now, this band was going to be the breakthrough for the kid, as for the Italian guy, and the rebirth of legends, speaking about Edwin and Becks. Great stuff.
The band…
That was right. They needed a name.
After the recording session, Fergie called the boys to his office (leaving Marco outside).
“Ok, lads,” he announced. “This band needs a name, and quick. I don’t want you arguing about this matter, so we need to settle it right now.”
“Go back to sleep now, amore. I’ll be back-yes, the fix, I know,” Gigi was sighing on his phone, definitely speaking to Pavel.
“The Fix!” Wayne said brilliantly.
“Pop band named like that in the eighties. We’re not pop, y’know mate,” Becks shook his head, lighting a cigarette.
“Well… we could be The Heroin Fix,” Rio suggested.
The look he got from both Fergie and Gigi said that wasn’t a good idea.
“The Internationals,” Becks suggested. “England, Holland, and Italy together.”
“Sounds bloody lame,” Rio snapped.
“No offense, matey, but it sounds like the customs office,” Wayne took a swig from his beer.
“Go to hell,” the blonde drummer grumbled.
“Along with the name you suggested,” Rio giggled maniacally.
“I don’t think so,” Gigi entered the conversation. “I doubt the devil would like the name.”
Ed just let out a small chuckle. Meanwhile, instead of complaining, Becks’ eyes lit up.
“Devil! Oh, please, let’s be The Devils, mates!”
“Everybody’s been the bloody Devils,” Rio complained.
Wayne, for his part, let out an expected juvenile reaction.
“But we’re even worse than the devil! Oh yes lads!”
The bassist rolled his eyes.
“Very well, we keep the Devils,” Fergie nodded. “But Ferdinand’s right. C’mon blokes, the Devil’s a leit motif in rock.”
“A what?” that had been Wayne. Gigi bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the vocalist, while Ed distracted himself with a drink.
“It’s widely used,” Fergie explained. “I think it sounds no better than a pub band. If you want to keep the Devils bit, you need to add something.”
“What do you suggest, tall boy?” Becks asked Ed, but he just shrugged-he had gotten some neurotic, paranoid text from Marco, and was busy answering it, telling him that yes, they’d fuck that night or something. Everything just to keep him quiet and out of the band’s plans.
“Ok, thanks for yer valuable collaboration, Ice Prince,” the drummer laughed, and Rio laughed maniacally-but Gigi’d had an idea.
“The Ice Devils!”
“What?” Second time Wayne asked that in ten minutes.
“The band’s name-the Ice Devils! That’s what we need! Molto bene!”
“The Ice Devils,” Becks repeated, as if tasting each word.
“I like it!” If Wayne had listened carefully or not, none of the lads knew, but his juvenile approval said there was nothing to be done.
Rio giggled. “Well, at least it sounds so much better that Becks’ name ‘ere!”
“Shut yer trap.”
“The Ice Devils,” Fergie wondered too. “What do you think, Edwin?”
“I like it,” the guitarist said nonchalantly-now he seemed to be scribbling something on a small pocket notebook.
Rio laughed yet again. “Well, it does fit ya well, Ice matey!”
Alex Ferguson smiled. The Ice Devils. Problem solved. Now, the matter of a single… which one? They already had great songs…
But that was solved next morning. The first thing that greeted Fergie when he went into the studio was the longing howl of an electric guitar, Ed soloing on it, while the ballad rushed towards the end, Wayne singing a beautiful, heart-wrenching chorus.
“What was that?” the manager was pleasantly surprised when it was over, Gigi and Becks playing the final note.
“Sumthin’ matey Ed brought us this mornin’” the drummer said, pouring some water in a glass. “Called ‘Broken Angel’. Pretty cool, huh, old sport?”
“’Cool’, David? This is your first single! Let’s upload it to your band page now!”
The decision was very well received-the lads seemed rather enthusiastic about it. Ed was patted on the back, amiably shoved, and Becks, playful as ever, tried to pull the Dutchman’s already hip-low jeans down. Edwin pulled them back up with a smile and a curse-but Fergie, who had been watching the scene, blinked a little.
He’d had the impression he had seen finger-shaped bruises marking the skin of the guitarist, the small patch of skin that had been uncovered when David pulled the pants down.
The manager shook his head. Surely it had been nothing.