Ben Corrigan
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An extract from Music (Reprise)
‘They’re called Taste. Have you heard of them? Their music isn’t like anything else,’ Ethel explained. ‘It’s not even like music at times.’
Derek had been introduced to Ethel in the corridors of the council offices. Since then, they had acknowledged each other in the staff canteen, reintroduced themselves when they were queuing in a nearby coffee shop and, on this occasion, met on a crowded tram home.
‘It’s a bit of a joke, their name,’ Ethel told him. ‘They know they’re not everyone’s cup of tea. Do you like dance music? It’s more like dance music than rock. In the way it focuses on rhythm and mood. And it’s so intense.’
Ethel’s eyes were pale watery brown, her skin a much darker tint of the same colour. She had black hair with fading, acid-green highlights. Her coat was banana yellow, blistered with autumn rain, and she wore stripy green-and-white socks with patterned Converse trainers. She was unlike any Ethel he had ever encountered, whereas Derek felt that he was becoming more of a Derek with each passing day. Derek shared a house with a septuagenarian spinster and her tortoise. Derek had sold his games consoles to buy fishing gear, and spent several weekend breaks in Scotland by himself. Derek was happy in his job as a town planner and, a few months before, had passed up the opportunity to take his remaining annual leave.
‘What I mean is,’ Ethel continued, ‘the whole gig is well thought out. They take you on a journey. You’d be doing me a favour – I’d have to give the ticket away otherwise. Please?’
Having no sense of rhythm and poor coordination, Derek hated dance music as he might have hated a dense, lumbering bully who could identify intuitively his deepest insecurities. Derek was not a fan of music in general. Music did not move him. He was too left-brained, too analytical, for that.
‘Yes, I’ll come,’ he said, thrusting out an arm and shifting his feet for balance as the shaking tram switched tracks. He wondered if the invitation might be, or might become, a date. Was he way off the mark with such an idea? Ethel wasn’t his type, particularly, but he liked her lively, if somewhat skittish, manner. He wanted to get to know her in more depth.
The gig took place in the large function room of an office block, a deadpan structure of metal and glass that had recently been given heritage status.
A born sceptic, Derek was unimpressed by the novelty factor of playing a rock concert in such a venue. He told Ethel he felt like he was back at work.
Ethel effused about the grand hall’s kitsch wood panelling, vast velvet curtains, and vulgar carpet. ‘No, this will suit the music perfectly. It’s so grand.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Derek said. ‘I do like being at work.’
They took up positions at the back, where the audience was thin. Ethel kept checking her watch and Derek realised how quiet she had been. He had been quiet, too, but he expected her to be expecting that.