Rock Star Read Online Free Page A

There was a third-hand drum set he had cadged off an uncle, a large tape recorder Kris had found on a garbage dump and promptly repaired, their joint collection of records, and an ace stereo with giant speakers, a gift from Buzz’s mum, Daphne – an emaciated-looking woman who wore too much makeup, constantly chain-smoked, and worked as a hostess in a Soho nightclub.
    Kris liked Mrs Darke, although she didn’t seem at all mumsy with her stiletto heels and all-black outfits. In a funny sort of way she looked exactly like an older, female version of her son.
    Sometimes, when Kris and Buzz were locked into their music, playing guitar riffs along with Chuck Berry – the great Chuck, who had taught them more than any music academy ever could – she would enter the garage and stand silently by the peeling paint of the old double doors. ‘Hmmm . . . not bad,’ she would say when they’d finished. ‘You boys are going to get somewhere one of these days.’
    Yeah, Kris thought, if only Buzz would give up on stupid girls and concentrate.
    It annoyed him that his own mother hadn’t heard him play in years – ever since he palled up with Buzz and moved all his stuff over to the garage. His family were relieved. ‘Thank God we don’t have to put up with your bloody racket night after night,’ Brian had said. ‘You sound worse than the bloody cats around the dustbins.’
    Kris made up his mind there and then that if he ever made it, his brother would be the last person he’d invite to one of his concerts.
    ‘Well, mate, see yer,’ Buzz said, throwing a tatty black scarf around his neck. ‘Sure yer don’t want t’change yer mind?’
    ‘Give ’em one from me,’ Kris said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster – and wondered exactly what he was missing, and why Buzz pursued it so relentlessly.
    He didn’t have to wonder for long. Soon he was lost in the magic of the music – playing along with his precious record collection – fighting Chuck Berry for a solo – shouting out the lyrics on a Little Richard track – marvelling at the Ray Charles mastery on ‘What’d I Say’.
    Kris had taught himself everything he knew just by listening to the greats – starting off at eleven on an old acoustic guitar kept in the music room at school, and graduating to his own, third-hand electric model bought at thirteen with his savings from a paper round and a little help from his mum. Avis hadn’t exactly encouraged him although, to be fair, she hadn’t discouraged him either. It was the rest of his family who were a pain in the neck, always bitching and complaining about the noise.
    Getting together with Buzz – two likely lads with the same dream – saved him. They shared the rock star vision, and were prepared to work hard to achieve it.
    He was deep into a guitar lead on Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll be the Day’, when he realized Mrs Darke was leaning against the garage door quietly watching him. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said, smoke curling from her nostrils.
    So he didn’t, allowing the music to envelop him, feeling the beat, the heat, letting his instrument become a welcome part of him.
    When he was finished along with the record, she clapped, scattering cigarette ash on the floor. ‘You’re not half bad,’ she said, walking towards him.
    ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.
    ‘And not bad looking either, for a kid.’
    Was he hearing right? Nobody had ever told him that before. Oh, sure, he knew he wasn’t ugly – just sort of ordinary looking – maybe weird if he listened to the girls at school.
    ‘Tell me something? How come you’re not out cattin’ around with my Buzz?’ she asked, squatting down on her haunches and flipping through some of the albums stacked against the wall.
    ‘I’d sooner practise,’ he replied, trying not to stare at the thin line of flesh showing between her tight black skirt and form-fitting sweater.
    She turned to look up at him, and to his embarrassment he felt a solid hard-on