With barely a week until showtime, I catapulted my nine year-old self into action. Chris would need an electric guitar, Adam T would need a microphone, and they would both need a string of days without detention so as to be allowed to take part. Cherubic little Adam D would need drums.We would need lights, camera… Actually pretty much everything we needed was well beyond the horizon.
We had no idea what we were doing. None of us even played an instrument. We certainly didn’t own any. So, with religious vigour, I began to see everyone around me as cows for the milking. And I was thirsty.
I started with the neighbours. The lady at number 57 had a friend who had a son who played electric guitar. Within days, this anonymous adolescent’s axe and amp were sitting at our back door.
Our landlord told me he had been to a nearby hall which had a set of drums backstage. When we visited, they were stacked like a dusty black wedding cake. I monitored two adults shaking hands before helping them load the kit into our family station wagon.
The principal was supportive, so the hall was to be ours that Thursday afternoon. The music teacher found me some drum sticks. The lady who helped with the school play found me two spotlights. I made a mix tape and earmarked our cassette player for use on the day.
That week, Adam T and Chris were flawlessly focused. Neither of them were sent out of class once that week. Adam T didn’t throw anything and Chris even wrote some words at one stage. Adam D was just Adam D.
Everything was coming together so easily.
This was meant to be.
It was during the lunchtime before the concert that Adam D snapped.