Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

The Final Sound	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Final Sound
- 1
By the time two-thirty A.M. had rolled around, Roger and David were still in the studio. It had been hours since the rest of the group and technicians had walked out, knowing that nothing was going to be accomplished tonight. This was because everyone could sense the impending battle and felt it best not to be in the vicinity when it finally came to a head.

Roger, in a strange turn of events, had managed to keep a cool head thus far. It was David this time around who was beginning to lose his patience. Fed up with nearly every idea he’d suggested being shot down even before it left the ground, he was determined to coerce Roger into using this one. If only to prove a point; that he was still Pink Floyd’s guitarist and he still had some level of influence over what they put on their records.

To add to the strain, all had not been well on a personal level between the two band mates. Their friendship had always been a bit rocky, their private relationship even more so, yet sex always seemed to level everything out. It was all becoming very tense, however; David had been keener on spending time with his family and in turn, Roger gave him the cold shoulder in favor of his musical endeavors. Mutual jealousy was springing up and the frustration quickly boiled over into the studio. Half of the time David wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hit him or fuck his brains out in frustration.

And the battle of the evening was…

“My point is that I’m a contributing member of this group. I’ve been a contributing member of this group for ten years now. I’ve got as much right to have my input heard as you do.”

Roger smiled patronizingly and shook his head.

“Not when it’s shite.”

“It’s only shite because it’s not exactly what you want.”

“You’re right. It’s not exactly what I want. Therefore it’s wrong for the track. I’m not about to muck up something that I worked my ass off over just because you want to see another ‘Gilmour’ credit on the record.”

“It’s not about that and you know it…”

“I don’t see why you don’t just fucking relax and play whenever you’re needed. Do you realize you’ve got the easiest job in the world? I’m doing all the work – I’m happy to do all the work! All you need to do is play for a few hours a week and you’re done. It could be so goddamn simple!”

“This is not The Roger Waters and Friends Hour. I’m not your fucking session player!”

Roger muttered something to himself and waved David off, indicating that the discussion was over. He turned to walk into the control booth, hesitating only slightly at the sound of the guitarist getting to his feet, obviously not quite through with his tirade yet.

“I was still talking.” There was much conviction in his voice, much strength, and a bit of restrained anger. He was quite serious about this, wasn’t he? Roger ignored him and shut the door. “Hey, don’t you fucking walk away from me!”

Further incensed, David stormed through the sea of equipment in pursuit of his opponent, prepared to wrench the door open and drag him out if necessary. The gall of it! Roger, anticipating this, pulled up one of the chairs inside of the booth and secured it against the door, hoping that it would prove effective in locking David out. Then he took a seat at the control panel to pretend as if he were doing something engrossing, in reality only keen on watching David’s reaction.

And quite a reaction it was. Roger suppressed a smile as the expression of puzzlement at his inability to throw the door open quickly changed to one of rage. He continued to try for a moment more, pushing his weight against it, but this proved ineffective. Instead he changed tactics, banging on the plastic window, Graduate-style.

“Get out of the fucking booth, Roger!”

Roger leaned over the microphone and flicked the intercom on.

“I haven’t got anything to say to you.” He pulled a cigarette and a pack of matches from his jeans pocket, lit it up, and took a nice, long drag. He wasn’t about to go anywhere.

“Well I’ve got something to say to you, so open the door!”

This was responded to with a certain two-finger salute.

Now David did not consider himself a violent man. There were very few times in his life when he’d resorted to brute strength to achieve his means and was generally more of an arguer than a fighter. But this was simply too much to handle. This wasn’t about the song anymore. Fuck the song. This was about respect. He was not about to be ignored in such a way. Roger didn’t even have the decency to come out and face him like a man. Well, he’d get in by any means possible and when he did…oh, God help Roger Waters when he did…

The closest thing within reach was a mic stand so he grabbed hold of it, pausing only to stare at Roger through the window. He did not seem at all perturbed. In fact, he looked fairly certain that he was safe inside his little cocoon. Glowering, David flung the stand at the door, accomplishing very little but remaining undaunted. The familiar hum of the intercom switched on and Roger’s voice boomed godlike throughout the room.

“That’s studio property, you know. I hope you’re prepared to pay for it.”

Next he came upon a steel-backed chair and that was hurled as well.

“I’ll do this all night if I have to!” A smallish amp crashed into the window and David was relieved to see Roger flinch a bit at the way the plastic trembled in its frame. “I will fucking level this place!”

He turned to take hold of another chair but stopped when he noticed what had been propped against the wall near it. Perhaps he could more clearly make his point with something more personal. Smiling sadistically, he picked up Roger’s favorite bass by the neck, slung it over his shoulder like a club, and began to make his way over again. This particular apparatus had been part of Roger’s collection since the mid-sixties. It had remained in whatever studio the band happened to be using at the time, as a comforting remembrance of his time in The Pink Floyd Sound. Or of Syd perhaps. Either way, it meant the world to him and David was well aware of this.

Roger at once had the urge to get up and save his instrument but was unsure of what David would do with it once he’d left the booth. Was he in enough of a state to attack him with it? Rather than find out through experience, he leaned over into the mic, voice sounding far less calm and commanding than he would have liked.

“Put my bass down.” His response was a dull thud. David had swung the bass against the window experimentally, testing out the resistance. “You son of a bitch!”

Two more swings, both growing in force, and Roger could not help but wince at the increasing volume. Gradually, David began to work it into a moderately slow rhythm, each swing encouraged by the barely suppressed look of horror he received. Roger briefly considered threatening to call the police before he realized that there was no phone in the booth with him. The sharpness in volume was becoming disconcerting. And all he could do was scream his expletives and glare and gesture but he could not change the fact that the bass, his bass, was being demolished before his very eyes. This was simply not how it was done; when Roger spoke, everyone was required to listen. How was he supposed to deal when they didn’t?

All of the aggravation that David had been suppressing so very well - the aggravation over the recording, over Roger’s tyranny, over their failing relationship – he expelled in each swing. Imagining it crashing into Roger’s horrid face, faster and faster, declaring his emancipation through the violence.

He stopped quickly enough, abruptly even, but not nearly soon enough to preserve the bass – it was in pieces all over the floor. He dropped the neck and simply stared at Roger, panting and victorious because he’d finally seen a crack in the mask. The bastard had been on the edge of crying. Not quite, but almost. Almost was enough for David, to finally break this machine down and see the humanity, the vulnerability peeking through.

Whether he’d nearly cried because of his demolished instrument or out of fear or because there was some sort of finality to this act, not even Roger himself knew. He was trembling all over, fallen cigarette ashes on his trousers. He met David’s eyes and a mutual awareness seemed to pass through the two of them.
One thing was for sure: the end was looming in sight. David’s gaze told him that from this moment on, he himself would be no more than his studio player.

Roger made a move to stand and leave the booth but David anticipated it. He muttered something about going home to see his family and went to find his jacket. Roger suddenly felt desperate; David couldn’t leave – they still had work to do, an album to make! If Dave didn’t stay here with him, then who would? Who else could tolerate him like that? Plus there was the mess on the floor. Oh God, please don’t let David leave him here to pick up all of those fragments by himself.

He opened his mouth to speak but that machine in him had seemed to squeeze his throat tight enough that no sound came out. Oh, not now, please! If there was ever a time that he truly needed to speak it was now! But while he was struggling to find his voice through all of that self-control, he watched as David disappeared through the door. The solitude seemed to loosen the grip on his throat and he emitted a small and unheard cry of pain.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Final Sound