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It's A Hit	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 731 -:- 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
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II: accidental inspiration
David sat in the live room of Studio One, cradling his beloved Strat in his lap, his fingers seeming to stroke the strings of their own accord. Though he was playing aimlessly, he knew Roger was watching him, only pretending to write. If he came up with something interesting his observer was likely to remember. After a while he heard a subtle electronic hum which meant Roger had turned on the talkback mic.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“So what do you want for your birthday, then?”

A grin as the easy answer came. “More guitars!”

“I mean what do you want from me.”

He looked up through the glass and held Roger’s gaze for a moment, giving him a sly smile. He remembered once his mother remarking to one of her sisters, “Ah, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth now would it, a smile like that?” The two of them had clucked their tongues and he could only hold his own against the tide of adult consensus.

“Can’t say, really.”

“Can’t say because you don’t know?”

“Can’t say here, I mean.”

“Can’t you?” Roger smirked. “Must be a right doozy then.”

David laughed quietly, plucking a few chords.

“How ‘bout a party? A veritable bacchanalia,” Roger suggested.

“With naked women.”

“And grapes. And everyone in togas.”

“Ha, you’d look like a hatstand in a toga.”

“Oh and you’d be Nero then.”

David’s lips twisted in a perturbed pout. “Not quite. Marc Antony, I daresay.”

“Ha!” Roger replied in a parody of David’s earlier response.

“Adrian said I had Classical features.”

“I’m sure he did. One only wonders what else he said.”

“Steady on, he said the same of you.”

“Merely to deflect his true agenda, I’m certain.”

“I doubt he has designs on me. His girlfriend is quite pretty.”

“You tend to confuse people, you know. Without even trying.”

“Is that what you are, then? Confused?”

“I am bloody stymied at the moment.”

“Last verse being a right bastard?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll tell you what I want later, alright?”

“Provided there is a later.”

“There’s always a ‘later,’ Rog. Time being what it is, and all.”

Roger looked up with a vaguely astounded expression.

“Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“Quiet now, I’m having an inspiration.”

David grinned and decided now would be as good a time as any to go grab a cuppa.

As Roger twisted the knobs on the Synthi A, modulating the pitch of the sound he had produced, David was fascinated by the sight of his pale long arms, the veins standing out in sharp relief.

“Hmm,” he murmured, running a calloused finger across a nearby patch of skin.

“What?” Roger asked, without pause.

“You’ve punters’ arms.”

Roger looked down, then grunted. “I haven’t been out on the river in donkey’s years. What are you –“ he stammered, stepping away, as the instrument went into feedback.

“What?” David looked into his eyes and smiled. “I rather fancy your arms.”

“Built like a bricklayer, you are,” Roger teased, prodding him with a long finger.

“Only just. Actual hard labor and I might hurt myself.”

“Can’t afford to damage those hands, can we?”

David placed one of them around Roger’s forearm. “Not if you want me to be successful. At anything.”

“Oh that’s no good,” Roger interjected, turning away and defusing the moment.

“What?” David asked, leaning in close and looking over the other’s shoulder.

“That sequence. It won’t fit with the others.”

David shrugged. “Then do another one. You got rid of mine quick enough.”

“You are eternally paranoid, Mr. Gilmour.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s what I am at the moment.”

“Where’s Alan, anyway?” Roger asked, looking around, suddenly skittish.

“Sent him home.”

“And the lads?”

“Them too.”

“So what are we doing here, then?”

“You’re fiddling with that thing. I’m waiting for you to come have a drink.”

“Or five.”

“Not too many. I might forget where my flat is.”

“Not likely, I know what you’re on about.”

“If that’s true then why are we still here?”

“Because I enjoy torturing you.”

“Since the day we bloody met.” He clapped Roger on the shoulder then began walking out of the room.

“Just one more try.” Roger called out to his retreating figure.

“Get on with it then, but you’d better hope some old poofter doesn’t waylay me at the pub, my patience is thinner than you are.”

“Christ Dave, you act as though you haven’t shagged in a year.”

“Any time longer than a day is long enough. Where’s my jacket, then?”

“Saints preserve us, give me five fucking minutes!”

“That’s what I’m asking for!” He paused to consider, the tip of his tongue emerging from the lush bed of his mouth. “Well, slightly more than five minutes, perhaps.”

Roger rolled his eyes, then sighed and turned off the device. As he passed by the doorway and a smirking bandmate he muttered “You are the absolute limit sometimes.”

“I’m thirsty, is what I am. Let’s be off.”

Upon their ultimate departure the doorman unlocked the main entrance with a show of surprise. “Thought you’d gone home with the others.”

“I always need to remind this one that he doesn’t actually live here,” David teased.

Roger ignored the jab. “’Night then, Gerry.”

“Good evenin’ to ya, gents.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Roger said, as they hurried down the steps, bundling themselves against the sudden onslaught of cold air.

“Tell me one thing, Rog.”

“I wouldn’t want to be meeting Gerry in the dark. Did you listen to his tape yet?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s a bit squirrelly, that one.”

“Hmm. What about me – do you want to meet me in the dark?”

“Steady on, strumpet. Let’s get a couple pints in me before you start asking the difficult questions.”

The way in which David snickered made Roger laugh as well, all tensions of the day suddenly vanished into that apparent and referenced darkness.

Adrian was holed up in a Paris editing room in his most typical pose, hunched over the viewfinder of a Steenbeck, watching a sequence he had already seen twenty times, waiting for a particular moment to make itself known. He often thought the way in which film spoke to him was like being mugged: a certain shot would literally throttle his mind, leave him stunned.

The sequence itself was considered by the participants to be nothing special, just the members of Pink Floyd sitting in the EMI canteen at Abbey Road Studios eating their dinner. Conversation was sparse until two things happened: Nick Mason embarked upon a quest for apple pie, and Steve O’Rourke held a rather contentious conversation with Roger Waters. The first part was endlessly fascinating to Adrian, given that Nick appeared a man of overall equanimity. One would have never imagined him to have such an unusual fixation. But the second part drew his specific attention at that moment. One could hear O’Rourke having it on with Waters, referring to him as “God Almighty,” at which Roger launched into a lecture with the ease of the truly opinionated. Seated on his left - almost on top of him, actually – was David Gilmour, occasionally sipping from a cup of tea. He did the sort of fidgeting one does when bored or fatigued, as well as held up a book for the camera, some kind of art tome, Adrian recalled. However, when Roger began his treatise on what makes a good producer Adrian was secretly amused that his camera was able to capture a decidedly non-diplomatic response: Gilmour rolling his eyes, the unspoken refrain of oh here he goes again. It was almost imperceptible, but the guitarist had particularly expressive eyes. Adrian did not recall any specific friction when working with the band the previous year (despite his best efforts to uncover any) and the two men seem completely at ease, altogether familiar, as the camera slowly tracked the tableau. And yet. . .that look - a look which walked the tightrope between frustration and indulgence - Adrian wondered if it was too personal a moment to include. He supposed he could cut to a different reaction shot and yet. . .that specific reaction, completely unnoticed by the person for whom it was meant, was the essence of true documentary filmmaking. It’s all about the small moments, providing context and subtext to the overall subject.

Though exactly what type of subtext he wasn’t entirely sure.

It had been a busy morning for Storm – yelling at three assistants to help him get the cover mock-ups ready to show to his principle client – he caused one of them to burst into tears as they were loading the boards into his Saab.

“If anything’s bent I’ll have your head!” he raged. Two of them refused to go to the studio with him, merely walked back into the building owned by Hipgnosis probably with the intention of quitting. But Storm was nervous and when he was nervous he tended to take it out on everyone around him. Such was the price of artistic intensity, he believed.

After arriving at Abbey Road he and the remaining assistant spent nearly an hour getting all the mock-ups set up in Studio Three – Storm making a few last-minute adjustments – then he poked his head next door and told his friends to come have a look.

Pleasantries were exchanged, offers of tea, and a bit of teasing, then the band stood in the center of the circle of tables, looking at each design. The moment seemed endless and yet it couldn’t have lasted more than ninety seconds.

“That one,” they said, nearly in unison, pointing to the prism.

“Yes well, I thought that might be a good way to represent what Rick was suggesting, but here, take a look at this one, I think it’s particularly-“

“We need to get back to work, we want that one,” David insisted, pointing again at the band’s unanimous choice.

“Excellent job, lad,” Roger said, and left the room.

“You’ve done it again!” Nick enthused, following him out.

“It will look good on a t-shirt, don’t you think?” David asked rhetorically as he walked by.

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Rick concluded, clapping him on the shoulder.

Storm was beaming with accomplishment. In an empty room.

“Well there was no argument there,” the flunky observed.

Storm ran out into the hallway.

“Wait, that’s it? So we’re sure we want the prism? Guys?!” he cried.
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It's A Hit