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Ballad of a Hard Woman	By : Saoirse Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Thin Lizzy Views: 846 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know the members of Thin Lizzy. This is a work of fiction. No money made from this story. All lyrics/song titles belong to Lizzy and their affiliated artists. Do not sue please.

Chapter List
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- 4
A/N: Background information on the now defunct Ramport Studios is from Wikipedia. See Thinlizzyguide.com for Johnny the Fox recording timeline, touring schedule, and info on Robin Trower. Procol Harum info, discography, and chart positions are from Wikipedia. Byrne's and Putterford's books provided information on Ramport Studios personnel and the debacle at Musicland Studios in Munich (chapters A New Beginning and Rise of the Emerald, respectively). The liner notes for the 2011 deluxe releases of Jailbreak and Johnny the Fox provided in-depth interviews with Thin Lizzy band members and crew on songs and the goings on. Featured song: Romeo and the Lonely Girl, written by Phil Lynott (Jailbreak, 1976 Vertigo).
Chapter II: Romeo and the Lonely Girl
Early August 1976, Ramport Studios, Battersea
“Seriously Phil, are you gay or somethin’, man? ‘Cause if you’re not, you need to be this Johnny dude’s fuckin’ publicist. This guy’s cropping up everywhere. Don’tcha think it’s getting a little redundant, man?”
“Look man, I’m gettin’ a little fuckin’ tired of havin’ me material being called inferior. I’m not exactly in the best of health to argue the fuckin’ point, y’know!”
Ah, another exciting chapter in the Chronicles of Johnny. At least Christine could happy for the one person (despite being fictional) having fun riding on Thin Lizzy’s wave. For the last week after Lizzy’s aborted attempt to record in West Germany’s Musicland Studios it’s been nothing but nitpicking and balls-out screaming matches (which was mostly Robbo and Phil).
     Scott and Phil stood at the end of the corridor smoking their heads off trying compromise on the new album’s direction. Christine worked the phone in Ramport Studios’ neglected conference room, and while she was a reluctant spectator, she knew if she shut the door the central air conditioning wouldn’t flow in. It was about tea time, and Christine had to slink down the opposite end of the corridor to fill up the electric kettle in the ladies because when The Who bought the site for a studio conversion, they forgot to include a proper kitchen.
     “Since when have I ever called your songs inferior? If Robbo and I weren’t feelin’ it, or thought whatever you were writing was shit, we’d call you out on it from the fuckin’ beginning! At this stage of the game, don’t you think it’s a bit late, man?”
     “Well I wouldn’t be kickin’ up a fuckin’ stink if the Jolly Green Giant back there,” Phil jutted his thumb over his shoulder, “wouldn’t be tryin’ to keep us a glorified pub band. Entwistle can afford to be lazy, we fuckin’ can’t!”
     Scott wasn’t going to argue with that. John Alcock was brought back to produce this record after their success with Jailbreak. But Scott wasn’t about to bullshit; despite the gold record he wasn’t happy with the production. Alcock was determined to tame Thin Lizzy knowing full well what kind of sound they delivered on the stage. The only reason why they backed O’Donnell up with Alcock was because his name was the only one standing out on the shortlist Phonogram fronted. He produced for The Who, Alice Cooper, and Supertramp, but they felt he was still green enough to let Lizzy have a bit of latitude with their ideas. That was nixed the minute the six-foot-plus ogre tried to pull his headmaster shit on them.
     Phil had to fight him tooth and nail from the get-go in order to avoid the murders they had with the fur coat-wearing American prick that produced Nightlife, and the fuck-up that was Fighting. It wasn’t to say that Alcock didn’t have his good points; he taught them how a record was properly produced and was a real bastard about punctuality and charted out production sequences. His co-producer Georgiana Steele-Waller royally cracked the whip which included embarrassing wake-up calls to their homes, and a real ass-chewing if anybody turned up past noon. Scott liked Georgie- mostly because she was cute- because she was realistic. She was also diplomatic about shit, so if Alcock wasn’t budging on one thing or another, which was stymieing everything, she stepped in and arbitrated it between him and Phil. Scott couldn’t help but feel a little triumphant as Alcock was shunted more and more to the side as recording rolled on. But this time around it seemed that Alcock was less than willing to take to the backseat.
     Scott watched Christine walk around the corner with the kettle. His grin got wickeder whenever she was in the vicinity, and she pointedly ignored him- and the rest of the band- only making contact with Phil when necessary as he was Thin Lizzy’s primary spokesman. As a rock band’s fairy godmother it was Christine’s job to organize every interview, appearance, autograph signing, photo op, photo shoot, after party, and guest list, as well as scout appropriate clubs and pubs for post-concert piss-ups for the band and their road crew.
If there was one thing Christine found respectable about Thin Lizzy was that there were no barriers between them and their crew. They were one, big happily fucked up family. Rock band managers tended to overtake their bands, not so with Frank and the two Chrises (O’Donnell she had yet to meet as he was flying all over creation booking their upcoming tour which was to kick off in a month’s time). Frank Murray was once a musician on the Irish scene and roadied for Skid Row. He and Phil were so close that Phil not only served as his best man, but he had Phil and his ex-girlfriend Gail, his mother, and her boyfriend Denis Healy accompany he and his wife Ferga on their honeymoon in Spain. Ferga Murray was also Thin Lizzy’s costume mistress. Chris Morrison was an accountant that co-operated a talent agency in Dublin who represented Lizzy during the Eric Bell years, and stayed on for their move to London. He was quite the financial wizard who kept their agreeable tax bills as legal as possible. Chris O’Donnell was brought in during their Decca tenure, a former A&R man he was trying his hand at management, but at the time paid the rent via a record stall on Portobello Road. It was through O’Donnell’s friendship with Nigel Grainge did they get the break they needed with Phonogram after Decca dropped them.
     But therein lay the downside, no one could tell Thin Lizzy- especially big boss Phil- no. Like minds attract, and everyone swam in excess. Nothing was off-limits, be it drugs, drink, or women. Thin Lizzy was also a social club, and that stemmed from the band being culturally Irish. They are a friendly, chatty people with extensive families where privacy is a novelty. Lizzy, particularly Phil, thrived on togetherness. He needed people around him constantly which was a reaction to his homesickness. Christine knew she would be the square peg in the round hole, at odds with their dead casualness, as she was an Englishwoman from the educated elite. But she was hardly white as the driven snow, because when she indulged she preferred to do so alone because sharing was anathema to her. Living in hotels through to the end of November with these crazies was something she wasn’t looking forward to.
     The other big problem lay with a certain foreigner. After that grand mind fuck at the Hammy-O Christine didn’t expect to see Thin Lizzy until they emerged from Munich with their final product ready for the Christmas market at the beginning of fall. She would be able to relax and conduct Lizzy business at her pace with no distractions from the office. Then she got a literal rude awakening in the form of a frantic phone call from O’Donnell summoning her to Battersea where Thin Lizzy was recording once again at Ramport. It seemed that Musicland was an unwise choice as the band was intimidated by the size of it, couldn’t find an adequate drum sound, bitched incessantly about their hotel accommodations, and partied like mad (which included spells at the Reeperbahn). Meanwhile Alcock was at war with his German engineer, and then the oxide on the recording tape was falling off! Nothing was salvageable, two weeks and a ton of money shat down the toilet. So they packed their bags and started from scratch.
     Everybody was in a right mood that first day, so Christine wisely claimed the conference room to keep out of everyone’s way. Smooth sailing. No long hair or freaky teeth to be seen. The following day was where it got a bit strange. While it was Christine’s first stay at Ramport, some of the personnel she was not unfamiliar with. Winnie Rees, the secretary that managed the front office was mutual friends with Christine through her best friend, former super-groupie turned executive assistant to Phonogram’s president (who remained one of Cliff Richard’s steady “dates” for events), Rona Barrett. Christine joined Winnie up front for tea getting caught up on the latest rock drama, when Georgiana hollered for Winnie in the control room. Christine went for a cigarette when she dropped her lighter. Before she could bend over, a flame clicked in front of her face, and there sat Scott beside her.
     ‘Thank you.’ Christine said begrudgingly. He leaned his head back and tucked his lighter in his inside vest pocket. She noticed he had a real fetish for them, as well as cowboy boots seeing he had a foot parked on the edge of a bin. He was as tall as Phil in those things. Scott didn’t appear to be in any hurry to return to the studio, and that made Christine uneasy. ‘Is there something I could help you with, Gorham?’
     He lifted a cracked, grubby mug. ‘Refill. Runnin’ on empty in there.’
     ‘Right.’ Christine took the mug gingerly and went to the file cabinet where the pot sat. She internally chuckled at the memory of she and Winnie spending a bit of nice Who money at Woolworth’s replacing the conference room’s crap mugs with a cute tea set. Christine dropped her little grin when she noticed in her peripheral vision that Scott was giving her a weird look with his eyes. Reflexively she straightened her tunic. ‘Milk or sugar?’
     ‘I like it straight.’ Christine nearly jumped 50 yards as he was standing behind her. How she avoided third degree burns she didn’t know. He curled his fingers over hers around the mug’s handle. With ballet precision and maintaining eye contact with Scott, Christine loosed her hand from the full mug. She looked away to lick her lips. His hands were callused, which was usual for professional guitarists. He carefully sipped his tea, nothing was said further, and he made his exit when Winnie returned.
     Breathing in the freezing air conditioning made Christine’s chest ache, she dropped her hands onto her typewriter fanning out her fingers to get the blood flowing again. Last thing she needed were cramps. And the kettle still hadn’t whistled. It wasn’t until she stopped moving did she hear a digging noise. Scott was next to her carving wedges out of a huge golden apple with a flick knife.
     “What are you doing, Gorham?” She asked.
     “Eating. We forgot to eat lunch, so we’re ordering an early dinner.” Musicians were truly night crawlers, and Lizzy was really crap about getting up. But because the waters with Alcock were choppy, the band was becoming lackadaisical again about punctuality. They shot for noon, and Robbo and Scott turned up relatively on time, then Downey, and last to roll in was Phil. Lizzy was notorious for wasting money writing in the studio while recording. Alcock had gone ballistic at Georgiana over the band working well past the thinking hour, laying down whatever, and then the following day playing it back to discover it was total shit.
     “Don’t you usually go to the Butcher’s Arms for a bite?” Christine asked, resuming her typing to distract herself.
     “Well, we figured we’d stay in tonight. Cool our heels, and all that shit.” He offered her a slice. She accepted it for politeness’ sake, Scott knew of course, which was why he never broke his intense stare.
     “I hope you’re not having too much difficulty.” Christine chose her words carefully; she was paranoid at the fact that it may trigger something. “Oh, if my typing is disturbing, I’ll shut the door.”
     Scott grinned toothily laughing under his breath at Christine’s ignorance. “Honey, it’s called soundproofing for a reason. You could have the Queen’s motherfuckin’ Diamond Jubilee up in here, and we’d be missing a helluva party. When The Who built this place it was intended to be state-of-the-art.” Christine wilted. It never fails. She overthinks, and she ended up making a bigger ass of herself. “Don’t feel bad, baby.” He wrapped the apple core in a blank sheet of paper and aimed for the bin. Slam dunk! What, no fist pump? “Although,” and Scott tilted his head forward, “it does make you cuter.”
     Christine’s head snapped up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Scott stood up and fished a toothpick from his vest pocket. While her temperament was far from Robbo’s, Scott knew the British upper classes had incendiary fits. The longer he took his sweet time to answer, the harder Christine’s breathing got. He touched her cheek with his fingertip scraping off a hair sticking there. She became aware of what he was doing when she felt his remaining fingers on her cheek. Christine lifted her left hand to stop him when she paused. That weird aura suddenly changed. He held her in check with his smile.
     “I think you know.” He popped the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, and without so much as a goodbye, he strolled out. It was fun being a rock star. He’d gotten worse beatings from Vicki when he was six, but payback was sweet. What was also pretty sweet was that Christine was blessed with an Yvonne Craig body. How many post-pubescent nights did he make a mess on his chest to the memory of spray-on purple shimmer body suits and green-skinned alien dancing girls. Christine was high up on the To Do list.
     Christine stared at the open door for God knows how long. The fucking audacity. There was no other way of describing it and she was used to it. The fucking metalheads practically raped anything with tits (or at least what they thought were tits after snorting or shooting God knows what). But they’d usually forget about her especially after she’d throw them face first into a tub of ice water to ensure they played the gig. She lit a cig and wondered if there was a point in getting enraged. She was fucked anyway she looked at it.

#    #    #

     A few days later there was a colossal row between Phil and Robbo. Robbo called Phil’s song Don’t Believe in Something Or Other shit (followed by a very colorful critique of Sitamoia which resulted in a smashed ashtray) driving Phil from the studio. After Robbo tanked himself up enough he decided to pop in the conference room to see Morrison and Murray for a healthy rant.
     “I’m goin’ round the bloody fuckin’ bend here! Between that Alcock shithead and Phil’s fuckin’ warbling, I’m ready to hang myself! I thought we fuckin’ sussed this back at the fuckin’ Farmyard!”
     Bravely Frank challenged Robbo. “Look, Brian, the fact of the matter is you’d have more success negotiatin’ political prisoner release with the Prime Minister, than you would convincin’ Phil to drop a song.”
     “I didn’t say drop the poxy song!” Robbo rounded. “I said it was fuckin’ crap because it was really slow!”
Nevertheless Phil was out of the studio for two days. During that time Robbo silently reflected that perhaps he was a wee bit harsh, so he and Downey worked the song over. Mostly he did it because he’d get a right bollocking from Phil if nothing was done. Downey rubbed his head seeing if he could rattle something out to make the song as Lizzy-like as possible. He put a ¾ shuffle on it, and Robbo rewrote the riff. Scott hung around long enough to get a basic harmony down, so when Phil finally turned up he liked what he heard. Although it took two hours from the other three ganging up on him for him to play it.
The Thin Lizzy work ethic at work.
Christine loved living in North Tottenham for two reasons: 1) her flat was atop a bakery run by her landlady, so the aroma of baking bread and sugary things drenched her flat 24 hours a day. And 2) her landlady always gave her free sweets because Christine was a regular customer for her marijuana side business. Christine was given a load of American-style pralines which was a perfect accompaniment to Winnie’s peach schnapps and Georgiana’s chai, making ladies’ tea time a decadent affair.
The music industry ran on three things: testosterone, petrol, and cocaine. And if you didn’t like coke there was a smorgasbord of pills, potions, and powders to whet your creative appetite, or temporarily balm the ball kicking of dwindling record sales. Being only the women in the studio Christine, Winnie, and Georgiana holed themselves up in the conference room getting pink-cheeked and slightly silly from the spiked tea clucking like hens giving their uninhibited opinions that wouldn’t be welcome anywhere near the control room.
“The music industry is the only recession-proof industry in the first world, I’ve always said.” Georgiana said. “And the reasoning behind it is simple: there is an infinite supply of clichés to write an album around. And this album is no different. Be it sex, drugs, the Ulster Cycle, gunfights at the OK Corral, or New York City street gangs, Phil has decided to stick to the script. Oh, and there’s still no title.” Christine filled her teacup with more schnapps. “The only reason why John hasn’t walked off the album, or bludgeoned someone to death is because when Phil and his three-ring circus want to be brilliant, they are.”
“Do you think this album will tank?” Christine asked.
Georgiana shook her head. “Not necessarily. But John thinks that they should really take the rest of the year off to really tweak the songs and produce the best quality album. And I concur.” Christine breathed uneasily from her nostrils. “Instead O’Donnell has a bunch of dates booked for them on the continent, and they’re supporting Robin Trower!”
“Robin who?” Winnie asked sticking a cig in her mouth.
“From Procol Harum.” Christine elucidated.
“I won’t even ask what language that is.”
“It’s Latin, or I should say a corrupted form of it. It’s supposed to mean ‘of these far off things’. Their last album Procol’s Ninth charted in at #41, but it was Grand Hotel that stunned us all. They didn’t make a dent here, but on the Billboard Top 200, Procol slotted in at #21.”
“Very good Watson,” Georgiana complimented.
“I can understand why the management would contract them with a guitarist whose solo albums went gold, but a blues-rock artist with roots in psychedelic rock?” Christine’s eyebrow crooked with skepticism.
“Have you ever heard their Decca stuff?” Georgiana asked Christine.
“The only things I heard off this lot were the Jailbreak singles. And that was a fluke too, because the metal animals were constantly spinning them in the pubs.”
“I’ll organize some copies for you and send them to your office. It’s more than just a financial decision to tour with Trower, now that they’re getting £3200 per show, but it’s a big influence. Listen to their stuff and you’ll see how their pairing compliments each other.”
“Is it a pay to play deal?” Christine made a face, industry vultures were constantly circling. How many up-and-coming bands been cornered into doing that? Forfeiting a paycheck to gamble on exposure because the band you’re opening for is big isn’t only stupid, it’s crazy. Young bands were brought up gigging for survival. Thin Lizzy was also cut from that cloth. But being restless road dogs wasn’t the only reason why Lizzy toured nonstop.
“Absolutely not.” Georgiana said resolutely. “And for O’Donnell especially it’s a personal thing.” She threw down her glasses and rubbed her eyes with her thumb and index finger. “I know how much of a fucking disappointment losing the American tour was. But you could only put the blame on the band and their… extra-curricular activities so damn much.”
“I don’t get it.” Winnie said. “Frank said that Phil was powdering his nose and drinking himself silly while fucking anything in a tight jumper and that’s how he got sick.”
“Yeah, and the fact that Mercury Records- Phonogram’s American distributor- has no fucking idea how to market rock ‘n roll! It’s run by two men out of Chicago when we all know the scene is in New York and LA!” That’s the industry at work, cheapest and inefficient is best. “The other problem is how in fuck do you market Lizzy? If they weren’t so eclectic life would be easier.”
“Somehow Georgiana, I don’t think Phil would appreciate criticism like that.” Christine said. Georgiana lit up a cig and puffed for a couple of minutes before responding.
“Truth be told Lynott can’t take much of anything.” She said bleakly. There were two quick raps on the door; Winnie pulled the schnapps into her lap. Alcock stuck his head in.
“Georgiana, I need you.” His eyes were ringed and his skin ashy.
“Right.” She crushed out her half-finished cig and dragged her feet behind him.
“It never rains.” Winnie commented.
“Not in this business,” Christine said holding out her hand. “We’re not that lucky.” Winnie turned over the schnapps.
“Look round you, Christine. Who really is?” Christine was just done topping Winnie off when the front office phone rang. “Guess I know who has to answer that.” And she upped from the room taking the schnapps with her. Not two minutes passed when the conference room’s phone rang.
“Yes, Winnie?” Christine said.
“DJ Dave Cash on the line. He needs a chat pronto.”
“Dave Cash? I though he was on holiday in Switzerland.”
“Maybe after he conquered the Alps he got bored?”
“Put him through.”
“Christine honey, how in the hell are you!” A British-tinted North American voiced boomed.
“Dave! Darling! I thought you were motorbiking through Davos!”
“I missed my favorite small-time promoter.”
“Ri-i-i-i-i—ight.”
“And when I heard that she was messing with the big boys, I had to send her my love.”
“I won’t bother asking you to cut the bullshit, so what can I help you with Dave?” It had to be one of Alcock’s engineers or the tape-op who spilled. As far as Christine was concerned, the band deserved having the press up their asses!
“Well y’know I have a celebrity guest DJ with me for the morning show, and I was hoping to filch one of the Lizzies.”
Christine shuffled through her portfolio checking the schedule that she was still typing up. “I dunno Dave. You know they are in the middle of recording, and Phil’s schedule is pretty tight…”
“Actually I was hoping to have your Mr. Scott Gorham for the show.”
“Now that’s a switch. But I assure you, he’s not mine. That honor belongs to you and you alone.”
“So do I get him?”
She found Frank and Morrison in the front office with Winnie slugging down the schnapps. It must’ve gotten hairier in the studio than she imagined. “Just got a call from Dave Cash.” The two managers looked interested strictly out of courtesy. “He wants one of the Musketeers as his celebrity DJ.”
“Which one?” Frank sighed.
“Captain America.”
“Schedule it.”
“Um, Frank, you want to give Gorham a few minutes to finish this album?”
“Look, Christine, it’s painfully simple.” Frank took a shot. “If junior wants to continue to make bank, then he does what he’s fuckin’ told. Now please, take care of it.” She threw up her arms and went back to the conference room. It was out of her hands really. After all this time with the crazies, the management knew what they were doing. But she couldn’t help but get the suspicion that while their hearts were in the right place, their heads weren’t.

#    #    #

Several days went by with little excitement outside the studio. The drama over Alcock wanting to nix the Boogie Woogie Dance track was sussed with Phil winning. But Winnie was buzzing with good gossip over the ex-girlfriends immortalized on the album.
“Now Robertson wrote Borderline because while he was truly in love with this bird, she couldn’t stand him!”
“Oh I can’t see that.” Christine said.
“And Old Flame was a few years in the making. Apparently Phil’s girl Gail, from Ireland, left him to do a degree when Lizzy was set to go on the disastrous BTO tour of America.”
“What exactly happened there?”
“She wouldn’t have a thing to do with the whole ‘Lizzy Life’. She frankly wasn’t impressed with the whole scene.” To be a rocker’s chick one had to be a hardy woman. Or at the very least addicted and greedy. In Christine’s experience, very few of the musicians she’d worked with had real girlfriends. And if they did, the fights in the hotel rooms rivaled any bar punch-up. Groupies were just part of the culture, and the real pros floated from band to band with no goal other than searching out the best party. They were picked up and literally dumped at a moment’s notice. Plenty of women were abandoned in hotels, pubs, and venues, regardless of their personal state.
According to Rona Barrett there was a strict hierarchy. Strippers, prostitutes, and drug dealers circulated in that mix as well. But the higher up on the food chain you got, things became more complex. If you weren’t a groupie, you had the fortune of being a queen. Queen status was reserved for wives, mistresses, girlfriends, models, actresses, heiresses, and super groupies that made the tabloids. Case in point, the track Sweet Marie.
“This’ll raise a wry smile!” Christine was smiling, but it wasn’t wryly. “Now this romantic debacle occurred after the whore-biting incident on the BTO tour.”
“Whore-biting incident?”
“Never mind! Never mind!” Winnie exclaimed waving her hands. “Scotty managed to fall into the lap of one Miss Marie Broussard, of the New York City Broussards.”
“Winnie, I’m not exactly up to date on the society pages of the New York Times.”
“Well I’ll save you some research. Marie’s father is so fucking loaded that he has a private box in Madison Square Garden.”
“Hmm, a professional club crawler living off of daddykins’ money? I’d say that’s a real step up for Gorham.” Christine said. “Now what’s the punchline?”
“While Mr. Hollywood was certainly head-over-heels, she rolled him out the back door after they’d made it.”
“Winnie, I was raised in the Orient, and my Amah was very responsible in teaching me the ways of karma. And that was a prime example of it.” Winnie responded with a wicked giggle. “I mean really, double standards are getting rather boring!”
“Even in this industry.” Winnie said.
“I mean they will whine, scream, moan, and write soppy ballads for the next 30 years about The One That Got Away. But if they dump you, it’s just another day at the office!” Winnie raised her schnapps to that. “One day Gorham’s going to find himself tangled with the wrong woman. D’you think then he’ll see the error of his ways?”
“Christine!” Both women jumped at the sudden appearance of Chris Morrison.
“Yes Chris?”
“You’re needed in the studio.”
“I- I’m sorry, Chris?”
“Scott wants to speak with you.” Christine’s heart rate picked up a bit. She looked at her watch, it was nearly the end of her workday, but she knew that Lizzy went to The Butcher’s Arms for a drink round this time. The look on Chris’ face told her not to waste time with snarking, and she hustled off.
The control room was empty, the staff having vacated for a much needed break. She could see Scott was alone in the recording studio through the picture window. Christine didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
“Did you want to see me?” Scott beckoned to her as he went for a cigarette. She understood why Alcock thought Ramport to have a family-like atmosphere, The Who’s gear was everywhere. Lizzy’s jackets and guitar boxes sat on their flightcases. But the minute Christine’s eyes fell on a bin overtopping with lager cans a corner of her mouth pulled downward. Littered about were bottles of cheap brandy and not-so-cheap Irish whiskey. The ashtrays were overflowing, and the air was redolent of something other than tobacco. It truly was a musician’s space.
Scott sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar on his lap. He lit his cig, and dropped the lighter on a chair beside him. He wore a large turquoise ring and a gold digital watch, Christine knew the money was only starting to pour in for Lizzy, and God knows he wasn’t exactly dressed to impress in sun-bleached flares and a Clover T-shirt. He tapped his heel on the stool’s crossbeam. And of course the cowboy boots. He turned to face her, and she saw her miniature double reflection in his aviator shades.
“DJ Dave Cash,” he finally spoke, “talk to me.” He sniffed with one nostril and flicked his hair. Her eyes hardened and he grinned.
“Yes,” Christine opened her portfolio and checked the itinerary. “If you spoke with Frank, I scheduled your guest spot for September before we leave for the-ˮ
“D’you know how fucked up it is when the press finds out where we’re recording?” Scott cut her off. Christine wasn’t an idiot; he was referring to the Munich FUBAR.
“Gorham I brought that up straight away when I approached Frank. I was on your side. Now I see that was completely futile!”
“Futile or not, doin’ interviews- or whatever the fuck- is not at your discretion. It’s mine.”
“Do not tell me how to do my job, Gorham! I know perfectly well that you’re under pressure by the label, and doing the press-go-round doesn’t make it any easier!”
“Do you?” Christine wondered if he was making her exasperated on purpose.
“And one more thing, will you please take off those goddamn sunglasses!” Scott tilted his chin up taking a pull stifling his chuckle. “You’ve been living here long enough to understand that we English take protocol very seriously. I don’t give a damn if you are the archetypal yank rocker, and I really am not interested in what the predilection is behind proving your coolness by wearing sunglasses indoors! But what I am asking is for you to respect me and act professionally. Now please remove your sunglasses so I might see your face properly.”
“You done?” Scott asked.
“Yes.”
“The whole lecture with the big words that you think I can’t understand over?” Christine’s hackles were on the rise and she was ready to spit fire, but after a quick mental review of the calendar, she decided it wasn’t worth it. “My face, good and proper.”
“Thank you.” She sighed.
Romeo and the lonely girl
They seemed to hit it off
‘Til Romeo told the lonely girl
"I must take my leave, my love"
It was these few words I overheard
And thought, "I should move in"
But before I could
The lonely girl had fallen in love again
Oh poor Romeo
Sitting out on his own-ee-o
Oh poor Romeo
Romeo he had it rough
The guy you'd like to burn
But everything that Romeo had
You can bet it was well earned
He hung his shades on his collar, and Christine blinked. Scott looked at her, and she blinked again.
“What’s your problem now, honey?”
Christine wanted to kick herself for being such a woman. “You have the oddest habit.” Scott lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t completely close your mouth over your overbite.” It took her a full 10 seconds to realize that she was unable to breathe because Scott’s mouth was on hers. Christine tossed her portfolio keeping her arms in the air to avoid doing damage to the expensive guitar on his knee. Scott held Christine awkwardly by the shoulders sucking kisses from her. Christine clamped her teeth down to keep Scott’s tongue out. While they were engaged in a lusty tug-of-war, Downey made an appearance.
“Yeah, Scott, hate to interrupt…” Scott detached his lips from Christine and glared at the drummer. “Phil’s wonderin’ if you were gonna turn up, yeah? Needs to speak with you.” Scott took the guitar off, leaned it against the stool, and walked past Christine as though she weren’t there.
For all his good looks there were scars that he took
And a lesson to be learned
Never judge lovers by a good looking covers
The story might be spurned
Oh poor Romeo
Sitting out on his own-ee-o
Oh poor Romeo
Romeo he like to put it around
He was everybody's friend
But in the end even Romeo found
On no one could he depend
For all his charms in someone else's arms
Lonely girl safely lay
When the train pulled in it had to leave again
And Romeo pulled away
Oh poor Romeo
Sitting all on his own-ee-o
Oh poor Romeo
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Ballad of a Hard Woman