Free The Rotters' Club by Jonathan Coe

mono record-player crashed heavily on to the spinning vinyl. ‘Maybe if we ever get the band started, this is the sort of thing we ought to be doing.’
    ‘That reminds me,’ said Philip. ‘I’ve thought of a brilliant name.’ He pointed at the wall-map, his finger skimming expertly across the Misty Mountains and coming to rest a few hundred elf-leagues south-east of Fangorn. ‘Minas Tirith.’
    Benjamin pursed his lips. ‘Not bad, I suppose.’ They were thirty seconds into the first track on the album: an angular, two-part melody was being stated on guitar and saxophone, while the rhythm section kept delicate hold on some tricksy time-signature Benjamin had still not been able to identify. The music was confident, brainy, slightly deranged. ‘What do you think of this, then?’
    ‘It sounds like they’re tuning up,’ said Philip. ‘Who are they?’
    ‘They’re called Henry Cow,’ said Benjamin. ‘I got it from the Hairy Guy.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Malcolm. Lois’s boyfriend.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Philip, glummer than ever. ‘I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.’ He looked in puzzlement at the album cover, where the stark, unexplained image of a chain-mail sock gave little indication of the contents. ‘Is it like this all the way through?’
    ‘It gets weirder,’ said Benjamin, proud of his new discovery. ‘You have to open your ears, Malcolm says. Apparently they’re very influenced by Dada.’
    ‘And who or what,’ said Philip, ‘is Dada?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Benjamin admitted. ‘But… Well, try to imagine The Yardbirds getting into bed with Ligeti in the smoking rubble of divided Berlin.’
    ‘Who’s Ligeti?’
    ‘A composer,’ said Benjamin. ‘I think.’ He picked up his guitar and made a deeply abortive attempt to play along with the violin’s atonal counter-melody.
    ‘Why is Berlin divided, anyway?’ Philip asked. ‘I’ve always wondered that.’
    ‘I don’t know… I suppose there’s a river through the middle of it, isn’t there? Like the Thames. I expect it’s the Danube or something.’
    ‘I thought it was something to do with the Cold War.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    Benjamin put down his guitar, restless. From downstairs, there was a muted roar of laughter, and then another, more insistent noise: the thud of a crassly inflexible drumbeat. His father had switched on the music centre, and was playing that appalling James Last album again. He clenched his teeth with contempt.
    ‘What’s it all about, though, the Cold War? I mean, why’s it called the Cold War in the first place?’
    ‘Well,’ said Benjamin, struggling to raise some interest in this topic, ‘I expect it is very cold in Berlin, isn’t it?’
    ‘But it’s all to do with America and Russia, I thought.’
    ‘Well it’s definitely cold in Russia. Everybody knows that.’
    ‘And why’s it called Watergate? What’s President Nixon supposed to have done?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Why’s petrol got so expensive?’
    Benjamin shrugged.
    ‘Why do the IRA go round killing everybody?’
    ‘Because they’re Catholics?’
    ‘Why are we having power cuts?’
    ‘Because of the unions?’ He turned up the volume, sensing the approach of what was already a favourite passage. ‘Listen to this bit – it’s brilliant.’
    Philip sighed, and began to pace the room, seemingly not at all satisfied with their collective grasp of current affairs. ‘We don’t know much about the world, do we?’ he said. ‘Really, when you think about it?’
    ‘So what? What does it matter?’
    Philip pondered this question, and failed, for the moment, to think of a response. Perhaps Benjamin was right, and it didn’t matter, after all. Perhaps it was more important that they did well in their Latin unseen on Monday morning. Perhaps it was more important that they succeeded in some of their shorter-term ambitions: getting an article published in the school newspaper, catching the attention – somehow, even for a moment – of