Free Necrophenia by Robert Rankin

You’re right there, if you know what I mean. And I knew what I meant. And I knew that the other guys in the band would know this, too. It was a camaraderie thing. We were all in this magical thing together.
    ‘You don’t mind doing this all by yourself, do you?’ said Toby to me. ‘Neil and I want to have a few words with Mr Ishmael.’
    ‘But-’ said I.
    ‘There’s something mystical about humping the gear, don’t you think?’ said Toby.
    So I humped the gear by myself.
    And I must have made a really good job of it, because once in a while I’d peer across at Mr Ishmael’s parked limo and see Toby and Neil and Mr Ishmael quaffing champagne and laughing together. And if one of them caught my eye, they’d grin very broadly and raise their glass and give me the old thumbs-up.
    Nice chaps.
    But I do have to say that I didn’t think much of The Green Carnation. It was a regular dump. It looked like a derelict building. The door was hanging off its hinges and the electricity appeared to be supplied by a mobile generator.
    I cast a dubious eye over these insalubrious surroundings and one of the members of Venus Envy caught me at it.
    ‘Chic, isn’t it?’ said the he/she. A very thin one, scarcely taller than a dwarf. ‘Post-holocaust chic, it’s called. You wouldn’t believe how much it cost to make it look like this.’
    I agreed that I probably wouldn’t, then asked where exactly the stage might be.
    ‘You’re standing on it,’ this Glen/Glenda said. ‘It’s an entirely new concept in concert staging. A “level-header”, it’s called, level with the audience. One day all stages will be like this.’
    But I did not agree that they would.
    I continued with my humping. And when done, and somewhat breathless, I asked the Venus Envy she-male where exactly the bar was, so I could avail myself of a beer.
    ‘We don’t have a bar, as such,’ the man-woman told me. ‘If you want a beer you’ll have to go to the pub next door. I think our roadie is in there already. You can buy him a pint for helping you to shift your gear.’
    I settled for a glass of water. Or would have done, if there’d been any. So I sighed and shrugged and went off to the toilet. And then the obvious struck me and I went out to Mr Ishmael’s limo, to share in the champagne.
    Only to find that Neil and Toby and Mr Ishmael were now entering the club. As they’d run right out of champagne.
    ‘This is rough,’ said Neil. ‘And when I say rough, I mean it. Let’s make like a ****** and get out of this ruddy hole.’
    There was a moment of silence then.
    Followed by a longer one, and then a longer one still.
    The moon, briefly out, went behind a cloud and a dog howled in the distance.
    ‘Never,’ said Toby, finding his voice, ‘never, ever say anything as evil and revolting as that again.’
    And I agreed with Toby. ‘That was rough,’ I said.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Neil. ‘I thought I was amongst manly men who would be prepared to share a joke about a ******. But apparently not. Which says so much, doesn’t it?’ And Neil went off to tune his drums. For he was the drummer that week.
    I looked at myself and then at Toby and then at Neil.
    ‘Why did I think,’ I asked Toby, ‘that there were more than just the three of us in this band?’
    Toby shrugged. ‘Because you are silly?’ he suggested.
    ‘I am going next door for a beer,’ said Mr Ishmael. ‘After you have done your sound check, you might care to join me.’
    And off went Mr Ishmael, leaving us behind.
    And I looked at Toby once again.
    And he looked back at me.
    ‘What is a soundcheck?’ I asked Toby. ‘I’m sure I did know, but I think I must have forgotten.’
    ‘It’s a check,’ said Toby, authoritatively, ‘to see whether all the walls are sound. Whether they are all right to take the vibrations of our instruments. You know nothing, you.’
    I bowed to his superior knowledge. ‘So I’ll leave that to you, then,’ I suggested.
    ‘Where do I set up