Free Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron Page A

wiring.
    ‘When does your guy get here?’ Fast Eddie asked.
    ‘He’s late.’
    He offered Eddie a cigarette and they both sparked up.
    ‘You played a blinding set tonight, Eric, you were on fire.’
    ‘I was, right enough. The tracks from the new album really suit a live venue, you know.’
    ‘The crowd could sense it. They came to see the Guns of Detroit, but I think they went away liking the Crazy Crows.’
    ‘If we could only bottle all the energy generated from a live performance and pour it into an album, we would sell shed-loads and get ourselves on the cover of Rolling Stone .’
    ‘I think you’re right.’
    A silence descended between them, he thinking about the set tonight and if this, their second album, would be the making of the band. Eddie, on the other hand, was maybe trying to decide whether he should go back to his painting and decorating job after this tour or join another band’s road crew.
    ‘Is this him?’ Eddie said, nodding towards a Mercedes saloon driving fast around the car park, not easy as it was full of cars, vans and trucks as the Guns of Detroit were still on stage.
    The car pulled up beside them. The rear door opened and a tall man approached them.
    ‘Eric,’ the man said grasping him in a bear hug. ‘It’s so good to meet you. Any friend of Heinrich is a friend of mine. Call me Max. Did the concert go well?’
    ‘It sure did. Your people seem to like us.’
    ‘This is good. Did you bring the money?’
    Eric handed him an envelope and Max flicked through the pile of notes with a practised eye.
    ‘Good, good,’ he said. He walked to the rear of the car and opened the boot. Removing a holdall, he dropped it at Eric’s feet.
    Eric bent down, unzipped the bag and rummaged through the merchandise. It was the largest consignment he had ever seen and indeed the largest he had ever bought, so he had to make sure he wasn’t being sold garden weeds and talcum powder. He pulled out a small knife, one used for trimming cables and splicing piles of coke, and pierced the bag.
    Five minutes later the Mercedes screeched away, almost at the same time as fans were starting to stream out of the concert hall. Working fast, they transferred all the packages into the back of the speaker cabinets and using Eddie’s speedy battery-powered screwdriver, sealed them again.
    He left Eddie to round up the rest of the road crew for the long drive back to the UK tonight, and headed back into the Friedich Ebert Halle and up the stairs to the artists’ lounge. The Guns of Detroit had finished their set after completing two encores, and there they stood, bathed in sweat and guzzling bottles of Becks Bier as if lives depended on it. There was a lot of mutual back-slapping, the Crows telling the Guns what a great band they were and the Guns doing the same to them.
    It was the last date on the Crows’ mini-tour of Germany and for them it was back to the UK to start thinking about a third album, while the Guns were soldiering on through Europe bringing their own brand of blues-infused Southern rock to a new legion of fans.
    For Eric, the tour was an enlightening experience, as he’d spent a lot of time talking to the Americans. They had been in the same place as the Crows were now, and within five years, they had conquered America and this month were doing the same all over Europe. Far from making him feel overawed or jealous, he desperately wanted to hear their stories and craved a piece of the action for himself.
    He and the Guns’ guitarist, Henry White, spent many a happy hour trading licks and yakking about equipment and playing techniques. Looking back, it brought a smile to his face to think that even though White was a couple of years older than him and had worked as a professional musician since leaving school at sixteen, most of the tutoring came from him to the American.
    He started talking to Emily Grant, the flirty, sexy wife of Peter Grant, the band’s drummer. So far, and despite his best