Free Deeper Than Dreams by Jessica Topper

He and Rick, however, were as different as night and day, and butted heads routinely.
    Adrian tapped an early picture of their trio, making music with a tiny amplifier and big hair. “I was constantly working as peacekeeper between those two. They were my two best mates so it drove me mad that they refused to take a liking to one another.”
    â€œWhat did they fight about?”
    â€œCripes, more like what didn’t they fight about! They argued over football, television, the name of the band. Sam thought
Diabolus in Musica
was too fancy, too difficult to pronounce. He fixated on another name, Black Leather Fantasy.” Adrian chuckled. “Rick would take the piss out of him, even after we had sold a million albums and were selling out arenas. If Sam got angry about something and threatened to walk out, Rick would have a laugh and ask, ‘You going off to form Black Leather Fantasy, then?’ Sam wasn’t the brightest bulb. But he was a solid bloke and he really could play. Rick tolerated him mainly because it would be another two years until either of us could drive and it wasn’t like Rick’s aunt Bootsy could haul our gear in her Karmann Ghia.”
    More pictures had been unearthed of the two best friends. Adrian, slight and fair, gold guitar in hand, gesturing toward the pickups on a V-shaped guitar strapped to the tall, lithe body of swarthy Rick. “Crikey, how he could shred on that Flying V! That’s how he earned his nickname: Riff.”
    The “posh Jew” and the “puny pleb” were routinely bullied. Rick was called a Zionist, simply due to the fact that his father often had business dealings in Israel, and Digger was guilty by association, plus he wore the wrong brand of trainers. They were beginning to see how the world wasn’t going to do them any favors. They were going to have to squeeze their own lemonade from the sour lemons life was pitching their way.
    End of term came at Christmastime and once again, Rick was whisked off, this time for a skiing holiday in Switzerland. Sam was working two jobs back in Portsmouth, at the garage and unloading freight at the docks. Digger picked up enough hours as his father’s apprentice to finally purchase a quality guitar of his own: a Gibson Les Paul Goldtop.
    â€œMy favorite. It cost me two hundred pounds, and I still use it to this day. My father thought I was daft to spend that amount of money on a ‘hobby,’ and my mum, well. Let’s just say that her son’s dreams of becoming a musician were not welcome dinner conversation. She wasn’t convinced that playing music could provide a living or a pension. So when I told her, over the roast tatties, boiled sweets and Christmas crackers, that I didn’t give a toss; I had decided to leave school anyway, she kicked me out of the house to help me on my way.”
    â€œOh, sweetie. Where did you go?”
    Adrian slapped over to a new chapter entitled “The Portsmouth Years.”
    â€œI went back to my dad’s. He was a stern taskmaster at work, so for two years I was his whipping boy. But I had a goal; I wanted to be in London by the start of the new decade and playing music full-time. So I kept my eye on that. I bought a small practice amp with my wages, and began taking lessons.”
    â€œAnd what about Rick?”
    â€œLeaving school was out of the question for him.”
    Certain things were just expected of Rick, and academics were nonnegotiable. So he would put in a full day at Ditcham Park, and Sam and Digger would travel up from Portsmouth afterwards to clock in rehearsal time. But it wasn’t all schoolwork that occupied Rick’s day; he commandeered the pupil payphone to arrange gigs, mostly Bar Mitzvahs and parties where they would play original songs if tolerated and cover songs if requested.
    â€œWe weren’t picky, we’d jump at any chance to play live. I think we even played at a hen