__i found the place ok and walked out to the balcony where a kid that had to be him was drinking a handle of beer. i got out my pen and pad and asked him who was in the group.
__‘well let me think,’ the boy began. ‘now our singer’s name’s jayden, and he plays a big fuckoff resonator.’
__‘a resonator?’ i asked.
__‘yes it’s a kind of big joke of a goddamn guitar made of metal.’
__‘does it hurt his back?’ i asked.
__‘a great deal i bet, but he’s too much of a proud bastard to say anything.’
__‘who else?’ i asked.
__‘well we have a rather honest-seeming little boy named alastair. he plays a red guitar. he sometimes comes up to me—sometimes—and asks how to pronounce his own name.’
__‘his own name?’
__‘yeah—he says to me...“should i say al-a-sta or should i say al-a-star?” and i say something like “well kid it really depends on if the next word starts with a vowel or not.” but of course by that point he’s well drunk and doesn’t care anymore anyway.’
__i looked around the rsl and began to realise i was way over my head. women were drinking shandies and cackling at each other over ashtrays filled to the brim with holidays and alpines. even the men smoked the goddamn alpines. and the wobbly metal tables were sticky with spilt beer. anyway, this kid i was talking to was obviously getting a bang out of this whole thing, and i couldn’t for the life of me sort out who was who.
__‘now what about bass?’ i asked.
__‘oh i’m not even through the guitarists,’ he said. ‘we got one named james pasinis: he’s the only immigrant type in the band. the rest of us are white as anything. but we needed him. he can play a damn good solo and makes us not look so much like a big hell of a band of skinheads . . . ’
__‘right,’ i said, giving the kid a look.
__‘fine. bass. luke diffey. we call him the duke. there’s always people talking about his nickname though, and the camps are divided into people who think it’s cool and people who think it’s gay.’
__i opened my mouth to speak.
__‘i still say it’s cool . . . like . . . hey, everyone, it’s the duke...’

__'can you hurry this up?’ i asked him. jesus christ, these metal chairs were uncomfortable.
__‘sure thing. sam batty plays the keyboard. he’s great but he’s too cheap to buy a sustain pedal. but he’s a fuckin prodigal child and can play all kindsa shit—even the dr. mario theme.’
__i wanted to ask what the hell that was, but realised i’d get out of here sooner if i didn’t.
__‘who else?’ the kid asked me.
__‘i don’t fuckin know, kid. it’s your band.’
__he started counting on his fingers. ‘aidan!’ he said. ‘he’s the drummer. the little drummer boy. and he’s almost as annoying as that awful song . . . nah who am i kidding—’
__‘he’s the one i spoke to about setting up this interview. are you sure he can’t make it?’
__‘i’m certain,’ the boy said.
__there couldn’t be too many more to go. jesus, this fucking chair!
‘do you want me to talk about me, now?’ the kid asked, grinning. i nodded.
‘i play tambourine. and sometimes a harmonica. but mostly the tambourine.’
__i looked at the conceited wanker in front of me and wondered how seven guys could tolerate sharing a van with him.
__‘also there’s o’brien — big o’ — whatever the fuck we call him now. he’s also named alistair so we make up other names for him. he’s like that guy who doesn’t speak in gone in 60 seconds — that guy stole cars like this guy plays guitar.’
__‘another guitar?’ i asked, sceptical.
__‘yeah. we don’t have the balls to kick anyone out.’
__‘is that all?’ i asked him.
__‘i think so. i’ll call you if i remember any more, though.’
__i got up to leave. i didn’t even take any goddamn notes.
__the kid looked up at me. ‘man if you’re going back to wherever, you should get a pizza from nando’s across the road. they’re fuckin tops and, man— you’ll get a real bang outta the spicy chicken, i swear . . .’
__i left the bar and got in my car and cursed the heat as i drove out of the carpark and got onto main road.