One...and... two...and...three and...go...
     The current scene is this: a vibrant post aught London rising (again) from the ashes of another global slowdown into a wave of new music. Every pub has an act, it seems. It's a veritable renaissance of pop, punk, neo-pop, post-neo-pop-punk, garage-folk, and just about every other music genre one could think of or invent. The 60s had Liverpool, the 90s had Seattle, and the new 20s have London.
     Pubs that were previously not music venues per se have decided to, as it were, cash in and those that were always music venues, like Black Jack Davy's on The Strand, have broadened their horizons from their previous, more traditional fare. The Wheatsheaf is among them. In a grittier part of The Strand, on Regent tucked in an alley behind the veil of tourism, the Wheatsheaf would be easy to miss. In fact, most would suggest you do so.
     But the garage-folk-punk-pop-insert genre here renaissance has lifted the old Sheaf into a new age and a strange kind of relevance. It's like 1799 all over again. The door is open despite the chill -- it's welcomed to all the bodies packed in. Every possible square footage, no matter how vile, is being utilized. Where the roomy sofas once sat is now a makeshift stage, completely tiny. How the band's managed to get four people on it, with instruments, is something of a wonder. The sound man (who's actually a bird) is tucked back in the nearby storeroom. And forget getting a waitron to your table. It's fend-for-yourself at the bar. It's all there's room for...
     And the music? Courtesy of a band called Artful Dodgers, a garage-indie-pseudo punk outfit from out of Kent. They're fast, they're loud, but with crafted lyrics and actual melody. Very lo-fi.

     There are advantages to having sharp elbows, when it comes to fighting one's way to a bar to get so much as a beer to nurse through a performance, or finding a place to sit. A thin man with black hair has found himself something like a bar stool (or something near enough a chair that he's not going to look too closely to find out what it really is) to perch on, letting him get an occasional glimpse of the band through the crowd without needing to stand to do so.
     Loki watches the band through slightly narrowed eyes, does the aforementioned beer-nursing, and keeps an iron grip on the seat he's found. One might almost think from the way he's staring that he has a personal enmity against someone in the band; it's certainly impossible through all this noise to hear his one muttered comment about drum machines.

     It's both hands and elbows night, really, is what it is. Thomas has finally gotten through for his pint, staying where he is now he's gotten to that inner circle, smirking to himself. "Imagine, me acshully havin' to give ID," he shouts above the roar of the band. "My pretty boyish looks fool everyone, seems as if." He barks out a laugh like a seal's, hoarse and loud as he takes a pull at the dark beer.

     "So, what's it for you then?"
     Beatrix Longfellow has seen plenty of everything and she's only twenty-seven. An import from Sussex, she stands about 5-foot-seven in her tennis. She's been tending bar here now for the past four years (she says centuries) but now that business is good, she's not complaining. Much. Her hair is dyed beyond natural recognition, a blue black over what was once a very nice natural walnut. Her shirt is fitted, black, with Wheatsheaf est. 1742 stretched in yellow writing across her chest. Her eyes are a bright blue, a bit sky-ish. She is tattoo-less, as far as the casual eyes can see.
     "In a minute, in a minute, Stacy," she shouts to the end of the bar at some piss-and-moan about a tardy lager. "So, darling, are you going to drink or ain't you?" she tosses to the lad just sitting. She's got nothing but smiles for Thomas. "Hey then, you cheeky bugger. Did you steal that ale? Want another?"
     "It's not a tea-house, darlin'," she rattles off to the other. "You're sippin' that..." It's hard to tell when or if she's kidding. Her delivery doesn't really alter.

     Loki tears his gaze off the band long enough to acknowledge that the bartender's been talking to him, and shrugs, narrow shoulders hunched over his beer as if he's defending it from someone who might rush in to drag it away. "So line up another for me and one for him," he drawls, voice still clearly marked as American. The 'him' is a half nod towards Thomas. "Doesn't matter if I drink them so long as I buy them, does it?" And then he's back to watching the occasional glimpse of the band--or at least the occasional flash of limb or instrument visible between tight-packed bodies--while he continues to do more holding of his beer than drinking of it.

     "Would I ever?" Thomas gives Beatrix a look of mock-outrage, taking a swig of his beer in nonchalant defiance. "Yeh, gimme another, love, that'd be good. Don't give the Yank too much of a hard time, his dog just died." He grins at Loki with ferocious good humor, drinking half his beer at a go. "Yeh, true, but I'd be a lousy Brit if I didn't shed a tear to see good beer going to waste, and innit as if I can drink more'n me own share. Beer's fattening, y'know."
     He leans over to slide his now emptied pint in Beatrix' direction. "One more, then, and a kiss for luck, love. Did y' take my word and put a tenner down on the Sandsdown match or did you waste a chance at a win?" He looks as cheeky as always, smirking as he looks Beatrix' stretchy EST. left and right, measuring. "How much for a pint o' those?"

     "Can't take a joke?" Beatrix smirks, her smirk turning into a too-satisfied pursing smile as she turns to Thomas. "I did and promptly bought m'self a new pair of knickers with the earnings." Hands on the bar, she hops up to plant a kiss on the jockey's cheek. As the crowd of guys at the bar begin to make commentary, she yells: "Alright, alright, none of you wankers'll ever see them. None but you, darling," she coos to Thomas as she turns and gives the gent named Stacy his fucking beer already.
     "So what's his story?" she says, jerking her head toward the recalcitrant yank. "And what are you doin' with a Yank. Are you his official tour guide to all the worst sorts of places?" She winks, purple eyeshadow flashing. She pointedly does not answer the query on how much a pint of her would cost but she grins. Maybe it's one of those 'best offer' sort of arrangements.
     The Artful Dodgers have a break in their set, which seems to suite Beatrix just fine. "Ruddy deaf I'm going," she mutters.

     "He's addicted to schadenfreude," Loki says, leaning back with one elbow on the bar. He finally bothers to take a sip of his beer. "Keeps following me around just to watch what horrible situations I get myself into next."

     Beatrix wears a 'huh?' expression. Schaden-the-fuck-what?

     Thomas is definitely one of those wearing a 'huh?' expression, though he then bursts out laughing. "You gotta mind your big words, mate," he shouts near Loki's left ear. "Some of us only pay for the five pee words, and you're getting all the way into fifty euros on up. New knickers?" He leers at Beatrix with a gleam in his eyes. "Well, go on, then, love, give us a look, why don't y'?"
     That the band is taking a break just means his voice rises with its lewd self-enjoyment over the buzz of the crowd. He's probably about to get himself slapped, but the prospect doesn't seem to scare him at all. He tells Loki, after giving him a critical up and down glance, "You need t' get laid, is what you need. Beatrix, fancy giving him a go?"

     "The enjoyment of the misfortune of others," Loki says, swiveling about to face the bar after one last look at the band taking its break. He throws back a swig of his beer, and continues in the same bored drawl, nearly Texan in effect, "It's like an international sport. Everyone can enjoy and participate in mocking the pain of others. Somewhat like sex, in its universal appeal, but with fewer risks of picking up a disease."

     "Do I look like the St. Beatrix of the Holy Sisters House for Wayward Yanks?" She rolls her eyes at Thomas and takes the momentary lull -- while the Yank is explaining what the schaden-what-the-fuck means -- to pul refills, take money, and distribute pints. In her own way, she is like St. Beatrix of the Holy Sisters. She's distributing sustenance to the needy and downtrodden!
     "So what's it you do, then, that's brought you to London or are you on 'oliday?" Beatrix twists a smile to Thomas, leaning against the bar to give him a good gander at the Wheatsheaf billboard. "Seems only fair since I only got 'em for your tip." She turns, reaching behind her to snag her fag and take a quick drag. "Sometimes sex is enjoying the misfortune of others," she laughs. "Or not enjoying it and waiting for it to be the fuck over."

     Thomas leers appreciatively at the stretchiness on display. He mimes reaching out to honk one of her curves, bursting out into a juicy-sounding laugh, though the hand doesn't actually land; he has some sense of self-preservation. Just not much. "Sex is two or more people in a bed having a bloody good time," he declares, swigging beer again and setting his glass down solidly. "That's our Bea - ready, willing and able, especially if it means landing a bloke with a bit of extra lolly to blow through."

     Loki finally gets through his first beer, and searches around for something like a full glass to exchange it for. "Strictly speaking," he says, "the bed isn't required for sex, unless you're playing a regulation match."

     "Another Heinie, or do you want a pull of a real beer on tap?" Beatrix asks Loki. She exchanges a look with Thomas and smirks. "Nothing wrong with a girl taking care of 'erself, is there? It's a harsh world out there."
     She turns, heading down to the other half of the bar a moment, returning to customers neglected. No one comes here for the service, though they all tip well. Beatrix pulls another for Thomas and Loki on the way back. "Here, try this, Yank. What's your name, or do you want me to call you Yank... your wanker... all night? He doesn't say much, does 'e?" she continues to Thomas. "So... love..." she leans in again, smiling, "...got any other tips for me? I could use a new pair of heels."
     The band starts up again with a caterwaul of guitars and voices roughened by beer and cigarettes and bad technique. "Gah," Beatrix groans, "I was just getting the sound back..."

     There is a dubious look from the Yank on the topic of real beer. He gamely tries the new option anyway, and proves he does know how to tip well in the process. "Loki," he supplies, almost inaudible under the fresh aural assault. There's a distinct lack of last name appended to it, presumably for good reason from the way he takes another hefty swig of beer immediately after the response.

     "Nuffing wrong with it at all," Thomas agrees brazenly, "'cept that when the horses I ride lose, I lose out to some berk with a hundred quid haircut and no cock to speak of." He crows at Loki again, then swallows the rest of his beer. "Nah, no more for me, love. Gotta be under the stone for the next run."
     He grimaces as the band starts up again. "Pissing sodomites," Thomas grumbles. "Why'd they start getting in the live entertainment, Bea, my doll? Loki 'ere says he's a musician," he adds, raising his voice to be heard by her over the din. "Know anybody looking for an absolutely first-rate drummer?" He flashes his wicked grin at Loki. "Bea serves everybody. Absolutely no fookin' holds barred."

     Beatrix Longfellow smirks and rolls her eyes. "Money's to be made, best believe that the Boss is gonna want a hand in the jar. A drummer, huh?" She gives Loki a bit more respect now that he's not just a pisser and moaner. "That lot could use one," Beatrix barks a laugh then reaches back to steal the last pull from her cig before crushing it out. "Actually, there're a few I know of. There're the Johnny Come Latelies. Alright lads. There's the girl group, could be handy for you, eh Loki-love?" She grins. "The Splitting Headaches. Let's see...Jack was saying earlier he heard that Oxford Comma was looking for all sorts. They're only playing the big clubs now and theaters. They were at the Opera last week. Palladium. Let's see, there's the Johnnie Walkers, the Walking Amnesiacs, The Avid Hunters and I think the Cunts are still looking for a lead. Not sure about drummers..."

     Loki snorts over his beer. He's holding this one more protectively than the last, and not bothering to give much attention to the band on stage anymore. "This lot would be better off with a drum machine than their current drummer. So where do I go to talk to anyone from the ones you've named? Usually doesn't take more than one meeting to figure out if a band's worth bothering with or not." He's got enough casual disdain for implied bands that aren't worth his time to be heard even through the incipient splitting headache of the band playing here.

     "Harf a dozen bands lookin' for leads. Sign o' the times, innit? Couldn't find their way out of a paper bag, let alone a musical chord." Thomas swaggers himself up against the bar more comfortably. "Ooh, la-de-da. Only the big clubs now," he mimics good-naturedly. He elbows Loki lightly. "Could put in a query through that bird with the Hungry Hippo. Rides like a bloody hippo, I'll say that much, but I knackered him in at third place, so she's sweet on me for the mo."

     "Yeah," Beatrix nods, "...I'd ask around. Check The Londoner. It's a free rag, band adverts in the back next to the sex ads. There should be some left. I hear that Black Jack Davy's is somewhat of a hot-spot for a few of the band members around town, even if they don't play it. Girlfriend of mine works there, she says she's seen the blokes from Oxford Comma there, along with the Johnny Come Latelies and a few others. Wankers. Least they could do is come in here and drink.
     "Hey, Thomas, mind helping me bring in another tap? Derek's out tonight. I'd ask Danny but he's a shite-for-brains..."

     "I'll swing by, see if any of them are still looking," Loki says, and tilts back more of the drink. "Have time to get me another one of these before you disappear into the back with your loverboy here?" It's asked without any particular smirking for the subject at hand.

     Thomas smirks even if Loki doesn't. "I'll help, sure thing, love," he agrees with bullish good cheer. "If y'll knock my drinks off my tab, since Derek's not 'ere to see y' do it." He winks, setting down his pint. "Get the Yank his drink, and I'll put me back into it." He barks with that seal's laugh again.

     Beatrix smirks. Aren't you the clever boy? She takes Loki's glass and pulls another round of Harp. She gives it to him with a sardonic look. "Care to mind the bar along with m' business? Make sure this lot don't rob me," she gives a shout, smirking as the lads crowding the bar sound out their own commentary. "Alright, alright, sure you're all square. Yeah? Take so much as a peanut while I'm gone and I'll cut every last one of you..."
     Tossing her towel on the counter, Beatrix turns and heads into the back. For the taps of course.

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2009 09:45 PM