The Day The Music Died.....

“The Day The Music Died….”


It wasn’t cold, but it was raining hard; my thin blue hooded jumper was almost soaked right through already. For a minute I thought I should’ve taken that jacket after all, but the effects of the late summer breeze and the cold rain seeping into my clothes were beginning to ease my hangover a little bit. I still couldn’t get my head round what had happened last night. Maybe when I got there, sat down and had a coffee I could begin to figure it all out. As I slowly strolled down an unusually empty Blackfriars Street, all I could think about was the weather. It was pretty dark and overcast for an afternoon in early July, and given that the weather had been brilliant all week I was surprised that it was so miserable today. It was quarter past three. A week from now I’d be at T in the Park, more than likely with another hangover, and I hoped that it wasn’t going to be raining then. The way I was feeling right now, a whole weekend of being constantly drunk, stoned and trampling around in the mud with a million other people was a horrible thought. By the time I got down on to Belmont Street it had started to ease off a little, the rain that is, not the hangover. The hangover wasn’t going to disappear for a least a few days. As I turned left onto Little Belmont Street, I slipped on the wet steel studs on the corner of the pavement which someone had told me were there to stop blind people from being run over. Even in the mood I was in the irony filled me to the brim with amusement. I imagined a hospital ward full of blind people, all with broken hips, but nevertheless grateful that they hadn’t been hit by that van, or that taxi. Nuts. The laughter inside me stopped instantly when I saw the old wooden sign swinging above the entrance to the Hogshead. That’s where it had all started last night. Where it had ended up I still wasn’t really sure. From the tiny fractions I could remember of what had happened later on in the night, I still couldn’t really figure out what exactly I had said, and more importantly, why I ended up doing the awful thing that I did. The more I thought about the night before, the more I had those horrible hungover flashbacks that only ever serve to make you feel a lot worse. That familiar Sunday morning mix of guilt and regret, followed by the overwhelming dread that this time it had gone too far. Little blurred movies playing on repeat in my head showing little snippets of interactions and conversations from the night before, with laughter and the latest dance floor tunes as their soundtracks.



He pushed his way back from the bar. It was mobbed. Two Jack Daniel’s and coke, a Morgan’s and coke, and a vodka and coke. Checking the amount of fizz in all four glasses of the black liquid, he worked out who each of the drinks belonged to and put them down on the table. She asked if they were doubles. He didn’t know, he was hammered already and was starting to slur his words. She offered him a cigarette, and then on his acceptance, a light. Someone announced that everyone was leaving after the next round, going on to somewhere that was livelier and open for longer. She told him she was already feeling pretty drunk and asked him how many he had knocked back since he arrived. He raised some fingers on both hands and showed them to her. Some time passed. Various people arrived and others left. He was paying less and less attention to the people around him. It was all becoming a little too blurry. He offered to go to the bar one last time before they left. She asked for another double, a vodka and lemonade this time. The bell rung out. Last orders. She told him that they should both go to the bar and have their drinks there, before picking up her jacket and taking out another pair of cigarettes. Two double vodkas and lemonade. Six-Pound-Ninety Please. Thanks. The two of them raised their glasses. Clink. He knocked his back in one, put on his jacket, and then staggered back over to the downstairs section to tell everyone else that it was time to leave.



The filthy rusty hinge on the wooden pub sign cried out with a sudden creak as a surprise gust of wind crept up on it. The wind picked up and it started to rain sideways. I finally got it together and prepared to cross over the road to the door of the little coffee shop where I told Tim earlier that I’d visit him at work. I noticed that the door was in desperate need of a new lick of paint; the bright blue and purple paint was peeling off like sunburn. I pushed open the door, noticing that the fresh cuts on my left hand were slowly evolving into bruises. I figured that it served me right for being so stupid and decided that even though it was proving impossible, I was going to try and forget about it for the time being. Looking for any excuse to think about something else, I glanced at a couple of the bright posters and flyers plastered on the plain white walls as I walked along the corridor towards the stairs. All the usual shit, fudge nights in Dr Drakes and Open Mic nights in Drummonds. It wasn’t quite a feeling of dèja-vu, but more like one of routine, a ritual, the same posters for the same places week after week. It wasn’t until I turned to the left and got halfway up the first flight of stairs that a small, modest white poster caught my eye.

For Sale
Westfield Acoustic Guitar
Excellent Condition
£75 o.n.o.
Tel: 01224 xxxxxx

I stood there and read the advert over again and again. In light of what had happened last night it was a rare coincidence, it was almost as if I was meant to have stumbled across the poster. I removed my mobile phone from my pocket and took down the number. As I stood there my mind began to race again. More little snippets of the carnage that had taken place the night before. It was almost as if the more I thought about it, the more I remembered – but the more I remembered, the more I wished I didn’t.



As he pushed the door aside and staggered in, he let out a shout. It was 4.14 Am. He had no idea where he had been for the past few hours, but he didn’t care. He moved straight across the hallway into the bathroom. He needed to be sick. Too many spirits. Before he knew it he was on the move again. Into the dark living-room. He pressed the plastic lightswitch by the door and noticed that there was half a joint from earlier left in the ashtray. It probably wasn’t a good idea, but he picked up the ashtray, and a lighter, and began to finish it off. It was then he noticed the guitar propped up against the wall in the corner. It was out of tune. Of course it was. It had been out of tune for months. It needed fixed, but on account of how old and cheap it was it hadn’t been done. He fiddled with the tuning pegs a little more. Still out of tune. He put the guitar down and went back for the ashtray. Seconds later he was back to the guitar, and was losing his patience. The tuning pegs turned again. Still no joy. Fuck it. He threw the guitar down on the wooden kitchen floor and drove his left fist right through the back of the hollow instrument. It caved in first time, and it felt good, so he hit it again. Next he picked it up, by the neck and held it like a baseball bat. Something bad was going to happen. He was out of control. He swung the guitar full force against the kitchen wall, chips of brown wood and plaster were flying everywhere, the guitar was screaming out in pain. He made his way from the kitchen to his bedroom, swinging the guitar furiously, against the doorway in the hall, and straight into his bedroom door. As he stumbled forward recklessly into the bedroom he let out a massive roar and swung the old Yamaha with every piece of energy left in his angry, drunken body. The last noise made by the guitar was probably the loudest it had ever made, and in recent times the most in tune, but by this time it was everywhere, in a thousand pieces. In the wall, all over the floor and in his bleeding knuckles. It was finished. He had killed it. Most of the guitar’s broken body lay in pieces on the bedroom floor. It struck him as incredible that even after the instrument was completely destroyed, all six strings were still intact, like six little spinal cords connecting the head and body of the wooden corpse; maybe it was the guitar’s way of taunting him. He fell onto his knees in the middle of the floor.

“Are you alright bud?” asked Tim. “You look like you’ve killed somebody.” I laughed quietly to myself and smiled up the stairs to my friend. Tim had come out onto the stairway and found me lost in my thoughts.
“I’m cool, I just need a seat and a cup of coffee.” I replied, “By the way, do you know who is selling the guitar? I wouldn’t mind finding out more about it. After last night I really need a new guitar.” As I walked to the top of the staircase Tim went on to tell me the story about the guy who was selling his guitar, and offered to give him a ring on my behalf and arrange a viewing sometime in the next couple of days. We continued through the door into the main body of the coffee shop. It was dead; it always was on a Sunday. While Tim took orders from an older couple who were sitting down on the comfy sofas I planted myself on a seat beside the window. I gazed out across the road and into the Hogshead. The last twenty-four hours had seemingly lasted forever, and I’d spent the best part of it drunk and the rest hungover. I still wasn’t completely sure what had happened, and why I had destroyed the guitar. I couldn’t remember what I had said to Her, but I was sure it had something to do with it. I would ask her, but I was probably never going to see her again, and maybe it was for the best.