other residents saw the Fossdyke’s arrive, and, seeing them and the Chew’s going into the recreation room, they risked venturing in. A few brave old souls nervously sat down and waited to hear the music, hoping it would be a piano recital. However, they became unnerved when they saw Charles’s piano in the corner behind the four at thier instruments.
Steve glared at them, shook his hips, and curled his top lip.
Wayne counted them in and they played, Life is Too Short to Be Sad. When they finished, they went straight into the ballad, Vulnerable.
Fossils, engrossed in their song, did not see the shocked expressions on their audience faces. The melodic ballad made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. Bernard filmed the performance on his camcorder; flitting around the room, getting shots from various angles, imagining himself to be Steven Spielberg until Lucy motioned him to sit down.
Charles’s croaky, melancholy tenor voice echoed around the recreation room.
Pearl and Svend Neilsen, a lovely old couple in their eighties, went to the floor in front of the band and waltzed to the tune. Doreen and Stan Bullen, another loving elderly couple living at Fossdyke, joined in with a waltz. Other residents wandered in after hearing the music and were now dancing or stood behind the seating area bobbing their heads and tapping their feet.
“We should have put more chairs out,” said Steve, through a musical interlude.
The old musicians couldn’t stop smiling when they saw the small crowd’s reaction.
They continued playing as other people, including Bernard and Lucy, got up to dance with even the Chews joining in.
They finished performing Cry Alone and Charles, seeing people dancing in front of them, didn’t want to up the tempo, so nodded to the others and they played Vulnerable again.
Amazed, they performed their ballads twice before playing Rolling Thunder. They assumed that the small crowd of dancers would all sit down. However, they carried on dancing, just changing their steps and movements to keep in beat with the music. It looked like a geriatric head-banging convention.
The band finished and the small audience stared at them in awe.
Lucy rushed over to her father and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“That was great, Dad,” she said, as the others in the room gave the band a rapturous round of applause.
Even Mrs Chew looked impressed. She smiled and winked at Wayne, who cringed, hoping Mr Chew had noticed. Mr Chew hadn’t but didn’t care because he couldn’t wait to tell his mates he had heard Fossils play, and they were great.
The impromptu gig was a tremendous success.
The following morning, the anxious four looked on as Steve’s friends pulled up outside the home in a white Ford transit van. They loaded the band's equipment for the two-minute drive to the Wellow. Fossils then took a steady stroll along to the pub to set up their equipment. They did a soundcheck and had an afternoon libation.
They felt trepidation as they ate their evening meal before heading to the Wellow. Dressed in well-creased summer slacks with collars, ties, V-neck pullovers and with Charles wearing his trilby, they strutted along the road. The four elderly throwbacks from Saturday Night Fever arrived at the pub. Crowds of youngsters were already inside as the four ordered drinks and sat by the stage near their equipment.
The old musicians sat and watched as the bar filled with people who had come to watch the live music, and by 7:40 pm, the lounge bustled with customers.
At 7:55 pm, the four took to the stage and went to their respective instruments.
Cosmo went to Steve’s microphone while sporadic chortles echoed around the room from people who had seen the old codgers sat drinking. They assumed they were just old relics who come to see the live music; nobody imagined that THEY were the live music.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Cosmo and waited for the audience to settle, before announcing. “Please put your hands together for the fabulous... Fossils,”
With butterflies in their stomachs and ignoring the chattering and laughter coming from the young audience, they began playing.
They kicked off with Eric Clapton’s ‘Layla’, deciding that their first song should be a well-known classic and give the crowd a familiar sound. Although looking around at the ages of those present, Steve wondered whether half of them had ever even heard of Clapton. ‘They probably thought it was a venereal disease,’ he thought.
Steve felt nervous; it had been many years since he had played to a live audience. He heard laughter and jibes about their ages coming from the youngsters, so he avoided eye contact with the crowd. He played the opening riff and his uncontrollable bowel reacted to his stage fright, performing its symphony in, ‘G’ Fucking Rancid Flat Major.
Noxious, foul-smelling, gaseous flares emitted from Steve’s rectal trumpet, wafted around the pub's lounge by the stage fans. Within seconds, the foul odour filled the room, with the crowd engulfed in the disgusting smelling emission.
“Some bastard’s letting off stink bombs,” said one of the fine patrons of the establishment.
“Fucking Yorkie bastards,” said another, pointing to a group of upstanding young individuals from the white rose county, who smashed bottles and threw them at the other youths.
The pub became a free for all. Fists, bottles, Yorkie's, and furniture flew around the room as pandemonium broke out. Fossils stopped playing and the frightened old men stood behind their equipment, cowering. Steve apologised for his windy pops and the others said they would forgive him if they got out of the violence unscathed. The police arrived and cleared the pub, although most of the perpetrators had already scarpered.
The four terrified old men made their way off the stage and sat at a table, trembling.
After order got restored, Cosmo came over and apologised, blaming the Yorkies with their stink bombs. He gave the four a whisky and a pint of beer each and cancelled the gig.
With disappointment etched upon their faces, the four old men packed their instruments away. Wayne, Charles, and Elvin threw Steve dirty looks. They knew that he could not control his bowels, but couldn’t figure out why he had been nervous. He had always claimed that he was a rock ‘n’ roll legend, who played to packed venues.
After packing away their instruments, they sat in the now deserted lounge. The bar staff had almost cleaned up the damage from the brawl, but remnants of the foul smell lingered.
Cosmo gave the old men more beer and whisky, hoping that they would understand that he couldn’t afford to pay them the agreed fee.
“We don’t care about the money,” said Steve.
“We just wanted to perform,” said Elvin, looking sad.
Cosmo looked at the faces of the disappointed old men, and feeling sorry for them, made them an offer. “How about I let you use the room to practice in during the week? We don't book entertainment for Tuesday or Thursday’s, so how about you practice here? I won’t be able to pay you, but you're welcome to use the place, and who knows, you may attract some fans.”
The four looked
