“This is the plan.  We get Velvet Underground bass lines.  We distort them to shit so nobody can tell.  We place a melody on top.  Simple.”

Harry leaned back on his chair looking smug.  In an act of contrived finality he reached into his tight fitting jeans to rescue the suffocating pack of Marlboros.  After tugging them free, he failed to release one by flicking the bottom of the pack and resigned himself to the plebeian task of trying to grip one between his finger and thumb.  The others watched in silence before Dopeman said something.

“I suppose it’s wha’ every ova band does though, righ’?”  He looked around for approval.  “I mean, The Beatles were just copying, you know, whoever they wanted.  I mean, ‘ho’s gonna question tha facking Beatles?  No one.  Which is ‘ow they go’ a way wiv it.”

Harry looked at The Dopeman while the others considered the wisdom of this revelation.  He knew the Dopeman wasn’t a cockney.  He was like him, middle class, educated and self-assured.  He also didn’t mind that he put on a cockney accent.  Harry himself pretended he was cockney half the time too.  That’s why he always left the room when his parents called.  He spoke posh to his parents, of course he did.  He didn’t want to piss them off.

“There’s gotta be only so many actual bass lines in the world anyway right?”

He listened a bit more, allowing them to reach the inevitable conclusion.  When he felt comfortable enough he leant forward again.

“We’ll call this song…” he glanced out the window “Winter.  George, get on the key board and play that bass line you know.  The one from Heroin.  Dopeman, get on the drum machine.  Do the same loop you had for Battery Sponsored Suicide.  We’ll work it out from there.”

The Dopeman and George got up.

“What shall I do then?”

Harry looked at Al.  He knew he called himself Al as anyone could tell you that Albert was way too posh for an electro-grime band.  He even wore a New Era cap for god’s sake.

“Can you actually play an instrument?”

“No.  But that doesn’t matter.  Does Bono play an instrument?”

“Please don’t bring Bono into this.  What do you do?”

“Er, I can, like, do poetry ‘n’ shit.  Rhymes ‘n’ lyrics, innit.”

Harry sighed.

“Really.”

“Yeah yeah,” Al suddenly became enthused when Harry didn’t laugh at him immediately “listen, I got bare rhymes.  Um…” he looked out the window and awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I look outside, into the street… um

The snow comes down… um

Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet…” he stammered.

“Woah.”

Harry looked over at dumbstruck George and Dopeman.

“That was awesome.  Do that again.” 

Al grinned and began to energetically recite the things he saw around him, devoid of any rhythm or diction, his face reddening with excitement.

Harry pinched the top of his nose and frowned.  I went to college for this, he thought.