“This is a rubbish idea, Dad,” Michelle moans. I hear ‘rubbish’ and ‘Dad’. As ever. I thought this setting for social media posts to promote my guitar lessons was a cool spoof. But this is not a crossing of red dirt tracks in Mississippi, where blues legends might be made. We are standing under a sad, solitary streetlight at the crossroads in the middle of a quaint English town. At least there’s a graveyard, a dab of atmosphere. But who will “get it”?
“Well, ‘A Devil of a Great Guitar Teacher’ is still a good slogan,” I insist, as I adjust my fake horns.
“Not for the parents around here…” Michelle grumbles as she clicks away with her posh phone. “Just do some more poses, Dad, and try not to look like an old perv. Let’s get the streetlight to make those horns glow. Raise the guitar. Lean on the crossroads sign! Wave the tail…”
Laughter from the other side of the crossing interrupts her photographic muse. Three lads emerge from the pub opposite. One tall, one stout, one with fashionably geeky glasses. Their luminous white designer trainers make no noise, but shout, ‘Look at my dad’s money!’ As they approach, I swing the guitar round and give them a classic rock riff.
“Your Satanic Majesty,” the tallest remarks in plummy tones, bows, and then laughs at his own satire.
“Are you ready to sell your soul for sublime guitar fingering?” I ask them all. “Fifty quid an hour.”
“How much?!” They all protest.
“Aw, come on, lads! I bet you spend more than that on your facials!” They give me a ‘poor old git thinks he’s funny’ sort of grin. “Cash, on the nail, per session. No flashing your watch at me.”
“That sounds dodgy,” the stout one complains. “And your stunt looks dodgy. I mean who are you, really?”
“Maz Macca, session guitarist to the stars, at your service, gentlemen.”
The geeky one now speaks up. “I’ve actually heard of you. You were in my grandpa’s favourite band—of the ones he owned, that is.”
“Oh. Fancy that.” I say, struggling to control a quiver in my voice.
“So how did you get to play so well?” Geeky asks. “…heads up, I’ve heard the selling-your-soul-at-the-crossroads legend, so cut the crap.”
But I did sell my soul. I sold it to a so-called promoter, who hyped a bunch of bright young players and paid us in cocaine. It seems that particular devil must have done well out of my soul, given how his grandson speaks of him.
I compose myself. “It was all hard work, guys. Practice, improvise, practice, improvise…and a good teacher really helps!”
They nod and smile.
“OK, well, I’ll tell Grandpa I saw you, Maz,” says Geeky as they saunter off.
Michelle senses my sorrow and moves in to hug me. It feels like the hug she gave me when she was six—the hug that told me I had to save myself.
