Jim has managed the same four rock musicians for nearly a decade, navigating cramped venues and endless logistics. But during a 1986 London club performance, something impossible happens: the sound system produces acoustics that shouldn't exist, and a mysterious woman named Claudia seems to know things about him she couldn't possibly know.
As venues escalate from intimate clubs to grand theaters to massive stadiums, the anomalies multiply. Jim possesses detailed memories of shows he's never actually worked. And everywhere he goes, Claudia appearsâthe only other person who notices reality is breaking down.
When Jim discovers the unsettling truth about the performances, the venues, and time, he and Claudia must make an impossible choice.
Jim has managed the same four rock musicians for nearly a decade, navigating cramped venues and endless logistics. But during a 1986 London club performance, something impossible happens: the sound system produces acoustics that shouldn't exist, and a mysterious woman named Claudia seems to know things about him she couldn't possibly know.
As venues escalate from intimate clubs to grand theaters to massive stadiums, the anomalies multiply. Jim possesses detailed memories of shows he's never actually worked. And everywhere he goes, Claudia appearsâthe only other person who notices reality is breaking down.
When Jim discovers the unsettling truth about the performances, the venues, and time, he and Claudia must make an impossible choice.
Jim arrived at the Marquee Club just as London was reluctantly shaking off its morning fog. The narrow entrance on Wardour Street revealed itself as nothing more than a door with paint flaking away in strips, marked by a modest sign. In a few hours, this unassuming doorway would channel hundreds of bodies vibrating with anticipation.
He checked his watch: 9:17 AM. Early, but inadequately so. The microscopic venues often demanded more preparation than the grand onesâa paradox of touring life.
As he stepped inside, Jimâs nostrils flared against an assault of fermenting beer, stale cigarettes, and the peculiar funk that decades of bodies had pressed into the carpet fibers. No industrial cleaner manufactured could ever purge it. He breathed it in, his shoulders relaxing slightly at this distilled essence of British rock and roll.
Terry sat hunched at the bar, invoices spread across its sticky surface. His left eye twitched slightly as he glanced up, teacup trembling between nicotine-stained fingers.
âMorning, Jim,â he grunted, attention already drifting back to his paperwork. âYour boys planning to blow the bloody roof off tonight?â
âThatâs the objective.â Jim set his leather briefcase on a nearby stool, shifting it away from a suspicious dark patch. âThough weâll try to keep the structure intactâour insurance specifically excludes architectural reorganization. Iâd like to check your setup before the band arrives.â
Terry waved his hand toward the stage. âKnock yourself out. Had the system checked last month, should be tickety-boo.â
âTickety-boo,â Jim murmured as he made his way toward the cramped stage. His oxford shoes adhered briefly to the floor with each step, releasing with soft, tacky sounds. âThat phrase costs me five hundred pounds each time I hear it.â
Somewhere in the buildingâs ancient plumbing, a toilet flushed with startling violence, followed by metallic protests from the pipes.
The Marquee Club had history, certainlyâDavid Bowie had played here, as had The Whoâbut history didnât guarantee adequate power supplies or sound quality. The stage barely stretched twenty feet across, with a ceiling so low it threatened anyone above average height. Jim surveyed the space, calculating. The Marqueeâs capacity maxed at 700 bodiesâthough tonight theyâd likely pack in nearly 1,000, creating a pressure cooker of humanity that paradoxically formed both the venueâs primary charm and its greatest logistical headache.
Jim removed his suit jacket, folded it with precise movements, and rolled his sleeves with practiced efficiency. His red tie remained perfectly knotted at his throat as he approached the clubâs sound system.
The mixing deskâa Soundcraft Series 200âhad clearly endured a life of abuse. His fingers traced over empty spaces where knobs should have been. A scorch mark encircled the main fader like a charred halo. Layers of gaffer tape held various components together in what appeared to be a structural rather than cosmetic role. The house sound system consisted of two Tannoy cabinets that wheezed rather than projected, while three battered monitor wedges destined for the entire stage emitted the respiratory distress sounds of an elderly smoker.
âOne vision,â Jim said under his breath, thinking of their new single. One vision of four world-class musicians crammed onto a glorified footstool with equipment salvaged from a car boot sale.
He extracted his leather-bound planner and made notes regarding monitors and power requirements. The lighting offered another challengeâa row of PAR cans with gel filters faded to the approximate vibrancy of a forgotten hospital hallway. The single Pulsar controller featured simple on/off switches. No moving lights, just the basicsâassuming âbasicâ included âfunctional,â which remained to be seen.
The club door swung open with a creak of hinges that needed oiling sometime in the previous decade. A shaft of daylight cut through the swirling dust motes as the band tumbled in together, preceded by the sound of an engine badly in need of a tune-up.
Brian ducked through the entrance first, guitar case in hand, followed by John with his bass and a thermos, then Roger juggling cymbal bags, and finally Freddie carrying what appeared to be an entire wardrobe in a garment bag.
âMorning, Jim,â Brian said, his eyes watering slightly as the clubâs atmosphere hit him. âChrist, it smells like someoneâs been fermenting gym socks in here.â
âThe vanâs clutch is dying,â Roger announced to no one in particular, dropping his cymbal bags with a metallic crash. âI give it two more gigs before weâre pushing the damn thing.â
âAdd it to the list,â John murmured, already moving to examine the power outlets with his characteristic economy of motion.
âBrian. Youâre early.â Jim glanced up at the ceiling, hovering mere inches above Brianâs signature curls. âHave you considered investing in shorter platforms for your shoes? You might need the clearance.â
Brianâs gaze traveled upward, his slight wince visible beneath the mass of curls. âWouldnât be the first time Iâve channeled Quasimodo for an entire set.â He ran his hand along the brick wall, listening to the acoustic properties with a scientistâs ear. âBit of a step down from our last venue. Like going from your own flat back to your parentsâ spare room.â
âWell, this is definitely not a theater,â Jim said, adjusting a broken fader with his fingernail. âThe reviews mentioned the connection with the audience. When theyâre close enough to count your fillings, the performance takes on a different quality.â
âPlease tell me thereâs coffee somewhere in this closet weâre performing in.â Freddie set down his garment bag with a theatrical sigh.â Darling, itâs like weâre playing in someoneâs garden shed. Are we doing childrenâs parties now?â
âBarâs got something theyâre legally permitted to call coffee,â Jim said, gesturing toward it. âConsistency suggests it was prepared sometime during the previous administration.â
Freddie grimaced but headed for the bar anyway.
Roger squinted around the club, removing his sunglasses to reveal eyes rimmed with the evidence of last nightâs activities. âWhat is thisâa bloody telephone box? Are we actually going backwards? I thought weâd moved beyond these glorified cupboards.â
âExclusive show,â Jim replied, his tone level. âLimited tickets, hardcore fans only. Generates interest for the future larger venues.â
âExclusivity is one thing; performing in a matchbox is another,â Roger muttered, already unpacking his hardware. âWhere exactly am I supposed to set up? In the bloody loo?â
John crouched by a power socket, his leather jacket creaking. âPower issues,â he said, more statement than question.
âLikely. These circuits were designed when âamplificationâ meant singing slightly louder than normal. I doubt they anticipated anything beyond acoustic folk music and polite applause.â
âI can reconfigure the power draw for the amps,â John said. âRogerâs kit will need trimming, though.â
âGood luck with that conversation,â Brian murmured, unlatching his guitar case. The Red Special emerged, its warm mahogany gleaming under the weak stage lights. The scent of lemon oil and polished wood momentarily cut through the clubâs more dubious aromas.
âHeard that,â Roger called out. âAnd you can bugger off.â
Jim watched them settle in, mentally checking items off his perpetual list. The band had arrived intact. Equipment was being assembled piece by piece. The background sounds of cases opening, strings being tuned, and drum heads being tested filled the space with a familiar rhythm.
The sound check proceeded with predictable complications. Rogerâs kit underwent three reconfigurations before they found an arrangement that both fit the stage and allowed actual playing. His crash cymbal hovered so near Brianâs area that they would need a choreographer to prevent mid-song collisions. Brian reluctantly culled his pedal collection, a process that consumed ten minutes of philosophical debate about which effects were truly essential. John, practical as always, adapted his setup with minimal fuss.
âThe âOne Visionâ arrangement needs rethinking,â Brian said, fingers already finding chords, testing the roomâs response. âThat tape sequence at the beginningâŠâ
âStart with the guitar riff,â Jim suggested, wincing as the mixing board emitted a concerning crackle. âMore immediate. Less likely to trigger an electrical fire.â
Brian played a series of notes that expanded in the space, bouncing off the brick walls. âInteresting reverb. Could work for the ballads.â He glanced at the small stage. âThe front row might want earplugs for Rogerâs sections, though.â
âWhatâs wrong with my sections?â Roger shot back, adjusting his hi-hat stand.
âNothing, if you enjoy permanent hearing damage,â Brian said mildly, tweaking his tone. âRoger, come here a second. Does this sound too bright to you?â
Roger climbed out from behind his kit and stood by Brianâs amp, tilting his head. âA bit. Roll off some treble. You want it warm for this space, not cutting.â
âThatâs what I thought.â Brian made the adjustment, played the riff again. âBetter?â
âYeah. Still needs more bottom end though. This roomâs going to eat the low frequencies.â
Freddie paced the tiny stage, measuring it with precise steps, calculating angles and distances in his head.
âIf I leap from here,â he said, indicating the edge of the stage with his toe, âhow many adoring fans will I flatten? Iâm all for audience participation, but crushing the front row might generate unfortunate headlines.â
âDepends on the crowd density, but better to avoid acrobatics here,â Jim replied, wrestling with a channel EQ that produced an alarming crackle with each adjustment. The slider felt rough under his fingertips, as though sand had worked its way into the mechanism. âJohn, do you have some graphite?â
âWhereâs the thrill in that?â Freddieâs eyes sparkled, but Jim noted how he mentally adjusted his performance plans. Freddieâs genius lay partially in his adaptability. âIâll just have to get creative with horizontal movements instead.â
âFirst time for everything,â Roger muttered, returning to his drums.
âCan we run through the set?â Brian asked, making a final adjustment to his amp. Somewhere in the buildingâs electrical system, a circuit breaker clicked ominously. âBefore we melt the wiring?â
Jim nodded, making a note in his planner. Despite their success, hunger still drove themâthe relentless pursuit of something better, something different, something more authentic. It was what had first drawn him to them when he was merely their lawyer.
âFrom the beginning,â Freddie said, positioning himself center stageâa space roughly the dimensions of a welcome mat.
Roger counted them in with sharp taps that cut through the musty air. They launched into âOne Vision,â beginning with Brianâs guitar riff rather than the synthesizer intro from the album. Freddieâs voice, even at half volume for sound check, filled the small club with unexpected richness. Jim felt the vibrations traveling through the floor, up the legs of the mixing desk, and into his palms.
He watched, making mental calculations, converting the empty space into a packed venue. Where would the crush be most intense? Where might they need additional security?
As they reached the chorus, Jim detected an anomaly. Freddieâs microphone captured something oddânot the typical feedback squeal, but a deeper resonance, almost an echo, as if the voice were filling a much larger space. The fine hairs on Jimâs forearms rose, and it had nothing to do with the clubâs questionable heating system.
He adjusted the desk, frowning. The effect persisted momentarily, then vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. Strange. He circled a note twice in his planner to check the microphone before the show.
They completed the run-through, and Jim gave them a thumbs-up. âIt works. Different from the album, but it suits the space. More tailored than theatrical.â
âWe should capture this arrangement,â Brian suggested, pushing a curl from his face. âRaw, immediate. Minimal production.â
âAlways thinking ahead,â Roger said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers with practiced dexterity. âWe havenât finished touring this album yet.â
âSpeaking of the album,â Jim interjected, âEMI called yesterday. âOne Visionâ is performing well, but theyâre pushing for another single before the Christmas.â
John raised an eyebrow. âChristmas? In July? Which calendar are they using?â
âThe music business exists in its own temporal dimension,â Jim said, shrugging. âSimultaneously three steps ahead and five steps behind.â
âTell them we create art, not assembly line products,â Freddie said, without genuine annoyance. He understood the business realities as well as any of them. âWeâll deliver when inspiration strikes. Currently weâre busy bringing stadium rock to spaces smaller than my bathroom.â
Jim nodded, not pressing the issue. His role was to serve as buffer between creativity and commerce, translating artistic temperament into business language and vice versa.
âWeâve got three hours before doors,â he said, checking his watch. âI suggest taking a break for lunch, then one more run-through of the set. Thereâs a decent cafĂ© two doors down if you want something more substantial than Terryâs approximation of coffee.â
The band dispersedâRoger heading outside, John quietly adjusting his bass settings, Brian examining his guitarâs intonation with scientific precision. Freddie lingered by the sound desk.
âWill it translate, Jim?â he asked quietly, his public confidence momentarily set aside.
âItâll work differently,â Jim replied, adjusting another fader that scraped beneath his fingers. âBut thatâs the point. The audience will feel theyâve experienced something rare. A private performance rather than a spectacle.â
Freddie nodded, absently drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk. âThat microphone did something peculiar, though.â
Jim looked up, eyebrows rising slightly. âYou noticed it too? I thought it might have been isolated to the desk. Perhaps some quirk in the wiring.â
âIt wasâŠâ Freddie paused, searching for words. âLike hearing my voice in a massive space. All that depth and reverb. For a moment, it felt like being somewhere else entirely.â He laughed suddenly, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling. âListen to me getting mystical about a technical glitch. Either Iâm more exhausted than I thought, or Terryâs coffee contains controlled substances.â
He squeezed Jimâs shoulder and headed toward the tiny backstage area, leaving Jim staring at the microphone stand.
During that brief feedback anomaly, Jim had experienced something unsettlingânot merely dĂ©jĂ vu, but something more substantial. For an instant, heâd perceived not hundreds but thousands of voices, felt not the close walls of the Marquee but the vast expanse of something else entirely.
He shook his head and refocused on the mixing desk. Too many late nights, not enough sleep.
Yet as his fingers continued adjusting the temperamental equipment, he couldnât dispel the sensation that something fundamental had slipped out of alignment. Like hearing a familiar record played at a fractionally incorrect speed: not enough to ruin it, but enough to leave you wondering if your perception had somehow betrayed you.
From the opening paragraphs, it's obvious that this is a really, really strong read.
Jim is the manager of a famous rock band and we join him as arrives at a small club venue to set-up for a show. At first, we're presented with what feels like it could be a straightforward rock 'n' roll story, as the set-up and venue and gig are described in rigorous, authentic detail. But there is more going on here, and as the other side to this story evolves, we realise that all is not what it seems.
There's so much that works here. Provorov describes the band, their music and the shows in such detail, without ever naming the band or even the members' surnames, that it feels authentic down to the last detail. The hot sweaty fug of the Marquee, the first show described, is palpable and will resonate with any live music-goer. Then, as things start to change and we find ourselves questioning the reality of this story, the sci-fi elements are woven in seamlessly, and at the perfect pace. The denouement then really delivers, giving us a genre piece that is genuinely thought-provoking. The writing style is engaging, the characters are well-drawn, everything's really slotting into place nicely.
There are just a couple of things that stop this being a five-star effort. There are, particularly towards the end, a few things that could have been tidied up with a bit more editing, almost as if, as the story reached its climax, the author's enthusiasm took hold a bit too firmly. And the choice to have two of the characters named Jay and Bob (one lanky and mouthy, the other taciturn and bearded) is a little too distracting - anyone getting the reference is going to be somewhat pulled out of the story. It might fly as a cameo, but they're too central to the plot. It's exactly the sort of thing, admittedly, that I'd be tempted to do, but also that any decent editor would shut down immediately.
That aside, this is a genuinely remarkable debut; confident, assured, interesting and well-written. Provorov's first work of fiction, but I certainly hope not his last.