The Reunion Tour

Twenty-five years after their only hit, the Velvet Kettles reunited for a tour that the promoter, with a straight face, described as "intimate." What he meant was that the venues held between sixty and ninety people, and that two of them were bowling alleys. Tahir, who had been the band's guitarist and had spent the intervening quarter-century teaching music to children who preferred their phones, accepted at once. His knees took longer to persuade.

The first rehearsal was held in Zofia's garage, where the bass player had kept her old amplifier under a tarpaulin like a sleeping animal. Nobody had warned him how much of the afternoon would consist of apologising. The drummer apologised for his hands, which no longer did what he told them; the singer apologised for a key change he had always disliked; Zofia apologised to everyone in advance. What nobody apologised for was the old quarrel, the one about the songwriting credits. Tahir had carried it for a quarter of a century like a stone in his shoe, and had not realised it was still there until the singer walked in wearing the same smile.

The tour itself was a series of small humiliations carried out with enormous dignity. In a town with one traffic light, the stage was a stack of pallets. In a hotel lounge, a man asked them to turn down because he was trying to eat. Having spent the first week arguing about the set list, they spent the second arguing about stairs. The drummer could manage three, the singer could manage none without commentary, and Tahir, who would never have admitted it, planned his movements across every stage like a man crossing a frozen pond.

The sixth night was in the back room of a laundromat that had been converted, with more optimism than money, into a venue. Forty people came. Tahir counted them from the wings, as he always did, and told himself it was a respectable number for a Tuesday. It was only when the opening chords of "Seven Floors Down" rang out that he realised the crowd knew every word. It included women his own age, a teenager in a borrowed jacket and a man who had clearly driven a long way. Never in the old days had a room sung the second verse back at them.

He lost the rest of the song to a strange, clear calm. His fingers remembered the solo before his head did. In the middle of the bridge the singer turned and looked at him, not smiling, the way you look at someone to confirm that they heard the same thing you did. Nobody dropped a note. Had the sound engineer understood how rare that was, he would doubtless have recorded it; as it was, he was eating a pastry.

Afterwards they sat on beer crates in the alley behind the laundromat, too tired to be polite. Zofia held an ice pack to her wrist, and the drummer had fallen asleep upright. The singer said nothing for a long time, and then he said, "I looked at the old contract last week. The credits. You were right."

"I know," Tahir said. It was strange how little it weighed now; he had carried it for so long that he had expected it to be heavier.

"Same time next year?"

Tahir shifted his leg, and his knee gave a small, theatrical crack. "Ask me when I can climb stairs," he said.