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Deacon grinned and adjusted the strap of his guitar, and nodded towards the drum kit. “Go on then, Romeo. Work your aggression out on the kit.”
Jake rolled his eyes as he moved across the cramped rehearsal room. “We murdering the same setlist again?”
“Unless you’ve actually brought something new?”
Jake hesitated for a second before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the folded lyric sheet. “Maybe.”
Raff straightened. “Oh, depressive drummer’s writing again.”
“Fuck off.”
Deacon held out a hand. “Let us see then.”
Jake regretted it instantly. The song had existed in pieces for years, really. Scraps of lyrics scribbled in old notebooks. Half-finished choruses muttered into his phone after gigs or sleepless nights. But lately the rest of it had finally crawled out of him properly, fast and messy and impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t exactly a love song. More a frantic sort of panic buried beneath loud guitars and upbeat drums. About wasted years. Missed chances. Watching life move forward while he’d stayed rooted to the same bloody spot because grief had convinced him standing still was safer than risking more pain.
But at some point, without Jake fully meaning it to, the song had become about Harrison too. The way he held himself back from everything he wanted, as if happiness itself were dangerous. About his fear dressed up as control. How they were both so busy surviving the past, they barely knew how to reach for anything beyond it.
Deacon scanned the lyrics, then glanced up. “This is actually good.”
“Needs work.”
“That’s never stopped us before.”
Jake rolled his eyes and moved behind the kit before he could overthink it. He adjusted the stool, spun a drumstick through his fingers, then nodded once. “Just follow me.”
They started rough, same as they always did. Raff found the bassline first, fingers rolling low and steady through the amp until the room hummed with it. Deacon came in second, guitar sharp and bright over the top, still fumbling half the lyrics as he tried to make them fit the rhythm. Then Jake cracked his sticks together twice and drove them forward.
The first run was shit.
The second wasn’t much better.
By the fourth, though, something clicked.
Raff locked onto the groove properly, bass deep enough to feel through the floorboards. Deacon stopped overthinking the phrasing and let the melody run loose and messy and alive. Jake pushed harder behind them, kicking the tempo faster, urging the whole thing forward with hard snare hits and restless energy. And suddenly the song became something bigger than it had ever sounded in Jake’s head. Fast drums beneath lyrics aching far more than the music should’ve allowed. A chorus that lifted bright and reckless, all urgency and hunger and panic wrapped inside something people could actually move to. A song that made people dance first and realise what it was saying later.
And when the chorus hit, Jake’s voice crashed into Deacon’s, raw enough to make the tiny rehearsal room vibrate with it. Singing about not wanting life to slip past while he stood still. About wanting all of it, even the ugly parts. Love and grief. Joy and pain. Desire sharp enough to ruin him. About finally being tired of waiting for permission to live.
When they finished, feedback hummed through the speakers while the final drumbeat echoed around the cramped rehearsal room. The air felt charged suddenly, thick with adrenaline and something almost disbelieving, as if the song had become far bigger once it left Jake’s head and crashed into actual sound.
Teddy spoke first, nodding his head with a grin. “Sick.”
Raff then pointed at Jake across the room. “You absolute bastard.”
Jake frowned, breathless from the all-out, encompassing reality of it. “What?”
“That chorus is disgusting.”
Deacon barked out a laugh and flicked his guitar pick into the air before catching it neatly again. “We’re playing it Saturday.”
Jake shook his head. “It’s not finished.”
“Exactly.” Raff rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Imagine what it’s gonna sound like when it is.” He pointed at Jake. “But it needs a middle section. Everything cuts out except Jake’s drums.” He stamped his foot in rhythm. “Thud. Thud. Thud. Crowd singing the chorus back at us, absolutely leathered, pints in the air, screaming every word while Jake keeps them locked in with that beat.” He grinned wider. “Not flashy drum-wank nonsense either. Summat heavy. Simple. Like a fucking heartbeat keeping everybody alive.”
Deacon nodded, as if already hearing it. “Then kick everything back in hard.”
“Aye.” Raff pointed at him. “That moment where the floor starts bouncing and everybody loses their absolute shit.” He looked back at Jake. “Mate, this is a proper live song. One of them songs people end up tattooing lyrics from after hearing it once.”
