Decade was Born
A spin-off, A glimpse into Decade before the Love Lust and Lies series
The year was 1975, and the world was a riot of flared jeans, feathered hair, and the undeniable roar of rock and roll. In the dusty, oil-stained confines of Danny Brook’s garage, five young lads were attempting to carve their own piece of history . The air, thick with the scent of stale sweat and ambition, vibrated with the raw, untamed energy of their dreams.
Danny , all wiry limbs and fierce determination, gripped an imaginary microphone, his eyes closed, channelling the charismatic fury of his idol, Alvin Preston. He envisioned himself leaping across stadium stages, a thousand voices echoing his every word.
Beside him, inseparable, stood Simon and Alan, their guitars slung low, twin reflections of burgeoning talent. They traded licks, their fingers flying across fretboards, each note a prayer to Pete Quarts, the legendary guitarist from Zillion, whose solos could tear down stadiums Behind a battered drum kit, held together with grit and hope, sat Tony, a blur of sticks and hair, pounding out rhythms with the precision of Ron Kidd, his own drumming deity. And finally, hunched over a harmonium, was Dave, his quiet focus belying the vibrant melodies bubbling beneath his fingertips. He dreamt of the ethereal, layered soundscapes of Spacy Heart from Sharp Edge, determined to coax similar magic from his humble keys.
Their days blurred into hours of relentless practice. The garage, a sanctuary from homework and parental nagging, became a crucible where discord slowly melted into harmony. The initial cacophony of five enthusiastic but unpolished musicians gradually gave way to something resembling a cohesive sound. Sweat dripped, fingers cramped, and ears rang, but they pushed through, fuelled by cheap pizza and an unshakeable belief in their collective destiny.
Arguments over chord progressions would explode and then fizzle out, replaced by shared laughter and the pure, unadulterated joy of a perfectly executed riff.
They were more than a band; they were a pact, a refuge, a shared adventure into the unknown. Danny, the natural leader, guided them not with commands, but with an infectious, almost spiritual belief in their potential. Simon and Alan, with their almost telepathic connection, wove intricate guitar tapestries, one finishing the other’s phrase, while Tony’s relentless, driving beat kept them anchored. Dave, the quiet
prodigy, blossomed, his extensive piano lessons proving to be their secret weapon, adding unexpected depth and texture to their raw sound.
One sweltering afternoon, a moment of exhausted silence descended upon the garage. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the faint hum of a cooling amplifier. Suddenly, the door creaked open, revealing Danny’s dad, Mr. Brooks. A man of quiet demeanour, he usually only appeared to complain about the noise.
The band froze, bracing for the inevitable lecture, the stern decree to ‘turn it down’. Instead, Mr. Brooks stood for a long moment, arms crossed, listening to the lingering echoes of their last chord. He cleared his throat, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the sudden quiet. “Boys,” he began, his voice surprisingly soft, “that was… excellent.”
The words hung in the air, a revelation. The band exchanged wide-eyed glances. “You’re pouring your heart into this,” he continued, a smile gracing his lips. “You’ve got something real here. Now, you need to let other people hear it” This needs to be on a stage.”
The seed of live performance, a terrifying yet exhilarating prospect, had been firmly planted. A new level of ambition ignited within them.
Mr. Brooks’s unexpected endorsement spurred Danny into action. He was a born hustler, and the idea of a stage, a real audience, set his mind ablaze. He scoured the school notice board, the community centre flyers, anything that hinted at a public performance opportunity.
He found it: a local talent showcase, just a few weeks away, with an open slot. Without a second thought, he signed them up, scrawling their chosen name, “Decade,” beneath their signatures. “Decade,” a nod to the booming 70s, their era, and the years they planned to conquer.
The news was met with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. Now it was real. Their garage sessions intensified, fuelled by dedication and the ticking clock.
They polished their two original songs, raw, energetic anthems born of their collective youth, and perfected a high-octane cover that showcased their instrumental prowess.
It was during this period that Zeborah Lambert , Alan’s high school sweetheart, became an unofficial, yet indispensable, member of the team. With her trusty
camera, she was always there, capturing candid moments of their struggle and triumph, a quiet, steadfast presence whose belief in them was palpable. Her photographs, even then, were more than just snapshots; they were a visual diary of their burgeoning adventure.
The night of the showcase arrived, thick with the smell of nervous energy and cheap stage lights. The school auditorium, with its makeshift stage, felt like a coliseum. Butterflies the size of pterodactyls flapped in their stomachs. Danny gulped air, trying to channel Alvin Preston’s effortless stage presence. Simon and Alan, their fingers twitching on their fretboards, pictured Pete Quarts’ iconic stance. Tony took deep, calming breaths behind his kit, while Dave meticulously adjusted his keyboard, his quiet hands trembling slightly. Zeborah, camera ready, sat perched at the edge of the stage, a silent guardian.
“Next up, please welcome… Decade!” the announcer boomed. A scattered applause, then silence. A palpable tension filled the room. Then, with a shared glance, Danny counted them in. The first chord, a powerful, gritty blast, ripped through the air. Danny’s voice, surprisingly strong and clear, cut through the sudden hush. Simon and Alan’s guitars intertwined, a soaring, gritty wall of sound that was both aggressive and melodic. Tony’s drums, a primal heartbeat, drove them forward, relentless and precise. Dave’s keyboard added soaring melodies and chunky chords, filling out their sound, giving it a professional edge. They weren’t just playing; they were performing. The garage disappeared from their minds. They were on a grand stage, bathed in the glow of the spotlights, their dreams suddenly tangible.
The crowd’s reaction was immediate. Initial curiosity morphed into foot-tapping, then head-nodding, and finally, full-blown cheering. They launched into their second original, then the cover – a Zillion song, ironically, which Simon and Alan absolutely nailed, earning gasps from the audience. The energy was infectious, cascading from the stage into the clapping, stomping crowd. They ended their set in a blaze of sweat and roaring applause, the sound of their own success ringing in their ears.
The immediate aftermath was a euphoric blur of breathless grins and wide-eyed disbelief. The buzz spread like wildfire throughout the school halls the next day. “Did you see Decade?” was the question on everyone’s lips. Parents, initially sceptical of their loud hobby, were now beaming with pride. Tony’s mom, witnessing the sheer joy and dedication her son poured into his drumming, surprised him with a brand-new, gleaming drum kit – not just a “small” one, but a proper, impressive array of chrome and percussion that instantly elevated their sound. Dave’s parents, always proud of his piano lessons, invested in a state-of-the-art synth keyboard, a space-age machine that allowed Dave to truly emulate Spacy Heart’s complex layers and create sounds previously unimaginable in their garage. Simon and Alan, already well-equipped, found their own guitars seemed to sing with new life, inspired by the enhanced dynamic of the band. They spent hours experimenting, pushing their limits,
their bond deepening with every shared riff. Zeborah’s photographs, now more treasured than ever, became their visual identity, capturing the raw essence of their journey – the sweat, the passion, the camaraderie, the burgeoning adventure.
The garage was no longer just a practice space; it was a launchpad. Decade wasn’t just a band; it was a force; a promise whispered among them. The true adventure had only just begun. They were no longer merely practicing to be like their idols; they were forging their own sound, their own path, influenced but not enslaved. Local gigs started trickling in – school dances, coffee shops, small town fairs. Each one was a learning experience; each one cemented their sound and honed their stage presence.
The 1970s stretched before them, a canvas waiting for their sound. With the opening lines of a new song, a new chapter unfolded. The dream was no longer just a dream; it was a living, breathing entity. They were Decade, and they were ready to roar.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C Langley
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