Page 68 of Unalive On Air

“Josh Little on bass.”

Josh stares over the top of imaginary sunglasses and nods at me. Okay, I’ll admit it, this is fun.

“Trystan Retallack on keyboards and synth and a bunch of other stuff.”

Trystan waves.

“Camille Ciel on lead guitar,” Pixie says, to which Camille holds up the devil horns gesture and bares their teeth.

“On backup vocals is Jeanie Johnson, and sometimes when she feels like it, saxophone.”

Jeanie curtsies.

“I’ll be your lead vocalist, and tonight we are . . . The Youngscares!”

“I fucking knew it would make an excellent band name,” I say to Peter, who side‑eyes me through his slow applause.

“One, two. One, two, three, four,” Pixie mutters.

Then Josh starts strumming a non-existent bass guitar. “Bum, bum-bum. Bum, bum‑bum.”

As Stove says, “Tut-tut, tss-tss,” then clicks his tongue and says, “Da-dada, tss-tss.” Enviably, he’s also sitting on thin air whilst miming striking a set of drums and tapping his foot.

Jeanie sways from side to side, snapping her fingers, and singing surprisingly melodically, “Ooooohh. Oooohh.”

“Do-do, do-do-do. Do do do,” Trystan sings as he plays invisible keys seemingly at random. He’s grinning his head off, making it almost impossible for me to even notice the other people on stage with him.

Then Camille plays an electric air guitar, adding loads of distortion and pained expressions.

“Remember when you thought I would lie down for you,” Pixie shout-sings into Stove’s mic. “Remember when you thought I would buy what you’re selling.”

“What you’re selling . . .” Jeanie echoes tunefully.

I’m instantly transported to twenty years ago. To nineteen-year-old Gary listening to his MP3 player on the Manchester bound National Express in order to watch random, unknown bands play dive bars with hairy, sweaty strangers. That was way back when I had an ounce of a social life.

Pixie continues. “Remember all the times you thought you could change me. Remember all the times you thought I would bend for you. For the system.”

Jeanie sways on the spot. “The fucking system.”

Muscle memory kicks in, and my fingers idly tap out the beat on my legs. My head bobs.

“You thought you could break me. You thought you could mould me. Well, guess what, my friend? I was already broken. I won’t change. I won’t bend. I will fight you till the fucking EEEEENNNNDD! INCARNADINE! INCARNADINE!”

Everyone hums along with their various mouth instruments, and it’s not perfect. Not even close. But somehow it works, and more importantly, they’re all having an incredible time. Well, except for Peter, who’s sitting arms crossed, looking about as bored as a judge during a paint drying contest.

“The number of times I’ve heard this bloody song,” he mutters to me. Luckily, his words are dimmed by Pixie’s singing. “You know it’s about menstruation?”

I can’t help but bite. “No it isn’t. It’s about fighting the patriarchy.” I think about some of the lyrics. “Okay, it’s not only about that.”

“I swear kids these days wouldn’t know music if it spat in their cornflakes. It’s just noise. Gives me a bloody headache.”

Without thinking too much, I take a few incremental steps towards the stage, away from the magical misery man.

Pixie finishes her song. The others follow at random times, but always end with laughter. I cheer until Camille takes a bow.

“And that, Gary Runcorn of Swindon Sounds radio station, is what ghost-jamming is all about. Wanna join us?” Pixie says, still into Stove’s mic.

“Join us. Joiiinnn uuuss,” Trystan says, igniting a whole chorus of “Join us,” like some eerie death cult chant.