up. It was still early evening, but the place was packed. Dafydd went over to the bar and ordered a couple of ciders. At the end of the first set, Aurélie got him to take her over to the band-leader. He remembered her, and once he started talking, she remembered him. Of course she could join in. She asked to be put next to the bass-player, where she began to set herself up, fixing the pick-up and holding the end of the lead high in the air for an amp. One arrived immediately, a nice new transistor H & H, along with a stool for her to sit on. Then she got down on her knees to arrange her leads and her foot-peddles. She took a bright red orange and yellow canvas strap from her case and and clipped it to the base and neck of the instrument. She sat down on the stool in the classic cello-playing position and put on some dark glasses, ready. There was no spike on the base of the cello: it was balanced on her lap like an acoustic guitar and the bow was poised vertically. She’d already tucked up her skirt. As they slid into the first number, Dafydd didn’t know what to expect. And nor did the man on the sound-and-lighting desk. He’d neither seen nor heard her before and was scared shitless: there was hardly any sound up or light on her. This rock ‘n’ roll line-up, despite its rawness, had little space for any other instrument, but Aurélie found some, weaving her silky arpeggios around the riffs of the pianist and the rhythm-guitarist. As they echoed across the room, and the sound and lights went up, the audience was transfixed. When it came to the last number, as they careered towards the instrumental middle-eight, Aurélie sensed a key-change approaching. As if to verify it, and in a moment of typical musician-generosity, the double-bass man yanked the neck of his instrument in the air and hopped it forward a pace, without dropping a beat, to move closer and press his foot down gently on hers. Then he began to count her in…1, 2…
277