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Classical music. Darren is sat on stage local newspaper by his opens it excitedly and finding the page he is

by himself, with a guitar. He is handed a mother who enters and sits next to him. He searches through the pages quickly, before after. His mother reads over his shoulder.

VOICEOVER: ‘The Next Big Thing Gig Review Page by Jonathan Chappell’. This week, I had the displeasure of seeing the worst gig I have ever seen. In fact, I had to look twice at the flyer to make sure it was actually a gig, and not some really cheap, hammy comedy show. But it was a gig. Darren Taylor, a scruffy, toneless guitarist with manipulative eyes has the nerve to call himself a songwriter, but it would be unfair on the word ‘song’ to call these ‘songs’, because these are not ‘songs’, these were merely three minutes of pathetic adolescent rantings from a young man who surely should have crossed the boundaries of puberty by now, followed by a series of other three minutes of pathetic adolescent rantings from a young man who surely should have crossed the boundaries of puberty by now. It is evenings such as these that I really hate my job, everybody else was allowed to leave, but I had to sit through the whole tedious half an hour and I genuinely contemplated suicide on the way home. Don’t go and watch Darren Taylor play live, he is dreadful. Darren puts the newspaper down, distraught. Mother hugs him. MOTHER: Don’t worry too much about it, Darren. It’s just one review. I think you’re special. DARREN: Thanks, Mum. MOTHER: You’ve done lots of gigs recently, I’m sure there’s some nice reviews out there. Did you want me to fetch your little computer for you? There may be one on the Internet. DARREN: Thanks. Mother heads out. Darren’s head drops, he self-pity’s for a brief moment. He looks at his guitar, strums a vague note, and kisses it. He puts the guitar down. Mother returns, with a laptop. She is excited. She hands it to him. He clicks a few buttons, she reads over his shoulder. VOICEOVER: ‘Music Zone: Your only resource for music reviews in East Anglia’. Review: Darren Taylor at the Keeper’s Arms, Friday evening. If pigs could sing, I imagine they’d sing like this. But the truth is, pigs can’t sing, and neither can Darren Taylor. He laughs obnoxiously as he drops a note or eighteen, and often looks at his mother for reassurance. But nobody can save this gig, it’s a shocking lesson for us all; don’t tell people


they are good enough to play live, when they are clearly not. He put the whole pub through hell on Friday night, his ‘ironic’ rendition of Britney Spears’ ‘Baby One More Time’ was simply the worst noise my ears have ever heard. JC. Jonathan puts the laptop down, distraught. MOTHER: It’s just a review, Darren. That’s all it is. DARREN: (downhearted) It's okay. MOTHER: I’ll be back in a bit, leave you to your songwriting. My little genius. She leaves the room. Darren goes to pick up the guitar again, his mobile beeps. He picks it up and checks the message. FEMALE VOICE: Music review. Darren Taylor was superb at his last gig, he is going to be very big. He shakes his head and puts it down. Mother returns. MOTHER: You okay? DARREN: Fine. Pause. MOTHER: Didn’t get a text or anything whilst I was out? It’s just I’ve heard they now send out gig reviews by text. Technology and all that. DARREN: It was from you, wasn’t it? MOTHER: No. DARREN: No, it was actually from you. It was from your number. It was definitely from you. MOTHER: Oh, I was just trying to... DARREN: ...stop it, Mum. I’m okay with it, it’s just two reviews...


MOTHER: ...well, three if you include the text... DARREN: ...no, two reviews. Two games, two defeats, that’s okay. I can turn this round. I’m a stronger man than this...(urgent) is that another paper I’ve just heard come through the door? MOTHER: (optimistic) I’ll go and get it. She dashes off. Darren sits anxiously. Mother returns with the paper, she hands it to him. Once again, he flicks through the pages before stopping. VOICEOVER: ‘Chappell’s Music Chat’. Review: Darren Taylor – ‘Broken Dreams – EP’. With his first ever EP, local singer-songwriter Darren Taylor has attempted to fuse various influences, such as Kasabian and Muse. The fact is though, realistically, his music sounds like a fusion of various toiletry habits, his sardonic wale out of tune, out of key and out of time. His lazy lyrics are merely a series of questions about why girls hate him. It's obvious, Darren, girls hate you because you are a talentless goon. Still, the CD itself works as quite a nice coaster, ironic that I can put my lovely mug on a picture of his...ugly mug. Darren gently puts the paper down. DARREN: (calmly) I'm going out. He stands, and heads off. MOTHER: Do you want me to go with you? DARREN: No, mother. They both leave the scene. Darren returns, wearing a coat, and sits in the corner by himself with a bottle of beer. He drinks it back and reflects, and stares wildly into the sky. Classical music continues. Judith enters, she is walking through, texting. Darren spots her. DARREN: Judith! JUDITH: (awkward) Oh hi Darren. DARREN: Can I get you a drink?


Reviewing Jonathan  

Reviewing Jonathan

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