Act 1. The Marquee Club

  Jim arrived at the Marquee Club just as London was reluctantly shaking off its morning fog. The club's narrow entrance on Wardour Street looked decidedly unimpressive in the pale July light—just a simple door with peeling paint and a small sign. Nothing to suggest that in a few hours, one of Britain's most promising rock acts would be performing to a packed house of devoted fans.

  He checked his watch: 9:17 AM. Bloody early, but not early enough. There was always too much to do before a show, even at a venue so small you could practically touch both walls simultaneously.

  The pungent cocktail of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and ancient carpet assaulted his nostrils the moment he stepped inside. Decades of spilled drinks and sweat had fermented into the Marquee's signature aroma—an odor no amount of industrial cleaning could ever shift. Jim inhaled deeply, oddly comforted by the familiar smell of British rock and roll.

  The club manager, a perpetually harried man named Terry, was already inside, looking as though he'd been there all night. Probably had been, Jim thought, noting the man's rumpled clothes and the faint tremor in his tea-holding hand.

  "Morning, Jim," Terry grunted, barely looking up from the invoices spread across the small sticky bar. "Your boys planning to blow the bloody roof off tonight?"

  "That's generally the idea," Jim replied with a thin smile, setting his leather briefcase on a nearby stool, careful to avoid the suspicious patch of dampness. "Though preferably not literally—the insurance wouldn't cover it. I'd like to check the electrical setup before the band arrives."

  Terry waved vaguely toward the stage. "Knock yourself out. Just had the system checked last month, should be tickety-boo."

  "Whenever anyone says 'tickety-boo,' I reach for my contingency budget," Jim muttered under his breath as he made his way toward the cramped stage, his oxford shoes sticking slightly to the worn wooden floor with each step. Somewhere in the building, a toilet flushed with alarming enthusiasm, followed by a series of concerning pipes clangs.

  The Marquee Club had history, certainly—David Bowie had played here, as had The Who—but history didn't guarantee adequate power supplies or sound quality. The stage was barely fifteen feet across, the ceiling uncomfortably low. Jim's gaze swept upward, measuring mentally. It was true what they said - the Marquee could hold a maximum of 700 people, though they routinely packed in closer to 1,000 on big nights, creating a sweaty, intimate atmosphere that was both the club's charm and its challenge.

  Jim removed his suit jacket, folded it neatly over his arm, and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. A red tie, his single concession to flamboyance, remained perfectly knotted at his throat as he began examining the club's sound system.

  The mixing desk was a Soundcraft Series 200, a modest 16-channel affair that had clearly seen better days. Several knobs were missing entirely, and a curious burn mark surrounded the main fader. The patina of ancient gaffer tape holding various parts together didn't inspire confidence. Roger would have kittens when he saw what his drums would be running through. The house PA was equally concerning: two Tannoy Lancaster cabinets that looked like they'd been salvaged from a defunct cinema, and three battered JBL monitor wedges for the entire stage that emitted a faint hum like an asthmatic pensioner.

  "One vision, indeed," Jim muttered to himself, thinking of their new single. One vision of the band jammed onto a postage stamp-sized stage with inadequate equipment. He'd need to tell the boys to scale back their expectations significantly.

  He pulled out his leather-bound planner and jotted down notes about bringing additional monitor wedges and possibly a supplementary power generator. The lights were another concern altogether—a row of PAR-56 and PAR-64 cans with Rosco gel filters in primary colors that had faded to the approximate vibrancy of a 1950s hospital corridor. There was a single ancient Pulsar light controller, barely functional, with simple on/off switches for each circuit. No moving lights, no special effects. Just the basics.

  Freddie would be disappointed, but he'd adapt. That was one of the remarkable things about the band—they could fill a larger venue with spectacle or strip it all away in a club setting. Different strengths, but equally compelling.

  The club door banged open, letting in a brief shaft of daylight that illuminated the dust motes swirling through the air, and Jim turned to see Brian ducking through the entrance, guitar case in hand. Always the first to arrive, always keen to test the acoustics and make minute adjustments to his setup.

  "Morning, Miami," Brian called, using the nickname Freddie had bestowed upon Jim years ago. "Bloody hell, it smells like someone's been brewing beer in an ashtray."

  "Brian. You're early," Jim replied, ignoring the comment about the smell. "Have you considered platform shoes with a lower platform? You might need them in here."

  Brian glanced up at the low ceiling and winced. "Wouldn't be the first time I've played stooped over like Quasimodo." His mass of curls seemed even bigger in the small club as he looked around with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. "Bit of a step down from our last venue. Rather like going from a mansion back to the flat your mum keeps exactly as you left it."

  "Hammersmith Palais wasn't exactly Wembley Stadium," Jim reminded him, "but the reviews were excellent. Sometimes the smaller venues allow for a more immediate connection with the audience. When they're close enough to count your dental fillings, you tend to pay attention."

  Brian nodded thoughtfully, already unpacking his iconic Red Special from its case. A waft of guitar polish and the warm wood scent mixed with the club's more dubious aromas. The lovingly homemade guitar seemed almost incongruous in his hands—a global talent playing an instrument built by a teenager and his father from an old fireplace. But that was Brian: academic brilliance and practical ingenuity wrapped in the soul of an artist.

  "We'll need to adapt the 'One Vision' arrangement," Brian said, running a hand through his curls. "The tape playback at the beginning will be tricky with this setup."

  "I was thinking the same," Jim agreed. "Perhaps start with just the guitar riff instead? More immediate, less dependent on technology, and less likely to blow what passes for the electrical system here."

  Brian strummed a few experimental chords, listening to how they resonated in the small space. The notes hung in the air, bouncing off the brick walls and low ceiling. "The acoustics aren't bad, actually. Bit of natural reverb from these brick walls." He played a delicate arpeggio that seemed to hang in the air. "Could work in our favor for the ballads. Though you might want to warn the front row to wear earplugs when Roger gets going."

  The door swung open again, this time admitting John, bass case in one hand and a thermos flask in the other. Quiet as always, John nodded a greeting and immediately began setting up in his usual methodical way. No wasted movements, no unnecessary words. In many ways, John was the easiest band member for Jim to manage—he simply did his job with minimal fuss and exceptional skill.

  "Power issues?" John asked after a moment, noticing Jim's concerned examination of the electrical outlets. He set his tea down, the steam rising to mingle with the club's stale air.

  "Potentially. We're limited to the club's circuits, which I doubt were designed with our setup in mind. More likely they were calculating the power requirements for a quartet of Morris dancers and a man with a tambourine."

  John nodded, crouching down to examine the nearest power point. The leather of his jacket creaked as he bent over. "I can rig a workaround for the amps if needed. Might need to scale back Roger's kit, though."

  "Good luck with that conversation," Brian murmured with a slight smile, still experimenting with different tones on his guitar. "About as easy as asking Freddie to perform in dungarees."

  As if on cue, the club door burst open with considerably more force, letting in another blast of daylight and traffic noise from Wardour Street, and Roger strode in wearing sunglasses despite the overcast morning. Behind him, two roadies struggled with parts of his drum kit, the metal hardware clanking ominously.

  "What the bloody hell is this place?" Roger demanded, looking around with undisguised dismay. "Are we time-traveling back to 1960? I thought we'd agreed no more clubs after the last tour. Next you'll have us playing somebody's garden shed for the authentic garage band experience."

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  "Change of pace," Jim replied calmly. "The promoter thinks it will create some buzz—exclusive show, limited tickets, hardcore fans only. Artistic integrity and all that."

  "And the promoter couldn't find a broom cupboard? Might have been roomier." Roger pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, revealing bloodshot eyes that suggested last night had been a late one. "Where exactly am I supposed to fit my kit? On the bloody ceiling?"

  "We'll make it work," Jim assured him, falling into his familiar role as problem-solver. "John's already considering the power limitations."

  Roger snorted. "Power limitations. Christ on a bike. Next you'll tell me we're playing acoustically."

  "Only if you break all your sticks," Brian commented without looking up from his guitar. "Which, given your mood this morning, seems entirely possible. Had a heavy night, did we?"

  Roger aimed a two-fingered salute at Brian, but there was no real animosity in it. The band's bickering was as much a part of their rhythm as the music itself—a constant, almost comforting background noise that Jim had learned to tune out years ago.

  The final arrival, naturally, was Freddie. Unlike the others, he made no dramatic entrance—something that surprised those who only knew his stage persona. Freddie off-stage was often quieter, more observant, saving his theatrical energy for when it mattered most. The faint scent of expensive cologne preceded him, a momentary respite from the club's more industrial aromas.

  "Darlings, please tell me there's coffee," Freddie said by way of greeting, his mustache perfectly groomed despite the early hour. He wore tight black jeans and a simple white tank top—a far cry from the flamboyant stage outfits, but still distinctly Freddie. His eyes narrowed as he took in the cramped stage. "My god, it's like someone's front room. Are we doing a private party for a very small aristocrat?"

  "Bar's got some," Jim informed him, nodding toward the coffee. "Though I wouldn't vouch for its quality. Last time I checked, it was thick enough to tarmac the M25."

  Freddie made a face but headed for the bar anyway. "I've had worse. Remember that stuff in Sheffield? I think they filtered it through a coal miner's sock."

  Jim watched him go, mentally checking off items on his perpetual pre-show list. All band members present, no obvious interpersonal disasters brewing, equipment arriving piece by piece. The background noise was increasing—the thunk of cases being opened, the squeal of guitar strings being tuned, the rhythmic tapping of Roger testing drum heads with his fingers.

  Now came the real challenge: making four rock stars and their considerable sonic power fit into the Marquee Club, both physically and sonically.

  The sound check was predictably chaotic. Roger's Yamaha drum kit had to be reconfigured three times before they found an arrangement that would both fit on the tiny stage and allow him to play properly. The crash cymbal ended up positioned so close to Brian's area that they'd need to choreograph their movements to avoid a percussion-guitar collision. Brian's usual sprawling pedal board had to be cut down to essentials, prompting a solid ten minutes of deliberation over which effects were truly indispensable. John, practical as always, had the easiest time adapting—his blacked-out Fender Precision bass setup was relatively minimal to begin with.

  Freddie, meanwhile, paced the small stage like a caged tiger, working out how to use the limited space effectively. His footsteps creaked on the worn wooden boards as he measured out the available room with practiced strides.

  "If I jump off the stage here," he said, measuring with his eyes, "how many fans am I likely to crush? Not that I'm opposed to physical contact with the audience, but I draw the line at manslaughter."

  "Depends how energetic the crowd is," Jim replied from behind the mixing desk, where he was attempting to coax acceptable sound from the aging equipment. The faders felt gritty under his fingers, and one of the channel EQs made an alarming crackling sound whenever he adjusted it. "I'd suggest keeping stage dives to a minimum in this venue. The insurance specifically excludes airborne frontmen."

  "Where's the fun in that?" Freddie grinned, but Jim could tell he was taking mental notes, adapting his usual performance to the constraints of the space. That was Freddie's genius—he could command an audience of thousands or create intimacy with a handful of fans, equally compelling either way. "Perhaps I'll try a more... horizontal approach tonight."

  Roger snorted from behind his dramatically reduced drum kit. "That'll be a first."

  "Can we run through 'One Vision'?" Brian asked, adjusting his gain at the Vox AC30 amplifier. Somewhere in the recesses of the club, a circuit breaker made a concerning click, but sustained. "Before we blow a fuse."

  Jim nodded, making a notation in his planner. Despite the band's success, they were still hungry, still innovating. That was what had drawn him to them in the first place, back when he was just their lawyer. They never settled, never became complacent.

  "From the top, then," Freddie said, taking his position at the center of the stage—a space barely large enough for a yoga mat, let alone Freddie's usual theatrical movements.

  Roger counted them in, the taps of his sticks cutting sharply through the musty air, and they launched into a stripped-down version of "One Vision." Without the synthesizer intro of the album version, it began with Brian's guitar riff, raw and immediate. Freddie's voice, powerful even at half-volume for the sound check, filled the small club with surprising richness. Jim could feel the vibrations through the floor and up into the mixing desk where his hands rested.

  Jim watched, making notes, mentally converting the space into a packed venue. The Marquee could hold 700 at absolute maximum capacity, which meant about 500 realistically, once you accounted for comfort and safety. Every one of those 500 would be pressed close to the stage, creating an intensity that larger venues couldn't match.

  As they reached the chorus, Jim noticed a small anomaly. Freddie's microphone seemed to be picking up some kind of feedback—not the usual high-pitched squeal, but something deeper, almost like an echo, as if Freddie were singing in a much larger space. The hairs on Jim's arms stood up in a way that had nothing to do with the club's questionable heating system.

  Jim adjusted the desk, frowning. The feedback persisted for a moment, then abruptly disappeared. Odd. He made another note to check the microphone before the show, circling it twice with his pen.

  They finished the run-through, and Jim gave them a thumbs-up. "Sounds good. Different, but it works in this space. Like a well-tailored suit instead of a circus costume."

  "We should record it this way sometime," Brian suggested, blowing a curl out of his eyes. "More raw, more immediate. Minimal overdubs."

  "Always thinking about the next record," Roger teased, twirling a drumstick between his fingers with the dexterity of a magician. "We haven't even finished touring this one. I've still got luggage I haven't unpacked from Munich."

  "Speaking of the record," Jim interjected, "I had a call from EMI yesterday. 'One Vision' is performing well, but they're pushing for another single before Christmas."

  John raised an eyebrow. "They're thinking about Christmas in July? Did you ask which year?"

  "That's the music business," Jim replied with a shrug. "Always three steps ahead, except when they're five steps behind. The same executive who's planning your Christmas release still hasn't worked out how to program his VCR."

  "Tell them we're artists, not sausage-makers," Freddie said, though without real heat. He understood the business as well as any of them. "We'll deliver when we're ready. Tell them we're currently busy bringing rock and roll to spaces the size of a moderately appointed water closet."

  Jim nodded, not arguing the point. His job was to buffer between the band and the business, translating creative temperaments into contractual terms and vice versa. A career as a diplomat might have been less complicated.

  "Right," he said, checking his watch. "We've got about three hours before doors open. I suggest a break, then one more run-through of the full set. There's a cafe two doors down if you want something more substantial than Terry's coffee-adjacent beverage."

  The band dispersed—Roger heading outside for a cigarette (Jim could already smell the smoke drifting back in through the partially open door), John quietly tinkering with his bass, Brian deep in conversation with his guitar tech about some minute adjustment to his tone that probably only dogs and bats could detect. Freddie lingered near Jim at the sound desk.

  "Think it'll work, Miami?" he asked, his voice quieter than most people ever heard it. There was a vulnerability there that the public rarely glimpsed.

  "The show? Of course." Jim adjusted another fader on the mixing desk, wincing at the gritty feel. "It'll be different, but that's not a bad thing. The fans who get tickets will feel like they've seen something special. Intimate. Like being invited to a private party rather than a public spectacle."

  Freddie nodded, seemingly satisfied. His fingers drummed a quiet rhythm on the edge of the desk. "That mic was doing something strange, though."

  "You noticed that too?" Jim looked up, surprised. "I thought it might have been just at my end. Some quirk of the ancient wiring in this place."

  "No, it was..." Freddie paused, searching for the right word. "It was like hearing my voice the way it sounds at a much bigger venue. All that space and reverb. For a second, it almost felt like I was somewhere else." He laughed suddenly, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling. "Listen to me, getting mystical about microphone feedback. I must be more tired than I thought. Either that or Terry's coffee is actually hallucinogenic, which would explain his continued employment here."

  He clapped Jim on the shoulder and headed toward the tiny backstage area, leaving Jim staring thoughtfully at the microphone stand.

  For a brief moment during that feedback, Jim had experienced the strangest sensation—a flash of déjà vu so powerful it had felt almost like a memory. Not of this show, which hadn't happened yet, but of something grander, something with thousands of voices singing along instead of hundreds. The phantom sensation of a much larger space had been so vivid he'd almost felt the need to squint against imaginary stage lights.

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Too many late nights reviewing contracts, not enough sleep. That was all it was. The cheese sandwich he'd had on the train this morning had looked suspicious—perhaps it was taking its revenge in the form of auditory hallucinations.

  Still, as he continued adjusting the ancient sound desk for the evening's show, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something wasn't aligned correctly—not in the equipment, but in some larger, indefinable sense. Like a record being played at slightly the wrong speed. Not enough to ruin it, but enough to make you wonder if your ears were playing tricks.

  One vision. One goal. One solution.

  The lyrics of the song they'd just rehearsed floated through his mind as he worked, stubbornly persistent, like an echo from another place entirely. An echo from a venue Jim had never set foot in, but which somehow felt eerily familiar.