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鈥淭here鈥檚 a gig,鈥� says Clawhammer Dougie Jones, or at least his little homunculus trapped in its window on my laptop.

鈥淲hat gig?鈥� In the window next door, our vocalist Alana Domingo mirrors my utter disbelief. 鈥淭here aren鈥檛 any gigs, Doug. The gig economy left the building.鈥�

Doug blinks at us, that beatific way he has. Like he鈥檚 some guru of wisdom about to change your life with a handful of words; like the colossal hit of mescaline he took on that US tour 20 years ago never wore off.

鈥淢y people,鈥� he tells us, an opening that has never, in the history of music, led to good things. 鈥淎 paid gig.鈥�

And he sends over a figure on the chat channel, and Alana spits out the cheap wine she鈥檚 swilling and I think about the rent, and the risk.

鈥淚 mean鈥︹�� And the rent has a loud voice, but so does my health. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know if I could even be in a pub鈥檚 back room now. Not with, y鈥檏now, actual crowds.鈥� Not that 鈥渃rowds鈥� is exactly how I鈥檇 describe most of our audiences this last decade.

And Doug鈥檚 damnable smile鈥檚 gone nowhere. 鈥淧ete,鈥� he tells me. 鈥淚nvite only. Select audience. Twenty max. And outdoors. Clover, my people.鈥� And, seeing our reluctance eroding in the face of his eternal optimism, 鈥淐osmic String rides again.鈥�

A brief history of Cosmic String.

In the seventies, a variety of physicists built on previous models of the universe to come up with a theory describing, to my limited understanding, that the universe might be shot through with constantly vibrating strings, and their vibrational frequency, as a musician like me might understand it, was actually what made all of causation sing.

Now this was explained to me by a then-young guitarist called Doug Jones, whose understanding of the actual science very quickly devolved into all-encompassing uses of the word 鈥渜uantum鈥�, so I never did get my head around it. It seemed very profound when you were high as a kite at three in the morning.

And so, in the nineties, Doug, Alana and me called our fringe electro band Cosmic String on the assumption that we were going to be the universe鈥檚 next big thing.

That didn鈥檛 happen. More people have a comprehensive understanding of String Theory than own a copy of the single Cosmic String album. Because yes, every band does its mad concept album eventually, but starting with that was probably a mistake.

Somehow, though, in a manner just as ineffable as the cosmic strings themselves, we stayed together. Alana does web design on the side, and I write advice columns under the pseudonym Auntie Sheryl, but when Doug calls, somehow we鈥檙e always free.

鈥淭hen a guy鈥檚 bustling out of the house. It鈥檚 the actual Lord of the Manor come to greet us in person鈥�

Clawhammer Dougie Jones, so called for the frankly uncomfortable way he holds a guitar, was like that before the mescaline. A look on his face like he鈥檚 not hearing you first-hand, but through an imaginary friend whispering a bad translation into his ear. Goes through life like he鈥檚 the disguised prince not quite sure why he鈥檚 still mucking out stables in his late-forties. Somehow never been knifed and dumped in a canal. Not that Alana and I haven鈥檛 been tempted. But in this year of our entire industry withering on the vine, he鈥檚 got us our gig.

鈥淢an reached out,鈥� he explains earnestly as I take my battered van up literally 2 miles of drive through lush parkland. 鈥淏ig fan.鈥�

Alana鈥檚 eyes are wide as an owl鈥檚, because we know our fans and they generally don鈥檛 have the money to contribute to a ko-fi account let alone own a stately home. And that is, for real, what we鈥檙e approaching now. At first I think it鈥檚 one of those crumbly Downton Abbey-style piles that survive on tourism and period dramas, both of which are currently as dead as the live music scene. Closer in, it鈥檚 new-build, real Grand Designs stuff, and that colonnaded front isn鈥檛 flat but concave, a great angled architectural dish. In front of it, where you鈥檇 expect a nice gravel drive and some pot plants, there鈥檚 a stage being built even now, with the sort of big amps even God would need a mortgage to afford, and a lighting rig. And I slow the van to a crawl and exchange stares with Alana because somehow Doug has come through for us, this once.

Then a guy鈥檚 bustling out of the house. It鈥檚 the actual Lord of the Manor come to greet us in person. He鈥檚 plump, affable, balding with a little Poirot moustache. He greets us by first name. We can call him 鈥淢ountjoy鈥� apparently. He鈥檚 super-enthusiastic. I don鈥檛 like him. Reminds me of too many promoters and agents who ended up screwing us over. Apparently he鈥檚 our biggest fan, and that makes zero sense to me. He talks and talks and somehow that sense of about-to-get-screwed-over doesn鈥檛 go anywhere. But it鈥檚 not as if we鈥檙e about to turn around and leave.

Mountjoy has some people take our bags, and some other people 鈥� he鈥檚 got a lot of people 鈥� bring our kit inside. Maybe, before the main event, we could do him the honour of a little set. Just him, just to warm up. He鈥檚 got a room ready upstairs.

Because Doug won鈥檛, I negotiate hard for a sandwich and a sit down first, and we get them. Possibly it鈥檚 the best sandwich I ever had. And it鈥檚 served on a silver tray by an actual flunkey. And Alana and I exchange more looks and we ask Doug, basically, what the hell?

鈥淢an loves the music,鈥� is all he鈥檒l say. 鈥淢an gets our vibe.鈥�

鈥淥kay, but we鈥檙e just doing the regular stuff,鈥� Alana says, because by unspoken agreement the concept album Shall Remain Buried. And Doug waggles his eyebrows and smiles his smile.

The room Mountjoy takes us to freaks me the hell out because it鈥檚 full of insects. Well, not actual insects, but there鈥檚 a big bronze bug on one wall, and a glass case of actual deceased bugs on another, and some bug-related art, and all the same kind of bug. As it happens, it鈥檚 a bug we鈥檙e all intimately familiar with because that one year we did the US tour, these bugs were on tour, too, and they were a hell of a lot louder than us. Every set was done to the backdrop of this chorus of CHEE-CHEE-CHEEEER. And the kicker was, these things are almost never about, basically. There鈥檚 one lot that come out every 17 years and one that does 13 years, and I think the year we toured, both of them coincided and killed off even the tiniest chance that the tour would go well.

But apparently Mountjoy鈥檚 a fan of them as well as us, and this room is decked out in cicada-themed art, save for a bust of some bald guy at one end.

Doug and I set the gear up. Alana鈥檚 sorted her mike and is making small talk with our audience of one 鈥� and at least that鈥檚 a crowd size we鈥檙e used to. The topic gets round to the art, as you might imagine. Mountjoy guides it there, mugging like one of those promoters who knows they鈥檙e not going to pay up at the end of the night. Except we already got money up front, so it鈥檚 not that; there鈥檚 something he knows that we don鈥檛, and he鈥檚 just bursting with how cleverly he鈥檚 screwing us over.

鈥淭his is my ideas room,鈥� he tells us, and what nasty crawly ideas he must have. 鈥淭his is where we meet, my associates and I, your audience. It was here we had the idea to book you, actually.鈥�

鈥淭hese bugs remind you of us, huh?鈥� Alana asks unenthusiastically.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a survival mechanism, you know,鈥� he says, waving at the cicadas. 鈥淓merging in prime numbered years. Puts them out of sync with any predators or parasites that might try to match up with them and take advantage of all that bounty. It鈥檚 like hiding from time. Very clever.鈥� He caresses the big bronze bug.

鈥淪o, is this Doctor Cicada?鈥� Alana asks, of the bust.

鈥淭hat?鈥� Mountjoy鈥檚 self-satisfied smile ratchets up another notch. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 Enrico Fermi, my dear.鈥� And nothing more. Apparently Fermi鈥檚 self-explanatory.

I google the name later, but half the Wiki entry won鈥檛 load and by that time the guests are arriving.

Anyway, we play a few of the old bangers for Mountjoy, the proper club stuff people can actually tolerate. Me on keyboards, Doug鈥檚 guitar, Alana trilling through the jagged, staccato lyrics. Fast electro stuff, loud, aggressive synth, seriously dated. Not what you鈥檇 think Mountjoy would like, and indeed he doesn鈥檛 actually seem to like it much.

鈥淢r Jones, I was hoping for your other work.鈥�

Doug gives me the full cheese of his grin. 鈥淵ou tell that to Pete, man.鈥�

Mountjoy鈥檚 smile is strained. 鈥淚t really is quite important that you play what you鈥檙e known for.鈥� And from a drawer he brings out the bloody album. The thing that sunk our nascent career 20 years ago and made us the laughing stock of even our tiny corner of the music biz. Cosmic Strong, the sole commercially available recording of Cosmic String, Doug鈥檚 goddamn concept album. And yes, it鈥檚 what we鈥檙e known for, but not in a good way.

Like I said, the mescaline only brought out what was inside. Doug went through his life husbanding a little flame of destiny inside him, and the bad trip brought it into full inferno. Doug was going to reinvent music. And he did. And it was like reinventing the wheel if you decided it would be better square. All these mad time signatures, uncomfortable numbers of beats squeezed into the bar, flights of audio-phantasy that sent freeform jazz musicians crying for their mothers. Alana yipping and barking out weird sounds and words seemingly at random, except none of it was at random. Doug scored everything down to the last beat and it all had to be perfect. We spent months recording it and nobody actually listened to it all the way through.

Except, apparently, Mountjoy.

So we play him our greatest hits, three tracks from the album. It comes back to us, in the same way that a terrible fever dream does. All those awkward shifts in tempo, seven beats to the bar, then 11, then 19. The thundering, irregular bass resounding from the wings of the bronze cicada like an extra set of cymbals. And Doug鈥檚 face. The look he only ever gets playing these pieces, like he鈥檚 listening to something angelic and far away, straining for the music of the spheres.

We thought it鈥檇 crush him, when the album flopped so hard it broke records. He took it in his stride, a prophet not honoured in his own country. A man whose genius would be recognised in due course. We came to commiserate with him, and he was weirdly elated. 鈥淲e sent something new out into the world, my people,鈥� he told us. 鈥淚t鈥檒l come back to us some day.鈥�

Apparently, this is the day.

The weird thing 鈥� the thing Doug doesn鈥檛 see 鈥� is that our man Mountjoy doesn鈥檛 actually like the experimental music either. There鈥檚 something eager in his face, but he still winces at the discordant bits sane people wince at. He suffers through the performance as though he鈥檚 been promised a chocolate if he gets to the end. And when we鈥檙e done, his lavish praise doesn鈥檛 really seem to have much of the fan in it. Like we鈥檙e his new skivvies and he鈥檚 delighted by the shiny spoons without needing to know what sort of cleaner we use.

And I look back at those cicadas and old Fermi and the ideas room and it鈥檚 almost as if Mountjoy showed it to us just to make sure we didn鈥檛 get it. We were the hired help, after all. He didn鈥檛 want us turning up with ideas of our own.

That鈥檚 the thing with Doug. You tend to assume that vacant grin has a vacant head behind it, and Doug鈥檚 skull is just crammed with stuff. Just not anything useful most of the time.

By then the guests are turning up and my old van becomes odd man out in a field of Beemers and Mercs.

They鈥檙e a varied lot. Some we recognise, even, though not from personal acquaintance. Two are definitely tech moguls, keen on private rocket launches and owning websites that have become common verbs. A couple of TV science bods, next, and an actor best known for belonging to a religion that believes aliens will cleanse your chakras if you pay them enough. Some others we don鈥檛 know, and it鈥檚 one of those I find in the cicada room before the set, while Doug and Alana supervise Mountjoy鈥檚 tech team for the outdoor setup. She鈥檚 a woman about my age and she looks like a university lecturer, which is exactly what she is.

鈥淭his is where you guys do your thing, right?鈥� I say, to break the ice. I wonder if they wear robes and cicada masks while deciding to hire obscure music acts for their parties.

鈥淒octor Bakirtzis.鈥� She sticks out a hand. 鈥淗elen.鈥� And I respond, 鈥淧ete Matelot鈥� and she has no idea who I am. Given she鈥檚 come for a special command performance of the band I make up a third of, that sends out warning signals.

鈥淚 consider myself here as an observer from the other side,鈥� she tells me, and I nod wisely. She鈥檚 up by the bust of Fermi. Apparently, he had a paradox, or that鈥檚 what Wikipedia says.

鈥淢y favoured explanation is that they really are out there,鈥� she says, when I bring that up. 鈥淭he universe is too big for us to be alone in it. Only it鈥檚 a dangerous universe, Mr Matelot. Especially if we鈥檙e not alone. Anyone who manages to survive long enough stops shouting out 鈥楬ere I am鈥� and finds a way to hide. Tucks themselves out of sight and communicates on channels nobody would think to listen in on. What do you think?鈥�

鈥淚t all had to be perfect. We spent months recording it and nobody listened to it all the way through鈥�

I think I am out of my depth. I鈥檓 only the bloke who plays the keyboard. 鈥淪o not a fan, then?鈥� I manage, tipping my head towards the stage set-up we can see out the window.

鈥淎h yes, the band,鈥� she says coolly. 鈥淗as Mountjoy explained to you what he鈥檚 trying to achieve here?鈥�

鈥淒octor,鈥� I say, heartfelt, 鈥渨e are Cosmic String and there is no way in the whole history of the universe that we will ever achieve anything.鈥�

鈥淢aybe it鈥檚 best if you鈥檙e right.鈥� And she seems very serious. And it鈥檚 not as though I鈥檓 unused to being the most clueless man in the room, but still.

And Doug鈥檚 all manic energy, when I get backstage, outside. Just like when he was working on the album. Alana gives me a look which says Deal with him, which usually means that he鈥檚 off his head right before we need to go on. Right now the only thing Doug鈥檚 high on is Doug.

鈥淭he audience, man,鈥� he says. His fingers are twitching like spiders on their ninth coffee.

I agree that Mountjoy鈥檚 private guest list is a bigger house than we鈥檝e played in years. That鈥檚 not what he means, though.

鈥淚t鈥檚 like the whole universe, my people. Cosmic strings,鈥� Doug says. Alana rolls her eyes, but we鈥檙e getting Full-on Doug and he鈥檚 not stopping any time soon. 鈥淵ou never felt like you were calling out to all of creation?鈥� he asks us. 鈥淎ll my life I鈥檝e heard them singing back, right at the edge of my ears. 鈥楥ept that one time in the States, when they were loud and clear.鈥� Meaning the mescaline. 鈥淟ike nothing else ever sang. Like music never was. But I got it, my peoples. I wrote it down in here,鈥� nearly poking his own eye out. 鈥淵ou never thought you had a destiny, man?鈥�

鈥淛ust play keyboards, me.鈥� I look to Alana. 鈥淢ountjoy hear him like this?鈥�

鈥淢ountjoy came in here and fired him up,鈥� she says. 鈥淎ll plucking the universal strings and frequencies and time signatures. All about contacting the other. How they鈥檙e out there. Like him and his posh mates are part of a cult or something.鈥�

鈥淭he other,鈥� I echo. 鈥淟ike鈥� aliens? He knows in space no one can hear you jam, right?鈥�

鈥淐osmic strings, man,鈥� Doug mumbles. 鈥淩eal big, but real small. Li鈥檒 loops of them everywhere. Just need to pluck them right.鈥� He mimes his guitar, currently sitting on its rest out on stage. 鈥淯niverse is your sounding board, they hear you just fine in space.鈥�

And then it鈥檚 time.

As we鈥檙e going out, I squint at those people out there, the tech giants and the celebrities and the scientists. They all have their nice seats and their nice sandwiches and they don鈥檛 look like a cult. But there鈥檚 a dreadful intensity about the way they look at the three of us. They nod to each other and brace themselves, all done up in black tie and gowns as if they鈥檙e at a reception just waiting for the ambassador. And behind them鈥檚 the perfect curve of Mountjoy鈥檚 new-built mansion, the back wall of our amphitheatre that鈥檚 going to catch and project every sound we bang out.

We start the first awkward, jumpy rhythms that nobody else plays, the difficult times and carefully irregular rhythms. The dreams that Clawhammer Dougie Jones had on tour, where he heard the hidden voice of the universe.

By the second song I find my form and steal glances at what鈥檚 going on around us. The audience isn鈥檛 enjoying so much as enduring the music. They鈥檙e not really looking at us. They鈥檙e looking past us into that big night sky the curve of the house is throwing all our sound into. My vision keeps blurring and jumping as though the world鈥檚 vibrating in 19/8 time. There鈥檚 stuff moving at the edge of my vision, crowding in from a weird axis I never thought about, like height, depth and breadth had a bastard sibling they hid away in the cellar until now.

And Doug鈥檚 smiling like a martyred saint, as though it鈥檚 him, and not all of them, who knows what鈥檚 going on. And out there they鈥檙e all waiting, the self-appointed elite waiting for the inestimable privilege of first human contact with the other.

The thing is, let鈥檚 say Mountjoy is right, and there are things out there that speak to each other using a weirdass rhythm and frequency and whatnot that nothing else in the universe operates on. I think of those noisy cicadas, which went to such lengths not to be jumped by their enemies. And if you were some alien which really, really needed to sing to the universe, but at the same time absolutely didn鈥檛 want any other species to hear you, just how happy would you be if some clapped out 90鈥檚 electro band began broadcasting on your wavelength from a specially designed amphitheatre that was just maybe interacting with the vibrating strings of the universe.

鈥淢y vision keeps blurring and jumping as though the world鈥檚 vibrating in 19/8 time鈥�

And if the cosmic strings are all around us, then just maybe so are they.

The crowd鈥檚 gone still now 鈥� I鈥檇 say quiet, but Doug鈥檚 jumpy, skittering compositions are all I can hear. And that鈥檚 a good thing, I decide. And it鈥檚 a good thing that whatever everyone鈥檚 staring at, so aghast, is behind us, because I don鈥檛 want to have to see it. I crank up the volume on the amps, because right now a part of the universe really is singing back at us to the rhythm of those disjointed time signatures, and it isn鈥檛 happy that we鈥檝e crashed its cosmic party.

I see overturned chairs and expensive shoes heading for Beemers and Mercs they鈥檙e never going to reach. Mountjoy鈥檚 round face melts like candlewax. A flickering shadows everything there is, like insect wings, and all of it beating to that damnable jumpy time signature. And we keep playing the set, and we鈥檒l play it 10 times in a row if we have to, because just maybe that鈥檒l be camouflage enough to make them think we鈥檙e theirs, rather than this reckless humanity that鈥檚 gone and poked their hidden hornet鈥檚 nest. And Doug鈥檚 face is the blissful sky-turned mask of the prophet whose apocalyptic time has finally come.