The dim light in Xavier’s garage illuminated five old friends with more hardware in their joints than in their instrument cases — ready to chase the ghost of their high school years.

After 50 years, the “Garage Goons” rock band was back, though “The Hip Replacements” had won the vote for their new name.

Xavier, clutching his vintage Gibson like a holy relic, looked at his crew. There was Bill, whose hearing aids were whistling a high-pitched duet with the amps; Charlie, who had traded his leather jacket for a sensible beige cardigan; Monica, still rocking purple streaks in her hair; and Eleanor, who sat behind the drums looking like she was ready to knit a sweater or commit a felony.

“All right,” Xavier croaked, adjusting his bifocals. “We do ‘Born to be Wild.’ Just like the 1974 talent show.”

“I can’t do the high notes, Xav,” Bill whined. “My prostate won’t allow the straining.”

“Just play, Bill!” Monica snapped, plugging in her bass. She was the only one who had actually practised, having spent the last three decades playing along to jazz records to drown out her husband’s snoring.

They exploded into a sound like a construction site falling down a flight of stairs. Xavier’s fingers, stiffened by years of accounting, fumbled the opening riff into something resembling a dying cat. Bill, confused by the feedback, began playing the melody to “Moon River.”

“Stop! Stop!” Monica yelled. “Charlie, you’re three beats behind.”

Charlie looked up from his keyboard, blinking.

“I thought we were doing a slow build? It’s very avant-garde.”

“It’s very terrible,” Eleanor countered. “But my God, I felt my heart rate hit 90 for a second. I haven’t felt this alive since the pharmacy had a two-for-one sale on vitamin D.”

They tried again. This time, a spark of the old magic ignited. Xavier found the groove, his wrist loosening up as the muscle memory of a thousand teenage garage sessions kicked in. Monica’s bass line locked into Eleanor’s kick drum. For a glorious 45 seconds, they weren’t retirees with various prescriptions; they were the kings and queens of Suburbia.

Then, disaster struck.

Xavier attempted a classic rock ’n’ roll power slide. His knees, however, had signed a non-aggression pact with the floor years ago. He hit the concrete with a sound like a bag of dry pasta breaking. Simultaneously, Bill’s dentures, loosened by a particularly vigorous “Get your motor runnin’,” flew across the garage and lodged themselves in Charlie’s sheet music.

“Xav? You dead?” Eleanor asked, peering over her snare.

“I’m fine,” Xavier groaned from the floor, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’ve discovered a new chord: ‘The Lumbar Strain Minor.’”

“If we ever take this band on the road, one of our roadies must be a chiropractor,” said Eleanor.

“We’re a bit rusty,” Bill admitted, clicking his teeth back into place.

“Rusty?” Monica laughed. “We’re corrosive. But did you hear that bridge? We actually sounded like a band for a minute.”

“We sounded like a riot at a nursing home,” Eleanor corrected, though she was smiling. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Only if we finish by 4 p.m.,” Charlie said. “I can’t miss the early bird special at the diner. And someone bring more ibuprofen.”

In the ensuing weeks, as they practised, various grandkids wandered in, curious about the raucous noise. Most fled, hands clasped over their ears. One boy, just shy of becoming a teenager, opined that their name was wrong.

“Instead of The Hip Replacements, you should call yourselves The Drooling Aliens. Y’know, like Kodos and Kang from The Simpsons.”

The soon-to-be-disinherited brat was summarily banished from the garage.

© Peterborough Examiner