"I don't do ballads."  Black lined blue eyes regarded me with insolence from beneath a mess of red and black spikes. 

"I'm sorry..?"  It was the only reply I could think of.  Chris ran one black-nailed hand through his neon spiked hair.  Chris Cheney, lead singer/guitarist/songwriter of alternative rockabilly act The Living End. 

We'd arranged to meet at noon (he didn't get up early).  He arrived at two (apparently he's bad with times).  No apologies.  No explanations.  He just sauntered into my apartment, put his battered combat boots up on my coffee table and spouted those immortal words.  He doesn't do ballads?  Well I don't do *this*. 

"What's your problem?"  I let some of rapidly mounting anger put an edge to my voice - a warning. 

"No slow stuff.  No pop. No soul. No fucken adult contemporary shit! I don't do that gear, so you can just fuck that off now." 

"We're writing this song *together*." 

"I know, Hayes.  That's why I'm laying down the ground rules *now*." 

//Ground rules?!?// 

I opened my mouth, but caught the scathing remark before it left my lips.  I had to keep myself in check.  As difficult as Chris Cheney would be to work with, there was a lot riding on this combined effort.  I was under suffocating pressure from management: make this work or be in breach of contract.  One song or my career? Easy. I swallowed a little more pride and struggled for civility. 

"What were you thinking then?" 

He glanced up then, a little taken aback, no smart-arse remark at the ready.  Guess he was expecting a bit more resistance.  Then his jaw set and he assumed his prior persona, snatched up a battered guitar case and unzipped it.  The guitar he drew out had seen better days.  A two-tone green Gretsch, the face of which resembled a kid's skateboard.  Stickers, scratches, scrawled autographs and paint chipped back to reveal bare wood.  Daniel would freak.  I'd never seen an instrument so defaced - it was almost blasphemous. 

Chris dug into the pocket of his denim (denim?!?) jacket for a pick and began to play.  Hard.  Fast.  Something loud and punk and at break-neck speed.  It was rough.  It was rank. 

It was completely inappropriate. 

"Alright that's enough."  I had to raise my voice to be heard over the furious finger-plucking of what sounded suspiciously like the Lone Ranger Theme.  "You can drop the act, Cheney." 

He peered up at me, one eyebrow cocked above eyes full of questions. 

"I know what you're up to."  I told him point blank. 

"What are you on Hayes, I'm just-" 

"Fucking shut up Cheney - I know what you're trying to do!" 

That stopped him.  He didn't exactly relent, but he did stop talking for a moment. 

"You don't want to write this song with me, but you're too chicken-shit to tell that to your management."  I hissed, "So you figure if you piss me off, I'll have a hissy-fit, tell you to shove it and you can run back to management and blame it all on the spoiled prima donna pop star." 

I fixed my gaze on him, hands on hips, starting to feel a bit like the prima donna I'd just described.  He didn't say a word.  I took that as an affirmative. 

"Well I'm not blowing my career over one song you don't wanna write - so you can forget this plan, Cheney, and think of something else." 

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.  Then he reverted to the two all purpose words that served as an answer to any question too difficult for Mr Cheney. 

"Fuck you, Hayes." 

He snatched up his guitar case and headed for the door.  A few quick strides and I caught him at the doorway, slamming the door closed just as he'd gotten it open a few centimetres, blocking his exit with my body. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded.  I was suddenly aware of our close proximity, we were standing so close I could feel his breath on my face when he spoke.  I stood my ground, whipping out my key and deadlocking the front door, tucking the key into the back pocket of my black jeans. 

"You're not leaving til we talk this out, Cheney, so you'd better get comfortable." 

I could see his mind ticking over.  Should he go for the key?  That would mean getting physical.  I didn't think he'd want that.  He glanced at the locked door, then at me, looking trapped.  Looking like he wanted to break something.  Like my face.  Finally, he stepped back, eyes shooting daggers.  He stalked back to the couch, fairly sizzling with tightly reined rage.  He dropped back onto the couch, swung his feet back onto the coffee table with enough force to leave a mark, venomous look making it clear he wasn't gonna remove them. 

Determined not to let him get to me (well, not any further than he already had) I settled in a chair facing him, hands clasped, my expression as open as I could muster. 

"Now, why are you..." I really wanted to say "being such a shit" but figured that would be counter-productive, "...so against co-writing with me?" 

He eyeballed me, foot jiggling on the coffee table, a seething mass of frustration and nervous energy.  I simply raised an eyebrow and returned his gaze, holding it til he finally gave in and spoke. 

"Look, our styles just don't go together, I'm punk, you're... pop," He said the word "pop" as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "It isn't gonna work." 

"That's bullshit, Cheney.  Musicians mix styles all the time, it's worked before and it'd work again if you'd give it a chance." 

"Yeah, well maybe I just don't wanna."  He was acting like five year old now, left with no option but sulky dismissal. 

"Or maybe you're just shit-scared of losing face."  Something flickered in those blues for a second, he tried to cover it up, but I'd already seen it. 

"That's it, isn't it?" I pressed.  "You think your precious fans are gonna think you've crossed over, and drop you." 

He wouldn't look at me, contemplating a black-lacquered thumbnail with sudden and intense interest.  He was *really* starting to annoy me.  

"Cheney."  I prodded. No response. 

"Chris."  He continued to ignore me.  Annoying prick.  I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand out of the way so he'd have to stop staring at it.  At the moment of contact he stiffened, immediately looking at me, whipping his other hand up as if he was gonna hit me.  I froze, genuinely scared. //Nice move, Hayes, way to get the man on side.// 

Chris hesitated a moment, then lowered his hand, wrenched his arm from my grip and stood up, pacing the floor with obvious frustration. 

"It's fine for you - innit?" He accused "You score a bit of cred, maybe some play on the indie stations - what the fuck do I get?  The guys who like my kinda music *hate* your kinda music. Get it?  So if this song is some fucken triple-platinum hit - I lose, and if dies in the arse - I lose.  Either way I crash and burn." 

Shit.  He was really scared.  I didn't know what to say.  I just gaped at him for a second, letting it sink in.  He considered me a threat to his career. Unbelievable. 

"That's worst-case scenario and you know it."  I piped up finally.  He just glared at me. //Come on Hayes, you can do better than that.// 

"Oh quit it with the dramatics, Cheney, you know if this was a real risk for either of us, management wouldn't be pushing it so hard.  This is merely an opportunity for us to expand our respective audiences."  I couldn't help reciting the line management had been feeding me since they hatched this hare-brained scheme.  Chris continued with that disbelieving stare. "Besides, it isn't like either of us is getting out of this, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we'll get this over with."  I gave him a look that dared him to argue. 

He hadn't moved since I'd started talking, like he was frozen in stone, but I could see the internal battle he was waging.  Continue to resist - or accept his fate?  I decided to push the latter. 

"You know if we strike the right balance with this song, we can keep everyone happy."  I offered as I settled back on the lounge, indicating with a glance that I wanted him to take his seat again.  He sighed, cocking his spikey head and I could tell the battle was won, but not without casualties. 

"Fine." He muttered, finally, raking a hand through his two-tone hair.  Dropped the guitar case and kicked back on the couch again, and at that moment a glimmer of cameraderie vibrated between us, the kind that unites school kids at detention, two people doing something together because they had to, not because they wanted to do. 

"But what I said before 'bout that pop shit still goes." 

And with that, the illusion was shattered.