by P G Loiselle
We changed topics and carried on conversing. The entire time Amy and I were together, I had shed my tiredness and felt human again. Once we parted and went back to work, I hit a wall again. Thankfully, Carney was nowhere to be seen. My bet was that his so-called afternoon meetings took place at the Foxy Lady, the best strip joint around, while he feasted on Legs and Eggs and dished out bills for lap dances. Rhode Island is small, and there’ve been many eyewitness accounts from trusty sources verifying his frequent, almost religious visits to that institution. With a little luck, I thought, he’d be gone for the day and wouldn’t show up to the three o’clock grill session he threatened me with.
At five of three, I made my way through the maze of cubicles, passing by a row of tacky wall hangings before turning down the long hall to Carney’s office. My breathing was erratic, and I braced myself for whatever psychological torture he might attempt to inflict on me. Prior to entering his office, I noticed the glass doors at the end of the corridor fall shut and could see the backs of numerous suits casually fleeing the premises. Before I could even knock, Carney spilled out of his office holding one side of his head.
“My ear, my ear,” he screamed.
Crimson droplets rolled down the hand pushing against his skull and trickled off his wrist onto the carpet. He kept up the yowling until others in the building caught wind of the commotion and filed in behind me. He bounced off walls and darted off in all directions, searching. Nobody dared interrupt the guy on his quest or tried to help. He tripped along down the corridor with his left arm outstretched looking pathetic. His body gyrated from side-to-side as if an eye was embedded into his extended palm, and it was scanning the rug for the target. You could see blood gushing from behind his right hand where his ear should have been. He howled and yelped intermittently about his missing body part. Right before the exit, his legs seemed to have given way, and he dropped to the floor. There it was, a fleshy appendage, presumably his ear, lying in a small pool of coagulating plasma. He snatched the flap of skin covered cartilage, beheld it for a moment and pressed it to the strands of raw tissue on the side of his cranium. Without even acknowledging the gathering crowd, he slipped out the same glass door the suits used and ran away.
After that scene, everyone’s workday was over. Those who had witnessed the event were stymied. Nobody could even comprehend what had happened with Big Boss Carney or why. It was too bizarre. People clumped into groups and shared their interpretations of the incident. Others had disseminated throughout the office space to broadcast the news. Amy was nowhere to be found. I punched out as soon as possible and trucked it home, not wanting to be more involved than necessary.
The next day, Carney was out, but a slew of wacky rumors about his ear had spread amongst the employees. None of them included evil men in suits. Carney’s official story, which he claimed today in an inter-office memo, was that he was bitten by a dog. Not one person I talked to believed it. Amy had no opinion and didn’t seem interested. What happened didn’t matter to me either, and I was happy not to have been preached to about the company’s tax problems. I’m sure Carney’s not finished with me. He’ll never be.
Friday, June 19, 1987
For a good part of my life, falling asleep was cake. I’d be out only minutes after retreating under my sheets. At some point, though, it all started getting to me: the monotony of the job, the needless hassles of everyday life, the promises that only lead to dead ends, and the slow realization that I probably won’t become one of the chosen few, destined to live the best of my days in the limelight. Now, I’m afraid it’s not even all that anymore. It’s simply the anticipation of a sleepless Sunday and a worthless Monday that keeps me from falling into a gentle slumber even when I’m feeling tiptop. It’s hard to say how it snuck up on me like this, but I need to find a way out, or a way out will find me.
Maybe if I capture the events as they unfold, I can regain perspective and open up to the magic of this nocturnal nectar we all seek at bedtime. If this doesn’t work, I can use the night hours to lyricize.
Ok, I’m no Robert Plant conjuring up hits like “Stairway to Heaven” at will but still think I can add something to the music world. At least our fans seem to dig my prose. They say my lyrics are universal yet unique enough to set me apart from other songwriters. It’s certainly flattering, albeit what drives me most as Four-n-Moore singer is rocking the stage with my bandmates and animating the crowd to immerse themselves into every fiber of our performance. With a mix of instrumental timbre, a compelling rhythm and my voice exciting the diaphragm of the microphone, we try to lull the spectators into whatever mood each phase of the show demands. The masses fire back with cheers if we nail it or come off lukewarm if we’re slacking. It’s a game of sorts, a challenge of mutual inspiration between us and our followers. That’s what it’s all about for me, being relevant and incendiary on a grander scale and proving it in every moment of connection: with the audience, with the band, through our songs. Any fame and fortune that might come with it only sweetens the pot.
Speaking of lyrics, I wrote this last Sunday, during the darkest hour of the night.
“Born Star”
Dancing on the inside / But I didn’t know the tune
Another forty-five and change / Another forty-five and change
The rhythm seed was planted / Just wait for it to bloom
Another forty-five and change / But it seemed so far away
Chorus:
And I knew right from the start / That I had it in my heart
I was born to be a star, born to be a star / Born to be a star
I was born / Be a star.
We’ll party on the weekend / We can party every night
Let it shine boy shine / Shine, shine, shine
Every moment I’m not living /Are the times you’ll find me dying
So let’s ride on ride / Ride, ride, ride
[Repeat Chorus]
I’m down on the floor, can you pour me some more / Cuz I can’t make my way to the bottle
I’ve wasted the day and the night just the same / But I guess it’s all part of the game
We all may fall, and we all may rise / But we all should be stars in our own eyes
We all may fall, and we all may rise / We all should be star
Come dance and feel the beat, feel it / We can set the world on fire
We’ll get high, high and higher / High, high and higher
The doors are always open / And we’ll all be shining bright
[Repeat Chorus]
I can still get there. The band’s meeting up with Jake over at Free Range Records this weekend. He’s trying to get us to sign on for one more album. The first one bombed and almost made me want to pack it in for good. The music wasn’t ours, and it cost me a fortune. This slick label guy back then insisted on bringing in some high horse producer to ‘shape the songs’, and we ended up making his record instead. Jake’s in charge now and says that this time would be different, and nobody would hamper our creativity. We’ll control production, and the studio engineers will only be there to transform our artistry into magnetic waves on stereo tracks, hopefully capable of reaching the charts. Hey, I’m twenty-four and not dead yet. If I think about the prospect of working my forty-hour week accounting job until retirement and my biggest achievement is paying off the mortgage, I might as well be six feet under already.
Sunday, June 21, 1987
Holy moly, I’m stoked. I spent the last two days mapping out my future, and it rocks. Jake wants to take us to a whole new level and is absolutely convinced we’re ready. Stevie and I played him ten of our demo tunes, and he was floored.
We arrived at his studio in the thick of the afternoon; Jake met us at the door. The producer with the golden ears is a nimble giant of a man with obscenely long fingers. He has an honest face, like John-Boy from The Waltons, and light hair, parted down the middle, reminiscent of the Golden Arches. He led us to the main live room, whi
ch is grander than in most studios and decked out with enough equipment to outfit a whole orchestra of rock-n-rollers.
“Have a seat, fellas,” he said, pointing to a couple of lounge islands brandishing guitar stands, one holding an acoustic, the other an electric plugged into a Pignose mini amplifier. “Let’s give it a listen. And make it naked, raw, without all that frosting gucking up the cake. Capiche?”
Both of us seemed hesitant as we picked up our instruments, me without a microphone, and sat down on the cushiony furniture. I counted, “one, two, three, four,” and we broke into our first number, followed by another nine unfiltered compositions. When it was over, there was only silence at first and a serious look from our audience of one. I thought we must have flopped, but then came a single clap, and another, then a third, until there was a full-blown round of solo applause resounding within that acoustically perfect room.
Jake chortled with a hint of proud satisfaction. “Luke, Steve, it’s unbelievable guys. I, I mean we can really kill with this stuff.” He spoke in his usual over the top Hollywood-like singing slur. “It’s all there, boys, and it’s rock solid. Now we only need to get it down on tape with the same feel that you guys just like wowed me with. A little polish here and there is all it needs.” I thought the polish I applied made it shine like a spotlight, but Jake could always find the tads of grime to buff out.
“You don’t think it’ll bomb like the Warrior Songs LP?” I asked. “I mean, we spent months on those songs and the record went nowhere. Almost had to pawn the ranch to finance that thing. And it’s just that…I’m not sure how many chances we have left and don’t want to blow the last one and go broke doing it.”
Stevie looked at me, surprised. “You paid for that? I thought…”
“We’ll talk about it some other time,” I said, interrupting.
“You’re right,” Jake said to me. “We spent months, and you spent buku bucks on that baby. But it was like way too overdone…like burnt to a crisp. Ouch. It didn’t even sound like the Four-n-Moore we all know and love. And what kind of name was that for an album? Warrior Songs? Gag. Those corporate geeks wanted to get it into the market to ride whatever wave was happening at the time. That wave wasn’t yours, man. That music wasn’t yours. It was theirs. And stale. And lifeless. And it showed in the sales. And really, you weren’t convinced yourselves and couldn’t convince anyone else. I got to admit, they stuck it to you, and as you know, I had no say and was busy with other bands. But hey, Free Range is independent now, and those songs you guys just cranked out, they were the real deal, authentic, absolutely from the heart, and the head, and the gut.” Jake had gone way down low for the ‘gut’ part. “Do you think that these worshippers of yours go to your concerts because they have nothing better to do? Gentlemen, they’ll follow you anywhere. And there’s a reason. You guys are real, and so is your music. And that’s what we’re going to capture sonically. It’s all there, fellas. I heard it for myself. Best of all, this time, you’ll get a non-refundable advance to fund the production, Ka-CHING.” Jake finally stopped talking and gave us a moment to let his words resonate.
After a long pause, Stevie spoke up, almost sounding bashful. “You really think it’s good?”
“Stevie, baby, the first time I laid down tracks with you, you were like fifteen. And I tell you, even back then you were sporting it. But both of you and the rest of the band have fully blossomed and are about to peak. The songs. Those songs are totally solid, and the delivery today was truly monumental. This is your chance guys and you’re absolutely ready. I’m convinced. You know, we’re the top studio in a hundred-mile radius and are booked out three months in advance. You give me the go, I’ll juggle some things around, and we can kick off this project, like, pronto. It’s all about timing and you’re ready. And the world is ready too, guys. What do you say?”
Deep inside, I was super excited. I could hear it myself and saw it in the clubs. The crowds were ballooning, and the excitement seems to expand exponentially with each show. We’ve created a local buzz, and there aren’t many original Rhode Island bands that can top us. Every time we play, it’s a full house. We’ve got to extend our territory, though, or we’ll kill our mystique through non-stop gigging in the same venues.
“Jake,” I said, “let’s do it. I’m ready and you’re right. The world is our goat, and it’s time to milk it.”
That was how the conversation ended and Jake must have thought I was an idiot. The world is our goat? And Stevie, he nodded in agreement and smiled at me, fluttering his eyelashes. Maybe we’re both idiots?
We got right to work planning all the steps and didn’t forget to celebrate. Stevie and I thought it’d be a nice gesture to treat his dad because of the support he’s given us over the years; Los Campaneros, a trendy Mexican joint on the East Side of Providence seemed perfect for a fiesta del trio. There’s nothing like a burning hot chicken burrito and top shelf margaritas to round out such an amazing weekend.
We arrived fifteen minutes earlier than our reservation-time and got an ideal spot on the patio, right near the outside tiki bar. At Los Campaneros, there’s no clichéd decorations or fake Mexicans shaking your head up with cheap tequila slammers, while whistling your ears off. There’s only quality food and drink at a reasonable price. After they sat us, the waiter took our order, and we were hooked up with starters and cocktails within minutes.
Mr. Jameson reached over to touch us both. “Now Steven, Luke, you seemed so excited when you invited me here. What’s the occasion, boys?”
“We, Mr. Jameson, are about to record a new LP?”
“That’s fantastic, Luke. Record number two.” He looked over at his son. “What do you have to say about it, Steven?”
“It’s good,” he said, more interested in getting as much salsa he could on the broken chip.
“That’s my boy. Always so full of emotion.”
“Well, I’m excited,” I said. “And you know what, we’re even getting an advance. We don’t need to pay a thing.”
“Even more fantastic,” Mr. Jameson said.
Stevie took a break from his nachos and looked up at me. “What’d you mean today with ‘pawn the ranch’? Didn’t they pay for the last record too?”
“I did have to shell out a little bit, not too much. It was in the contract and all. Didn’t want to burden the band.”
“If you need any money,” Mr. Jameson said, “don’t hesitate to ask.”
“You’ve done so much already,” I said. “Not to mention co-signing for the house. We’re just fine. Hey, how’s Noodle doing?”
“Noodle’s great. Damn thing bark’s a lot, and poops all over the yard. He’s my pal though. Keeps me company in my old age.”
“Since when are you old, Dad?”
“I’m going on fifty, Steven. If that’s not old, I don’t know what is.”
I raised my margarita glass. “I say old’s a state of mind and not very rock and roll. Let’s drink to a rock and roll state of mind, shall we?” They both raised their glasses with me.
“Here’s to rock and roll,” Mr. Jameson said and chuckled. “A shake and a rattle for the King too. Tallyho and clink-clink.” We all downed the rest of our salted cocktails, and as the last drop trickled out of my glass, the waitstaff moved in with platters full of South of the Border goodness. Arriba.
Monday, June 22, 1987
Reels of cognitive celluloid spin inside my gray matter. Synapses, on edge, fire up countless versions of my lot in life, playing out as mental shorts. Sometimes, I’m the victor coming out on top, but most times, I imagine myself in my sixties still pushing a pencil at Far Out. Or maybe broke and homeless, or stuck in a jail cell, rotting away, a scapegoat in one of Carney’s scams. When I write songs, the exact words I need to craft my own narrative materialize out of nothing, yet I’m still in control.
Last night, my words had me under control and were choki
ng any hope of ascension from my despondent state of anxiety. A no-nighter it was, one day into the next without any hint of a wink. Objectively speaking, great things seem to be on the horizon, so the mystery of why I feel so trapped baffles me. But after being awake for thirty-six hours, there’s no use in asking. I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to care anymore.
Tuesday, June 23, 1987
Two days ago, Jake from Free Range showed me the way to a new start in my recording career. Tonight, Craig, Mr. Wheeler and Dealer from the Showroom caught me off guard with more unexpected news. I was hunched over the kitchen table when he rang me.
“Luke, Luke, you sitting down, Champ?” His voice shimmered with excitement.
“I’m as down as it gets. What’s up?”
“Luke, your last gig, an absolute sensation. This guy at the show, Ronnie, from Crown Entertainment, major booking agency in Boston, was dumbstruck, not only by Four-n-Moore but by the whole scene. So much electricity in the room, from the band, from the fans, from anybody and everybody that set foot in the Showroom that night. Met him at the after-party, and he spilled his guts. I wanted to introduce you, but you were, let’s say, having too much fun, like half in the bag. He seemed to be a bigshot, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. Had his eye on you and thinks you have what it takes. You, Mr. Ringmaster, and Stevie, the ultimate guitar guru, and the other three, one huuuuge package.
“So, so, Ronnie just called and has this mega event planned at Faneuil Hall, in Boston, you know. Everything’s set to go. And check this out, Fast.Fun! is headlining and this guy Ronnie wants you on the bill as co-headliner. Five other bands and he’s prepared to move them all down a slot so you can play prime time. It’s this Saturday, and you absolutely can’t say no. What do you say, Champ?” At first, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. I wasn’t expecting news like this on a Tuesday. “Luke, you there?”
