Emerald City

by Chris Nickson

  They were so young, barely legal drinking age, with thick mops of hair, and so eager and happy to be onstage that they seemed to bounce as they sang. They brought out everything I’d always loved about pop music, as if they’d just heard Big Star and been inspired to start playing. In a better world they’d be breakout big. In this world, I wanted to write about them.

  There’s something happening here, I began, and what it is is very clear. The Posies have created a delicious debut dish that’s one part Big Star, two parts power pop, and three parts British Invasion, then added their own secret herbs and spices...

  It took over an hour to shape it properly, changing words, chopping them, starting over then deciding I was wrong, but finally I had something I could live with, not perfect but as close as I was likely to come today. I’d carefully avoided the Seattle tag; it was starting to take on too many connotations, and that was a shame. The truth was that the city was a broad musical church and there was plenty of room for the Young Fresh Fellows, the Fastbacks, the Walkabouts and the metal bands next to the Soundgardens, Mudhoneys and the Mother Love Bones who looked set to break big. Who wanted to keep eating the same thing when there was a full menu?

  The Seattle music scene was really a little secret village that existed within the city. That was part of its beauty. Even inside this town, locked in by water to one side and the mountains on the other, you could feel like an outsider. The music tradition went back to the days of jazz on Jackson Street in the 1940s, when Quincy Jones and Ray Charles were playing together in the Cotton Club, through the Wailers at Spanish Castle in the 1950s with a teenage Jimi Hendrix following them around hoping to sit in, all the way down to now when you could go to the Central in Pioneer Square on a Saturday night, pay five bucks and hear some music that refused to conform. They were all sounds forged in the rain and the moss up here, the place I knew so well, where I’d grown up. I was proud of it, proud of my hometown and the Northwest. Maybe that was why I felt it in my soul and it moved me the way nothing else ever had.

  I turned to the other review, one I’d been dreading, for a singer-songwriter who’d opened for Steve’s band at a gig. Someone had told her I was a music journalist and she’d given me her tape then kept pestering to ask when I was going to write about it, saying that as a woman I should be supportive. I hated that kind of thing. Good was good and bad didn’t need the column inches. I cobbled something together, a patchwork of neutral phrases that looked good but meant nothing.

  Then, finally, I typed up my notes for the Craig Adler story, transcribing the interview with his neighbor, the encounters with Mike and Warren, and I understood just how little I had.

  Everyone said Craig hadn’t used heroin in months. Yet he’d died from an overdose. He’d bought it somewhere and put a needle in his arm when his band was all set to sign a good record deal. Had he suddenly decided to use some smack that night? Or had someone used the heroin to murder him? Until the threat, I’d believed it was just a sad accident. Now I had to keep digging until I found the truth. I sat back and thought, chewing on a strand of hair; it was a habit I’d kept since childhood, and one of the reasons I didn’t cut my hair.

  The only one who might have any sort of answer was Sandy. All I could do was hope she’d call me. Without her I didn’t have much of a story at all. And it was a story. The phone message underlined that.

  I’d just finished by the time Steve came home, the warm smell of dish detergent on his skin. He gave me one of the goofy smiles that he could do so well, all teeth and eyes, then one of the long kisses that always melted my heart, a reminder that he really did feel a deep passion for me. When he wanted, Steve could be deliciously sensual. And he was kind in a natural way that none of my other boyfriends had ever managed, thoughtful and sweet. He cared. He stroked my hair before flopping on to the couch with a beer, boots resting on the table, then took a drink and sighed.

  “Busy day?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “One of the machines went down so we were really hassled the whole shift.” He looked at me with concern. “What about you? What did Rob say about the message?”

  “I’m staying on the story,” I told him. “That threat means someone killed Craig.”

  “I know. I kept hearing that voice all day.”

  “Yeah, I know. Me too.” The words had traveled through my head more times than I could count, too, as I tried to make any possible sense of them. “I saw Mike and Warren. They were pretty broken up about it all.” I thought for a moment. “I guess a little bitter, too, like Craig’s death just cheated them out of their fame and money.”

  “Did you tell them someone had murdered him?”

  “No. I’m not saying anything about that until I know more.”

  “Those guys were tight.” He swung his feet back to the floor and sat forward, his eyes intent and intelligent, hair flopping around his face. “And without them it would have sounded pretty ordinary, you know. They were the ones who put the bite in it. You remember Killer Days? That’s the one with the riff in a really odd time signature.”

  “Yeah.” I could recall it. I didn’t think it was the best thing they’d done but it was still a good song, a downward spiral of a piece that exploded at the end. Every time they played it on stage the audience went wild.

  “Craig wrote that a couple of years back. I remember he played it once when a bunch of us were over at his place for a party,” Steve continued. “It was okay, but nothing special. It was Tony who came up with the riff and Warren who suggested the way to do it.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said with interest. I’d always assumed that Craig had been the driving force and that the others had been mostly interchangeable.

  “You’ve got to give them credit.” He stretched out lazily. “Anyway, what’s for dinner?”

  I glared at him until he held up his hands in apology, then said, “Just pizza.”

  I put it in the oven to cook and cleaned up the table where I’d been working. I felt as if I’d been running fast for the last couple of days, dashing from person to person only to hear the same words over and over again.

  We lazed around until eight-thirty, and I went to get ready for the show. A few years ago I’d have put on crazy makeup, somewhere between glam Bowie and Adam Ant. I’d toned it down since I hit my thirties, just some purple sparkly eye shadow and bright red lipstick. I spent a few minutes with hairspray and a comb, ratting my hair up, then stood back and looked in the mirror. Not too bad. There were lines around my eyes and mouth, but I’d earned them and I wasn’t going to hide them. An old CBGB t-shirt, black jeans that were washed out and tight, and heavy biker boots. To finish it off I put on a leather jacket with SEXUAL ANARCHY in a faded scrawl on the back. I’d found it sitting on top of a garbage can back in ’83 when I was walking to a gig, as if it had been waiting for me. The lining was torn but I’d mended it carefully with a needle and thread. The words brought comments and offers but it only took a dark, enigmatic smile to shut most people up.

  By nine-thirty we were at the Vogue, drinking Rolling Rock and saying hi to familiar faces, Scotty, Anne, Dave, Jane, the people who liked to hang out. A couple of girls in leather looked hungrily at Steve, then let their eyes pass quickly over me, so I grabbed him and gave him a long, deep kiss as they watched, just to piss them off. I loved this place. It was where the freaks came out at night, where Goth, fetish wear and anything went as long as it was black. I remembered when it had been called WREX, part of the small circuit of punk clubs dotted around downtown. Since those days it had developed its own identity, not quite gay, not quite straight, but past all that, pumping out dance music that let the Sisters of Mercy and Madonna slink side by side. On Tuesdays, though, it kept a grip on its past with live music. And tonight it was Jayne County.

  Jayne was special, a living rock’n’roll fairytale. Once upon a long time ago, a good Southern boy who called himself Wayne County had gotten the hell out of the Bible belt and headed for the gay beacon of New Yo
rk. He put out a few singles and made a very minor name for himself. Now, just like the Lou Reed song come to strutting, breathing, trash-talking life, he was a she named Jayne. Still putting out records that only a few people bought and touring around the country.

  Jayne didn’t have her own band. Instead she used musicians from whatever city she was in, blithely expecting them to know the material. Tonight there were a couple of members of the Fastbacks behind her, along with Mike on drums. No one expected anything good, we were all just here for the fun of the occasion.

  The musicians tuned up and waited. Mike looked as if he’d rather be anywhere right now than on a stage. They waited expectantly, looking at each other until Jayne finally bounced into view in a slashed dress and torn hose. Everyone cheered and the first chords of If You Don’t Want to Fuck Me, Baby, Fuck Off filled the air.

  It was great ramshackle Southern camp and we ate it up like honey. She was funny, she was crude, and no one cared if she wasn’t too great or that the band missed cues and hit bum notes. It was fun, like a spontaneous party to celebrate midweek. A short set, two encores and with a “Thank y’all,” she was gone and we poured out into the night.

  The air had turned colder, more like a real Seattle spring, with a wind off the Sound that bit lightly against my face and the hint of rain in the air. We walked quickly back to the car.

  “What did you think?” I asked.

  “It was good.” Steve laughed and took my hand as we walked. “I kind of expected she’d be crappy, but I loved it. She doesn’t take herself seriously.”

  We drove home with the heater cranked. In the apartment I closed the drapes as Steve grabbed a shower. I glanced over at the answering machine. No new messages. Thank God.

  Seven

  “I need to sleep.” Steve nuzzled against me as I looked out into the night, lips rubbing against that sweet spot on the back of my neck. “Are you coming to bed?”

  “In a little while.” I was still buzzed from the music, my ears ringing, the adrenaline of a good gig rushing through me. It’d be a while before I could rest. Above it all, though, I could still hear the voice from the message, running as if it was on a loop. “I’m going to have another beer first.”

  “Okay.” He smiled and kissed me. “I love you.” Like most guys I’d known he didn’t say it often, he didn’t believe he needed to, that we both already knew it, and I could always see it in his eyes.

  Alone, I popped the top off a Rainier and stood by the sliding glass doors. On the hill above the other side of Lake Union the lights of St Mark’s cathedral twinkled. All the towers downtown were aglow, climbing tall up to the sky. Someone out there was threatening me and it scared me, made me feel weak and little and all the things I believed I’d managed to leave behind.

  It was late when I finally found more than a few minutes sleep, and gray light was streaming in by the time I woke. Steve had gone to work, leaving his empty cup sitting on the table. I was still groggy. The clock on the stove read ten after nine; the rush hour was past, people were already bright and alive and at work.

  I made more coffee and sat drinking it as I thumbed through the morning paper. There was nothing else on Craig. The bad thoughts that had kept me awake had vanished with daylight. I was strong again, back to the real me.

  I showered and dressed, folded up my completed reviews and set off for downtown. There was a chill in the air, and a misting rain so light it barely felt wet, enough for a jacket over my t-shirt and plaid shirt.

  The elevators were sliding up and down the Space Needle and the tourists would be falling in love with the views from the observation deck. The day was too cloudy to make out Mount Rainier or the Cascades but there was still plenty to impress. Where else could you start to drive down a hill and look out across the water to the peninsula on the other side, or glance up and see the noble white face of a mountain on the horizon?

  Down in the lobby of The Rocket building I picked up the new issue and thumbed through it quickly, seeing what work of mine was in there. A short interview, three reviews and a show preview about Terry Lee Hale and Gary Heffern at the Five-O. Not too bad.

  I climbed the stairs and entered the office. After all the frantic activity of production earlier in the week it seemed calm, almost lazy. Someone in the art office was playing the Deep Six compilation, the U-Men blasting a soupy mess of sound through the place. I used the photocopier then knocked on the frame of Rob’s open office door.

  “Hey,” he said. “I was going to call you this morning, see if anything else had happened. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” I wasn’t about to start discussing the worries and the fears. Over the years I’d learned to keep a wall built against some things. As I’d walked into town something had come to me. “How do you get heroin in this city?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “My cousin’s a cop. He’ll be able to tell me and come up with a couple of names. People who’ll talk to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, gladdened by his offer. Rob was a good editor, he loved music, but I’d never seen the serious journalist side of him before this. He ran a hand through his hair.

  “What about the phone message?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. I’d listened to it again before leaving the apartment. “There was nothing to show a break-in at Craig’s on the police report, nothing disturbed. The autopsy doesn’t mention anything about bruising or force. If someone really did kill him then he’s hidden it very well. On the face of it, it’s nothing more than a former junkie overdosing.”

  “Keep digging.”

  “I’m going to,” I told him with a smile. “We went down to see Jayne County last night,” I said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah? How was it?”

  “Pretty much what you’d expect. Fun. Raunchy, all over the place.”

  “Want to review it?”

  “Sure,” I answered. I hadn’t been angling for the extra work but I wouldn’t turn down a few more dollars.

  “I left some stuff in your pigeonhole, too. See if there’s anything you want to cover.”

  “Okay.” I stood up.

  As I reached the door, he said, “I’ll call you later with the information. And like the man says, be careful out there.”

  “Yes, Sarge.” I grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m keeping my eyes open.”

  “Go on, I’ll talk to you later.” I raised my hand in farewell as I walked away.

  The mist had turned into a light drizzle, nothing to worry someone who’d grown up in a place where people didn’t die, they rusted. I headed back along Fifth Avenue. The monorail passed in a brief whoosh of noise, heading out to Seattle Center. I stopped at the Five Point, finally ready for a real breakfast and a couple of cups of coffee before going back to work.

  By the time I’d made it to Tower Records I was ready for another break. Carla was in a lull at the espresso cart so I stopped to talk to her. She had a light jacket over her sweater and a Seahawks cap trying to keep her hair dry.

  “You having any luck with the story on Craig?” she asked.

  “I’ve talked to a few people.” I wasn’t prepared to tell her about the message.

  “You should talk to me.”

  “About what he was like in high school?”

  “Yeah,” she replied with a mischievous grin.

  “That’s not a bad idea. And you knew him here, too.”

  “Not as well as I did back then,” Carla admitted. “But I still saw him.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” I said. “You want to come by the apartment when you finish?”

  Rob had been busy. By the time I arrived home he’d left me a message. He’d called his cousin, who would try to come up with the names of a few dealers who might talk. He also passed on the name and number of someone who could give me some background about the drug. I knew nothing about injecting or snorting. I’d only ever smoked weed, and I’d given that up as the local strains grew stronger and stron
ger.

  And there was someone else I could turn to. I took my address book off the shelf, thumbed through and dialed a number.

  “Central library. This is Monica.”

  She was the information lady, the one who took the calls and found the answers people needed. I’d gotten to know her a little over the last few years, her East Coast accent slowly fading out here in the rain. Monica was brisk and efficient, and I was in awe of the way she knew where to look for things. She’d never failed me and I didn’t think she ever would. I’d gone to the downtown library to meet her a couple times, taking thank-you gifts of coffee and chocolate. She’d turned out to be a plump, charming woman in her early forties, with sharp eyes and a very playful sense of humor.

  “Hey, Monica, it’s Laura Benton.”

  “Hi, sweetie, I was just thinking about you the other day. Someone had a music question. How have you been?”

  “Not bad,” I said. “What about you? How are the kids?” She was married with two teenage boys who were full of hormones and growing too fast.

  “I swear the house permanently smells of testosterone,” she laughed. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to know about heroin addiction.”

  “Okay.” She drew the word out slowly. “I hope you’re not thinking of...”

  “Not me.” I grinned as I replied. She had that effect on me. “It’s for a piece I’m writing.”

  “Let me look and I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  I decided to spend the time on some paying work, typing up the Jayne County review and listening to some of the new albums that had arrived in the mail. Most of it was dross, to go on to the sale pile to take down to Park Avenue Records. They’d have a few things I wanted for my collection, but mostly I sold them for cash. And all tax free.

  It took all of fifteen minutes for the phone to ring, then Monica was reeling off facts about heroin addiction. I made notes, picturing her with a stack of books in front of her, moving from one to the next.