Where's Karen

by Greg Jolley

  Uncle Tim, Israel, and Brian stood in the dark wing bobbing and nodding in time with the music. Wyde ended a lengthy Latin-influenced song and began one of the group’s few electric rockers. The instrument tech walked to Karen’s side and collected the banjo from her. She sat patiently with her hands on her knees while her bandmates started the song with colorful thudding. The tech reappeared at Karen’s side carrying her big white Gretsch. Only a focused observer would have seen the swap because she wasn’t lit. Karen adjusted the knobs and switches on the electric guitar before standing up between the drummer and the piano player. A spot crossed over her and quickly retreated. Karen didn’t appear to notice, but Uncle Tim cursed from the side of the stage.

  Kendal sang the first verse. He extended his hand out to Karen to join him for the second, and she wandered forward. He waved her toward his mic, but she moved to Jen Clair’s. Kendal shook his head and began to sing, smiling to Karen, who joined in, humming. The lighting team warmed her with an indirect gold spot that was much fainter than the one on Kendal.

  After the last verse, the band turned from the audience and played to one another. Wyde changed things up, playing the familiar notes of the bridge, led by Jen Clair on her battered Les Paul. Karen was nodding and accenting. The drummer found a different tact. The song picked up pace and expanded around the melody.

  Uncle Tim, Israel, and Brian watched Karen do the unexpected. She begun to solo, which was the norm, but she was strolling to the front of the stage. The band members turned, played, and watched her at the same time, looking bemused. They were calling to her, encouraging her. Karen was looking down at her right hand to her bare fingers picking and pushing. During a sustained note, she changed the rhythm switch to lead. The pitch of her playing turned to a crying cluster of notes. Karen continued to solo, swinging her hips and shoulders back and forth, sweeping the guitar neck in round arcs. Her notes took on a drilling, relentless urgency. Within the next twelve bars, she had the big white Gretsch screaming.

  Wyde and those in the wings became transfixed by this new approach. The big guitar was cascading notes and departing from the song in out-of-control screeches and sustain. She was playing on the edge of beauty and madness. She stopped swinging back and forth and leaned far over the guitar. Kendal and Jen Clair moved to her sides, one step back. They were bouncing, playing, and staring at Karen and struggling to keep up with where she was taking the song.

  The audience was manic and rocking, swaying, and cheering. They went ballistic when Karen fell. The hem of her dress rose as her knee hit the planks hard.

  She didn’t seem to notice and knelt on one leg playing all the harder. Jen Clair reached to her and then gave her room. Her solo was a wall of sound, urgent and exploring with clean notes blended with flights of distortion. The orchestra pit went electric with camera flashes. Karen never looked up. The fall of her hair was draping her pale face. She continued to play.

  Israel tightened his hand on Uncle Tim’s shoulder. His good friend looked ready to bolt onto the stage. They watched Karen on one knee, her hair swinging, both of her hands playing. The spotlights couldn’t resist. They swept across and cast the pale young woman and her big white guitar in blue and white heat.

  Karen raised her eyes from her hands in the hot light. She continued playing as she stood up. She swung around to her band mates, looking like she was just then meeting them. Her right hand went to a switch on the guitar. Her volume lowered, the pitched changed, and she fitted back inside the band and the song. She, Jen Clair, and the bass player began to dance and play facing away from the audience toward the drummer and piano player. As a team, as a band, they filled out the ending of the song with colorful sparkling variations.

  The song ended. The audience was roaring, chanting, and applauding. Karen left center stage walking barefoot from the spotlight.

  The band paused and let the audience have their share. The musicians walked back and forth, shouting and smiling to one another. When the next song began, Karen remained on stage sitting on her kitchen chair, nodding in time with empty hands.

  The photograph of her bloodied pale knee below the hem of her dress became a Time magazine cover. In the image, the belly of her big guitar filled the upper half, her bone-white finger striking a note.

  “The cover title was “Passion Players”. The article focused on the rising popularity of ‘jazz-fused blues and country, with melodic exploration the purpose’. It went on about the new musical trend away from stardom in favor of color with the goal of experimenting and blending styles ‘Exploring the possibilities of stringed instruments, often beautifying melodies as well as pushing their boundaries.’ The cover photo caption was, ‘Karen Danser, multi-instrumentalist of the band Wyde’. The photo credit was Stringer.com/LeonardoDeSalvo.

  In the sixth paragraph, Karen Danser was cited as one example of artists following their muse, forming mysterious, temporary musical partnerships. ‘Musicians of great and lessor fame are sharing stages, sharing sets and recording sessions. They are blending their stringed instruments and melodic passions, occasionally sparking songs with chef-d’oeuvre quality and other times making interesting noise, at best.’

  When discussing the trend, one famous pianist was asked, “All of this jamming must be a drain on fame and income?”

  Her succinct reply, “It’s the melody, stupid.”

  The article took itself seriously, but also had some fun. A scene was described wherein the Time reporter observed a television representative approaching Karen’s manager, Israel Man, requesting an interview.

  “A talk show? With Karen?” Israel Man deadpanned. The surrounding stage crew fell about in laughter.

  Video of a kneeling, guitar-playing Karen became an overnight hit on YouTube with Karen’s torn and screaming, yet melodic notes, centered in the three-minute clip. The vignette was discussed in serious and frivolous commentary that flashed through the web. Famous musical artists were asked for their observations. Some treated the “Passion Players” article as an important sea change. Other famous musicians, in particular a few old and staid, were dismissive. Still others expressed delight and offered random and just plain weird comments.

  The closing photo in Time was a collage of different musicians with dissimilar bands and included one of Karen in a green and lilac dress, barefoot, squatting in the middle of backstage chaos playing her violin with a little boy as her audience. Photo credit: Stringer.com/LeonardoDeSalvo.

  At Wyde’s performance four days later there was a larger than usual press contingency. Israel was approached about a live, sit-down interview with Karen.

  Israel: “It isn’t going to happen.”

  Reporter: “Oh. Why?”

  Israel: “She has a throat illness.”

  Reporter: “Israel? The questions are in writing. She could type her answers.”

  Israel: “Symptoms include hand paralysis.”

  Reporter: “Hmm, can she play?”

  Israel: “Oddly enough, the malady doesn’t affect her playing. Gotta go.”

  Reporter: “Israel?”

  Israel: “Let me bring out the other members of Wyde.”

  Reporter: “Well, sure.”

  The stringer photographer received his due twenty seconds of fame and enough cash from Time magazine to fill a shoebox.

  Israel was delighted and worried. He was bouncing with excitement over the many offers to import Karen to so many other bands—at their expense. He bristled at the better-connected competing agents that started to circle like fin-flicking sharks. Karen emailed him in response to his request to expand the management team. She was good with it as long as they didn’t ask her to do anything differently. One of the tasks she begrudgingly handed off was her clothes shopping. Emma was giddy with the assignment until she was told to haunt Goodwill stores per Karen’s instructions. She asked if she could also do something with Karen’s hair. She got Israel’s quick glance of disdain and scurried off.

  For Uncle Tim, there
was relief. With the expansion of the team’s office staff, he became free to focus on the backlog of pool designs and installations. He was also pleased by the tiny office that had been set up in the RV. He took breaks from pool designing to meet with Brian a few hours each day to plan and implement the new pool maintenance side of the business. Uncle Tim trained him on some of the day-to-day company tasks and turned those chores over to him. He decided that Brian would start commuting to the company’s offices when the tour schedule allowed.

  With the management team expanding, Uncle Tim’s thoughts were stirred with the desire to go home, to his sanctuary of memories.

  Israel gave Karen a used pair of dark-as-coffee sunglasses.

  “Wear them when you’re off stage,” he suggested.

  Karen nodded and put them in the hip pocket of her flour-sack dress, where they remained.

  KAREN WAS INVITED TO make a guest appearance at a concert during the first holiday of summer, Independence Day. The amphitheater, shaped like a clamshell, faced the blue Pacific with the audience seating to the sides. There was a huge crowd on the beach, a party atmosphere in the sand.

  Backstage, the band, Paulo’s Incident, and Karen rehearsed, going through the chord changes of the verses and bridges and sketching through suggested paths for exploring.

  At the sound check, the band and Karen played through different song phases and phrasings. They were relaxed and focused as the crew at the mixing board tested levels and volumes. A stage crewmember brought out a kitchen chair and boom mic’d it for Karen, setting it per her request between the drummer and the piano player.

  Karen played dobro all night. There was heightened applause when she soloed; the knowing fans delighting in her playing, barely seen as the lighting team had their instructions. She also hummed harmony lines during three songs.

  During a cover of ‘Stormy Monday’, she and the piano player stretched out within a counterpoint; blending, hitting, and skipping the melody’s notes so the other could fill them.

  Her playing didn’t steal the show but added to it, widened it.

  The sun melted into the blue Pacific like a dab of butter. The sky turned a royal blue and the music continued into the night. During intermission, fireworks rose from a pontoon swaying in the swells back from the breaking waves.

  Karen was transfixed by the fireworks. The band members went backstage for food, drink, and a regrouping. She remained on stage on her kitchen chair, marveling at the display in the sky above. The fireworks burned bright and slowly extinguished, releasing falling trails of sparks and smoke. The brilliant explosions reflected on the waves and the black sea beyond.

  When the fireworks ended, Paulo’s Incident returned to the stage, each musician taking to their own half circle of acoustic instruments.

  Perhaps inspired by the display in the sky, their first song was a crisp, crackling instrumental played above the boom and thuds of the drums. There were ignitions of solos and shimmering counterparts.

  Karen let go with a massive spray of notes near the end of the song. The guitarist and piano player built upon it, selecting notes that led them back to the melody. The song ended with the drummer rolling a dense heartbeat across the shore to the water.

  The stage lights changed hues, and the singer announced in Karen’s direction, “She’s our sparkler.”

  There was applause for the comment, which the band acknowledged and turned away from as they began their next song.

  KAREN AND UNCLE TIM stayed in the new RV that night, parked at their motel, which had a swimming pool overlooking the ocean. Israel went off into the night with a good friend who lived nearby.

  Karen awakened Brian at dawn. She was sitting with her legs in the pool, kicking waves to his air mattress. He paddled to the side, and set his zip-lock bag and blanket on the pool deck.

  “Wanna surf?” he asked, rhetorically. He pulled his big body up on the concrete, stretched, and returned her groggy smile.

  Karen removed their boards from the ventilated cargo bay on the side of the RV. She wore her white Speedo one-piece, and he had slept in his swim trunks so they were good to go. They climbed down the stairs at the back of the pool area to the tan beach that looked empty for miles.

  It was another silent session, the two sharing waves by taking turns. The surf was hip high and there was no wind so the waves were smooth, slow, and languid. They smiled to one another and smirked as they watched each other miss a wave or take a tumble. Brian delighted in watching Karen run through the shallow surf to retrieve her board, which was doing sideways summersaults. As always, when she parted from her board, her movements looked like they were unfamiliar to her as she splashed through the shin-deep water with her wrists held high, as if she was prancing.

  ISRAEL SAT DOWN BESIDE Uncle Tim at the table by the pool. The air was warm and the morning sunlight brilliant. He took a sip of coffee and watched the two surfers far below. Halfway down the hillside there was a narrow gravel road and a dirt turnout. A jeep pulled in, boards on the rack above, and parked beside a sailboat trailered to a car.

  Uncle Tim chuckled.

  “What?” Israel asked.

  “Your face. Long night? You look like an angry puppy.”

  Israel rubbed his face, “No comment, of course.”

  “What’s our schedule?”

  “Relaxed. We don’t need to be on the road until eleven.”

  Uncle Tim watched Israel take a long pull of coffee. “Good. She’s enjoying herself.”

  They both looked down to the sea where three other surfers were paddling out to Karen and Brian.

  “And Brian?” Israel asked.

  “And?”

  “What’s his gig?”

  “His gig?”

  “The big guy spooks me at times. Plays with Karen well, give him that. But is he umm, anchored well?”

  Uncle Tim took up Israel’s coffee cup. He sniffed and sipped. “He’s a Danser. One of us. All a bit unanchored.”

  Israel mulled that, not saying a word. Instead, his eyes traced Karen moving up and down along the face of a wave, bone white, graceful, and sure. When she finished and disappeared behind crashing white water, he stood.

  “Got work to do,” he said.

  “So do I. I’ll go with you.”

  They headed across the pool deck and out to the RV. Before they climbed up inside, Israel put his hand on Uncle Tim’s shoulder.

  “There’s been another kidnapping. The show two nights ago. The girl is safe. And fine. Mostly.”

  Saddened, Uncle Tim turned in the doorway and looked back across the parking lot to the motel and the bluff. “At her show? Or?”

  “Her show. I mean Wyde’s. I’ve got a call today with venue security and the local police.”

  “Can I listen in?”

  “Yes you can. They’ll nab this sicko. They’re sure of it.”

  Israel’s phone started to ring, and he stepped up past Uncle Tim to take the call at the galley table where his briefcase and files lay.

  Uncle Tim remained in the RV doorway looking to the seaside cliff until Israel called to him, “Yours is ringing, too.”

  Uncle Tim turned away from the coast.

  Beyond the bluff and far down the hill Karen walked from the water and up the beach and rested her board on the warm sand. Brian continued catching waves as she laid down and within a few minutes was sound asleep.

  Later that day, photographs of Karen slumbering began to appear on the ‘Where’s Karen?’ website. No credits were attributed.

  When the RV turned off the main road, it clipped a curb and Uncle Tim nearly spilled his tablet. Brian called back from the helm, “Sorry about that.”

  Uncle Tim smiled, didn’t reply, and returned to work. On the table above the computer on his lap, two open binders contained his scale-reduced pool designs. Open file tubs were on the seat beside him. One of his mechanical pencils rolled off the table, and Uncle Tim caught it mid-fall and looked out the window.

  It w
as another campus parking lot. The backside of the auditorium rose tall and stood solid before clusters of trees and inclining walkways.

  “Where are we?” he called forward loud enough for Brian to hear, hopefully not stirring Karen, who was asleep in her room. It was ten in the morning. She had gone to bed at eight the night before.

  Brian named the college.

  I should know that, Uncle Tim thought. It’s a Karen show, and I don’t even know what city we’re in.

  “Friday, right?”

  “Dunno.”

  Uncle Tim smiled for the first time since dawn. Not the only one road-worn.

  “If it is, then it’s also new crew day.”

  Brian didn’t reply, and Uncle Tim hadn’t expected him to. If he had his days right, Israel’s management team was expanding with that night’s show.

  Uncle Tim looked forward to handing off some of the day-to-day assistance and care of Karen. It had been years of being off and on the road with her, in studios, and in too many big cities. Juggling his daughter’s career was a pleasure, but he missed his other passion: pool design and installation. He thought, I’ve helped her launch herself, and I think I’ve done a good job. But now I want to go home, my little place of memories.

  Up ahead there were the usual service and equipment trucks, some limousines, and black town cars parked in a cluster in the shade from the trees.

  BRIAN PARKED THE RV at the edge of the other vehicles, applying the brakes too hard, and Uncle Tim and the RV tipped forward. I should be grateful for him, Uncle Tim thought, collecting himself and the binders, but a professional driver is gonna be nice.