by Thomas Cobb
“What we are doing here,” Bad tells them, “is opening. It’s Tommy’s show. We go out, we play our forty-five minutes straight. We don’t get cute or fancy. We do our work, nothing more.”
“Jesus, Lord,” Ray, the bass player, says when they get on the stage. “This place is about twice as big from down here as from up there.”
“You ever played an arena before?”
“Hell no. We played five hundred at a barbecue once.”
“Not a hell of a lot of difference,” Bad tells him, “except the sound. It’s going to crunch you when you first hear it. Get used to it, and remember, it won’t be as loud when there are people here.”
The band is competent enough. The guitars can’t resist moving up to the front of the stage to try rock-and-roll licks. Bad lets them go. Tonight they will stand stone still behind him.
“Bear,” he says into the microphone, “bring up number one mike, the bass, and tone down the guitars.”
“Mix is good,” a voice responds.
“Set it the way I tell you, and leave it.”
“I’ve got a good read out here. Your mix is fine. Trust me.”
“Bear, I’m an old man. I get grumpy. Bring up the lead mike, the bass, set the guitars down, and humor me.”
“You want one of us to go there and check the mix?” Nick the rhythm guitar player asks.
“We’re going to get a shit mix,” Bad tells him. “Opening acts always do. One of the sound man’s jobs is to fuck up the opening mix. It makes the headline act sound that much better. We can send the whole band out there. It won’t make a hell of a difference. What we’re doing here is negotiating just how bad a mix we’re getting.”
“You’ve got another fifty minutes of stage time,” Bear says.
“We’re going to be on this stage until the mix is where I want it. Give me my mix or we may rehearse right through Tommy’s first set.”
When he has pushed Bear as far as he thinks he is willing to go, Bad moves them through the rest of the play list, and comes back and works the rough edges off “Slow Boat” and “Cheatin’ Night Tonight.”
“You’re off in five minutes,” Bear calls.
“Fifteen,” Bad responds, and takes the band through three more numbers. He is off in fifteen minutes. He can’t let the sound man push him, or the sound man will run the show. On the other hand, he can’t throw the sound man too far off, or the mix will sound like the track to an auto wreck.
“Sounds good, Mr. Blake.”
“I like the mix, Bear. I appreciate it.”
“What do you think?” he asks Ron, the pedal steel.
“Sounds good. Simple enough. We can handle it.”
Just wait, Bad thinks, until you walk out here and realize that there are nearly ten thousand people in those seats. Then you handle it.
“I’ll drive you to the hotel now,” Ralphie says. “I’ll send someone by at seven to pick you up.” Then, to the band, “You need to be in the dressing room at seven-fifteen. Your instruments will be onstage. They’ll be tuned for you.”
“No,” Bad says. “Have them down here. We’ll tune ourselves.”
“We’ll tune them on the scope. We’ll have them under the lights so they’ll stay in tune.”
“I’ll tune. You can take them up fifteen minutes before, but we tune to me.”
Ralphie turns and walks away. Bad breaks open the case and takes a bottle out for the hotel. A couple of the guys take them, too. “Hold it,” Bad says. “You’re welcome to the booze. That’s no problem. But now you’re working for me. You be real careful with that stuff. Anyone shows up drunk, I’m personally kicking his ass up between his ears.”
At the hotel, there is a message for him. “Call me, #647, Tommy.” Bad folds the note and puts it in his pocket. In his room, he undresses and climbs onto the bed. He needs an hour or two of sleep. His stomach is churning, and his heart is pounding like an engine about to throw a rod.
It is 1951, in Lexington, Kentucky. He is sitting in the bus with the rest of the Kentucky Bluebirds, waiting. Out the window, beyond the fence, he can see cars pulling in, people milling around. It is over two hours to showtime, but they are lining up outside the armory, waiting for Hank Williams.
He has seen Williams twice before. Once in Louisville, once in Ohio after driving all night with Leon, just for a chance to see Hank, to watch him work, to see him in person. Tonight he is opening with the Bluebirds for Hank Williams. He is going to walk onto the same stage Hank Williams will walk onto. He is going to play for the same people Hank Williams is going to sing for.
He keeps looking out the window. Beyond the fence are only cars and people. He can see only a few yards down the road, to where it curves behind the trees. He really doesn’t know what he expects to see—another bus, a procession of Cadillacs, a golden cloud. “You nervous?” Leon asks him. No, he lies, no, he is not nervous. It’s another date in Kentucky. He has been playing them for nearly two years now. What he wants to know is whether Hank is nervous about having to follow him.
They play their first set, leave the stage, and ten minutes later are back on for another set. Hank is still not here. They play nearly every song they know and repeat a couple. They have been playing for nearly two hours when the word comes, “Hank is here.”
He is off the stage, putting his guitar in the case, when Hank Williams walks past him, nearly as tall as he is, but thin as a guitar string, smoking a cigar that seems as thick as his arm. He is wearing a white suit decorated with quarter notes up the leg and down the arms. And he is wearing the fanciest pair of black-and-white boots Bad has ever seen. Bad watches Hank move up behind the stage for the intro, grind out the cigar, and take off his hat and wipe the sweat from his head. Bad is stunned. Hank Williams is going bald.
After he is done, Hank moves around backstage, smoking his cigar and swigging on a bottle of bourbon. He is not very old, not out of his twenties yet, but he is balding and he looks drawn and weary, even while he ambles through the backstage crush, shaking hands and chatting, smiling all the time. Hank stops and chats with Eldon, and then moves through the other members of the band. Bad sticks out his hand and Williams takes it. “I heard you. You can pick some guitar, Slim.” He holds out the bottle. “Want a slug?”
Chapter Eight
When the knock comes at the door, he is between sleep and waking, unsure what time it is. He finds his glasses, but there is no clock in the room. It must be, he figures, time to leave for the coliseum. He gets out of the bed and gets dressed, his heart heaving and skipping beats. “I’ll be right there.”
“Hurry up, goddamn it, we run a tight ship here.”
Goddamned efficient little shit. Runs a show like a fucking space mission. He runs a comb through his hair and opens the door.
“I got booze, you got ice?” Tommy says, holding up a bottle.
“You son-of-a-bitch.”
“I always admired that in you, Bad. You always know the right thing to say. How the hell are you?”
“Worse.”
“That’s about right, I guess. Can I come in?”
Bad steps aside and lets Tommy into the room. Tommy holds up the bottle. “I could use some ice.”
“None here. Try room service.”
Tommy plops down in a chair next to the bed, where he rests his feet. His boots are made of thin strips of leather, sewn together so they form a series of V’s pointing down to the toes. Bad estimates six hundred bucks, maybe seven. His jeans are crisp and new, his starched white shirt is monogrammed at the pocket. On his right hand he has a diamond ring in the shape of Texas. “I can do without ice,” he says, “but a glass would help. A couple of them.”
Bad finds glasses in the bathroom, brings them in and sets them down on the dresser. Tommy pours three fingers of Wild Turkey in each one.
“You give up on the Southern Comfort?”
“I still drink it onstage. It’s good for the throat.”
“So they tell me. Damn s
tuff was always too sweet for me.”
“When I started drinking, it was the only thing I could choke down. I didn’t like it much, either. But hell, if you’re one of Bad’s Boys, you got to be able to put away the whiskey. Hell, those were good times, weren’t they, Bad?”
“Yeah. We had some good times. You remember Bob Glover? I ran into him a couple days ago in New Mexico.”
“Bob Glover. Bob Glover. Oh, hell yes, I remember Bob. Remember, one night in Arkansas, he had some girl in his room, and you started banging on the door, screaming like you were her husband. And I was yelling, ‘Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot our drummer.’ ”
“No. That was Will Samuels.”
“Will Samuels, hell yes. We had him so scared he crawled out the bathroom window bare-assed. Who the hell is Bob Glover?”
“Bass player. About sixty, sixty-one. Came over from Lee Stoner’s group.”
“Yeah, maybe I remember him. Kind of a quiet guy.”
“He’s a grandfather.”
“You don’t say. You remember Kelly, my little girl? She’s seventeen now. Going to college next year.”
“I’ll be damned.” Bad takes a long drink and lights up a cigarette.
“Bad. It’s good to see you again. I’m really glad you agreed to do this for me. It’ll be great to be working together again.”
“I need the money. If it wasn’t this, I’d be playing Benson, Arizona, tonight.”
“Benson? Where’s that?”
“Real damn close to Tombstone.”
“Listen, you remember that time we broke down in the middle of west Texas? Two hundred miles from El Paso? We sat out there all goddamned day waiting for the wrecker while Ted Randolph sat in some bar getting shit-faced. It must have been a hundred and ten out there. I thought old Paul was going to die. Why the hell was Ted at the bar?”
“The guy who owned the wrecker was at lunch. Ted went to get a drink. He kept on drinking. Is that why you wear the ring?”
Tommy looks at the ring on his finger. “Ain’t that a bitch? You ever try to buy a diamond ring in the shape of Kansas?”
“Kansas is square.”
“See what I mean? Nobody knows what the hell it looks like.”
“So how’s the tour going?”
“It’s O.K. Fifty dates in two months. It’s a grind, but it’ll pay for Kelly’s college, a few other things. How about yours?”
“I’m out for a month. Six states. I’ll be off next week.”
“Pickup bands?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, that’s a ball buster. Hell, we should have gotten together earlier. We could have done this whole tour together.”
“We tried that once. It didn’t work.”
“Yeah. I know. The Memories tour. Hell, there were just too many things going on. I had that movie shooting in Mexico, and Jill wanted me to spend some time at home. I was on the road almost all that year. I wanted to do it. It would have been a hell of a tour.”
“Yeah. A hell of a tour.”
“Oh, come on, Bad. I’m sorry. It just didn’t work out. I was trying to keep my marriage together. Don’t hold that against me.”
“I got a career, too. And I had a marriage or two I wanted to keep together.”
“Goddamn it. You gave me my start. I remember that, Bad. You taught me most of what I know that’s worth knowing. O.K.? I haven’t forgotten any of that. But goddamn it, I have a life to live, too.”
“Yeah. Well, hell. Those are the goddamned ugliest boots I ever saw in my life.”
“You ever see a boa constrictor? Ugly damn snake. Ugly damn boots.”
“Salesman threaten to shoot your dog?”
“Kind of like the idea of wearing snakes on my feet. Besides that, they were expensive. Real expensive. I like that. When I spend my money, it means that no one else is spending it.”
“So why the hell won’t you do another album?”
“Hold up. I never said I wouldn’t. J.M.I. doesn’t think it’s the right time to do another duet.”
“I think it is.”
“You might be right. But over at J.M.I., marketing says it’s the wrong time. Hell, they got those guys over there making all this money, my money, and they call the plays. They want a couple more solos, then we can do a duet. You got first shot. I already told them that.”
“I don’t have a lot more time. I need some money now.”
“Look, even if we go to the studio—say I front the money to cut the album—they won’t release it. They’ll sit on it until they think it’s right. You won’t make any money with tape sitting in the vault.”
“Shit, Tommy. I’m fifty-six years old. My career isn’t going anywhere. I need something to get it moving again. I can’t get a solo album. I need this. Goddamn it, I really need this.”
“I hear you, Bad. I really hear you. But I can’t get them to budge on this one. There is a way you can make some money, though.”
“Which is?”
“Songs. I need some songs. I’m supposed to be in the studio in two months for a solo album. I don’t have new material, and the stuff I’ve been hearing is just crap. Give me some new songs. I’ll deal straight with you. You publish and I’ll give you three cents for the mechanical rights, the others on line, above going rate. I’ve been moving one or two million on every album. And I’d take up to five songs.”
“I haven’t written a new song in three years.”
“Think about it. I need some material. I want some from you. Jesus, you write some of the best material around.”
“I used to.”
“I tell you what. If you can get me some new songs, and I take them, we’ll release at least one as a single. I can guarantee that.”
“Look, like I told you, I don’t have any new songs.”
“Write me some. I don’t have to be in the studio until October. You’ve got a couple of months.”
“I’m not a songwriter anymore. I haven’t been in years. It doesn’t matter what kind of figures you come up with. You’re really not offering me anything. I’m a singer and a picker. We can do an album, but I can’t write you any songs.”
“Do it, Bad. You’re not the only one who’s hurting. I could really use a hit right now. I haven’t put a single to the top in over a year.”
“Scary, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Staring at nothing. You got any of that whiskey left?”
“Oh hell, it’s just a little dry spell. But yeah, it gets worrisome.”
“It gets to be a whole lot of fun later on.”
Bad’s into his third drink when the phone rings.
“Mr. Blake, it’s Brenda. I have a message from Mr. Greene.”
“If he wants to know if I’m here, tell him I am.”
“No. He wants you to know he’s sent you five boxes of product and he’s cleared it with Sweet Productions so you can sell them at the concert.”
“Sell? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He’s bought five hundred units of Memories from J.M.I. at two dollars. He says you’re supposed to sell them for five dollars each.”
“What the hell is going on? I don’t sell anything. I sing. I play. I don’t sell my goddamned records at concerts.”
“Mr. Blake, all I have is this message. He wants three dollars a unit. You’re to keep the rest.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. Let me talk to him.”
“He’s out of town. On the Coast. He just left this message for you.”
“That motherfucking prick. Where is he? Get him for me.”
“He’s not here, Mr. Blake. I can’t reach him. I’m sorry.”
“You find him. And when you do, you tell him to get his fat ass to Phoenix and pick up his goddamn albums. Because this is where they are going to stay. You tell him that. And you tell him he’s a worthless son-of-a-bitch with more nerve than brains.”
“I’m just delivering the message, Mr. Blake.”
“Hell,
I know that, darlin’. Nothing against you. You just deliver that message back is all.”
“I’ll tell him. Mr. Blake, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, darlin’, I know. Me, too.”
Bad slams the receiver down, ringing the phone.
“That,” Tommy says, “was not your basic good news.”
“Fucking jackass wants me to hawk copies of Memories after the show.”
“Well, hell, Bad, that’s no problem. We got concessionaires working at all my shows. We’ll just turn the records over to them. They’ll sell them for you. No sweat.”
“I don’t sell albums at my shows.”
“Well, damn it, I do. I mean, the concessionaires do. Everybody does it. How many you got?”
“I ain’t got any. Jack Greene’s got five hundred. And if he wants them sold, he’s going to have to do it himself.”
“What do you get off each one?”
“Two dollars.”
“That’s a thousand bucks. Hell, for a thousand bucks, I’ll go sell them.”
“You’re welcome to them.”
“Think about it. I mean, that’s the business, right? Selling product? One way or another, you’re selling the stuff. I got to go. It’s getting on showtime. Listen, I’ve got all day in Phoenix tomorrow. What do you say we go play a little golf in the morning? I’m better than I used to be. Hell, I break ninety every now and again.”
“I got to get back on the road early.”
“That’s too bad. You used to hit a good ball. I remember.”
“Ain’t remembering wonderful?”
The band is already there when he arrives. There is a new arrangement of food on the dressing table. The air is acrid with marijuana. Bad finds a roach in an ashtray and lights up.
“You all eaten yet? Eat some if you can, but don’t overdo it. A little bit will help settle your stomachs. Have a couple of drinks, but no more. It’s O.K. to be nervous. It’ll go away. You get drunk, that won’t go away. You blow a couple of notes early on, it doesn’t make much difference, but the end of the show has to be tight.”
