Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers

by Michael Scott Miller

  “Wow!” thought Bert, struck by how great the band sounded. They were on. The band looked almost giddy: something was starting to come together.

  “Good lord, I feel like I’m dy-in’.” When Abe, a cappella, pounded out the final stanza of the song, the band looked elated. A chorus of cheers rang out from passersby and Bert applauded.

  The band played on, running through the repertoire of songs. The Redeemers were grooving. Even Aaron was keeping the rhythm well.

  Bert didn’t want to push things too far and give back any of the ground the band had made that day, so he ended the practice session early, sending everyone off in the best spirits he’d ever seen them. Bert had not allowed doubts to creep into his consciousness, but until that moment, he knew that buried deep within himself, clawing to get out, was an uneasiness, a fear that the band would never flourish. He didn’t fully realize it was there until the moment it was gone.

  * * *

  Dissention returned at the following practice session. Bert had called for the band to play one of Dave’s songs, but shortly into it, it was obvious that Aaron hadn’t worked on it.

  Ethan stopped playing suddenly and banged his guitar on the tile floor in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Bongo Joe! What are you doing?”

  The music screeched to a halt as the band members, one by one, stopped playing. “I-I’m still working on this one,” Aaron stammered. “Give me some time. I’ll get there.”

  “Not at this rate!” returned Ethan. “It doesn’t even sound like you’ve practiced it. I don’t know about these other guys. Maybe they’re okay with mediocrity, but I’m getting pretty tired of carrying you along.”

  “Ethan’s right,” said Abe, “and believe me, I don’t like saying that. But man, you’ve got to get with the program. You’re dragging us down.”

  Aaron flushed. “I just haven’t had the time, that’s all.”

  “Come on, man. You need to make the time,” Charlie said to Aaron. “You know that.” He looked at Aaron imploringly. “Just get your act together. We need a drummer who works as hard as the rest of us do.”

  Bert and Gene observed in silence, Bert wanting to let the band work things out on its own, and Gene, as was his trademark, staying in the background unless something needed to be said. But the things that had needed to be said, had been.

  Bert spoke crisply. “All right, everyone. We’ll work more on that next time. Bongo Joe, can you work on that one, please? Let’s run through the cover list.”

  The band played, but the damage had been done. The words to Aaron stung and there was a palpable tension in the air. Not only could Bert feel it, but it was visible in the faces of the passersby. They stopped to listen, but not for as long, and not with the same radiating appreciation. The band had reverted to its mechanical, rigid state.

  Abe approached Bert during a break. “Hey, mister hot shot manager,” he started in. His tone connoted scorn, not humor. “It’s time for you to show me something. If you want to manage this band, you need to manage it.”

  “What do you mean?” Bert asked.

  “You know damn well what I mean. That is, if you’re really what you say you are. A seasoned manager wouldn’t let his band be crippled by a musician who can’t pull his weight.”

  “Bongo Joe, you mean?”

  “Yeah, of course I mean Bongo Joe,” Abe snapped. “I’m getting tired of busting my butt while he just cruises along.”

  Bert wasn’t happy listening to Abe’s diatribe, but there was a silver lining. At least Abe was starting to communicate with him. Up until then, Abe had quickly cut Bert off anytime he tried to have a conversation of any substance with him. Maybe in some twisted way, Abe was starting to feel like he could open up to Bert.

  “Listen, Abe. I hear you. You have my word. I won’t let it stay this way.” He paused for a moment. “Thanks for sharing your feelings with me.”

  “Yeah,” grumbled Abe. “Well, don’t read anything into it.”

  * * *

  Toward the end of the session, Aaron noticed that Jack had arrived with Dave’s wife, Ann. “Oh, no,” he thought, “I don’t want him to see me this way.” But there wasn’t much Aaron could do about it. He bravely put on a smile for Jack, the boy who accepted him unconditionally.

  When Bert called the practice session to a halt and the band members started to quickly and quietly pack up their equipment, Jack came running over to Aaron. Ann strode up behind Jack and stood over Aaron, who was now kneeling down and holding Jack in his arms.

  “Guess what, guess what!” Jack squealed.

  “I give up,” said Aaron.

  “Look!” gushed Jack, thrusting a white sheet of paper in front of Aaron’s face. Aaron saw the A- on Jack’s social studies test and looked up at Ann, who had tears forming in the corners of her eyes as she looked on.

  “Aaron,” Ann began, “you don’t know how much this means to him. And to us. He’s never received higher than a C+ before. But you really inspired him. He’s worked so hard and believed in himself, and you’ve come along and done what none of us could. He’s so excited because he really, really didn’t want to let you down.”

  Aaron moved Jack gently away from his chest and put his hands on Jack’s shoulders. He looked into Jack’s eyes. “Jack, I am so proud of you,” he said. Then he looked up at Ann ashamedly and said to her, “He’s the one who’s the inspiration, not me.”

  * * *

  Charlie buzzed around Bert as the two men headed out of the station toward their home. “Bert, you promised. You said if Bongo Joe wasn’t up to the task, you’d find us a new drummer. It’s time for you to surrender, man.”

  Bert had had enough. The sniping was coming at him from all directions. He bit his lip and accepted the realization that he couldn’t delay any longer, lest the band lose faith in his leadership. “All right. You win,” he conceded quietly.

  Something still troubled Bert about the decision and he felt no relief in having made it. He just couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.

  * * *

  Aaron was serious this time. Jack had inspired him, and after taking Jack out for a celebratory pizza, Aaron stopped home and retrieved his iPod and speakers. He then walked briskly to Dave’s garage with a single thought in his mind. It was time to search inside himself and find the drummer with all the promise that was in there.

  It was close to 6:00 P.M. and the mid-winter sun had already set when Aaron arrived at Dave’s garage. He let himself in, flipped on the lights, and closed the door. The silence and emptiness were a little spooky and disconcerting at night, but he shook off the feeling. There was the drum set, sitting silently near the back of the garage. It seemed to be facing him in some sort of Wild West showdown. Aaron found an outlet, plugged in the iPod and docking speakers, and pressed ‘Play.’

  Music filled the garage as Aaron took a deep breath, walked over to the drum kit, and took his seat on the stool behind it. He picked up the drum sticks and then, summoning all the latent energy inside himself, he let loose, holding back nothing as he pounded the skins and cymbals. He practiced and re-practiced the rhythms and maneuvers with a determined discipline like he had never done before. This time, it was not just a quick once over and then on to the next thing. No, tonight it was different.

  Aaron realized that for the first time, he wasn’t forcing himself to practice. It was what he wanted to do. He visualized himself up on stage, sweat dripping all over, pounding rhythms as the crowd roared. And he liked what he saw.

  He worked through section after section of the songs on the iPod, determinedly going back over and over the same track until he felt comfortable enough to move on. Throughout the night he pressed on, taking breaks just long enough to sip the Red Bull he had brought and to switch songs.

  At 4:15 A.M., his arms sore and becoming jellylike, Aaron took a look at his watch. He was surprised how quickly it seemed to have gotten so late, and knowing that he needed to be at the restaurant in fewer than six hour
s, he decided to go home and get a few hours of sleep. He resolved, though, that he’d be back at it again that afternoon right after work.

  * * *

  With Charlie’s incessant prodding, Bert was forced to focus on finding a new drummer. “We don’t have the time to wander the city now, waiting for the karma to be just right,” Charlie told him. “Let’s just run an ad in the Guardian.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Bert agreed. Charlie was right. They didn’t have the time or energy to start scouring the city all over again. He called an ad into the weekly newspaper to run the next Wednesday and put a false contact name in, just on the off-chance that Aaron or one of the other band members noticed. Not that the other members wouldn’t endorse the change.

  * * *

  Aaron had virtually moved into Dave’s garage. Day and night he banged the drums, stopping only to go to the bathroom, eat the brown-bag meal he had brought, or rest his weary arms. He was exhausted, sleeping no more than five hours per night, but he was on a mission.

  On one occasion, Dave had yelled out to him and come running up. “Here’s the key to the house,” he said, placing a key in Aaron’s palm and closing Aaron’s fingers around it. Aaron raised his eyebrows. Dave then said, “In case you need to use the bathroom, or need a drink of water or something.” That was all he had said.

  Aaron nodded his understanding and gave a one-word response. “Thanks.” Dave had turned and walked back into the house. The two had an unspoken understanding: Aaron needed the space to find himself.

  At the practices over the next week, Aaron didn’t engage in much conversation. His drumming had improved somewhat and the flare-ups had subsided. The band was playing at a respectable level, nothing spectacular, but passable. And bland. The chemistry was still off, not having recovered from the big falling-out over Aaron’s drum work, and the grumbling continued.

  * * *

  Another week went by, Bert’s ad had run, and the phone calls had started coming in. Bert asked a few questions of the respondents, was able to weed out a few, and had arranged two full days of tryouts over the forthcoming weekend. He and Charlie alone would evaluate the drummers. Once they had selected one, they would break the news to Aaron and then tell the rest of the band. Bert was dreading the discussion with Aaron, but he could justify it to himself. He had given Aaron every opportunity. He had stuck his neck out for him and even financed him, but Aaron hadn’t delivered.

  * * *

  At the practice session that Saturday morning, Aaron was tired, but ready. By his count, he had probably practiced more hours in the last two weeks then he had in the whole time he was at Oberlin. And it showed. The formal training, combined with his natural ability and the better-late-than-never dedication had taken his confidence to new heights. He was eager to show the band what he could do now.

  The band went through its normal progression of cover songs, and Aaron’s increased energy level was apparent. The band was sounding pretty good. Then Aaron suggested to Bert that they play one of Dave’s songs. They hadn’t been practicing it much due to Aaron’s struggles, but Bert said, “Why not?”

  This time Aaron’s drumming was tight and crisp, and the other musicians carried out their parts flawlessly. The new song was really sounding like something. Then midway through the tune, Aaron shifted into high gear and started racing the drum sticks across the skins. Boom-pah-ta-boom-boom. The rest of the band stopped playing, at first confused, and then realized that Aaron was going off into a solo. Rat-tat-a-tat-tat.

  The sounds echoed loudly off the ceramic tiled subway walls. Boom-crash-ta-boom-crash. Aaron was in the zone. For a full five minutes, he pounded the drum set expertly as the band members stood there, mouths agape. The crowd that had been there listening to the music started to swell, at first curious at the noise, and then taken in by the virtuosic percussion. Arms flailing, sweat pouring over him, Aaron continued to pound out the rhythms. He felt great.

  Gene made the pivotal next move. He laid out a bass guitar riff over Aaron’s drums, nodding to Aaron to continue the groove. Gene played a few more lines and then Ethan’s electric guitar wail entered. Dave jumped in with a keyboard accompaniment, and finally Charlie started blowing the sax.

  It was the band’s first impromptu jam, and the musicians were loving it. Smiles passed from one member to the other. Abe stood there pounding his right arm to the beat. Bert watched with enormous pride and beamed smiles at the crowd.

  Several minutes later, Aaron decided it was time to rein things back in, and taking the lead, signaled to the band to resume Dave’s song where they had left off. They seamlessly transitioned back from the jam and finished the tune with a flourish beyond which the Redeemers had thought themselves capable. When Aaron marked the end of the song with the cymbal crash, the crowd roared.

  In those ten minutes, the band had gelled. Finally feeding off one another, the volatile mix had become good chemistry.

  * * *

  Off to the side, Charlie approached Bert. “Bert,” he whispered.

  “I know.” Bert finished Charlie’s thought for him. “Cancel the auditions.” He smiled at Charlie.

  Charlie smiled back.

  Chapter 10 – The School

  “Great news, everyone!” Charlie announced to the band. “I’ve got our first lyrics written.”

  Bert beamed like a proud new papa as Charlie waved the stack of paper he clutched. The band was just finishing its set-up for a practice session. The members reached out curiously as Charlie handed each of them but Abe a photocopy of the hand-scrawled lyrics he had created.

  The musicians took a moment to read through them as Charlie quietly read them to Abe. Ethan was the first to speak.

  “These are terrible!” he said incredulously, looking at the others.

  Bert winced. Ethan and Charlie’s relationship had started off icily in Bert and Charlie’s apartment and had not thawed at all since. In fact, outside of Dave, Ethan had kept his distance from his band mates and from Bert, always trying to ensure that he not be catalogued as “one of them.”

  Stifled giggles from other members quickly abated as Charlie walked purposefully toward Ethan. “You know, man, I’m getting tired of you putting everything down!” He stood now toe to toe with Ethan, their faces just inches apart.

  “Hey, I’m just being honest,” Ethan replied with mock innocence.

  “You think you could do better?” Charlie yelled.

  “I think a kindergartner could do better,” replied Ethan, now becoming irritated himself.

  Without warning, Charlie shoved Ethan, who tumbled backwards over his guitar case. Ethan was just able to use his hands to break the fall. He scrambled to get up and lunged at Charlie, but Bert and Dave stepped between them. Charlie didn’t struggle as Bert wrapped his arms around him and pushed him some distance away. Dave did the same with Ethan as the others looked on.

  “All right, all right. That’s enough,” announced Bert.

  “Dude, you really need some tact,” a newly confident Aaron said to Ethan.

  “Oh, listen now. The dishwasher boy is getting involved,” said Ethan. “I suppose you think we could actually be taken seriously with these insipid lyrics?”

  “No,” answered Aaron, who walked over to Charlie and put his arm around his shoulder. “They’re terrible, all right.” He laughed and gave Charlie a friendly shake. Charlie managed a smile. “But we should be more encouraging and supportive. At least Charlie’s come forward with something.”

  Bert stepped in and sent everyone to their instruments in order to quickly put the incident past them. He had found that, like with children, sometimes the best tactic for breaking up skirmishes was to distract the combatants. He had wanted to talk to Ethan privately after the practice anyway, and this altercation would play in perfectly.

  “Ethan,” Bert began, after the others had gone. “I had another vision.”

  “Yeah?” responded Ethan warily.

  “I had this vision that the Rede
emers were playing their first formal performance. Imagine it.” Bert held his hands out as if he were molding the image in front of Ethan. “We’re at the front of a room. The place is packed. The Redeemers are jamming away. The boisterous crowd is cheering our every song.”

  Ethan continued to watch Bert curiously. “Sounds good so far.”

  Bert looked Ethan in the eye. “Do you know where this performance takes place?”

  Ethan shook his head.

  “At Berkeley! At The Grind!” Bert answered excitedly.

  Ethan looked aghast. “No! No way! I’m sorry, Bert. I can’t do that. I can’t just show up with a whole band one night. Besides, what makes you think the kids at Berkeley would want to see us play?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “The Grind draws hip, college kids. They wouldn’t be interested in watching our band of misfits. Honestly, we look more like vagrants than a band.”

  “Once the kids hear us, they’ll be impressed.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But what about Charlie? I can just imagine him hitting on someone’s girlfriend. This has disaster written all over it.”

  “I promise. We’ll all be on our best behavior,” Bert replied, calmly placing a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Look what you did to these guys today. You don’t really want to keep fighting with everyone in the band, do you? Here’s a chance to throw them a bone.”

  Ethan pondered the question for a few moments. Then reluctantly, he replied, “Oh, all right. I know I’ll live to regret this, but okay. The band can play with me next Friday. Just this one time.”

  The band was stoked when Bert announced that they’d be playing on the Berkeley campus a week from Friday. They worked hard over the next week in preparation for the big event. Aaron continued to advance his skills by practicing in Dave’s garage. At the practice sessions leading up to the show, the band exchanged feedback, worked on timing, and orchestrated the transitions into and out of each song. Bert had crafted a play list, and the band ran through it in a flawless dress rehearsal on Thursday afternoon.