Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers

by Michael Scott Miller

  Finally, the day that had once seemed so far away arrived. Their first real performance. As the band set up its equipment in the coffee bar, Bert could feel the excitement and anticipation amongst the performers. That is, among all of them other than Ethan, who wore a look of dread and foreboding.

  Ethan’s expression turned to a frown as he noticed Charlie standing at a table of four female students. Charlie was smooth, Bert thought with admiration, as the girls smiled and laughed while they conversed with the sax player. Nevertheless, Ethan felt compelled to jump in.

  “Charlie,” he said, grabbing the handsome black man lightly by the arm. “Bert needs to speak with you.” He nudged him back toward the instruments.

  Charlie gave the girls a quick wave and walked with Ethan. “What’s this all about?”

  “Come on, man,” Ethan answered. “I can’t have you wandering the room. You’re going to get us kicked out.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “College boy, you are way too uptight. You really need to relax.” Charlie angrily pulled his arm away from Ethan’s hand and strode over to get his saxophone.

  When Ethan played solo, he normally sat on a barstool along the paneled side wall of the room, but tonight the band set up in a corner to allow for more space.

  At 7:00 P.M., the tables were about two-thirds full, and a few people hovered near the back of the room by the service counter. Ethan was scheduled to play until 10:00, an hour before closing time. On Bert’s signal, he approached the microphone as Abe moved a step away from it and waited.

  Ethan tapped the mic, sending a thumping noise through the room, followed by a loud screech of feedback. “Hi,” he began shifting nervously. “I’d like to introduce some, er, friends that I brought along tonight. I hope you don’t mind.” Managing a smile, he said, only slightly more enthused, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Redeemers!”

  “One, two, three, four!” came Aaron’s count from the back.

  The music began, and the band grooved for forty-five minutes. The set of cover songs started out tentatively, but the confidence and energy grew as the patrons cheered enthusiastically after each tune. Bert stood in the back, watching with paternal pride.

  At the first break, Bert brought over a tray of coffee, and the band members gathered chairs to form something approximating a small circle to the side of the equipment.

  “Great set, guys!” said a male student, giving a thumbs-up as he strolled by.

  “He’s right,” said Bert, placing the tray on a small side table and handing out the coffees one by one. “You guys were terrific!”

  “This is interesting,” Ethan said, looking back over his shoulder.

  “What is?” asked Dave.

  “Usually after my first set, there’s a big exodus. A lot of people head out to get ready to go to the bars or to parties or whatever. There’s usually a lull, where the crowd thins out, and then other folks start trickling in around 9:30 or so.”

  “But no one seems to be leaving,” observed Aaron.

  “Exactly,” said Ethan. “I think people are sticking around to hear us some more.”

  “Cool,” said Abe.

  “Very cool,” said Dave.

  Gene, meanwhile, soaked it all in. He had been here before, as had Bert. There would be a rush of exhilaration, a feeling of buoyancy as a band started to feel it was beginning its ascent to stardom. It was always the same. In a band’s infancy, there was limitless possibility.

  For Gene, Bert knew, success had been elusive, always finding a means to sneak away before he could wrap his hands around it. Hopefully this time would be different.

  The second set picked up right where the first one had left off. By now, the coffee house tables and chairs were all full. Students had taken the leftover chairs from individual tables and created their own little enclaves, clearing room for a few uninhibited dancers.

  The play list for the second set called for the Redeemers to play two of the four songs Dave had written. Prior to launching into them, Charlie, the self-appointed onstage leader of the band, approached the microphone. “Thanks, everyone!” he called to the crowd over the ebbing applause. “We’d like to play a couple of our own tunes for you now. Let us know what you think.” He nodded in Aaron’s direction, and Aaron got the band going.

  Bert had elected a straight run of funked-up cover songs for the first set to get the band comfortable and get the crowd engaged. But he and everyone in the band knew the score. Their success would ultimately depend on their ability to create and execute their own material.

  The crowd response to the back-to-back Redeemers songs, though, could best be characterized as polite. For the most part, the roomful of students sat and listened. A few more conversations took place over the music than during the cover songs. Clearly the energy level had subsided, and the feedback from the audience was like what a lone piano player in a cocktail lounge might receive as he took his break.

  The band recovered the crowd’s energy by performing a couple of fast moving cover songs and closing the set with a soulful, saxophone-wailing version of the Temptations’ “(I Know) I’m Losing You,” but Bert saw obvious concern on their faces as they gathered during the break.

  “I guess I should stick with classical music.” Dave chuckled uneasily, but his expression gave away his disappointment as he tried to slough off the crowd reaction.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Bert.

  “You heard it. The crowd was decidedly blasé about the songs I wrote. They cheered all the other ones enthusiastically, but our originals got nothing more than respectful applause.”

  “It wasn’t that obvious, dude,” Aaron chimed in. And besides, it’s pretty normal that they’d be more excited by the tunes they know.”

  “I realize that,” answered Dave, “but it was more than that.”

  “You’re focusing on the negative,” responded Aaron. “Look how much they love us and how crowded it is here.”

  Dave shrugged. “Sure, but in the long run, it won’t matter how much fun we are as a cover band, unless we want to start playing weddings and bar mitzvahs. It’s the originals that will make or break us.”

  Gene delivered an observation in his soft-spoken, but brief and direct way. “The songs need lyrics.”

  Eyes shifted toward Charlie. “Don’t look at me!” he laughed.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Bert said to the group. “I think Gene’s right, and we’ll figure out something. Stay focused on tonight’s show. You still have one set left.” Then Bert addressed Dave directly. “This is still an improvement on playing the old folks’ home, right?”

  Dave laughed, remembering the story he had told Bert and Charlie in the park. “Yeah. You got me there.”

  Bert took up a post to one side of the band this time. As Dave made his way back to his keyboard, Gene approached him.

  “You okay?” Gene asked.

  Dave smiled wryly at the elderly bassist. “Yeah. I think so. Thanks,” he answered. Gene started to walk away, but Dave’s voice froze him. “Gene, what made you come out of retirement?”

  Gene turned slowly back to face Dave. “That’s easy. Did you ever go out there on stage and look out onto a frenzied crowd? I’m not talking about some little coffee house or nightclub. I’m talking about a sea of humanity stretching out in all directions, all eyes upon you, everyone cheering wildly, anxiously waiting for you to strike that first note. Do you know what that’s like?”

  “No. I really don’t,” answered Dave earnestly.

  “Neither do I,” the old man answered somberly, stroking his narrow beard. “But I want to more than anything in the world.”

  With his spirits uplifted by Bert’s reassurance and Gene’s inspirational words, Dave took his place back at his keyboard.

  By the time the third set was underway, the coffee house was standing room only and it was obvious that word of the band had spread through the campus as students changed their evening plans and headed over. The band had exhausted its
library of material save for Dave’s other songs, so Bert had constructed a song list from tunes they had played earlier in the evening. He had originally thought there would be enough turnover in the coffee house that few patrons would hear the repeats, but the night had played out differently. It didn’t really matter, though. Everyone was having fun.

  At 10:15, when the third set ended, the manager of the coffee house rushed over to talk to the band. “You guys were fantastic! This had to be our most successful night ever in here.”

  “Thanks for giving us the opportunity,” responded Bert humbly.

  “My pleasure. You guys can play here anytime. What do you think, Ethan? Will you be bringing your band here on Fridays from now on?”

  Ethan looked straight ahead, away from Bert’s penetrating eyes. He nodded to the manager. “Um, yeah, sure, I guess that would be all right.” He turned toward Bert. “What do you--?”

  “We’d be thrilled!” Bert answered before Ethan could even get out the full question.

  When the manager had walked away, Ethan said to Bert, “My god. What have you gotten me into?”

  Bert smiled deviously. “This is just the beginning. We still have your campus radio station and newspaper to get to know.” Bert turned to take his coat off the back of a chair.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Ethan replied just audibly.

  * * *

  On the following Thursday, about an hour before he needed to leave for the practice session, Bert was in the apartment relaxing and watching television, when he heard a knock on the door. Opening it, Bert was surprised to find Ethan standing there.

  “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?” Ethan asked.

  “I’m always here for you,” answered Bert. “Come on in.” Bert showed Ethan into the living area, and this time Ethan took a seat on the far end of the three-cushion sofa rather than the floor. Bert sat at the opposite end of the sofa and faced the young student.

  “Did you have fun playing on Friday night?” asked Bert.

  “Yeah. Unexpectedly, I did,” answered Ethan.

  “You’re starting to believe in us, aren’t you?” Bert said with a knowing smile.

  “Maybe,” answered Ethan, a little uneasily. “Actually, the reason I’m here,” he said as he fumbled through his backpack, “is that I have a present for you.” Ethan pulled a spiral notebook out of the backpack, opened it to a page, and handed the notebook to Bert.

  “Lyrics,” Bert whispered.

  “Yeah. It seemed like the band could really use them.”

  Bert took a few minutes to read through them while Ethan looked on in silence. “Stepping from the shadows, into the light,” Bert murmured to the tune of Dave’s first song as he read. “Wow!” he declared with an exhalation of relief as he closed the notebook and placed it on his knees. “I knew you had it in you.”

  “Thanks, but don’t get too excited about it. I just wanted to shut Charlie up.”

  “People find motivation in different ways. Whatever works for you, works for me.” Bert laughed. “Hey, can I hold onto this and bring it to practice today? I want to record the lyrics so Abe can have something to take home and learn.”

  “Sure. That’s fine,” said Ethan as he zipped his backpack, stood, and slung it over one arm.

  “See you in a bit,” said Bert as Ethan stepped out the door. “Great work!” he called after him.

  At that afternoon’s practice session, everyone in the band seemed excited when Bert announced that Ethan had written lyrics for one of Dave’s songs. That is, everyone but Charlie, who seized the opportunity to exclaim, “Let me take a look at this garbage” and grabbed the notebook from Bert’s hand before Bert could show it to the group.

  As he read, the look on Charlie’s face, which evolved from smug, to curious, to stunned, told the other band members all they needed to know. Charlie liked Ethan’s handiwork. Dave hurried over to Charlie and raised up the notebook, with Charlie’s hand still grasping it, so he could read the words to “Shadows” over Charlie’s shoulder. Gene and Aaron gathered around as well. When the band members were done reading, they rushed up to Ethan and congratulated him.

  Bert sang through the lyrics for Abe in his thin tenor, then passed along the digital recorder and instructed Abe to memorize the words so that they could immediately get to work on the song. After all, Bert announced, it was now time to do some recording.

  Bert was moving quickly, and the band members knew it. But to a man, they all understood Bert’s motives. Theirs was a group held together by a thin thread, and Bert needed to take action and show results on an almost daily basis. Progress for the band equaled affirmation of their mission. And such reassurance was critical for a bunch of guys who had failed in some significant way, some other time in their life.

  So far, Bert had done everything he had said he could and would. Privately, he knew, many of the band members wondered how long he could sustain the ride.

  * * *

  Ethan entered the ratty offices, or what passed for offices, of the Daily Californian, the Berkeley school newspaper. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Bert had approached him after the last practice session and told him that the band needed coverage in the school paper. They had now played three times in the coffee house, and the band’s first original song, “Shadows,” was getting a much improved response with Ethan’s lyrics.

  With the positive feedback, Dave had re-energized and gotten back to writing more music, and Ethan himself was putting the finishing touches on the lyrics for the second of Dave’s tunes, an uplifting song tentatively titled “Streets of Shame.” But with Bert, it was always more, more, more. It wasn’t enough that Ethan had agreed to play in the band. He had to let the band perform a show at the school. Then he had to let the band become the regular act on Friday nights. Now here he was, trying to pitch the features editor of the school newspaper to cover the band. Sheesh! When is it going to stop?

  The office held a series of tables and computers along the perimeter and a hodgepodge of office chairs, most with exposed stuffing, at each table. Several timeworn desks stood in the middle of the room. A handful of students were talking about stories or other matters, and a couple of others tapped away at the computers.

  Ethan walked over to a computer table where two students were sitting, one in the chair and the other on the table, legs dangling in front. “Excuse me,” Ethan interrupted, “Could you please tell me where I can find Paul Langston?” Paul was listed as the features editor in the box on the second page of the Daily Californian.

  “I’m Paul,” said the student on the table as he hopped down. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hi. Ethan Banks.” Ethan smiled. “Can I speak to you for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Are you a student here?” Paul asked as the two walked over to one of the desks. Paul took a seat behind it and gestured to Ethan to sit in the chair on its opposite side.

  “Yes, I’m a junior here.”

  “And you’re interested in writing for the paper, I’m guessing.”

  “No, not that,” returned Ethan, feeling a little unsure of himself. “Actually, I’m here to pitch a story to you.”

  “Shoot!” Paul leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands behind his head.

  “Well, I play guitar in this band that plays at The Grind on Friday nights, and the manager, I mean, we--” Ethan fumbled for the words. “We thought it would be great to get some coverage in the school paper.”

  “I see,” Paul responded. “What do you guys play?”

  “Mostly covers so far, but we’ve started doing some of our own material.”

  “You know there are a lot of bands that play on campus and in the bars all around the campus.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So why should we write about your band?”

  Ethan hemmed and hawed. “Well, I guess I thought that since I’m a student here, it might be an interesting angle for you,” he answered lamely.

  “Li
sten, Ethan,” Paul stated as he sat upright in the chair and leaned forward onto the desk. “I’m sure your band is really good, and you seem like a nice guy. But, we have a limited amount of space in the paper and we need to make sure there’s some journalistic angle to what we write. I don’t mean any offense, but if you want to be in the paper, I’d recommend placing an ad.” Paul stood and extended his right hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” answered Ethan, feeling relieved that he could remove himself from this awkward encounter. He thanked Paul for his time, shook his hand, and departed.

  Back out in the cool air, Ethan thought about what he’d tell Bert. Sure, he had failed, but so what? Look how much he had already helped the band, a band he didn’t even want to be part of in the first place. In some ways, he was glad he hadn’t pulled off the newspaper article. Maybe Bert would start to see that not everything he envisioned was so easy to execute.

  Ethan pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his coat and punched in Bert’s phone number. It rang three times. Ethan had just started feeling relieved that Bert wasn’t available when Bert picked up. Ethan relayed the encounter at the school paper to him. He was braced for Bert’s reaction of disappointment, but Bert surprised him. All he said was, “That’s all right, Ethan. Thanks for trying. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  Take care of it tomorrow? Ethan thought after he disconnected. What does he mean by that?

  Ethan got his answer the next day when he and Bert bumped into one another on their way to the subway station.

  “Great news, Ethan!” said Bert. “Paul Langston agreed to do an article on us. He’s going to send someone to Friday’s show to see us play.”

  Ethan wasn’t sure which was more profound, his surprise that Bert had been successful or his fear of what Bert might have said or done at the newspaper that might humiliate him. “You went to see him?” he asked cautiously.

  “Sure. Nice guy, that Paul,” replied Bert.