Featherless Bipeds

by Richard Scarsbrook

  Ooh ooh ooh ooh, Summer time Law

  Ooh ooh ooh ooh, Summer time Law

  Ooh ooh ooh ooh, Summer time Law

  We finish the song with a loud crash-cymbal and bass-run finale. Tristan is ecstatic.

  “Whoa, who wrote that tune? Joe Walsh?”

  “You liked it?” I ask.

  “Gotta get that album,” Lola says.

  “Well, you’ll have to help us record it first, because I wrote it.”

  “Wow,” Lola says, “not bad, Sifter.”

  For some reason, Jimmy T doesn’t seem to appreciate Lola giving me a compliment, even one as mild as that.

  “Yeah, yeah, great, great,” he grunts, “but isn’t Lola supposed to be the singer? I think the band will be a lot more marketable if we let the hot chick do the singing.”

  Lola is caught off guard. She looks unsure whether to be flattered or offended by being referred to as a ‘hot chick’.

  “It’s okay, James,” Tristan says, “Dak sounded good on that one.”

  “Jimmy T! In the band I’m Jimmy T,” he says. “But, hey, dudes, why don’t we play one of my songs now.”

  “You write songs?” Akim says, his expression brightening.

  “Well, not exactly,” Jimmy T says, as he bends over to remove a soft covered songbook called 101 Easy Popular Songs for Guitar from inside the hollow back of his amp. “I can play anything in this book. Anybody got a music stand?”

  So we play some songs from Jim’s guitar-for-beginners book. Easy, open-chord stuff. Top Forty Pop. Good-natured Tristan plays along without complaint, and I tap out the simple four-four beats pretty much on autopilot, focusing instead on imagining Zoe dancing in front of my drums (she loves to dance to this sugary pop fluff). Akim stares at the ceiling as he plays what are, for him, insultingly simple guitar parts. Jimmy T struts around like every video pop star ever manufactured by a record company, strumming his Squire, sure that he is impressing the panties off Lola, envisioning thousands of screaming women showering the stage before him with bras, thongs, and bits of paper with their telephone numbers written in lipstick.

  For the rest of the evening (and it is evening by this time), Akim plucks at the strings of his guitar, his eyes rolled up inside his skull. He excuses himself frequently for “drink breaks,” muttering to himself on the way out the door that the songs we are now playing are boring him to death. By the time we get to “Under the Boardwalk” in Jimmy’s alphabetically arranged songbook, Akim declares that it is time to call it a night.

  “By the way, guys,” Jimmy T says, as he slides his Squire back into its gig bag, “we’d better get practicing, ’cause I’ve got a gig set up for us in two weeks at a bar called Harlock’s Rockpile. The owner does a lot of promotional events with Sanderson’s Brewing, so we’ve got some pull there. Anyway, we better get enough tunes under our belt for the gig.”

  “You already booked us a gig?” Tristan asks. “Before you’d even played with us?”

  “That’s pretty freakin’ bold!” Akim says.

  “Quite a go-getter,” Lola says, sounding not unimpressed.

  “Hey, whatever, dude,” Jimmy T says to Akim. “Is there anyone here who’s opposed to getting paid a hundred bucks each to play the same tunes we’ve been playing here for nothing?”

  All is silent but the hum of the amplifiers.

  “Great, then!” Jimmy says. “Can everybody get together for a rehearsal on Friday? We can draw up a set list for the show then.”

  “I’m good for Friday,” Tristan says.

  “Sure,” I add.

  “Whatever,” Akim says.

  “Cool,” Lola says, “we are going to kick ass!”

  “Damn right, ,” Jimmy says, patting her behind. Oddly, Lola lets this go unchallenged. Could it be that she likes this guy?

  “See ya next week, then, dudes,” Jimmy says. “You need a lift somewhere, baby? Er, sorry, Lola? There’s an empty seat in my car.”

  “Sure,” she says, and he and Lola depart.

  I look at Akim. Then at Tristan. Tristan looks at Akim. None of can believe that all of this just happened.

  “Well,” Tristan finally says, “it looks like we’ve got us a band, boys.”

  Akim just grunts, “We had a band . . . until that talentless frat boy showed up and lowered the musical ante. What will we play for an encore? Three Blind Mice?”

  “Akim,” Tristan says, “he’s already got us a gig. Besides, people like those songs, even if they are easy to play.”

  “His guitar sound sucks,” Akim says.

  “You can help him fix that,” Tristan says, “you’re the guitar gear guru! He’s already got us a gig, Akim!”

  “He’s an idiot!”

  “He got us a gig!”

  Akim looks at the floor, and sighs a heavy sigh.

  “Well, okay. I suppose he might be of some use to us. We can wait a little while before we kick him out.”

  Akim glances over at me. “Wanna play one more? Just the three of us?”

  “How’s the ol’ battle scar holding up?” Tristan asks.

  “What battle scar?” I tear into a roll that leads the three of us into a wicked power-trio jam.

  The slash across my belly sizzles with pain from the exertion of playing the drums for such a long session, but it’s beautiful pain.

  I am in a band. I am playing rock ‘n’ roll. And I am alive.

  Be Alive

  (Rock Anthem)

  Lyrics — D. Sifter, Music — A. Ganges, T. Low, D. Sifter From the album Socrates Kicks Ass! recorded by The Featherless Bipeds

  stop

  speak softly

  and carry

  nothing but questions

  unclench your right hand

  unclench your left hand

  unclench your lips and teeth

  exhale

  be still

  just stand there and breathe

  and be alive, be alive, be alive

  just be alive, be alive, be alive

  Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

  feel the earth tug

  at your soles,

  the musky air settle on your skin

  let it saturate

  your brittle bones

  bring you back to earth again

  and be alive, be alive, be alive

  just be alive, be alive, be alive

  be alive, be alive, be alive

  be alive, be alive, be alive

  (repeat to fade)

  SOCRA TES KICKS ASS!

  It’s nearly two am on a Saturday night, and Akim, Tristan, Lola, Jimmy T and I are playing rock ‘n’ roll together on the stage at Harlock’s Roadhouse. We’ve practiced every day from noon until two in the morning for the past two weeks, so we come across like a veteran bar band. Well, sort of — the generally high blood-alcohol level of the patrons is also contributing to our critical success. The women dance and spiral to Akim’s hot guitar solos, and the guys cheer for Lola’s singing, and likely also for her latest outfit (a present from Jimmy T, who seems to officially be her new boyfriend). The short skirt and dark stockings accentuate the curves of her legs, and the low-cut top displays her ample cleavage. She looks like a rock star.

  Sure, each of us makes a few mistakes. Jimmy T plays an entire song one fret too high, but his shrill little amp is so drowned out by the rest of us that nobody in the audience notices anyway. Lola starts a song a couple of beats late, Tristan knocks over his mike stand with the neck of his Rickenbacker, and my timing veers off a couple of times as I watch Zoe writhe on the dance floor in front of the stage. But it doesn’t seem to matter. The electric charge from the crowd is positive.

  We finish the final song of our third set with a triumphant blast of sound. We acknowledge the noise of a few dozen clapping hands as if it’s the thundering roar of a sell out crowd at a football stadium.

  “Thank you very much! Give it up for Akim ‘Fingers’ Ganges on guitar, Tristan ‘Thumper’ Low on bass, ‘Drumm
er’ Dak Sifter on the drums, and ‘Luscious’ Lola Young on vocals!” Jimmy T barks into his microphone, with rhythm and cadence that suggest he’s been practicing this moment all week. “And me? Me? Well you can call me Jimmy T! Thank you! Good night!”

  Lola tugs him from the stage, slaps his ass, and they fondle each other into the shadows of the backstage area. I’ve spent my whole life chasing after Zoe Perry, and Jimmy T conquers the mighty Lola in less than three weeks? My mind reels. Does she really like his Mercedes that much?

  “Fingers?” Akim protests as he sets down his guitar and departs the stage, “I’ll give him the friggin’ finger!”

  “Hey, man, he called me ‘Thumper’, like I’m a Disney cartoon bunny or something,” Tristan says, “but so what? We sounded good tonight.”

  A few people in the crowd start to chant for an encore, and soon nearly every voice in the bar has joined in. The cheering, combined with the effect of the many beers I chugged down between songs, plus the images of Zoe bouncing and gyrating in front of my drum set, inspires me to take a risk.

  “Tristan,” I say, “Let’s go up there and play that song we were working on together back in September.”

  “Wha?” Tristan blurts. “You mean that ballad? The acoustic guitar thing?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Aw, I don’t know, Dak,” he said. “It’s maybe a bit quiet for this crowd. Besides, Akim is the guitar player, not me.”

  “Go for it, Tristan,” Akim says. “I want to hear the song.”

  “Aww, I don’t know,” Tristan says.

  “Tristan,” I tell him, “I want to sing it for Zoe.”

  Tristan, perhaps recalling that it was me who helped him get together with Veronica, shrugs in agreement, and we step back onto the stage. Even though he’s a bass player at heart, Tristan picks up Akim’s Takamine semi-acoustic, and begins gently strumming as if he was born with it in his hands. I step up to the mike at centre stage.

  “This is what our drummer looks like when he’s not hidden behind the drums,” Tristan says into Akim’s seldom-used mike. “He’s gonna sing an original tune for you called ‘Invitation’. ”

  The noise of people laughing and talking fades to almost nothing, and eyes turn towards the stage. I can see Jimmy T mouthing the words, “What The Hell Are You Doing!” from off stage.

  “This is about a girl I knew in high school,” I say, and I look right at Zoe.

  The song started out as a poem I wrote for her. I recited it out loud in front of everyone in Mr. Alvinstock’s grade eleven English Composition class, and didn’t even care about the other guys laughing at me from the back of the classroom. For a short but beautiful time after that, Zoe became my girlfriend. Maybe lightning can strike the same place twice. I begin singing:

  You tell me

  You grew up in a town

  Where smiles disguised intentions

  You tell me

  You were brought up in a house

  Where dreams were never mentioned

  You imply

  you can’t distinguish

  Truth from invention

  It seems that we grew up together

  It seems that we’re from different places

  Same town, same house, same run-around

  Same problems, different cases

  Tristan joins in on the next part, his thin, gritty singing voice creating a sloppy-but-charming drunken-sounding harmony, kind of like when Keith Richard harmonizes with Mick Jagger:

  This is an open invitation

  to come as you are

  no need to dress up or down

  no need to make a reservation

  to dance without light

  to drink all the night

  from the shadows

  We can tango through

  this rainy syncopation

  with heartbeats as strong and steady

  as ritual drums

  This is your invitation

  To come

  This is your invitation

  To come

  This is your invitation

  To come

  Zoe sways back and forth looking at the floor. Mission accomplished. The crowd erupts with applause, and Lola, Jimmy T and Akim join us onstage for the encore set.

  “Good stuff, man,” Akim says to Tristan as both resume their positions on either side of the drums.

  “Nice,” Lola agrees.

  “We’ll have to work on it as a band, though,” Jimmy T grunts. “It’s not fair to take the spotlight away from the rest of us.”

  Akim rolls his eyes.

  “Yeah, you’re the star of the band, right Jimmy T?”

  But Jimmy T has already turned toward the crowd, shouting, “Can we rock you one more time? Can we please rock you one more time?”

  He grins widely as they scream in response.

  Everyone plugs in, cranks up, and we make with the loudness once again.

  The crowd is still calling out for more as the houselights come up and the waitresses begin collecting empty bottles and glasses.

  Lola and Jimmy T retreat behind the stage to thrash and roll around in a ball of limbs and sweat. Sung Li runs over to Akim, climbing him as she wildly kisses his face. “Hey, hey, don’t knock over my Strat!” he grumbles, but you can tell he’s enjoying the mauling.

  Veronica meets Tristan on the other side of the stage, locks onto his mouth with hers, and whispers something in his ear that causes a happily dazed expression to spread across his face. Out on the dance floor, newly-minted young couples flirt and mouth promises to each other. All around me, lovers dance the dance.

  I sigh and step out from behind the drums, to find Zoe standing right in front of me, her hands jammed into the front pockets of her jeans. Her eyes are big and round and liquid, her lips are tight.

  “You played well tonight,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “You looked kind of good up there playing those drums,” she says quietly.

  “You looked very good down there on the dance floor.”

  “Um,” she said, “we could get together for lunch tomorrow, if you want to.”

  “I’ll come over tonight, if you want me to,” I said.

  “Well . . . no, tomorrow. Maybe.”

  She leaves to catch a ride home with Sung Lee, collecting glances from the remaining men as she moves through the thinning bar crowd.

  Now the barroom is nearly empty, and all the members of our new band are gathered around one of the big, round tables — covered in sweat and stinking of nicotine, quaffing cheap, watery draft, basking in the afterglow of our first gig. My body feels as if it’s been pumped full of helium. I feel like I’m either going to explode or float away.

  The owner of Harlock’s (whose actual name is Johnson) has paid us a hundred bucks each, and has booked us for another show in a month. He sends the waitress, Suzy, over to our table with fresh pitchers of lukewarm beer.

  “On the house, kids,” Suzy says. “Mr. Johnson likes you. But you better get a name for this here band of yours, so he’s got something to put up on the sign outside.”

  She waddles away towards the bar.

  “Okay, here’s an idea for a band name,” Jimmy T says, nodding enthusiastically, “how about ‘Jimmy T and the Jam’?”

  “Jimmy T has got his head jammed up his friggin’ hole if he thinks we’re going to call our band that!” Akim says. “What the hell is this? Suddenly you think you’re our leader?”

  “Look, guys,” says Jimmy, gravely, “We need a name. I’ve given this a lot of thought . . . how about ‘Jimmy T and the T-Birds’, then?”

  “Why don’t we all dress up in matching shirts and pants, too, like the Dave Clark Five,” Akim scoffs. “Wouldn’t that be neat-o, Jim?”

  Jimmy T rolls his eyes, as if dealing with an unreasonable child. He turns to face Tristan and me. We’ve been nursing our beers across the table from the other three.

  “What do you guys think of ‘Jimmy T and the
Tramps’, then? “

  Before either Tristan or I can think of anything diplomatic to say, Akim shouts, “Listen up, dude! ‘Jimmy T’ is gonna get ‘tramped’ if he doesn’t knock it off!”

  Jimmy looks confused.

  Akim shakes his head. “There are five of us in this band. We are not your band, get it? If you wanna have your name in the title, the most accurate name for our outfit would be ‘A Good Singer, Three Good Musicians . . . and Jimmy T’!”

  Akim looks around desperately at Lola, Tristan, and me.

  “Haven’t you guys got any ideas for a name? And if one of you says ‘Tristan’s Treble Knobs’, or ‘Dak and the Dung Diggers’, or ‘Lola and the Lickers’, so help me God I’ll kill you all.”

  “Lola and the what?” Lola says.

  To prevent violence from breaking out, Tristan jumps in.

  “How about ‘Not the Beatles’? We could have album titles like ‘Not Abbey Road’ and ‘Not The White Album’.”

  “Wait, wait!” says Jimmy T, his eyes lighting up eerily, “We’re on the right track here . . . a concept name! We need a name that has a cool explanation . . . you know, something we can explain in interviews . . . like . . . like . . . ”

  I can almost smell the grey matter scorching inside Jimmy’s skull.

  “Jimage!” he cheers.

  There is confused silence all around.

  “Jimmy, what are you talking about?” Lola asks.

  “Wait, wait, this is good!” says Jimmy, “Listen to this: When a guy named Jim, like me, let’s say, looks in the mirror . . . ”

  “That’s it,” Akim says, “I am going to kill you, you egocentric . . . ”

  “Wait!” Jimmy says, “Hear me out! When a guy named Jim looks in the mirror, what does he see? Does he see his image? No! He sees his Jimage! Get it?”

  We were all too stunned to speak.

  “What?” he says, palms up in the air. “Is it too conceptual?”

  “Yeah,” says Tristan, as seriously as he can, “it’s too conceptual. People might not get it, you know?”