Rowan’s dark eyes are unreadable as usual. “Be careful,” he murmurs.
I wonder if he’s talking about this bandleader or this impending threat to the shifters. I have a couple of melatonin supplements at bedtime, but sleep does not come easily to me. What in the world could be after us shifters? An extremist movement? A cult? Or some crazy person with minions? I can’t draw any conclusions because my mind does not understand why anyone would condone slavery and genocide. As a would-be monster, I can vouch for the fact that there are mysteries far more frightening than things that go bump in the night.
I’m grateful to have found a decent parking spot not too far away from La Balcone at the end of Decatur Street, almost to Esplanade. Even with the advantage of my hand truck, rolling my rig through the French Quarter is still no picnic. The clusters of tourists often block the sidewalk, oblivious to the fact that some of us need to get from here to there, and neither streets nor sidewalks make for particularly smooth sailing. La Balcone has been many things over the years, but its recent incarnation has always been agreeable to me: nice, spacious stage to accommodate a large band, decent lighting and PA, and a courtyard in which to escape on breaks.
Naj mostly plays original blues songs, but she had emailed me a rough set list to let me know about the covers that we might occasionally play, so I had been studying that. Most of it is stuff any New Orleans bass player should know. New Orleans Ladies. Pride and Joy. Use Me. Oh Baby Love. Stir it Up. Redemption Song. Bad Mama Jama. Drown in My Own Tears. Proud Mary. Tipitina. Fly Away. Something You Got. Signed, Sealed, Delivered. Piece of my Heart. Ruler of my Heart. Tell Me Something Good. A few of them are not your typical club songs, such as the Sherman and Sherman song Trust in Me from Disney’s The Jungle Book (I have been instructed to play it in a sultry rhumba style). Any of these gems I didn’t already know I looked up on YouTube or occasionally downloaded for a thrifty ninety-nine cents, but I am as prepared as can be.
The woman lounging at the bar is surprisingly sweet-faced and cheerful. Not at all what I expected. Flame-red hair—a little too bright to be natural, but perfect for stage—frames her heart-shaped face and accentuates her dimples. Her snakeskin-print dress hugs her body as she uncoils from her seat to greet me. “Hey, Birch! Or it’s ‘Buzz’, as your friends call you, isn’t it? Where y’at, mama? Nice to finally meet you … I think this will be a killer lineup tonight.”
I roll my rig into the corner and shake her hand with a neutral grip. “Nice to meet you … Naj.”
She beams. “It’s actually short for ‘Naja,” which means cobra. My mom was in India when she discovered that she was pregnant with me, and had been in the midst of a spiritual experience. Anyway, I’ve heard so much about you, but had never had a chance to hear you play.” She licks her lips, and I turn my back to set up my rig, though I can feel her eyes tracking me. “Actually, I saw you wandering around at French Quarter Festival,” she continues. “Who’s the pool stud? He’s hot!” My shoulders tighten, but I practice my breathing. Send no signals …
She gives my shoulder a playful shove. “I’m just kidding. I’ve worked with Rowan in the studio before. He’s a hell of a musician. He’s a hell of a guy, period. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” She nudges me in the ribs.
I can’t figure her out. But I don’t have to figure her out. All I have to do is play the gig, get my money, and get the hell out of here. Still, I feel oddly energized by this challenging exchange.
I give the room a cursory glance. There’s a man watching me from the bar. He takes his drink and claims a table near the stage in front of my rig. This patron of the arts appears clean-cut but smarmy. He’s so polished that from a distance he looks slimy, but I’ve been told that guys like that are actually cool and leathery. His tongue flicks out flirtatiously, and I try not to let him see me shudder. His unblinking stare is especially unnerving. Perhaps he has no eyelids.
I remember the rumors, Teddy’s advice, and Rowan’s warning, and with ample time to warm up and set my tone I head to the ladies’ room to collect my thoughts and steady my energy. Past the stage and down the narrow hall I stalk, towards the doors in the back marked MEN and OMEN. A faint trace of the missing “W” lingers on the latter, but the hairs on my neck rise all the same. I shield myself to the fullest, reminding myself to trust no one. Talk is cheap, but falling for it is expensive as hell.
I am introduced to the drummer who only goes by the name “Sand,” an unsmiling, unadorned woman with a long hair pulled back into a severe bun. She approaches me sideways, nods in formal greeting, but shows no warmth. There’s an older black gentleman on keys who introduces himself as Tim, and we hit it off instantly. A tenor sax player and trumpet player are whispering and grinning by the courtyard entrance; again there is that universal tribal vibe within horn sections. I causally know these guys from other gigs, and greet them with my usual irreverent humor. I see out of the corner of my eye a rubber toilet plunger end go rolling out of someone’s gig bag and I smile to myself. The unglamorous accessory means that we’ll have a trombone player, as the household object makes for an excellent mute. The bone player turns out to be a tall, graceful woman named Lydia King. She has a powerful build and long braids swaying in intricate cornrows. She could pass for some sort of a Creole Amazon goddess. Every time I try to catch a name or get a better look at her, she vanishes.
We start out in a decent comfort zone. Naj calls it: “Blues shuffle in B flat, no quick four, chorus has stops, watch me or the drummer for cues.” And away we go. I lean back slightly as a posture befitting a good, solid shuffle … my bass lines walk steadily, appearing to wander occasionally but always hanging on the right chord centers. I fall into a comfortable, loping gait. Given too much thought, it’s like lumberjacks trying to balance on floating logs. Becoming one with the pocket, it’s hypnotic. I often tell people that playing in the pocket is like focusing on your breathing. Think of it one way and you meditate, think of it another, and you hyperventilate.
The tourists dig it. The springtime shower has forced people into buildings, and the scent of rain and sweet enthusiasm fills the room. Even after the weather abates the crowd stays, attentive and generous.
Naj has them all hypnotized. Her precious bunny face belies her sultry movements when she wraps herself around the mic stand. Occasionally she pounces on the keyboard: her secret weapon, her hidden trump card. During these times Tim shifts with the ease of a shaman and becomes a killer clarinet player, melting into the shadows and giving her the glory. She’s actually quite proficient on the piano, and it only increases the intrigue. Naja … naga … There is no doubt that this woman is one of the snake people Teddy had described.
For a pre Jazz Fest show, the bar ring isn’t bad at all. Naj is generous in dividing the tip money, and even gives me a small cut of her CD sales. I shake hands with a few tourists who are full of glowing praise, and accept a beer from a handsome blond man with an untraceable accent and goes by the name of Yohan.
That wasn’t too bad, I reflect, stowing my gear in the back of my car. That’s when I notice that one of my tires is flat. I heave a huge sigh. I’m going to have to take all my equipment out again to get to my spare. As I unload piece by piece and place it far enough away from the recently dried mud, I can’t help but notice the odd marks in the dirt surrounding my car, tracks shaped like a capital letter “I.” Leaning in to examine the flat tire more closely reveals the cause: twin punctures, fang marks.
I refuse to let the mysterious assault on my vehicle intimidate me, especially today. I have a lucrative recording session that could possibly turn into more prestigious sessions if I play my cards right, and I can’t let myself get paranoid. The project is for a well-known female artist, Sarya Sheepsour, whom I won’t actually get to meet, but that’s fine with me. Others have complained about her caustic attitude toward even the most seasoned professionals. Last week, she was in the studio while one of my contemporaries laid down a blistering guitar solo, to
which she responded, “I like what you’re trying to do!” So nope, not getting an autograph won’t exactly break my heart. With a little luck, I’ll have a gold star on my discography and none of the headaches.
I’ve done so much session work by now, I seldom get “red light fever” (attacks of nerves as soon as the record button goes on) but I want to be on top of my game. I haven’t listened to any music with earbuds over the past twenty-four hours. No dairy products for the past day either in order to reduce any gunk on my vocal cords to an absolute minimum. Although I haven’t received all of the files of the works in progress to listen to, I’ve learned the form of the songs that the engineer sent me, and I can get a general gist of the songwriter’s style. Not rocket science in general, but overestimating one’s ability to play off the cuff is one of the worst studio crimes a musician can commit.
How can I put all of my recently acquired lupine lore to further my skills today? I shift to alto form, which is getting easier to maintain. My intuition and hearing will be enhanced, and while appearing more attractive might not make things any less complicated for me, it will most likely make them pay attention.
Raúl would probably tell me to be physically warmed up: not just my hands and upper body stretched, but all my whole body on alert. I listen once again to the files of the rough bounce mixes of a few of the songs, and try to feel the essence of the music up my spine. Don’t play your instrument; play the song instead, he once told me.
I would imagine that Teddy’s advice would be some sort of wisecrack. Sniffing butts is part of protocol, whether you are a canine or a musician. I make a mental note to watch for the subtle signals that most people miss when they are recording, especially eye contact and cues between the engineer and the producer.
Sylvia, of course, would warn me to tame the human within, the ego that is fair game for anyone to take a shot at. I have never worked with this producer before, but his reputation precedes him for shock value and crassness. I remember her lessons about power: Blended beings can fuse two sets of consciousness and thus have a stronger impact on deliberate intention, whether you refer to it as magic, quantum physics, or prayer.
And Rowan would have me pick up on the energetic fields. All of that electrical equipment is going to make it harder to pinpoint, but if someone stands near a monitor speaker, it might actually amplify someone’s pattern. I will also be able to gauge their reactions to whatever I play. What would he tell me? Be careful, I would guess.
I bring two basses—my trusty Fender Precision and a fretless—a preamp, and a small rig, not wanting to count on whatever the studio may or may not have. I already know Mike, the engineer, and we hug warmly. And there is no mistaking Kim, the producer, who’s looking down at me like a bird of prey. A man in his seventies, he is well over six feet tall, spine ramrod-straight. His gauntness only increases the unmistakably hungry look in his heavy-lidded, deep-set eyes. His wide, razor-thin mouth curves in a hint of a formal smile, as he says, “Welcome, Birch. Mike here tells me that you would like to do some basslines, even though I argued that this project needs a more masculine sound to it.”
I breathe deeply, taming the human within. I smile politely, hoping I’m not accruing bad karma by rolling the third eye. “You know, Kim,” I reply, “this is New Orleans. Don’t be so quick to assume that I’m female.”
This is a momentary standoff. I know for a fact that he enjoys trying to unsettle people, but I simply refuse to let it happen today. If I didn’t have my guards up, he’d be interfering with my energy field and playing me like a Theremin. He smiles; he likes this game, and I realize that so do I. This is a fun sport.
Posturing and playtime over for the moment, it’s time to get to work. Kim wants to hear backing vocals first. I let Mike set up a vocal microphone and gets some levels for me, making certain that what I’m hearing in my headphones is at a comfortable volume. I reciprocate the courtesy by testing at the loudest volume at which I realistically think I will be singing, preventing him from having to adjust my sound in mid-take or start over.
“I need for you to be the voice of the forgotten ones,” Kim dictates, channeling his muse. “Your backing vocals should sound like lonely schoolgirls, the ones rejected by their parents, friendless and at the bottom of the heap. Sing their broken dreams splitting at the seams, these would-be sluts with no esteem. Dirty lives that cut like knives, only the damaged one survives, no future as contented housewives. Think frustrated lesbians, masturbating virgins …”
I am unable to keep my mouth shut. “Kim, it’s going to take a major stretch of the imagination to pretend to be a virgin!”
He sticks his finger in my face to chastise me and I pull it, blowing a raspberry. He laughs in approval of my insolence and lets me just use my better judgment from this point on.
They can’t put their fingers on it, but a combination of my new look—I’ve worn a purple blazer to enhance my eyes in alto phase—and something about my kinesics and subtle scent makes them trust me. Heightened senses and animal magnetism are still no substitute for hard-earned chops, though, and I give it all I’ve got. It’s not just about projecting an image. It’s about living up to it.
With a bottle of room temperature water and a handful of lyrics sheets I knock out vocal harmonies to four, five, then six songs. Usually they happen in one take and Kim says, “Good. Next!” Sometimes he has me do second and third harmonies on the fly. On one particular song I point out that adding a third harmony would actually detract from the push-and-pull of a two-part spontaneous arrangement I have just laid down, reminiscent of the Everly Brothers.
“Fine. You have a great musical mind. You work at L.A. session speed. Okay, let’s see what you’ve got for those bass lines.”
We try running my bass directly into the console through my preamp, but decide that miking an amp is the best way to go. I listen to the tracks and play with the dials on my instrument until satisfied with my tone in relation to the mix, which is of the essence. Actually there are five essential t’s: taste, technique, timing, tone, and touch. The tracks roll and I flesh out each song, sitting into the groove, my place in a makeshift pack of sounds that consists of me with the previously laid tracks. Then Kim asks me to throw in a few more basslines to songs I haven’t yet heard. So I pay close attention, map out the songs in my head, and manage to get some decent tracks within three or four takes. I can hear their approval or indecision in their breathing, and I can hear the partials in the notes that they can only feel subliminally. I am hyper-focused, just like Rowan. I navigate my parts according to what I sense from them before anyone has to say a word.
By the end of the session Kim and I are friends, at least as close to being friends as one can be with this predatory bird. “I’ll be calling you for some more work. New Orleans is a great place for me to live, since I like good food and I like to date strippers, but the people here have their heads up their asses when it comes to making money. You need to stop playing these shitty gigs and get your name on some gold records. Would you be willing to move to L.A.? Or do you have some boyfriend or husband who’s just tying you to the kitchen, living off of your money, sitting around jacking off to your songs, and wishing that you were a lesbian?” I assure him that I have no such person in my life, but an unexpected dilemma hits my gut. Would I be abandoning the pack if I came into some real success? I remind myself that that is not an issue for the present.
I can’t help feeling relieved that Cal is no longer around. He would have loved to have rubbed shoulders with Kim, and I feel a fierce satisfaction that he had no part in this magical—if not twisted—recording session. Whether he wanted to invest in my music and turn a profit on it, wanted his name in print on a record, or simply wanted to cage an unusual creature for his collection, it will never happen again. I am not some legendary leprechaun or golden goose. I am a wild animal and a survivor.
Perhaps the best thing about today is that I have been paid by the track. Now I can alleviate my credit
card bill of the expenses I just forked over for my new tire, and still have a little to spare. No matter what adversaries try to unseat me, I’m going to survive. All I have to do is stay alert every moment.
INTERMISSION
“As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-Pack yelled
Once, twice, and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark—the dark!
Tongue, give tongue to it—Hark! O Hark!
Once, twice, and again!”
—RUDYARD KIPLING, “HUNTING-SONG OF THE SEEONEE PACK”
I am getting antsy. I’ve been pretty good about getting home after gigs on full moon nights without any unnecessary fur flying, but I need to let my wild nature out. I have yet to run with my new clan, and I am trying not to climb walls. The others can feel it too. Although I am the last to join, I have discovered that the entire pack is still very new, forming piecemeal since Rowan officially met Raúl on lycan business a year and a half ago. We have yet to run as a group, and I still have not yet run in true bass form with anyone else.
Rowan has proposed a Moon Run, and even though I have never heard the term, I can easily guess what it is. Running together under the magnetic pull of the moon is something that all lycan packs need on a regular basis, and even playing music together is not going to feed that primal longing. Sylvia says that during the full moon the bond between heaven and earth is the strongest. I don’t know if this is literal or allegorical but it doesn’t matter to me. I still like the image, but the shock of so many recent deaths and disappearances knot in my stomach like curdled milk, and I voice my concern.
Rowan’s eyes are steady and strong. “We can’t let these mysterious terrorists stifle our wild needs. This is essential to the pack. The Spillway is a perfect location for a run,” he suggests. “We have all been around too much electricity, and haven’t had enough grounding. Literally. Touching bare earth would work wonders for us as individuals, and even more so as a team. We need to get back into our flow. Running with the pack is being in the flow … even flow spelled backward is wolf.”
The Wild Harmonic Page 12
