by Mitch Albom
Offstage, musicians looked up, because the chord rang out so cleanly. But all they saw was darkness. Frankie began playing like a ghost, a tangle of arpeggios that got faster and faster, then sliding down the neck as if crashing a rocket. He used the pedals at his feet to create distortion, fuzz, wah-wah. He held a high D note, shaking his hand as if strangling every breath from the fret board, then ran a blazing blues scale up and down and up again. There were no other instruments playing, no drums, no bass. Most solos are played over a melody line, or against a rhythm section. But this was a singular guitar performance, and the melodies within Frankie’s riffing made it all the more remarkable. He was a man swimming against raging waters, and in all my time inside him, I cannot recall a greater battle. I was flapping in that solo like a sheet in a windstorm. Pieces of Leadbelly, Mozart, Chet Atkins, Segovia. Frankie conjured up every musical influence he knew and delivered the notes with such emotion, tears streamed down his cheeks and fell onto his fingers.
And all the while, he stared at his strings and screamed, “Change! . . . “Change!”
He wanted them to turn blue.
In his waffled mind, he believed he could undo that awful night, save his child, bring Aurora back to him. Didn’t he have that power? What was the point of these strings if not now?
“Change!”
His fingers flew. His solo blew out of the amplifiers.
“Change!”
The last surge of notes came gushing forth, a theme from Vivaldi, a Chuck Berry lick; his guitar was all but choking, the emotion raw and endless. To the side of the platform, a stagehand mumbled, “I’ll go get this guy,” but as he walked past members of The Who, their guitarist, Pete Townshend, grabbed him and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”
All told, Frankie played for two minutes and seventeen seconds. He ended by whipping his right hand like a flapping butterfly as he slid chords down the neck, which sounded like a giant engine dying, then streaked the glass slide up and down and twanged a howling low note and three harmonic overtones, followed by the finale.
Bum-bum-bum.
Dummmmmmmmmmmmmm.
The strings remained unchanged. He sank to the floor.
As there had been no lights, no one saw him play. And, as it was nearly five in the morning, many in the crowd were asleep. To the sounds of lightly scattered applause, a few stray whoops, and one man yelling in the darkness, “BRING ON THE WHO!” Frankie sensed that nothing in his life was going to get better. It was black and dark and he was alone.
So on his knees, already in a praying position, my beloved child leaned forward, and held out his left hand as he had always been instructed, straight and open as if asking God for help.
And then, remembering El Maestro’s words (“Stupid boy! God gives you nothing!”), he stabbed the jagged bottle neck into his palm, again and again and again, slicing open the hand that fed him, until he couldn’t see his fingers for the blood.
Pau Sanz
Inspector Jefe (chief inspector of police), Cuerpo Nacional de Policía
I GIVE YOU TALK NOW.
Just a short, okay? . . . My English is not so well.
I am Pau Sanz. Inspector Jefe. I am chief of investigation for death of Francisco Presto.
Eh? . . . No yet. All we know is he die when he fall from very high at the Teatro Municipal. Is festival for Tárrega. We have every year. Never a problem. Never before.
Eh? . . . Sí, this our question also. How he does rise? Why he does fall? Maybe someone push him? Maybe someone want him to die?
We find no wound. Scars on hand, but no wound. No balas, how you say . . . bullets? Nobody shoot him.
We must ask questions. We know is a church. We respect. But is job of policía, someone killed, yes? Must ask questions.
Eh? . . . No suspect. No yet. But people say they see him with person in morning, and this person wear many clothes and cover face. Maybe this person do the bad thing to him? Is possible, no?
To me, case is simple. Is a murder. Must be.
Man do not fly.
44
1981
* * *
THE FERRY PULLED INTO THE BAY AND THREE YOUNG MEN GAZED UP AT THE GREEN CLIFFS.
“It’s like Never Never Land,” one of them said.
“From Peter Pan?”
“Maybe we’re the Lost Boys.”
“Good band name.”
“I’m Captain Hook.”
“You’re Tinker Bell.”
“You’re hysterical.”
“Shut up.”
The calendar year was 1981, the month of January, on a small landmass called Waiheke Island in the Hauraki Gulf of New Zealand. The three young men, recent college graduates and members of a country music band, went by the names Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck. They wore jeans and loose cotton shirts, their hair thick, their bodies thin. Lyle was taller than the other two. He and Eddie carried guitar cases as they stepped off the boat and walked up a hill.
“Gidday, boys.”
Inside an old Jeep sat a large man with a robust, reddened face, close-cropped silver hair, and a tattoo on his forearm. His hand rested over the steering wheel. He smiled, revealing several gold teeth.
“Lookin’ for transportation?”
“Yes, sir,” Lyle said.
“Hop in.”
They piled in the back.
“I’m Lyle. That’s Eddie. He’s Cluck.”
“Cluck? Whoo-hoo.” The man laughed.
“Everyone’s a critic,” Cluck mumbled.
“What’s your name?” Eddie asked.
“Keeyvin.”
“Kee-vin?”
“K-e-v-i-n.”
“Oh. Kevin. Okay.”
“From the States, are ya?”
“Texas.”
image/25685.png “Good on ya. Here we go.”
Within seconds, they were bouncing along the island’s one main road, passing large sections of undulating grass and rocky coves that broke small waves into the shore. They noticed how Kevin waved at every passing car or pedestrian.
“A couple ankle biters there,” he announced, waving at two small children.
“Aw, hard yakka there, mates,” he said, pointing at bare-chested field workers.
“What is this guy saying?” Eddie whispered.
“Beats me,” Lyle said.
“Been in Oz, then?” Kevin asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Australia.”
“Oh. Yes, sir. We landed there, then flew here.”
“You know what they say. Australia’s the lucky country, but New Zealand is God’s own.”
“Really?”
“It’s true, mate. She’s beautiful. Look at that water. Lovely, isn’t it?”
Hot air blew through the open windows. The road zigzagged through one luscious cove after another. There were no traffic lights and Kevin barely had to touch his brakes.
“God’s own,” he repeated to himself.
“Do you know a cheap hotel?”
“Aw, there’s heaps, mate. On holidays, are you?”
“Just finished college.”
“Good on yas! What brings you to the island?”
“We’re looking for someone.”
Lyle slapped Eddie’s arm.
“Who’s that?” Kevin asked.
“A guitar player.”
“And a singer.”
“Kiwi?”
The boys looked at each other.
“He’s American. Well, Spanish first. Do you know a lot of people on this island?”
Kevin smiled, the creases on his face pulling up like a window blind. “I reckon I do.”
He pointed out the window. “That fruit stand is owned by Curtis Mormont. He’s a hardcase. . . . That blue ho
use up there? That belongs to an Irish fella, comes down for the warm weather. Mulligan. Milligan. We call him Red. . . . That bach over there, the tiny house? That’s my mate, Tim. ‘Terrible’ Tim, we say. But only when he’s drunk. . . .”
The Jeep curled around rolling fields that dropped off in lumps toward the sea. Every turn revealed a new, picturesque bay.
“What’s this guitar player’s name?”
Lyle looked at Cluck who looked at Eddie.
“Presto. Frankie Presto.”
The man scratched his forehead just above his eye.
“Nah, mate. Don’t know that one.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
“So you boys are musicians, too, eh?”
“We’re in a band.”
“Aww, good on yas. What do you play?”
Cluck slapped on the back of the seat. “Drums.”
“Guitar,” said Lyle.
“Bass,” said Eddie.
Kevin slowed the Jeep. “Look, mates. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we stop by the house? Meet the wife. She’s lovely. We’ll have some food, then get you on your way. Nothing flash. Just bubble and squeak.”
“What’s that?” Cluck asked nervously.
“Leftovers,” Kevin said.
“You don’t have to do that for us,” Lyle said.
“No worries, mate. If not for you Yanks in World War Two, we’d all be speaking Japanese.”
“How far is it to your house?”
“Nothing’s far on Waiheke.”
“What’s the fare?”
Kevin shook his head and smiled.
“Aw, I’m not a cabbie, mate. I just live here.”
Hours later, the moon hung over the water and countless stars could be seen from Kevin’s patio. Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck had bellies full of chicken, olives, cheese, and tomatoes. And wine. Lots of wine. Planning only to stay for a few minutes, they had eased into the Kiwi hospitality and remained past sunset. The humid breeze seemed to slow their pace and their skin glistened slightly with sweat.
They had confessed to Kevin and his wife, Robbie, about their quest to locate Frankie Presto. They were hoping to meet him and perhaps hear him play.
“He’s kind of a legend,” Eddie said.
Indeed, by this point, twelve years after Woodstock, a small mythology had developed about my cherished disciple. A critic had written a bestselling book claiming Frankie was “the most gifted guitarist in early rock and roll,” and the Byrds’ Roger McGuinn, in a film documentary, had recounted playing with Frankie and being astonished at his skill. Although his anguished guitar solo in the darkness at Woodstock had not officially been recorded, a tape recorder had been running offstage, and bootleg copies of the two minutes and seventeen seconds had become a collector’s item, with many guesses as to the artist, including Jimi Hendrix, Jerry Garcia, Pete Townshend, and Carlos Santana, all of whom were present at the festival, all of whom denied being the player. More recently, Frankie’s name had been postulated, but as he had disappeared from public life, no one could confirm it. And the less you humans can solve a mystery, the more interesting it becomes to you.
Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck were fascinated with the Frankie Presto enigma. They even developed a theory as to his whereabouts: Eddie’s cousin, who worked at a music licensing company, traced a royalties check for the song “I Want To Love You” to a forwarding address at a post office box on Waiheke Island, New Zealand. Eddie, Lyle, and Cluck, whose band was called the Clever Yells, had planned this trip as a postgraduation adventure, in hopes of being the first to find the elusive guitarist.
Lyle seemed particularly infatuated. He tried to explain it to his curious Kiwi hosts.
“Frankie Presto was real popular when I was a kid,” he said. “My parents had his records and I hung the album covers on the wall. He was just so cool to me. He had everything—voice, looks, skill. And then he quit. Disappeared. Some people say he was better than anybody on the guitar—ever. And he just up and went.”
“So why do you want to find him?” Robbie asked.
Lyle looked away. “Well, ma’am, maybe it sounds stupid. But I really want to make it in music, and I’ve been writing songs, trying to sell them. Every time someone says no, it’s like they kicked me in the gut. I go crazy trying to figure out why they didn’t like it. I guess I thought if I met Frankie Presto, he could teach me something.”
“How to sell a song?” Robbie asked.
“How to not care so much,” Lyle answered.
Kevin looked at his wife. “These Yanks are very deep.”
She laughed and he laughed and he said, “Good fun, eh?” and Lyle grinned but looked away. It was late when they finished talking and Kevin said the hotels would have closed. He insisted the visitors sleep on his couches. They were too tired to argue.
Early the next morning, with the sun just rising, Lyle felt a push on his shoulder.
“Get up, mate,” Kevin said softly.
Fifteen minutes later, the three musicians were in the back of the Jeep, wiping sleep from their eyes, as Kevin steered off the main road and drove down toward a hidden bay. He came to an opening in the trees. The Jeep stopped and Kevin pointed to a small path.
“Through there.”
“What’s through there?” Lyle asked.
“What you’re looking for.”
Minutes later, the three of them were pushing away vines, stepping over moist ground, and moving forward in near darkness caused by thick overhead branches. They saw an icebox in a tree. They saw two old speakers wired together between ladders. As they edged forward and rays of light increased, they heard a distant rumbling sound, and realized they were approaching the surf.
“Get down,” Eddie whispered.
The three of them dropped low.
“What is it?” Lyle said.
“Look.”
“Where?”
Eddie pointed to the left. Through the clearing of brush they saw a man, sitting in a hammock, hunched over a guitar and facing out to the water.
“Is that him?”
“Jesus.”
“I can’t believe it! We found the guy!”
“Wait.” Lyle put a finger to his lips. “Listen.”
They leaned forward, trying to distinguish musical sounds above the small waves lapping the rocks.
“Do you hear that?”
“What?”
“What he’s playing. It can’t be him.”
“What’s he playing?”
Lyle shook his head.
“Scales. Like a kid.”
45
1944
* * *
“Maestro?”
“Yes?”
“Is my papa coming home?”
“I don’t know, Francisco. Pour me my drink.”
“What if he never comes home?”
“Do not think such things. Now pour.”
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“Then you will have to start over.”
“At the beginning?”
“No. You cannot be a baby twice.”
“Then how do you start over?”
“The way a composer starts a new piece. Where is my drink?”
“I don’t want to start without my papa.”
“Do not cry, boy.”
“But—”
“Stop it right now.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Francisco. Do you think I wanted a life of darkness? Do you think I wanted not to see my fingers or the frets or the tuning pegs, to have to poke around like a lost animal?”
“No, Maestro.”
“No, I did not. This is life. Things get taken away. You will learn to start over many times—or you will be useless.”
“Yes, M
aestro.”
“As you are useless right now, since I do not have my drink.”
“I am sorry, Maestro.”
“Never mind it. Return to your arpeggios. This is all I will say on the matter. Are you listening?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
“Stop crying. Start playing.”
46
FEW IN HUMAN HISTORY GRABBED MORE OF ME AT BIRTH THAN LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN. My color drew him instantly and his two-fisted clutch assured a musical existence. But when his drunkard father would wake him late at night and demand that he practice, a frightened Ludwig could hardly bring me forth. Later in life, when he went deaf as a stone, I remained in his soul, steadfast as always, but producing music without hearing it was a burden I could not lighten, not even for a favorite child.
Likewise with Frankie Presto, whose left hand was badly slashed on the Woodstock stage. All I could do was observe. Bloody and dazed, he’d been evacuated from the festival via army helicopter, thanks to a woman who rushed him to the medical area. Military personnel tended to his cuts. An army surgeon operated, saving what he could.
In the hospital the next day, the drugs finally flushed from his bloodstream, Frankie realized what had happened. He looked at his bandaged hand and cried until he couldn’t look anymore. That night a nurse entered with his guitar case, saying someone from the festival had transported it. He asked if his guitar was inside. She undid a clasp and peeked.
“Yes, it is,” she said. He felt his chest well up before telling her, in a cracking voice, “Take it away, okay? Just take it away.”
In the days that followed, he learned about other Woodstock casualties, a young marine who died from heroin use, a teenager who’d been run over in his sleeping bag by a tractor. He saw LSD victims stumbling in, most of them barely out of high school, being whispered to by volunteers who rubbed their arms as they screamed or cried. At some point, a nurse with a clipboard asked Frankie his age, and, staring at the young patients, he answered, “Thirty-three.” He felt old and ridiculous.
