by Lewis Shiner
“Rosaline took herself out of the running. Juliet is here and now. Can you get a date? We could all go to the Studio Club or something.”
More chauffeuring, Alex thought. Oh, joy. “Yeah, all right, I’ll figure something out.”
“I wish… I wish I’d landed here three years ago. Then it could be us playing the Studio Club next week. I wasted so much time…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. In all those armpits of the world. Where you learned Spanish and Arabic and read more books than anybody I know.”
“Big woo.”
Cole was quiet for a minute and Alex contemplated how suddenly and how hard these black moods came down on him. For the first time he wondered if Cole might be genuinely crazy.
“If you had a window,” Cole said, “and you could see yourself twenty years from now, would you look?”
“Of course. Anybody would.”
“Not me,” Cole said. “If I wasn’t where I wanted to be, I couldn’t stand it.”
“And where is that?”
“Doing this, playing music. In the big leagues.”
“You think there’ll still be rock in twenty years? You think old guys will be playing it? Where’s Benny Goodman now?”
“I don’t know, but he’s still playing music.”
Alex shook his head. “I don’t need a magic window. I can see me working for my father, married, couple of kids, big house, all that bullshit.”
“Really? That’s what you want?”
“Want it?” Alex said. “It’s my worst nightmare.”
“Then don’t do it, man. Those days are over, following in your father’s footsteps and all that. You can be whatever you want to be.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, feeling the edge of his own desperation. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
*
In late October, the switchboard rang to tell Dave that he had an incoming call from Sal of the Meteors. Their first single, “(You Take Me) Around the World,” a none-too-subtle sexual innuendo, was in the top 20 in Billboard, top ten on wmca, so he figured it was safe to pick up the phone.
In fact Sal, in gratitude, had called with a tip. “We had this guy and gal open for us last night, and you might want to check them out. The chick is, like, a fucking knockout, amazing tits, they’ve got great songs, bluesy, but trippy as shit at the same time. She said they were playing the Bitter End tonight. Her name’s Sue Storm, you know, like in the comic book.”
Dave didn’t know, but he called the Bitter End and confirmed that she was in the eight o’clock opening slot, only a couple of blocks from his apartment.
He got there early. Though the Bitter End was slightly swankier than some of the competition, in the end it was another postage-stamp stage in front of a bare brick wall. His emotions were running high. He hadn’t been out to the clubs since the whole verkakte thing with the Meteors. That disappointment still ate at him, and Crystal was part of it too. He didn’t know whether to cry in his beer or turn tail and run. He ordered the beer just in case.
Then Sue Storm took the stage and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. She had long, reddish brown hair, a slightly turned up nose, a tiny gap between her front teeth, huge brown eyes that popped a little, like she had a secret she couldn’t wait to tell you, and yes, beautifully shaped breasts above a small and undulating waist. All of which was secondary to the glow that came off of her, a slow, sinuous sexuality, frank without being lascivious, playful without losing its high seriousness. She wore folkie clothes: low cut peasant blouse, tight blue jeans, high boots. She carried a dreadnought 12-string guitar that might have dwarfed her had she not been 5 foot 10.
Dave glanced around the room. Every man in the place was staring at her, and that included the tall, skinny kid with the floppy brown hair and an actor’s pretty face who got up on the stool next to hers with his own acoustic guitar.
“Hey there, everybody,” she said, with a smile slightly brighter than the lights at Yankee Stadium, and she immediately swung into a medium tempo shuffle. Dave had heard it a million times before, and yet it was garden-fresh, with a contagious snap to the rhythm. The boy played a few passable blues licks, barely audible over that big, booming 12-string.
He was braced for a premature, whiskey-roughened contralto, and she fooled him with a clean soprano that she served up with no frills, though every so often she let him see a glimpse of the power she was holding back. The lyrics had been listening to Bob Dylan and reading Ferlinghetti and they tried too hard in places, though they could be fixed.
Still, something else was wrong, and it took Dave the rest of the thirty-minute set, where she mixed in a few more originals with covers of Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf, and Tampa Red, to put his finger on it.
He nearly didn’t go backstage, because she was not fully formed, the way the Meteors had been. Between her and the recording studio lay sacrifices she was probably not prepared to make. He went anyway because he wanted to know what it would be like to stand only a couple of feet away from her, to feel that radiance direct from the source.
The green room turned out to be crowded with the rest of the night’s lineup, changing clothes and tuning up and warming their vocal cords. He invited them to a table in the back of the club, leaning in so they could hear him over the music.
He kept it short. The first thing he told them was that he was an engineer at Columbia with no authority to sign anybody or produce anybody, but with friends in the business. He verified that Sue had written the songs, while Gene, her partner, insisted he’d contributed to the arrangements. Gene had hooked onto a jet plane with a fishing pole, Dave thought. Now the plane was taxiing for takeoff and he hadn’t yet figured out that he was going to have to let go or get badly hurt.
“I’ll be honest,” Dave said. “I don’t think the pure acoustic folk thing suits you. For one thing, it’s not that hip anymore, and for another you need real power behind you to match the power of your voice. Have you ever thought about going electric?”
He’d thrown the question to Sue, and Gene intercepted it. “No. Absolutely not. We’re serious about authenticity.”
As he’d suspected, the kid was going to be a complete pain in the ass, as if that would help him hold on to her. Dave gave them each a card and said, “If you change your mind, give me a call.”
He went back to his table long enough to finish his beer and settle up with the waitress. He overtipped her to prove that he wasn’t taking out his disappointment on others. The singer on stage was attempting Josh White’s “One Meatball” and failing to persuade. Dave waited for the end of the song and then quietly slipped away.
The wind cut through his jacket and rattled his teeth. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his collar, and had crossed Thompson Street before he realized that somebody had called his name.
“Mr. Fisher!” said the voice. “Wait up!”
He turned to see Sue, expensive hard-shell guitar case in hand. She had a sheepskin jacket over her peasant blouse and the cold had turned her cheeks bright red. She was out of breath from chasing him and had to set the guitar down and put her hands on her knees to get her breath. Finally she said, “Can we talk?”
“Sure,” he said. “Where’s Gene?”
“I departed the partnership.”
Dave nodded, more pleased than he wanted to admit. “Let’s get out of the cold.”
They walked two blocks to the Kettle of Fish, Dylan’s old hangout, which Dave chose for sentimental reasons. They shared a plate of French Fries while Dave laid out his ideas.
“The first thing I need is for you to sit down with a pro songwriter, like a Carole King or somebody, and have them work with you on two of your songs, that we will mutually agree on. Your songs are good, but I think they’re just short of being hits.
“Then, based on what you learn from that, I’ll want you to rewrite two more of your songs on your own. If we’ve then got four great songs, which I believe we will, we can move to Phase Two.”
He gave her a mi
nute to look at the tabletop and get her words in order. “This hurts a little,” she said. “That you don’t like my songs.”
“I think your songs are terrific,” he said. “If you want to record for Elektra or Folkways, you’re ready to go. I’ll call Jac Holzman tomorrow and put in a word for you. But if what you want is for Murray the K to play you on wins—and only if that’s what you want—then this is the quickest way I know to get you there.”
She thought about it for another ten seconds and then she said, “Do you really know Carole King?”
“I’ve met her a few times. She’s very nice, actually.”
“What’s Phase Two?”
“That’s where I collect some favors and we get something on tape. Maybe just a song, maybe two or three. Then we shop the results around and get a deal where I get to produce.”
“Not to sound ungrateful… do you know how to produce?”
He gave her the short version of his résumé, and her huge eyes got bigger and shinier as he talked. He had to look away to keep from falling in.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“‘I’m just twenty-two and I don’t mind dyin’.’”
“Now the truth.”
She looked down again. “Nineteen.”
Dave had turned 31 a month ago. Don’t even think about her that way, he told himself. She’s an artist, you’re a producer, period. “And Sue Storm, that’s not your real name.”
“It was my little brother’s idea. From the comic book, you know?” Dave shook his head. “The Fantastic Four? Invisible Girl?”
“Invisible is the last thing you are.”
“I was born Sallie Krupheimer. Sallie with an I-E. I had my nose done when I was fourteen. I kind of feel bad about it now, but then again… I like what I see in the mirror and I used to hate it so much.”
Dave flashed back to an old man in the Columbia accounting office. “What’s your middle name?”
“Rachel. Why are you making a face? You’re not anti-Semitic, are you?”
“I’m Jewish. That was my ex-wife’s name. It could work. Sallie Rachel. The two first names thing, that’s very rock and roll. Duane Eddy. Gene Vincent. Dick Clark.”
“Brenda Lee,” she said, smiling mischievously. “Aretha Franklin. Etta James.”
“Dean Martin. Jerry Lewis.”
“Minnie Pearl.”
“Uncle,” Dave said.
“Sallie Rachel,” she said. “Sallie Rachel, Sallie Rachel.”
*
Saturday, October 29, cloudy and cold. A slow, steady drizzle had been falling all afternoon. Cole lay on his bed and watched the rain, trying not to let it bring him down.
The bands were supposed to arrive by six pm. They would draw lots for order of appearance, and the doors would open at seven. There would be a stage at either end of the Richardson High School gym, and as soon as one band wrapped up, the next would start. First band at 7:30, half-hour sets strictly enforced. Six bands, ending at 10:30. The judges would huddle, and at 11 Johnny Hornet would hand the winning band a check for 500 dollars.
It was absolutely essential that The Chevelles be the band he handed it to. Everything was riding on it, and Cole found that he liked the pressure just fine.
They’d played an even dozen gigs now, most of them in back yards with an audience of 20 or 30 people, failing as often as not to keep the volume low enough to prevent police intervention. As Cole had predicted, the routine of playing every weekend had tightened them up nicely, and they now rolled inexorably from song to song, building momentum as they went.
The biggest drawback was not having time for dating. His father refused to let him out of the house on school nights, and Janet had quickly tired of going to gigs. They were left with picnics and matinees on weekend afternoons, their make-out sessions inhibited by an excess of daylight.
She was a senior at Bryan Adams High in East Dallas and lived with her divorced mother on the far side of White Rock Lake, thirty minutes from Cole’s house on the rare occasions when traffic wasn’t an issue. She had her own car, a battered Volkswagen Beetle, though the sheer distance involved meant that they spent more time on the phone than in person.
Cole was still struggling to make sense of her contradictions. She was smart, but not interested in academia. She quoted from The Feminine Mystique, but read Cosmo and still liked Cole to open doors for her. She had powerful maternal instincts that rendered her incoherent around puppies and kittens, but couldn’t see herself married or settled down or having any other restrictions on her independence. In fact she had a wild side, a taste for danger, symbolized by her ex-boyfriend Woody. Woody had graduated the year before and, as far as Cole could tell, was a borderline hood who rode a motorcycle, drank heavily, and had treated her badly. She and Woody had broken up in July after numerous infidelities on his part, though he still called her sometimes in late-night, alcohol-soaked depression. Her continued fascination with Woody seemed to be the main obstacle to her going all the way with Cole.
She was coming tonight, with a girlfriend from Bryan Adams that she thought Alex might like. In the victory celebration that was sure to ensue, anything might happen.
At 5:25 Mike’s station wagon pulled into the driveway, and Cole ran out with his guitar and shoved it onto the pile of gear in the back. Nobody looked at him as he got in the back seat next to Alex. Something was clearly wrong.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
Mike looked over his shoulder and carefully backed out of the driveway. “We don’t have a lead singer,” he said.
Cole looked at Alex, who was wearing a heavy coat and avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about?”
“Alex woke up with the flu,” Mike said. “He’s got laryngitis. He’s got no voice.”
Cole collapsed into the seat. “Oh, shit,” he said.
Gary handed him a sheet of notebook paper. “We redid the set list so it’s all stuff you and Mike sing lead on.”
“What about the harmonies?” Cole said.
“We think…” Alex started. It came out as a croak.
“Don’t talk,” Mike said. “Save what little you’ve got.”
“We think,” Gary said, “he may be able to do a few harmonies early on. He’s got some stuff for his throat.”
Alex looked miserable. Cole couldn’t find it in his heart to tell him it was okay. It was not okay. It was the worst timing possible and on some level Cole was sure Alex had let it happen through a lack of moral fiber.
“We need to run through the new set,” Cole said. “At least the transitions, so we’re not fumbling around between songs.”
“What difference does it make?” Mike said. Cole had never heard him sound so bitter. “We’re fucked. I’m not sure we should get up on stage.”
“What’s eating you?” Gary said, tactful as ever.
“I promised my dad we were going to be really good and not embarrass him after he went out on limb to get us in this thing. Now he’s going to look like an idiot.”
“Do you want to back out?” Gary said. Mike didn’t say anything. They were barreling north on Webb’s Chapel now, hard rain turning the windshield to a kaleidoscope despite the wipers. “Well, do you?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said.
“What about the rest of you?”
“No,” Cole said. “I want to play. Even if we suck.”
Alex shook his head and croaked, “Play.”
“Up to you, Moss,” Gary said. “In or out?”
Mike sighed theatrically. “In. The performers have the boys’ locker room for changing and stuff. We can hole up with the guitars and run through the transitions a couple of times.”
“All right,” Gary said. “You guys are such losers sometimes.”
Cole pictured the car sliding off the rain-soaked road and a stop sign coming through the window and cutting Gary’s head off neatly at the neck. In his imagination, the mouth was still working as the head landed at Cole’s feet
. “Nice team spirit, Travis,” Cole said.
“Yeah, well, look at the team.”
Cole slammed the flat of his hand against the front seat, making Gary’s head snap forward.
“Cut it out!” Mike said. “Don’t fuck up my mom’s car.”
Cole folded his arms across his chest. There would be five other drummers there tonight. Maybe one of them would be Gary’s replacement.
*
Cole watched 30 boys in various semblances of uniforms as they milled around the stage closest to the front doors, all of them wet from carrying their equipment in through the rain. The Chevelles in their usual blue blazers, a five-piece in matching Hawaiian shirts, one group in sweater vests. Everybody else in sport coats and ties.
Johnny Hornet had the running order for the bands, supposedly obtained by random drawing earlier. “If it was random,” Gary said, “why didn’t they do it in front of us?”
“Shut the fuck up, will you?” Mike said.
“Okay, people, listen up,” Hornet said. He was shorter than Cole had pictured him, with dark blond hair, long sideburns, and black-framed sunglasses. Black corduroy pants, black turtleneck, long, oxblood leather coat. Cole gave him credit for not going in for a lot of his radio jive and for treating them like fellow professionals.
“The first two bands, when I call your names, get your gear and start setting up on stage. Band one here, band two at the other end. Bands three and four, get everything put together and have it ready at the side of the stage so we can do a quick changeover. Number three here, four over there. All right?”
He tore the end off a sealed envelope and took out a sheet of paper. “First band, the opening band for the night, is the Luaus.” One of the guys in the Hawaiian shirts whispered, “Shit.” Cole felt a twinge of pity. Opening was the kiss of death on a night like this. Not, Cole thought, that death had not already given The Chevelles a long, lingering one with lots of tongue.
They drew third position, not as late as they would have liked, but workable. Gary unpacked his drums and started unfolding metal stands. Cole had learned not to offer to help. They lined up the amps and the organ next to the stage and waited for Gary to finish.
