by Barbara Hall
“When did you have shows?” I asked him.
“I told you. I used to play live a lot. I had a bit of a following.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said.
“I’m just saying, everybody gets nervous before a show.”
“I don’t think that accounts for my disposition.”
“Well, maybe it’s Coachella.”
Now I was really staring at him. The last thing I needed was some guitar salesman reading my thoughts and seeing into my soul.
But first.
A short tutorial on Coachella. Many of you know it is a very famous outdoor music festival outside Palm Desert, in Coachella Valley, just two hours out of town. People come from all over the world to see it. Why would I even dream about playing there? Because the winner of the Whisky High School Band night automatically qualified for the latest event, which was the Unsigned Competition.
“Coachella? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
He smiled. “Well, they even let old guys and guitar salesmen use the Internet, so I noticed on the Whisky Web site that the winners of the High School Band Night get to go there and I was thinking, if I were playing at High School Band Night, I’d be hoping like crazy that I would win so I could go to Coachella.”
“Beautiful linear thought process, Ed.”
“I’m proud of it.”
“Does my mom know?”
“Hasn’t said anything. Would she mind?”
“I think so. Being in the talent show is one thing because it’s just school. But the Whisky is making her a little uncomfortable because it looks like I want to be a musician. You can imagine how she’d feel about Coachella.”
“Do you want to be a musician?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Do you write songs?”
“No,” I lied. “Not on purpose. I’m just doing this for my résumé. You know, the college thing.”
“Okay,” he said.
“The last thing I consider myself is an artist.”
He laughed. “Because that’s such a terrible thing to be?”
“Ask my mother.”
“This isn’t about her or your father. It’s about you.”
“No, Ed, I don’t want to be an artist. It isn’t about wanting. I’m not one.”
“If you feel compelled to write songs, you might be an artist.”
I thought about the contraband under my mattress. I was damned if I’d let him into that world.
“I’m a student. And a critic. I’m going to get into a good college. If I play music, that’s the only reason why. Because it will look good on my application. It’s research for my future.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Means to an end and all that.”
“Okay,” he said again.
“Okay,” I responded.
He was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “She got burned by him and she’s not over it. And she’s not wrong that it’s sometimes hard to live with an artist. Including yourself if you’re the artist. You have to work hard to stay grounded and not lose yourself. But between you and me, you have to be what you are. If you have a calling, you can’t fight it.”
“Let’s say I have a calling. Who or what is doing the calling?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Yet people talk about callings all the time like it’s a real thing.”
“I guess it’s something supernatural. Like God.”
“Don’t worry. God doesn’t call me. I’m not an artist. And it’s my life.”
“Well, hell, she knows that. But your mom is just trying to give you some guidance. She knows you don’t have to listen to it.”
I was quiet.
He said, “She’s just taking it one day at a time.”
“Yeah, I understand about the program.”
“Well, I’m not talking about that. I’m just talking about life.”
“She’s my mother,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me about her.”
“You’re right about that.”
Still I couldn’t leave the room.
He said, “Anytime you decide to go for something, it’s going to upset somebody.”
“Is that why you gave up? Because it was upsetting people?”
He laughed. “No. Because it stopped upsetting people. That’s when you know you’re not an artist. You’re something else.”
“Like what? A guitar salesman?”
“Sure,” he said. “An artist needs his tools. I’m the guy who helps him find it. Or her.”
His smile was annoyingly peaceful. Like he really had found his calling.
More Madrigals
EVERY YEAR THE MADRIGALS PERFORMED A LAME HOLIDAY concert and this year was no exception. The only exception was that I was part of it and I had to put on the lame red sweater over our usual uniforms, which were plaid skirts and polos. We looked like Christmas pillows. We sang the James Taylor song that all the Chelseas had complained about and we sang some holiday-neutral songs to keep all the PC folks happy and we sang some Christmas songs that could get away with being Christmas songs because they were considered classical.
Gigi and Ella came to show support for me and Viv. Their support really took the form of sneering and making faces from the audience.
Viv’s parents, the famous scientists, came, and sat front row because they actually approved of her being in Madrigals. They were a little more concerned about the Fringers because we seemed to be goofing off. But winning the talent show had turned them around a little and now they were beginning to get the point.
Dr. and Dr. Wyler sat in the front row, with straight posture but rumpled clothes, and watched all the activity as if they found it all so fascinating, the way that the humans behaved. My mom and Ed the Guitar Guy sat next to them and as they leaned across each other and whispered, I wondered what in the world they had to discuss.
Right before the lights went out, I saw a guy in the back of the room who I knew for a fact wasn’t one of the Joshes at LaHa. He was wearing something with a complicated print and his hair was purposely haywire and dyed. I barely got a look at him before the ambience turned violet and we were singing “Fire and Rain.”
People clapped and went nuts when it was over and acted like we’d reinvented the whole choir-singing wheel, and all the Chelseas ate it up. I had a polite conversation with Viv’s parents. Dr. Mr. Wyler said, “Remarkable, girls, remarkable. This is what happens when ingenuity and creativity converge.”
Mom said, “Have you thought about what you’re wearing at the Whisky show?”
I said, “You’re looking at it, minus the sweaters.”
“Oh,” Dr. Mrs. Wyler said. “Oh, is that a good idea? It’s like you’re representing the school.”
“And it’s not very rock and roll,” Dr. Mr. Wyler said, in the way that only people who never say “rock and roll” can.
“That’s Blanche’s idea,” Viv said. “She thinks LaHa is a fringe school, so that makes us the Fringers. See?”
“I like it,” Ed the Guitar Guy said, smiling his Midwestern smile.
I’d had enough of all this family unity so I made my excuses and went outside to find Ella and Gigi. Viv trailed behind me, with the doctors saying, “Don’t linger, Vivien, the hour progresses.”
They were standing in a two-person huddle looking at something and whispering. Viv and I walked up, and before I could say anything Gigi was hissing, “Don’t speak. Don’t look around. Just freeze.”
This didn’t sound like a reasonable plan to me so I looked over my shoulder and said, “What?”
Gigi gasped and Ella said, “Typical. I told you not to say that.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Redmond Dwayne,” Gigi hissed again.
“Who is that? Why are you hissing?”
“He’s in the Clauses,” she said.
By now I had found him in the after-Madrigals crowd, the guy with the wild print and rebellious hair. He
was standing apart from everyone and had his arms crossed and seemed to be looking right at us.
“What are the Clauses?”
Ella said, “It’s a band. They used to be the Viruses. They go to Brentwood.”
“They’re the biggest L.A. band,” Gigi said.
“Bigger than Maroon 5?”
“She means unsigned band. You know what she means,” Ella said.
“I heard they already have an agent,” Viv said.
I looked at them, shocked. “You guys thought Celine Dion was music when I met you.”
“Okay, we’ve been doing our research,” Gigi said. “I mean, we’re part of the band scene now.”
“Oh, my God, he’s coming over,” Viv said, turning her back toward him.
“What does he want?” Gigi asked, grabbing my arm.
“You’re kidding, right? Asking me that.”
“Hey,” came this deep voice, nothing like the Joshes’ voices. This one had changed. He sounded like a man. Or he was making himself sound like that, anyway.
None of us said anything.
“Who’s Viv?” he asked.
“Me,” Viv said in a near-whisper.
“You’ve got that band, the Fringers.”
“It’s Blanche’s band, really,” she said.
He looked at me briefly.
“It’s all our band,” I said.
“She writes the songs,” Viv said. “I just sing them.”
He nodded, dividing his gaze between the two of us. Then he looked at Gigi and Ella. They introduced themselves this way: “Bass.” “Drums.”
“Nice to meet you, bass and drums,” he said. Turning to me, he raised an eyebrow and said, “Guitar?”
“Yes.”
“You’re playing at the Whisky. High School Band Night.”
“Right,” I said.
“Us too. I saw you on the roster.”
“Oh, so you don’t have … you’re not signed …”
“We don’t have a major,” he said. “I mean, we’re about to. But we still qualify. For this and Coachella.”
“What’s at Coachella?” Viv asked.
I looked at my feet and Redmond Dwayne explained the whole thing to the girls. When I looked back up they were staring at me.
“Is that what you’ve got in mind?” Gigi whispered. “And you’re keeping it from us?”
“I’m mainly keeping it from my mom.”
“Oh, my God,” Viv said. “Playing at Coachella.”
“I didn’t even know if you guys knew what it was,” I said.
Ella said, “That’s the coolest thing ever.”
“Don’t anybody get excited,” I said. “We still have to win at the Whisky.”
“Yeah,” Redmond said. “You still have to do that.”
He smiled at us, letting that look flit across each of us just long enough to give each of us hope, and then he moved away.
“Did you see his eyes?” Gigi said.
“Did you see his nose stud?” Viv said.
I didn’t see anything but competition.
Competition
I ADMIT I EXPECTED TO SEE PICTURES OF MY FATHER ON THE wall in the Whisky when we went in. My mother had warned me about that. But I wasn’t prepared for how it made me feel. While the rest of the band was tuning up, I found myself staring at my father’s face, ten years younger than I even remembered. He was wearing black leather, a studded belt, bed hair, a three-day beard, and black sunglasses, and holding a guitar in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was tall and skinny and his posture was apologetic, though I suspected that was just his thing. His act. I didn’t remember him being apologetic about anything.
My mother stood over my shoulder and said, “That was his Easy Rider year. He only had that look for the first record. Then he started thermal T-shirts and really short hair. He kept changing his look so nobody could define him.”
I smiled. I had gotten one of those pearls of advice from him before. “Don’t have a style and that includes not having a style,” I said without thinking.
Mom looked at me. “What?”
“Oh, it’s something he said to me in an e-mail.”
A flicker of surprise passed over her face. “You still talk to him?”
“Sure. E-mail.” I heard her silence. “Why, don’t you?”
“No.”
It didn’t occur to me that they didn’t talk to each other. I just assumed they had the same kind of sporadic contact that he and I did.
Ed the Guitar Guy seemed to anticipate her shift in mood and knew what to do with it.
“Better go tune up,” he said. “Your mom and I’ll wait outside. Don’t want to make you nervous.”
“I can’t get any more nervous,” I said, though it wasn’t true. Realizing I’d suddenly upset my mother was adding to the stress. It was one thing to upset her when I was trying to. But I had just stepped into this. Very bad timing.
Ed put his arm around her and ushered her outside.
I was thinking about following. Then I turned and saw Redmond Dwayne staring at me. Which didn’t make me relax but certainly took my mind off my mother.
He said, “That’s your dad.”
“No, that’s my mom’s friend.”
“I mean in the picture. Duncan Kelly.”
“Yeah.”
“You look a little like him.”
I smiled. I couldn’t see it but I was flattered that he did.
“I love his stuff,” he said.
“Really?” Mostly kids my age had no idea who he was.
He said, “Your dad and Paul Westerberg are my favorites. You know, the Replacements.”
“He liked them, too. I think maybe he knew Paul Westerberg. My mom says he did.”
“Cool,” Redmond Dwayne said. He was wearing his sunglasses inside, which is rarely a good thing, but somehow he was making it work.
“You guys gonna change or is that what you’re wearing?” he asked. We’d both been thinking about fashion at the same time.
“No, the school uniforms are our look. Because LaHa is a fringe school. We’re not like the others.”
I made a sweeping gesture toward all the Brentwood, Harvard Westlake, Marlborough and Crossroads kids piling in with their expensive amps and instruments. To a person, they were all being guided by their parents, who were in rich-people-go-casual clothes. I didn’t envy these kids because their parents were way too involved in what was going on, like they were the ones who were getting up onstage. They knew that agents and managers might be in the crowd and they were invested in their kids getting famous. So they could be famous for being their parents.
I appreciated my mother and her resistance to it all. I appreciated her being outside and upset. Even though I had upset her. It just felt more genuine. An artist was supposed to have a little turmoil.
Not that I was an artist.
“Well, I guess it’s no wonder, then,” Redmond said. “Considering who your dad is.”
“No wonder what?”
He hesitated. “You’re so talented. You know.”
“You haven’t seen us play.”
“I’ve heard the rumors,” he said.
“No, you meant that it’s no wonder we made it this far. Because of who my dad is. Believe me, nobody knows who my dad is.”
“I wasn’t talking about nepotism,” he said.
“Sure you were.”
“Look, don’t get so defensive. We can have it out onstage. That’s where we’ll figure out who’s what.”
I wanted to kick him. I also wanted to kiss him. Which was strange.
“Hey, Street, where do you want this?”
I turned to see Jeff lugging my amp in. I’d forgotten about him. I’d ridden in the van with him on the way over and already I’d forgotten him. This was how rock and roll worked. This was what my mom was talking about. It made you forget yourself and where you came from and who helped you get there.
“Oh, just over by the stage. Tha
nks, Jeff.”
“Your boyfriend?” Redmond asked.
“Friend. Volunteer roadie.”
“‘Street’? What’s that?”
“He calls me that.”
He waited.
“Blanche. Streetcar Named Desire. Though I’m not really named for that …”
He smiled, losing interest. “Good luck, Street.”
“Yeah, you too,” I said, and watched him saunter across the floor toward the Clauses, all weaker impersonations of him.
I won’t make you sit through the whole lineup of bands the way I had to. Here are the highlights. Redmond Dwayne’s band the Clauses opened and they were the best. They did this high-energy set full of angst-ridden songs and Redmond played really loud Telecaster through a crunchy amp and sang like, no surprise, Paul Westerberg. After them, a lot of the bands were nothing special. The Patients, a band from Crossroads, were all dressed in hospital gowns, and at the end of the set they all pantomimed fainting and were carried off the stage on stretchers. Their songs sounded like bad Beatles. The Zoo were all dressed like exotic animals. You see where this is going. There was one really good band from Santa Monica High, just synthesizers and a girl who could sing okay, but nothing like Viv. There was only one other all-girl band, called Burnt Lace, and they were punk, which meant a lot of eighth notes and shouting. By the luck of the draw, or the design of the universe, we were the last to go on.
Gigi and Viv were so nervous they could barely look at me, the audience or anything. I kept smiling at them as we set up because the main thing about performing live is that if you’re not having fun, nobody else will. That was not from my dad; I think that was from reading some cheesy performing arts magazine, but I was using everything I could think of. However, they couldn’t smile. They finally just lifted their heads, which was enough. Ella, who was never going to smile at anything, counted us in and I started playing really loud rhythm guitar and Viv started singing and the buzz in the room turned to a stunned silence. Viv had never sung better. And it was as if I were hearing the words to my own song for the very first time.
We launched with “Walking Contradiction” and then the song I’d sketched out called “Looks Like Faith,” and another, barely finished, called “Keep Me Informed,” then a reinterpretation of “Happy” by the Stones.
