Deb came back to the car and scared the crap out of me. She tapped on the half-open window and waved an envelope at me. “Hey, you dropped this one. It has your name on it. Should I open it?” she asked, flashing her braces at me.
“Give it here, sis. Why don’t you put those hot dogs on for supper? The band is coming over and I’m starving. Got to eat before we jam,” I lied with a confident smile. I wasn’t hungry at all, but for her I’d eat a hot dog or two.
“Sure. See you inside.” She walked in the house, and I turned the envelope over in my hand. I didn’t remember seeing this before, but I’d been so excited about getting that letter from the college that it was quite possible I had dropped it. There was no return address, just my name and address neatly printed on the front. Nice penmanship. Wish I could write like that. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter, which contained two tickets. I stared at them, hardly believing my eyes.
This must be some kind of joke. How else would I end up with two tickets to the Black Knights? With shaking hands, I read the letter.
Dear Levi Wallace,
Congratulations! WJAX is happy to inform you that you have won two tickets to see the Black Knights in concert at the New Field Arena this Saturday. Along with tickets, you and your guest have been given special backstage access. You’ll get the chance to meet the Black Knights after the concert! Lucky you!
Your name was added to the ticket drawing at last year’s blood drive. Thank you for so generously donating blood and changing someone’s life. See you there, Levi.
The letter was signed by Hillbilly John, and there was a phone number at the bottom of the page. I knew Hillbilly John, or at least I knew of him; he was my favorite disc jockey. Melissa thought it was hilarious when he ended his shifts with one of trademarked sayings: “Let’s get naked!” or “Hey, baby, why don’t you twist my knobs?” I wondered who she’d be more excited to see, Hillbilly John or the Black Knights? For me, the answer was the Black Knights, hands down. Was it possible that I would get the chance to meet Rex Teaser?
Damn it! This better not be a joke!
I immediately forgot about my car problems and raced inside to call the station. I had to know if this was someone’s idea of a prank; I mean, there were pranksters out there who did this kind of thing professionally. They liked messing with your head. Man, this would be one bad way of messing with someone’s head. Debbie gave me a puzzled look but didn’t say anything as I impatiently dialed the number on the rotary phone.
“Hey, I’m trying to reach Hillbilly John. My name is Levi Wallace. I got this letter in the mail with these tickets, and I’m… So, this isn’t a joke? Man! I guess I’m just one lucky guy. Thanks so much. Do I need to do anything?”
The voice on the other end belonged to none other than the disc jockey himself. His voice was instantly recognizable like gravel shifting in a buzzing fridge. I tried to focus on what he was saying—this was so damn amazing! No, there was nothing to do but show up. I hung up the phone and practically jumped up and down.
“What is it? You won tickets? To what, Donnie Osmond?” Deb asked with a smirk. “Go away little girl!” I said, and playfully pushed her. I then held the tickets up to her, and she screamed as Naomi entered the kitchen, promptly covered her ears, and reached for a glass of water. It must be pill time.
“This is unreal! Totally unreal! You have tickets to the Black Knights? Oh my God! This is their Elegant Black tour—everyone says this will be their last one too! I swear, you must be the luckiest guy on the planet. No doubt you’ll be taking Melissa with you,” she said in a slightly petulant tone.
“No concert for you, little girl,” Naomi said as she chugged her water and left the kitchen. Neither one of us said anything to her. We never listened to her anyway. Deb shrugged as she turned up the burner. The flame leaped up, and the smell of cooking hot dogs almost instantly filled the kitchen.
“It’s this weekend. Saturday night.”
“Oh, shoot. Well, you’ll have to take Melissa then. I have a chorus concert,” Deb said good-naturedly as if there had ever really been a question.
I felt a touch of disappointment. Not because I was ever going to take Deb over Melissa, not to a Black Knights concert, but because I would miss her school event. I never missed those.
Deb must have been reading my mind. She shook her finger at me and said, “Nope. I’m fine. I’ll take the bus, Levi, or maybe I can ride with Candace. It’s lame anyway. We’re singing Christmas music, and it’s only October.” She grinned her goofy, silver smile, and I grinned back.
“Okay. I’ll at least get you an autograph.”
She turned up the radio as Naomi slammed her bedroom door upstairs, and for a little while the two of us pretended we were a happy family. We gobbled up hot dogs and parted ways. Deb went off to do her homework, and I went downstairs to wait for the band to show up. I decided against telling them about the tickets. It would only cause headaches. Myron would demand that I take him, but I’d already made up my mind. I was taking Melissa and pop the question during the band’s Elegant Black performance.
Finally, after the shit day I’d had, everything was coming up roses.
Levi Wallace finally caught a break. Or so I believed.
Chapter Two—The Bus
The other members of the band had let themselves in and were already setting up in the basement when I arrived. On my way down the stairs, I noticed that Jimmy had scraped the wallpaper with one of the legs of his bass drum, and I could see the light grey plaster peeking out below the tear. The wallpaper was already shabby and aged with its garish floral design and was coming away in the corners due to the damp seeping through, but I still wanted to keep it as nice as possible. I didn’t need another family argument! I licked my finger and ran it along the now exposed wall to make it wet. I then patted down the triangular torn piece. Naomi never came down here due to her asthma, so I was optimistic about the result of my repair skills.
The damp in the basement meant black mold and moisture loving animals had been present for some time. Last month, I nipped into the basement to find a screwdriver to take the strap of my guitar off. Melissa had bought me a lovely leather one with embroidery emblazoned on it. On the way back up I trod on a cat turd that squelched through my toes in a wet, cold, gurgle. I limped into the kitchen not wanting to place my foot onto the grubby linoleum, to avoid cleaning more than I needed. As I wiped the mess away with a length of kitchen towel dabbed under the faucet—I noticed the cat looking at me with a smirk. It knew what it had done. I don’t even know why we have a cat; no one feeds it or looks after it except me—and it was Deb that let it in. She loves animals or so she declared and couldn’t let this stray live outside. Especially when she could see it from her bedroom window, huddled on the front lawn and pounded by the wind and rain. She called it Cat and my ambivalence to the animal didn’t provide me with the enthusiasm to change it to anything better.
I angrily walked past it and swiped a leg in its direction to indicate my displeasure. I would never be as quick as that hobo cat though, with its reflexes trained and honed through a lifetime on the streets and having to catch its own dinner. It darted under the sofa in a fluffy blur without showing concern. It was only later that week when Debbie squealed in horror on the same stairs upon seeing several slugs glistening and slithering on the walls and carpet that I realized the cat had probably been innocent.
I carried my guitar case into the small rectangular room. I don’t leave my guitar in this environment; you don’t mix wetness and electronics—and who wants rusty strings. Jimmy was setting up and adjusting his drums—he fiddled with the kickstand. He owned a VW campervan with a torn candy-striped awning. It was a cheap way to transport everything. It also provided a useful space with a double bed for his sexual adventures—although they were rare. Jimmy looked like an extra from Planet of the Apes—with his disheveled hair, prominent forehead, and bushy sideburns. He drove around town on a Saturday night pinging
between bars hoping to find drunk women with a love of all things simian. The reward for their impaired decision making would be a warm bed courtesy of the engine below.
He couldn’t drum of course. He would speed up during each song so it felt more like a race—I could barely keep up toward the end. But Jimmy clobbered those drums as if his life depended on it. I could witness the therapy in action as he pounded the skins. I had to pick up the shattered slivers of wood from his drumsticks after practice. I didn’t want splinters adding to my slug woes. If I had his father, I would be pounding those drums in the same way—I knew about the beatings his old man regularly dished out.
Myron played the bass. Mid-song I often noticed the look of confusion on his face. Should he stay with his brother or keep the proper timing and appear out of sync? Such are the trials and tribulations of the sibling rhythm section. Myron had a bass with a neck so long that if he walked to the end to tune it, he would come back with an accent! I often feared a heavy blow to the back of my head as he swayed to the beat. It was dangerous standing at the front not knowing what the Muppets were doing behind me—as the breeze from the bass moved my hair and shards of wood flew past my ears. Like a weapon of mass percussion!
Myron wanted to be the cool jazz influenced bass player. He worked hard on being aloof and a bit different. He wore a black roll neck sweater that highlighted his dandruff, and he wedged his cigarette between the thick strings and the tuning pegs—it filled the air with atmospheric smoke. He plucked a string with his forefinger and a heavy foundation shaking note reverberated throughout the floor and walls—Jimmy’s snare drum buzzed. He then started to run a progression up and down the neck with his octopus-like fingers. I shouted to him to shut up.
I had to tune my own guitar. I’ve told them so many times not to make random noises when setting up. Jimmy was also filling the air with random and harsh strikes of his high-hat and he stopped after hearing me berate his brother.
I lifted the top of the guitar case and my Gibson Les Paul twinkled with its sunburst design, it spread from a beautiful golden hue in the middle to a deep glorious burgundy around the edges. It was an instrument from the 1960s—I couldn’t afford a new one, but I preferred it that way. When I first bought it from the pawn shop on Seventh, I played until blood ran from my fingers and dripped along my forearm to form droplets on my elbow—I couldn’t pick it up again for two weeks. Now I had calloused fingertips that allowed me to play for two hours without issue.
The guitar had a patina gained from the hands and touching of previous owners. The worn fretboard showed the places where fingers had pressed and presented the ghosts of previous chord shapes. I play power chords with a barre, so the worn areas at the top of the fretboard were irrelevant—I decided on this rule to make our sound punchier and rockier. The back of the guitar had scratches due to the number of belt buckles worn by would-be rockers over the last fifteen years. The edges displayed scuffed paint from the over exuberant adolescent previous owners that swapped technical ability for showmanship and swagger. Looking like Jimmy Page doesn’t paper over a lack of skill though. The moment you step onto the stage and hit that first chord you are naked with nowhere to hide. If you’ve not done your homework it shows.
I wouldn’t want to play a new and shiny instrument. It would restrict my creativity. I have an untouched leather covered sketchbook that I fear using in case the first page turns out terrible—so it just resides in my bedside drawer and remains unused. My guitar was not iconic, it was used, and every mark and chip were its provenance—its ancestry.
I picked it up and ducked my head through the strap. I knelt awkwardly and reached for the lead buried in the shag rug that helped Jimmy’s drum kit not move across the floor. I fed it into the bottom of the guitar, and it clicked in a satisfying manner. The other end I pushed into the amp head above the speaker cabinet and checked the volume to make sure it was down.
I remember once plugging my guitar into the amp with the volume fully up. We’d finished an ear-splitting session and in my stoned state I left the equipment and nipped to the gas station for a Dr. Pepper and some jerky. I flicked the rocker switch the following week, without checking the levels first, and the feedback rattled my head and knocked a filling out. I was also sure that Debbie once messed around with it on her own, but she’d never admit it. It is easy to lose track of how noisy everyone gradually becomes as we all fight to become the loudest. Slowly everyone nudges up the volume on their own instrument until Jimmy is hitting his drums like a man chopping wood with a gun to his head.
The red light on the amp slowly glowed brighter in recognition of the electricity now pulsing through its circuitry, and a low static buzz filled the air. It was a comforting reverberating hum like the purr of an engine before slamming down the throttle. It was the sound of anticipation, the murmur of expectation, a prelude to the collective hard rock to follow—it always gives me goosebumps. I slowly edged the volume on the guitar higher and the strings throbbed and quietly hissed like a choir of fallen angels. Myron picked at his strings again and I hollered, give me an E to stop him jamming. He plucked his top string, and the deepest note penetrated my body and echoed through my heart. As it continued to ring, I tuned my E to the thrum. We may not be in tune, but we would at least be matching. I continued to work my way through the strings and asked him to give me a D to make sure.
I adjusted the mic and pulled out a pick that I’d wedged between the pick guard and the body of the guitar.
Ready? I didn’t ask just raised my eyebrows quizzically. They knew the drill. The brothers nodded and Jimmy counted us in with four clicks of his sticks. If you can start and finish at the same time, you’re winning the battle. The joy of making music together never ceases to amaze me. Like the greatest love, it reaches into your soul and makes you glow in the warm melodic light of love and connection. The sense of collective trust and rhythmic escapism pulses through every fiber and unites as with our ancient ancestors, who first blew through a horn and banged on a rock with a bone.
They say music is love in search of a word, well that word lasted for two hours in a small-town basement in America in a cloud of pot smoke, sweat, and masculine funk. Oh, and did I mention it’s also fucking sexy!
I let the final chord ring out by wobbling the body of the guitar and it dissipated leaving only silence and a heavy ringing in my ears. I turned down the volume on the guitar and stepped back from the mic stand and effects pedals. My left hand cramped; it felt like a claw, and I wiggled my fingers to break them free from their angular paralysis. Like the end of all great love making sessions, it was time for a cigarette and a sandwich. Those hot dogs were long gone. I wiped the strings and fret board with a clean rag and placed my guitar back in the case.
“I need a piss,” Myron added predictably. I followed him up the stairs and diverted to the kitchen to raid the fridge. How old was this ham? I threw a piece of ham and a bright yellow square of cheese onto a slice of almost moldy white bread along with a dollop of Miracle Whip. I pressed the second piece of bread on top, wiped the knife on it and squashed it down. I watched Jimmy huff and puff his drums into his camper van from the kitchen window, but I felt no inclination to help him—he needed the exercise, so I was doing him a favor. Myron passed me with his bass under his arm and left via the backdoor. He shouted his goodbye and I told him to have a great week.
I carried my sandwich down to the basement and opened the door to the room. Yeah, it was full of smoke, even though we evacuated the room fifteen minutes ago. The aromas of cloudy incense, Myron’s clove cigarette and other substances of the illegal sort (courtesy of Jimmy) filled the tight space.
Melissa had let herself in and I found her seated on the floor next to me—she was my muse and soon-to-be wife. Yeah, I was fairly sure she would say yes. Her dark brown hair swung around her face as she writhed on the pillow to the tune on the radio. Elegant Black played at full blast. We hadn’t purchased the record yet, but our favorite station played
it regularly. The whole world had gone crazy over the single and the whole album. And to think, I had tickets to the show! I couldn’t wait to tell her. I was going to do that as soon as I could speak.
Man, this weed had brought me to my knees. I grinned at the sight of my beautiful girlfriend twisting to the music on the rug. I couldn’t get enough of it either; there was something about the damn song that set my soul on fire. The seductive lead, the angry guitar, the beauty of the smashing drum kit. I set my sandwich down, licking the Miracle Whip off my tired fingers, they were numb and burning from hitting and pressing strings like a clumsy madman.
This tune had been on all our minds during our rehearsal. Myron picked out the bass easily enough while I struggled with the lead. I had the chords right but didn’t have Rex Teaser’s voice. Jimmy didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, but by the end of the two-hour session he started to at least keep the same rhythm as Myron—an important skill for a drummer. He’d have to get better or get lost. Jackie Dean, our second lead and manager, couldn’t make it to practice tonight, something about his kid being sick, but it had been a good practice. Even though we had only a few original songs, we had a catalog of popular rock songs that we covered pretty damn well. I was hoping that Jackie could find us a gig soon, but we couldn’t even decide on a name for our band, so it was probably just as well.
Ever since we graduated high school, things seemed to move too slowly and none of us were as excited about breaking out as we used to be. I never expected that. When we were in school, we were all convinced that school was the only thing holding us back.
The Vampire's Song (Vampires of Rock Book 1) Page 2
