Anthem

by Deborah Wiles

  F A M E

  RECORDING STUDIOS INC.

  PUBLISHING CO. INC.

  PRODUCTIONS INC.

  603

  “No commas,” said Molly. Suddenly, she was at Norman’s elbow.

  “What?”

  “The sign. No commas.”

  “Oh.”

  “S’cuse me,” said Ray, who had now appeared as well. Norman and Molly parted to let him off the bus, and he made for the scrub pines behind the studio.

  “Where’s he going?” said Molly. “Not even a good morning or thanks for the ride.”

  “He’ll be back,” said Norman. “Do we have cymbals that don’t belong to me?” He was already threading his way over a castaway pillow and blanket to the back of the bus. Molly began opening windows. Norman moved boxes and looked under seats and buckled to one knee when he stepped on the foam rubber. “We need to get rid of more seats!”

  “Told ya!”

  He found his footing and a black case he hadn’t noticed yesterday. He laid it on top of Molly’s sleeping bag and opened it. Cymbals. And a note, written in tiny, neat print, around the blank edges of a copy of The Great Speckled Bird:

  Florsheim: These belong to Roger Hawkins. I borrowed ’em and said I’d get ’em back, but I’m late on the return. Thanks for toting them to the Shoals for me. I’ll let them know you’re coming. Wasn’t sure which house on 14th was yours, so we just snuck ’em on the bus. Keep your doors locked, traveling to California. Learn to listen. Peace. Jaimoe

  “Hey! Come in, come in, all of you, come in!” said Rick Hall as Norman, Molly, and Ray stepped into the lobby. “We got collards and sweet potatoes, sliced tomatoes, and fried chicken. You hungry?”

  They were. Introductions were made all around. “These gentlemen are my house band, the Swampers,” said Rick. “Roger Hawkins on drums, Jimmy Johnson on gee-tar, Barry Beckett on keyboards, and David Hood on bass. Say hey, boys. And Spooner! Get in here, Spooner!”

  The band was already eating. They wiped hands and shook with Norman and Ray, but they just nodded at Molly, who was fine not shaking hands with a bunch of guys eating their lunch. Ray was hesitant to offer a hand at first, but the band members — all of them white — were not. Molly noticed Ray was no longer wearing his dog tags.

  “And this,” said Rick, referring to a group of musicians just joining them, some black, some white, “is my horn section today. Andrew Love, Charlie Chalmers, Wayne Jackson, Floyd Newman. The Memphis Horns on loan from Stax. Best you’ll ever hear, mark my words.”

  Rick gestured at the table. “Join us,” he said, to both the horn section and the hungry travelers. “We get lunch brought in when it’s this many of us. It’s easier than all of us going to a restaurant where we still get the side-eye. You know what Governor Wallace said about ‘segregation now, segregation forever.’ We don’t hold with that here. We make music. Music is colorblind. Sit. Here, let me take those.”

  Rick took the cymbal case from Norman and passed it to Roger Hawkins. “Thanks” was all Roger said, and he went back to his chicken.

  “Duane called me in the middle of the night!” said Rick as he pulled sodas from the machine without putting any money in. “Said to watch for you kids tonight, and here you are already. You ever been in a recording studio before?”

  All three teenagers shook their heads. Rick roared with laughter. “Well! We’ll show you around, won’t we, boys? I hear you’re a drummer, Florsheim. We’re always looking for new talent. Duane put up a pup tent in my parking lot and camped out there, trying to get a gig last year. I gave him his chance! So a drummer in a school bus is no surprise to me. Maybe you’ll stay! Duane liked it so much here, he bought a cabin over on the Tennessee River, didn’t he, boys?”

  “The boys” lit cigarettes and sat back as Molly and Ray ate and Norman tried to tell Rick he wasn’t that good a drummer, he just had a starter kit. Roger Hawkins said quietly, “That’s all you need.” He stubbed out his cigarette in his plate and said, “Son, I used to play on cans.”

  Norman smiled even as his face colored red. “Me, too.”

  Roger stood up and wiped his fingers with a napkin, tossed it in his paper plate. “Come on, I’ll show you. We got a few minutes, Rick?”

  Molly and Ray followed Norman down the hallway to the studio. Norman stopped at the door so quickly they nearly ran into him. Above the door was a sign Norman read out loud:

  THROUGH THESE DOORS WALK THE FINEST MUSICIANS,

  SONGWRITERS, ARTISTS AND PRODUCERS IN THE WORLD

  Rick threaded himself between Molly and Ray. “Aretha recorded here,” he said, slapping Norman on the back and guiding him into the studio. To Molly and Ray he said, “Not you two. You two come with me in the control booth.” Ray gave Molly his fiery look. She returned it with a steadiness that surprised her.

  * * *

  The drum set was a Ludwig, with a burgundy 22" bass, a 16"x16" blue glitter floor tom, and a 13"x9" sky-blue pearl mounted tom, a 5 ½"x14" chrome snare, two sets of cymbals, and a pair of hi-hats.

  “It’s a mix-and-match set,” said Roger. “It’s all you need. You just want to sound good. And every song needs something different, as you can imagine.”

  Norman nodded. He could not imagine. Not at all.

  “Have a seat.”

  Norman sat behind the drums in the studio where Aretha Franklin had recorded. “And Otis Redding! And Clarence Carter! And Duane — don’t forget Duane!” called Rick over the playback speakers as he and Molly and Ray watched through the control booth window that spanned the wall. Norman picked up the drumsticks from where they rested in their holder. They were sleek, like racehorses, compared to the thick marching band sticks he used.

  Roger sat at a second set, a blue Ludwig silver sparkle matching set with FAME splashed across the bass drum. “Single stroke roll,” he said, and began to play. Norman followed him. Warm-ups, he thought. Just like in band.

  “Double strokes,” said Roger. The two of them played together. “Watch your time. Follow me. Now, a few flams. Some paradiddles. Add a little hi-hat, mind your feet. Work on control, not speed.”

  Norman kept up — he was surprised. Triplets. Rolls. Fills. Every nerve in his body was alive and vibrating to the tempo and this unexpected opportunity.

  “Good,” said Roger.

  Rick’s voice came over the playback speakers, loud and insistent.

  “We got two minutes for you to play around, son, and then it’s back to work for the band. Here ya go. You know Wilson Pickett’s ‘Land of 1000 Dances’?”

  “Yessir,” said Norman. He’d played his drums to it at home. It was a great song.

  “Number six on the Weekly Top Forty,” said Molly.

  “Yessiree, little lady,” said Rick. He beamed. “We recorded it right here — my band with Roger on the drums. Added the Memphis Horns. You ready, Florsheim? Go!” He pushed a button on the console and a school bell blasted from the speakers as “Land of 1000 Dances” began with Wilson counting them in, screaming “One two three! One two three! Ow!” And then Roger’s snap on the snare drum.

  “Cymbals!” shouted Roger. Norman jumped in his chair but hit the crash cymbals. “Now straight-ahead,” hollered Roger as he played along with himself on the recording and with Norman in the studio. “It don’t get much simpler than this! Fours on the snare, a little help from the cymbals, don’t forget the kick drum.”

  A red light glowed in the control booth and colored dials on the sound board twinkled.

  “Recording!” Rick announced. “Take one, rolling.”

  “What?” Norman panicked.

  “Keep playing,” said Roger. “You’re doing fine.”

  Norman began to sweat, even though the room was so earnestly air-conditioned it felt like a Popsicle. But he didn’t stop. Molly stood at the glass, watching and singing under her breath. “Na na na na na …”

  “He’s not bad,” murmured Rick. “He’s not good, neither.” The band had gathered in the contro
l booth now and was watching the scene, Wilson Pickett screaming, “Ahhh … help me!” and Roger yelling, “Fills! Fills to the end!”

  When it was over, Norman started to laugh with delight, which made Roger laugh, jump from his seat, and high-five Norman.

  “Great!” said Roger. “Great fun. Could you feel it?”

  Norman nodded. He would feel it for a very, very long time.

  From the control booth, Rick boomed, “Back to work! Playtime’s up! Get the drums back in the drum booth! You kids can stay and watch if you want to, but you gotta keep out of the way.”

  “Where you headed?” asked Roger. He began to take apart his drum set.

  “California,” said Norman.

  The band filtered into the studio and began tuning up. Roger hefted the cymbal case and handed it to Norman. “Not mine, Florsheim,” he said. “These belong to Al Jackson, the session drummer at Stax Records in Memphis.”

  “What?!” Rick exploded. “Not even ours? After all that?”

  “Nope,” said Roger. “I promised them back to Al, and you lent them to Jaimoe when he came to visit Duane.”

  Rick let loose a string of expletives that made Molly quail. Were they in trouble now?

  She took a breath. “Well … we’re going to Memphis.”

  Ray pulled on his ear and watched the conversation with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh,” said Norman from the studio. “Right. We’re going to Memphis.”

  “Then take ’em to Memphis!” shouted Rick. “We have work to do!”

  “Can you drop them by Stax?” asked Roger. “Don’t mind Rick. He’s all bark, no bite.”

  “I bite plenty!” said Rick from the booth. The playback speakers rang with more expletives.

  Norman and Molly exchanged a look, with the glass between them. Ray edged toward the door of the booth.

  “Will you tell them we’re coming?” asked Norman.

  “Yes, yes, fine, fine!” said Rick from the control booth. “I’ll call Estelle. Or is it Al Bell now?”

  “They’re both still there,” said Andrew Love, saxophone in hand.

  “I’d call Jim,” said Wayne Jackson. He was unpacking his trumpet.

  More expletives. Rick ran a hand through his long hair and then put both hands on his hips and sighed.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said to Norman. “Stay. Watch the band at work if you want. You won’t hear any finer.”

  The edge in the room evaporated.

  Around them, the musicians tuned horns, guitars, a bass, and riffed on the piano.

  “All right!” hollered Rick from behind the glass, so loudly Molly and Ray jumped. “All right, all you sons-a-guns! Let’s do it one more time. I got guys out in the hallway that play better than you! Let’s get it right this time! Take fifty-two!”

  IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

  Written by Wilson Pickett and Steve Cropper

  Performed by Wilson Pickett

  Recorded at Stax Records, Memphis, Tennessee, 1966

  Drummer: Al Jackson, Jr.

  They left two hours later with the cymbals and Wilson Pickett’s “Hey, Jude” single featuring Duane and Roger and the rest of the Swampers and the Memphis Horns, as well as a small reel-to-reel tape of Norman playing with Roger. Norman put his treasure in the box of letters under his seat.

  They also left with the key to Duane’s cabin. When Norman had said they needed to check the oil and engine before they left, Roger had told them, “Stax’ll be closed up tight by the time you get there. Get a fresh start in the morning.” Molly had rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She’d asked to use the phone to make their daily call.

  As they boarded the bus, Ray held back and said, “Got to get home, so I might head out. Thanks anyway.”

  “Stay, man,” said Norman. “I promise we’ll leave first light. You can be home for breakfast.”

  Ray looked around the almost empty parking lot, in the almost empty town of Muscle Shoals. “First thing,” he agreed.

  The cabin boasted a wall of windows overlooking the lake. It was rustic, but it was enough. Pecan trees grew in the yard and cicadas called insistently from the trees.

  While Norman idled the engine and checked the bus gauges, Molly and Ray busied themselves pulling fallen branches from the surrounding woods and sawing them into serviceable firewood. Norman started a fire and Ray kept it fed while Molly foraged for supper by unpacking one of Aunt Pam’s boxes. Ray and Norman took out two more bus seats and carried them to the cabin porch. They sat on them with heavy thuds, tired.

  The aroma of baking potatoes and bubbling beans reached their noses.

  “And there’s Kool-Aid!” called Molly, stirring the contents of a metal pitcher with a wooden spoon.

  Our second supper together, thought Molly. She had found a can of beef stew in the box and they’d added it to their feast, splitting it three ways after warming it on the grate over the fire.

  “Bus didn’t sound too good over those hills last night,” said Ray.

  “I know,” said Norman. “It struggles with hills.”

  “Are we all right?” asked Molly.

  Norman shrugged. “We’ve got to be.”

  The setting sun painted the sky with its oranges, yellows, pinks, and reds.

  Ray swabbed at the dregs of his beans with a piece of bread. “You got a band?”

  Molly answered before Norman could. “He wishes he did.”

  “I will one day,” said Norman. “I can’t wait to tell Barry about all this. He won’t believe it. I can’t believe it myself! I played drums in a real studio, with a real drummer! And I was good! Wasn’t I good, Molly?”

  Molly sighed as she opened a bag of cookies and passed them around. “I can’t tell if you’re good or not, Norman. Drumming is a lot of noise to me.”

  “You don’t know how to listen,” said Norman. “When I’m a famous drummer, you’ll regret those words.”

  Ray ate a cookie and said, “You gotta change your name to be a famous drummer.” He smiled as he said it, maybe the first time he’d smiled since Molly and Norman had met him.

  “I know!” Norman emptied the last of the beans out of the can.

  “They called you Florsheim back there.”

  “That’s a brand of shoe,” said Norman, who was wearing his high-tops.

  “You need a name like King Curtis,” said Ray. “You know him?”

  Norman shook his head.

  “You think these cats today good? You ain’t heard nothin’. You listen to ‘Memphis Soul Stew,’ and then tell me about good players.”

  The fire popped and cracked as the cicadas went to sleep and the crickets and tree frogs began their choruses.

  “You play?” asked Norman. He took a cookie.

  “Not music,” answered Ray. “I play ball. Or … I did.”

  They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Norman stood up abruptly. “I’m going to get more wood before it’s full dark.”

  Ray stared at the fire and spoke, as if mesmerized by the flames. After a quiet minute, he spoke. “I got shot five years ago. I thought they wouldn’t take me, wouldn’t draft me, but now they taking just about anybody. Especially if they’re black. They already took my friends.”

  Molly blanched. “Shot? Like with a gun?”

  “Yeah. Rifle.”

  “Where?” Can I ask that? “Oh. Sorry.”

  “In the head.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Ray turned to Molly and touched a scar on his cheek just below the cheekbone.

  Molly reached out a hand to touch it, but stopped herself.

  “Got it registerin’ to vote,” said Ray. Then he corrected himself. “Helping the Freedom Fighters register black folks to vote. In Mississippi. In my hometown.”

  Molly had no words. So she folded her hands in her lap and made sure she looked Ray in the eyes.

  Really? Her throat tightened. She opened her mouth to breathe.

  “I’m registered now, too,”
Ray said with pride.

  The fire shifted as Norman returned, his arms full of firewood. “There’s a whole bunch of it stacked on the side of the house!” He dropped the wood onto the ground by the firepit and swiped at the wood chips on his clothes.

  Ray changed the subject. “Why are you goin’ to California?”

  “My brother is there,” Molly answered, not sure how much to tell.

  Norman tossed a log onto the fire and completed Molly’s sentence. “And he’s being drafted.”

  “Like me,” said Ray.

  Molly saw her chance to ask. “Are you … are you AWOL? Did you desert?”

  Ray shook his head. “No. I got a two-week furlough. I’m goin’ home to see my mam and pap. And my sis. Then they ship us out, after jungle warfare school. In Panama.”

  Ray looked away.

  “You live in Memphis?” Norman asked.

  “Mississippi. Greenwood. You don’t have to take me there. I’ll ride to Memphis and get myself home from there.”

  “You’re going to Vietnam,” said Molly, like she’d just discovered a secret.

  Ray wiped his hands over his face and said, “My friends are already there. One come back in a box. He was a hero. I ain’t no hero. But I don’t want to be a coward, neither.”

  Molly found some words. “Nobody who gets shot in the head helping people register to vote is a coward.”

  “What?” Norman stopped poking the fire with a stick.

  “Long story,” sniffed Molly. “You weren’t here.” Her ponytail was sloppy. Her Keds were dirty. She scooted closer to the fire in her folding chair.

  Norman flopped his tall frame into his chair, lost his balance, and tried not to topple over. Ray reached for the chair and held it until Norman righted himself. Norman looked at Ray in all seriousness. “Tell me.”

  “Nothin’ more to tell,” said Ray. The companionable moment had evaporated.

  Molly hesitated and then asked, “Who shot you, Ray?”

  “White man,” Ray answered tightly. “White folks don’t want black folks to vote in Mississippi, maybe not anywhere. But we vote now. That’s a change come about because folks worked together and changed the system.”