“You’re in the band,” she replied, “so yes.”
“Then no,” Greg said, as any of them would have predicted. Unless it was his idea, he was usually unreceptive. Any suggestion from Sydney was always a no.
Sydney ignored him, as was her usual response. “You doing okay?” she asked Ethan. The bag of ice was on the bar.
Ethan nodded. “Can’t get rid of me that fucking easily,” he said, touching the lump on the side of his head. “Does that change your plan?”
“Nope.” Sydney leaned over the bar to sit down. “But it does make it possible. Let’s start with ‘American Woman,’” she said excitedly, appearing to vibrate as she spoke.
“Ah, come on,” Greg groaned. “That’s our grand finale.”
“Just wait,” Sydney said, raising her hand. “Gus goes on with a simple growing bass line. You come in after six or eight bars on the hi-hat and snare. Chic-ka-chic-ka tu, chic-ka-chic-ka tu.”
As she spoke, her hands moved in rhythm to her words, as if playing his drums.
Greg didn’t say anything, nor did anyone else.
“I’ll come in with the guitar,” she said with the coy smile Ethan knew they all recognized meant she had some magic up her sleeve she wasn’t about to reveal until they played it. The look also reassured him that whatever it was would likely blow them away. “Ethan, you come in screamin’ the chorus with your ties flying.”
She paused and looked at each of them. “The crowd’s small. If it doesn’t work, no one will fucking know anyway.”
Sydney was convincing when she had a hot idea going off in her head.
“But if it does …” She didn’t need to finish.
No one said a word. They’d all witnessed a few of Sydney’s moments of genius already. Ethan’s senses tingled. He knew each of them understood what was about to happen in making another of her ideas real.
“And, Ethan,” Sydney said, tilting her head forward as if looking over the top of a pair of reading glasses, “no jumping.”
“I’m in!” He grinned. “Fucking bring it on.”
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, July 12, 1984
“Please welcome back,” announced the deejay fifteen minutes later, “to Benny’s stage for the second time tonight, the Release!”
There was a brief cheer that was all but extinguished by Gus’s pulsing bass line. Greg followed with his hi-hat-to-snare rhythm, just as Sydney had described. As if they’d rehearsed it for weeks, Sydney’s searing guitar split the air like a jet on a flyby with the famous “American Woman” riff. She’d discovered a mix of sound from her plethora of guitar effects that combined fuzz and flanger pedals to stretch the notes she played like an elastic band. After she repeated the iconic riff for the third time, Ethan emerged from the darkness, screaming the song title popularized by the Guess Who. The crowd, which had now grown from the few they had started the first set in front of to a couple dozen, erupted as if some kind of disaster had taken place inside the bar. The Release played on, hitting each part of the song as they’d rehearsed over the past weeks. Ethan’s vocals captured the urgent feelings of hurt, anger, and escape in the lyrics. By the end, the cheer that had greeted them at the beginning of the song had grown to a roar. As Sydney hit the final chord, she looked over at Ethan. Her eyes said it all: “We done good!”
They paused between songs only long enough for Ethan to take a quick sip of water, and then they broke into their arrangements of the Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” and Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love.” Both highlighted Greg’s growing prowess on the drum kit. Ethan gulped down more water as they went into another band original, entitled “Confusion,” which he sang his heart out on. At one point during the song, he opened his eyes to see the woman who had helped him standing alone at the back of the room. She was beautiful; her eyes surely could melt whatever might have been protecting his heart. He hoped she’d stay until the end of the set.
When the song ended, he glanced at Sydney, who was already counting them in for their version of T. Rex’s “Bang a Gong.” He knew Sydney loved the opening, with her flair for dizzying finger work. The crowd loved it too. Ethan tried to find the woman again, but she was gone, and with her this time went something in his heart. He pulled out everything he had to finish the song and the two that followed. They closed with Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time.” They owned the night. The crowd’s ovation brought them back for not one but two encores. The last song in their repertoire was Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion.” It was their least-rehearsed number, but it seemed to coalesce them as a band; their groove was unbreakable, led by Gus’s bass line. Benny’s was full. The hardwood portion of the barroom floor in front of the small stage was packed.
With the motto “Leave the audience wanting more” whispering in his head, Ethan smiled, realizing they had little choice. They didn’t have any more songs.
“That was fucking crazy!” Sydney shouted, following Ethan into the men’s washroom after they’d finished. Ethan was at the sink, throwing cool water onto his face. A pretty good-sized lump had formed on his head.
“Sydney!” he shouted with playful disdain in his voice. Her top was off when he turned to look at her. He looked away.
“Like it matters,” she said, laughing. “We’re in a fucking band for God’s sake—like an old married couple, except our best years are ahead of us.”
He laughed too. Leave it to Sydney to bring new meaning to an age-old expression. Ethan looked in the mirror. The blood he’d smeared on his face was almost gone. He ripped off a section of brown paper towel from the dispenser and wiped off the rest.
“We fucking killed it tonight, Ethan,” Sydney said, more serious.
He could see her reflection standing behind him in the mirror. Leaning forward, she shook her head, taking some of the hairspray stiffness out of her hair. He thought it amazing how such perfection could reside in such a tiny package. For an instant, he imagined her petite body standing in front of his, her tiny breasts pressed against his chest in a warm embrace. But it couldn’t happen. Intuitively, he knew it wouldn’t work. Bandmates falling in love were doom to a band. At times, he wondered whether she might like girls. She’d taken down the guy who had bothered her in quick order. He’d watched her eye other women dancing to their music. Even that night, she’d remarked on the beauty of the nurse. The Release couldn’t have gotten a better gift. If it were true, it would explain her inhibition in front of him. But it didn’t stop his attraction to her. He looked away.
In a matter of minutes, Sydney transformed back to her teenage look of jeans, a jean jacket, and sneakers, looking barely old enough to be the neighborhood babysitter, let alone of age to be playing bars. Without fail, a request for ID would follow a drink order at the bar. She became unrecognizable as the genius who created their unique arrangements of established hit songs. She was much shorter without her heels and stage getup, and he doubted many in the bar would have any idea she was the guitar aficionado, except she was the only Asian chick in the vicinity. The irony never changed, no matter how often it was demonstrated. The terrorist and serial killer were never the monsters who stood out from the crowd. They were common folk, the man or woman next door. It was easy to be fooled, he thought. People were unpredictable, despite the propensity to think otherwise. It seemed a paradox that in spite of everyone’s uniqueness; the similarities were forever searched out. But Sydney was an outlier.
“Almost ready, singer man?”
Ethan shook his head as Sydney pulled on her jean jacket. It was her look even if the outside temperature was too hot for a coat.
“Yeah, almost.” His throat was tender, irritated enough to make his voice sound raspy. “Wanna grab a beer with the guys?”
“Sure, I’ll be at the bar then.”
Ethan grabbed his gym bag and pulled on what he’d packed: a pair of faded jeans and a T
-shirt with Rush’s star man on the front. The show had pumped all of them up. Ethan didn’t want to abandon the feeling and just head back to his parents’ house. There was nothing that could touch a great performance—not alcohol, drugs, or even sex. It was pure adrenaline that danced on the line between life and death. Music connected them with an audience and could turn into moments of incredible exhilaration.
He ran his fingers through his messed-up hair, touching the lump that quickly reminded him of his jump. He leaned toward the mirror and looked more closely at the small cut and swelling. Some dried blood was caked in his hair. He moved back and shook his head. It was a small mishap for a kicking show. He wanted to celebrate.
Gus and Greg were deep in conversation at the bar. Sydney seemed distracted, her slender fingers drumming out some melody that only she could hear on top of the polished bar.
“Ethan, my man,” Gus said, turning away from his conversation. “What a fucking night!”
“That’s one way to put it,” Ethan said, pulling out a barstool beside Sydney.
Ethan was scanning the bar, hoping. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything akin to how he felt looking into the eyes of the woman who had helped him. Maybe his heart could love again, he thought hopefully. The pervading guilt that accompanied even thinking about someone after Mila was finally dissipating. He was ready, only to be disappointed. The dispersing crowd left no sign of the woman.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender he’d spoken to earlier. “On the house.”
“I’m on my second,” Greg said, holding up a half-full glass of beer.
“Gin and soda,” Ethan answered, his eyes moving from the bartender across the barroom again, still hoping.
“You were something else tonight,” Gus said, shaking his head. His eyes were wide and lit up, something Ethan hadn’t seen since their early rehearsals. “Like a magician making the imaginary come to life.”
Gus moved closer to Ethan. “During ‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me,’” he said, putting his hand on Ethan’s shoulder, “it was like Sydney was the student, and you were the helpless teacher. How you showed your feelings about this vulnerable young schoolgirl. How you couldn’t help yourself. Nabokov was here with Lolita. You were mesmerizing. The whole place was deliciously uncomfortable.” Gus slapped him on the back. “It’s a gift, dude. Better than Sting—and Sting’s the best.”
“Thanks, man,” Ethan replied. He was smiling. It was humbling to be praised by someone he respected as much as Gus, even though he hated that Gus was the bass player he would never be. He turned to Sydney. “We reinvented ‘American Woman’ tonight. I don’t know where the fuck you pulled that from, but keep pulling.”
“Just stay away from the fucking stage lights,” Sydney said, grinning.
The bartender laughed and placed Ethan’s drink on the bar in front of him. “We haven’t had a crowd like this in months,” she said. “You’ll be back.”
Ethan raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a sip of the cool liquid. He’d hardly noticed the heat of the night. “We’re here again tomorrow night,” he said.
They chatted about the night for the better part of an hour. Several customers came over and shook their hands, praising their show and saying they’d be back.
“Last call,” the bartender announced. Ethan had finished his drink, and he ordered another. He didn’t have to get up for work. Greg ordered another beer. Sydney and Gus abstained.
It wasn’t long before Benny’s crowd was back to the size it had been when they’d started the evening. Gus and Sydney were talking. Greg was looking in the direction of two women near the front entrance. Ethan looked again for his mystery woman and then turned, picked up his drink from the bar, and stood behind his three bandmates.
“I’ve got something on my mind,” he announced.
Gus and Sydney turned on their stools.
Greg, already sitting sideways to the bar, turned to look at Ethan but didn’t move. “Shit,” he said, expressing what his eyes were already saying. “You’re not going to fuck up this night, are you?” Greg slid off his stool and stood eye to eye with Ethan.
“What?” Ethan said, staring at Greg. “How the fuck could you even think that?”
“’Cause your tone is fucking serious, dude,” Greg said.
Ethan shook his head, remembering his earlier confrontation in the driveway at home. “I’m not about to fuck the night up. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Okay, I’m tired of this mystery shit.” Sydney sighed. “What’s up?”
Ethan took a sip of his drink. “We need to move in to together,” he said, looking at Sydney in answer to her question.
“You and me?” she asked, her eyes widening in apparent shock. “Are you—”
“No, no, no,” Ethan said, shaking his head with his hands open in front of him. “Us—us as a band.”
There was a long pause before anyone spoke.
“Really?” Greg said, his voice rising.
“Yes,” Ethan said, looking from Greg to Sydney and then to Gus. “If we’re serious about this thing, we need to be together—live together.”
The extended version of “Do You Feel like We Do” from Frampton Comes Alive was playing in the background. Gus lit a cigarette.
“Give me one of those,” Ethan said. Gus popped out the butt of a Camel cigarette from the soft brown package he was holding and extended it to Ethan.
“Man, this is serious,” Greg said as Gus flicked his BIC lighter in front of Ethan’s cigarette.
Ethan watched the tip of the cigarette light up as he sucked on the other end. He didn’t smoke much but enjoyed the pleasant buzz it gave him.
“Wow,” Sydney said, staring at Ethan with the cigarette in his hand. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“It’s all part of the night,” Ethan replied in defense of his smoking. “You haven’t seen me get close and personal with a stage light before either.”
Sydney glanced sideways at Gus. “Give me one of those fuckers, pusher man.”
Gus patted the pack again, directing a cigarette to Sydney. He pointed the pack at Greg. Greg shook his head.
“Abstaining, thanks, but I’d like Cigarette Man to elaborate on this fine idea of his,” Greg said, looking at Ethan.
Ethan blew out the smoke he’d inhaled. The buzz kicked in sweetly.
“As serious as we all are,” Ethan said, and he gulped down a mouthful of his gin and soda. He could see Sydney’s eyes locked on some spot in the bar behind him, taking in what he said. She had a particular focused stare, Ethan had noticed, whenever listening to something she thought important.
Gus blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Greg continued to stare at Ethan. He was the only one now who had a day job.
Ethan didn’t think anyone knew he’d lost his. “We need to commit.”
“Did you have something in mind?” Greg asked. “Like a place maybe or even a fucking plan?”
Ethan shook his head as he sucked in another breath of smoke from the Camel cigarette. They were stronger than the Player’s Special Blend he usually chose.
“No,” Ethan replied, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “I just thought about it before the show. Sydney played something cool at the house. I put some words to it.”
Ethan took another short draw from his cigarette. “We get fucking ideas all the time,” he said, speaking through the cloud of smoke he breathed out. The words came quickly as his thoughts came together. “While we’re doing something else—like digging fucking postholes—we think we’ll catch it later, but we never do, ’cause later never comes, or when it does, we can’t remember what it was.”
Sydney was drumming her fingers on the bar again. She stopped and looked straight at Ethan.
Ethan took another drag. “If the Release is going to
be real, we have to live it,” he said. He set his cigarette down in the small tinfoil ashtray on the bar top. “It’s gonna take everything we have and then some. I mean fucking everything. We gotta eat, drink, and sleep fucking music all the time. We’re gonna fucking hate each other and write music. We’re gonna be hungry, thirsty, and wasted together and write music. We’re gonna fuck our brains out and write more music.”
“Hey now. Whoa there, maestro,” Greg said. “Just how do you see us fucking paying for all this? Only you and I have jobs.”
“I don’t know!” Ethan shouted. “But that’s a fuckin’ excuse, and you know it! Everybody uses it. Money, money, fuckin’ money—the fucking dream buster!”
He picked up his cigarette and took another drag. “You know what?” Ethan said, reminded of a Circus magazine article he’d read. “Aerosmith lived together as a band. Steve Tyler said it was their secret recipe.”
Gus turned and looked at Ethan. “You know, I remember reading something like that too. I didn’t think it was Aerosmith, though.”
No one said anything, but Ethan knew he had their attention. The few minutes he’d sat with Sydney at his folks’ house should have been the norm, not the exception. If they wanted the music world, they had to live it. If they didn’t, they were destined to end up goofing around like most who decided they wanted to start a band. In a way, the secret to success in the music business seemed too simple, and yet it really was that simple: they had to play and live music. Few seemed to have what it took to make that commitment.
Sydney stopped drumming on the countertop. “I’m in,” she said. “I’m fuckin’ in!”
Gus and Greg turned and looked at her. Ethan wondered if they were surprised she was first to agree. He wasn’t. If anybody was ready, it was Sydney. She’d left home for the band and was living with her aunt in Toronto. To Ethan’s mind, she was already committed.
“I’m in too,” Gus added, clenching his fist and pounding the bar top like a judge pounding a gavel. Gus looked at Greg as if to say, “Well?”
“Oh, and so you know, Greg”—Ethan gave him a small lips-together smile—“you’re the only one with a day job. I got fired today.”
The Musician Page 9
