The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “Fucking shut up!” Sydney shouted from her room across from his. Ethan wasn’t the only one awake.

  “Use some goddamn water!” Gus shouted from somewhere else. “And shut the fuck up!”

  They were all awake, but with Gus’s last words, calm returned. Greg went silent. Gus was a couple of years older than the rest of them. With his jet-black hair and beard, he seemed almost godly in his steadying influence on the rest of them. “Shut the fuck up” or “Exactly what’s your fucking problem?” had a way of settling things down.

  Things had turned out different from how Ethan had imagined they would. Each show, they played more together—more connected, tighter, better—but each day in the house seemed to tear them further apart. It was as if bad stuff in the day made for good stuff in the night, as if they needed conflict to grow. Their repertoire had grown to almost a dozen original songs, all of which had come into being with at least one of them threatening to quit. The latest bout had started with Sydney the day before last. She refused to play the notes of a riff he liked the way he wanted her to. Each time he got ready to sing the words to what she was playing, she played the run just a little differently, as if intentionally trying to mess him up. Searching to find whatever she was looking for, she ignored him. Each time they played it, he grew more agitated.

  “Come on, Sydney—just once!” he yelled over the hum of the amps.

  She played the part leading up to the bridge just the way Ethan wanted, only that time, she stepped on her flanger effects pedal, stringing the notes together as if they were elastic.

  “Fuck, Sydney!” Ethan screamed. “Just play it once!”

  She was shaking her head. “It’s not right. It doesn’t fucking fit.”

  “You haven’t fucking played it yet!”

  “I don’t have to play the goddamn thing to know what it sounds like!” she shouted back, looking up from her fingers on the fret board. “You’re such an idiot.”

  “Look who’s talking!”

  “Asshole,” Sydney huffed. He could see she was mad, but so was he.

  Ethan didn’t care. He was ready to call it quits. Gus was unplugging. Greg was twirling a drumstick between his fingers, seeming to pay little attention to the lot of them. As mad as Sydney was, the neck of her guitar remained in her hand like a friend she was afraid to let go of. As if cued by some secret signal, she turned away from Ethan. Her right booted foot came forward and, with masterful precision, depressed one of the effects switches on the floor in front of her. Then, with the virtuosity of someone who’d played the riff a million times before, she ripped off the notes in a fashion different from anything she’d been playing. It was as if a giant wave hit Ethan, knocking him from hell into sweet paradise.

  “You fucking babe!” he screamed, the surge of joy making it nearly impossible to hold on to his mike. “Play that fucking magic again.”

  If there was one thing Sydney could do better than anyone Ethan had ever seen, it was repeating something exactly as she’d played it the first time—if she wanted to. Like a photographic memory, she had a replay memory.

  “That’s it!” he said, jumping up and down like a baseball player watching his home run ball soar over the fence in left field to win the championship. “That’s fucking it!”

  “So much for your shitty little riff,” she said, hinting at a smile.

  Sydney was right more than she was wrong, but it didn’t stop the screaming matches. The good stuff didn’t come about without their first puking up their bad emotions. Ethan became convinced it was a law of the universe, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. He doubted most could have put up with it. But good songs came out of it.

  They played the song through. Hearing the song come along, Gus plugged back into his amp. Greg found a beat.

  “That’s how it’s done,” Ethan said when they’d finished. He turned and looked at Greg.

  “So,” Greg said, as if Ethan were talking to him alone, “when are we going to fucking record an album?”

  The question had come up several times as their catalog of original songs grew. Ethan knew they all thought about it. Sydney was usually the one to comment after a missed note or screwup, “We’re not ready yet.” They all knew what she meant. But mistakes were becoming less frequent. They had just played something new for the first time and gotten it.

  “I think you’re scared,” Greg said, pressing his chin with the heel of his hand to an audible crack of his neck. “Our songs are fucking good—we sound great. What are we waitin’ for now?”

  “For you to keep the fucking beat steady,” Sydney snapped before anyone else had a chance to react.

  “Blow me!” Greg said. “You’re fucking scared, and you know it.”

  “I’m not fucking scared,” Sydney said in defense, but Ethan could hear fear in her voice. Her drive for perfection made being wrong next to death. “You’re still not coming in right on ‘Lonesome Body.’ We’re not charged up enough with ‘Held in Chains.’ The words aren’t right in ‘Taken.’ Shall I go on?”

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Is that really the point? Greg’s right. We’re close.”

  “Who died and made you fucking king?” Sydney said, looking at Ethan. The whiteness of the skin around her fingernails showed how tight a grip she held on the neck of her guitar.

  “It’s not about me,” Ethan said, feeling Sydney’s wrath. She was an important part of the Release, as were the others, but she wasn’t always right. The Release was a band. They had to figure things out as a band. One person couldn’t make all the decisions, even if differing opinions mired them in indecision and frustration. Recording was only one of those decisions. “It’s about us. Everyone has a stake in this.”

  “And just what fucking tree is the money falling from to get in a studio?” Sydney asked.

  The question caught Ethan off guard—it was the first time Sydney had used money, not their playing, as a reason. She’d argued the opposite with Greg regarding getting a place and moving in together. Money was always an excuse for something else, Ethan thought.

  “We have money in the bank,” said Gus, who’d taken on the band’s finances. Everyone was responsible for an equal share of the rent and food, such as the milk Greg was now complaining about. Each month, they split what their gigs paid, with an equal portion going in the bank. But Ethan knew there couldn’t be much.

  “What are we looking at?” Ethan asked, figuring quickly in his head what two months of being in the house might have amounted to. “Five hundred bucks?”

  “Almost eight—seven hundred eighty-seven dollars,” Gus said, unstrapping his bass.

  “We need three times that to record,” Sydney replied, letting go of the neck of her guitar and stretching out her arm in front of her. “Where the fuck are we going to come up with two grand?”

  Ethan still couldn’t figure out where the money thing was coming from. Sydney’s line of thinking had never been about money.

  “I may be able to offer some assistance,” Greg said, spinning a drumstick through his fingers confidently. His lips curved into a closed-mouthed smile. Ethan couldn’t help but think of Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  “How so?” Gus asked.

  “Here we go,” Sydney said. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ know.”

  “Let’s just say I have a few ideas.”

  Ethan wasn’t excited about the source of Greg’s ideas, but he was excited about making a record. Recording was a dream for all of them. He could feel it getting closer. As with the house, there was always a way. Money wasn’t about to stop them.

  Sydney’s next words made it real.

  “Great, but can we talk about this tomorrow?” she said, adjusting the strap on her Gibson. “We’ve a fucking show tonight, and ‘Taken’ is not ready for public consumption.”

 
; Without hesitation, as she often did when wanting to get things going, she started without a count. The sound of her guitar shot off like a rocket blast, starting the song with its spinning riff. The sound she created charged up the others. Gus quickly returned his guitar strap to his shoulder and played a skip bass pattern that Greg followed with syncopated drumbeats. A month before, the rhythm would have been beyond what Greg could play. Sydney had shown him a trick to balance the separate patterns. The offset had taken a while to learn, but he’d pegged it. Ethan watched as Sydney did a little foot dance in front of her pedals, beaming as if she’d just given birth to a new life. He then reasoned that in fact, she had.

  That night, they owned not only the stage but also the world.

  That had been the night before last.

  Ethan didn’t hear Greg complaining anymore. Water must have worked, or Greg had simply run out of steam.

  Ethan had too, and sleep took him away.

  CHAPTER 23

  Wednesday, November 14, 1984

  “Ethan?”

  “Randolph,” Ethan mumbled through the spoonful of Cap’n Crunch in his mouth. It was just past two o’clock in the afternoon. He dug something crusty out of the corner of his eye with the tip of his index finger. He swallowed and more clearly repeated, “Randolph.”

  “You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?”

  “You know how it goes—hard to turn what at first we learn,” Ethan replied, liking what he’d said. He scanned the kitchen for a pencil and paper. They’d bought a bunch of pads and pencils to put around the house for when ideas struck, but one or the other still seemed to be absent when he needed them.

  “I didn’t know that was a saying,” Randolph said, his voice growing quieter, as if he’d moved away from the mouthpiece.

  “Nor did I.” Ethan laughed, trying to write and talk at the same time. He paused briefly to write down the line. “I just made it up. What’s up? It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. When did we have dinner—three months ago?”

  Ethan had to think. It had been at least that long. When he’d last seen Randolph, the Release hadn’t yet found a house.

  “At least that,” Ethan replied, looking at the words he’d written down.

  “I just finished,” Randolph said.

  Ethan had to think for a moment what Randolph was talking about. The pause was enough for Randolph to prompt him.

  “Browning Station, man. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. It’s your book.”

  Randolph’s words coincided with his thoughts. Having been so wrapped up with the Release, he’d lapsed on the book Randolph had become so attached to. It brought back the question of his lost copy of Browning Station.

  “No, just a lot going on,” Ethan said, trying to sound as if he hadn’t forgotten, though he had.

  “What else is new?” Randolph said, the speed of his words quickening. “Listen to this. Venture’s so happy with the comic that they’ve optioned a movie.”

  “You’re kidding,” Ethan said, losing a bit of his enthusiasm. He was surprised by what Randolph had going on. Good fortune had turned its favor in Randolph’s direction since the hospital, but Ethan could think only about how the Release still didn’t have their record together. Between living, sleeping, and gigging, there wasn’t much left. He was happy for Randolph but envious of what Randolph had happening. “When are you heading to Hollywood?”

  After he said the word, the heavy door he hadn’t sensed in a while seemed to rise beside him.

  “Not Hollywood. Most of the work will be done in Toronto, seeing where the dollar’s at. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything. The door was fading. He underlined the word learn.

  “Well.”

  “Well what?” Ethan asked, wondering what Randolph was about to tell him.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m calling?”

  Ethan was finding it hard to stay excited. Maybe he had too much on his mind. He stared at the words he’d written down, thinking they might fit into “Taken,” a song that was taking way too long to come together. Not wanting to disappoint his friend, he followed Randolph’s lead.

  “Okay, why are you calling?” Ethan asked, hearing his own flippancy.

  “You’re such an asshole,” Randolph responded.

  Ethan smiled and wrote down “We can never go back.” He liked it. “Are you going to tell me or not?” he said. He wanted to move on. The words were coming, and he didn’t want to miss them.

  “I want the Release to do a couple of songs for the soundtrack,” Randolph blurted out.

  Ethan imagined a cork popping from a bottle of champagne.

  “One of the producers asked if I had any recommendations. The budget’s tight, but there is some money. I keep talking about you guys. You blew my mind in Toronto.”

  Randolph had Ethan’s full attention.

  “That’s fuckin’ cool!” Ethan cried, as if the air around him suddenly had gotten thinner. A million things ran through his head, none of which he could articulate. This was their way into the studio! He regretted his earlier jealousy. Only Randolph would have gone out on a limb for a friend on a project that was so important. The Release was good, but still.

  Randolph was talking again. Ethan didn’t catch the first part, but the second caused things to slow down.

  “There is one catch,” Randolph said.

  “Catch?” Ethan asked, the word coming to his lips before he had time to check it. Catch? Okay, here it comes, he thought, ready to renege on his thoughts on Randolph.

  “It’s not really a catch—it’s more timing,” Randolph said. He continued before Ethan could say anything. “They want to hear two songs in two weeks.”

  “Really?” Ethan said in disbelief. “We’ve been trying to record for a while. You’ve got horseshoes up your ass and a crystal ball.”

  There was silence for a moment on the other end before Randolph came back on.

  “I think the fuckin’ horseshoes might be yours.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Monday, November 26, 1984

  Ethan had dreamed of recording in a studio since before their band in high school. Now he was going to live it. But dreams had a way of changing in their realization.

  He had pictured something closer to the stills he remembered of the Beatles at their Abbey Road and Apple Studios sessions. The Release were in much more cramped quarters at Focus Sound. The four of them could barely squeeze into the recording room, never mind being comfortable. Greg’s Slingerland drum kit was set up farthest from the door to the studio. Sydney’s six-string acoustic was in its stand beside one of her black Marshall cabinets on one side of Greg’s drums. Her amp sat on top. There was no room for her other cabinet, which remained in the van out back. Her ever-present jean jacket was slung over the end of her amp. Her dim yellow Stratocaster, which she rarely played, was leaning against the cabinet behind the acoustic. Gus was set up on the other side of Greg. His Ampeg head and cabinet behind him were a little taller than Sydney’s two boxes. Ethan stood between Sydney and Gus, opposite Greg.

  Cables like a tangled nest of black snakes ran everywhere across the floor, between mikes, guitars, effects pedals, electronic boxes, and amps to the omnipotent mixing console, separated from the musicians by a big picture window. In the middle, on top of the mess of black spaghetti between all of them, sat the binder of their handwritten lyrics and chord charts. Several sheets from the binder were spread across the floor. A blue bowl filled with cigarette butts sat on top of the binder. Squeezed in behind Gus and Greg was the rented Yamaha keyboard. There appeared to be no plan to the arrangement of equipment. They would play, listen, talk, move something, and then play again. Out of this chaos would come the music, the songs, and then the record. The dream was never messy, but creativ
ity sure was. Ethan wasn’t dreaming anymore.

  They had arrived at Focus Sound following their late Sunday night show at Tormo, a small bar in Markham, north of Toronto. Three of the four songs they were to record came off like clockwork. The fourth, “You Don’t Know What You’re Saying,” didn’t fare as well. Gus wanted to make changes before they recorded it. They played until midnight and ended the night with Sydney’s blistering arrangement of “American Woman.” Then they packed up with hopes of starting to record around three o’clock in the morning. Adrenaline got them through most of the teardown. They were on fire. They were dragging their butts by the time they left Tormo.

  Gus drove the van while Greg passed around a bottle of caffeine pills. They were booked until noon. For the next five days, their routine became: Tormo, Focus Sound, house, and Tormo. Sleep would be second priority to getting the four songs recorded.

  They arrived at the back door of Focus Sound just after three, but setup took another hour. At four thirty, Gus and Sydney were plugged in and working through “You Don’t Know What You’re Saying.” Greg’s snare had loosened up during transport. Ethan could see him getting frustrated at not finding the pop he wanted. Sometimes it took a few minutes, but other times, no matter what he did, he couldn’t get the right sound.

  “Let’s lay down a song,” Raj, their sound engineer, said.

  Raj Mahar was hired to engineer and produce their songs. Someone Randolph knew in Ottawa had recommended him. Raj was from Nashville, but the first thing out of Greg’s mouth was “I’m not drumming to any sitar shit!” But after listening to a couple of tracks Raj had done with other bands, Greg backed off. Raj would be the most expensive part of recording, but they needed help. Raj was their man.

  “Sydney, is it, and Gus?” Raj asked, his tone sharp through the intercom speaker. They nodded. “What do we start with?”

  Sydney and Gus were in the recording room behind the large pane of glass that Ethan and Raj looked at them through. They might have been all of six feet away, but the intercom connecting the rooms made the distance seem like an illusion.