Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  As we eased into Boston, the traffic thickened, and the skyline closed in on us. We crept beneath the I-93 tunnel and banged a right at the third exit. After a couple turns and a small stretch, we stopped at a barrier. Following a rather spotty inspection of our identities, they allowed us to pass, and we pulled into the backstage lot. The tinted windows in the limo gave you the feeling of dusk, and when the car doors opened, the afternoon sun blinded me.

  Unlike in my fantasies, there was no screaming mob of supporters waiting. The music from one of the many bands scheduled to play was already blaring throughout the grounds. We were shuffled off to the hangout area, and as co-headliner, were even given our own private room. It wasn’t quite a palace, but there was a couch, chairs set up in random places, a small stereo with a CD player and a mini bar.

  We’ve played countless gigs and always knew what to do with ourselves before we took the stage. But once in that room with the door closed, we all seemed to be lost and were wandering around our quarters like mindless drones. I figured it was up to me again to make sure that everyone was feeling groovy, and I gathered everyone together.

  “Duh, Duh, Dale? Ready to wail?”

  “Born ready”

  “Tommy, everything ok?”

  “On the money”

  “Piano Mike, all set?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Stevie, game on?”

  “Hey,” he said, giving me a lackluster response. I ignored his sparse optimism, chalking it up to his laidback manner.

  “Amy, you getting all this crap on film?”

  “Well, most of it is crap, but I’m snapping away.” She gave a big smile and got mushy for a change. “But I’m so glad to be here. You boys make Cumberland proud.” She assembled us all in a loose group hug, like a mother gathering her children, and I warmed with a sense of camaraderie.

  “Hey,” I said after the bonding thing had run its course. “Let’s ramble on over to the common area and hang with the other bands. I want to check out what we’re up against.”

  They all agreed, and we headed out together. The place was speckled with a cornucopia of musician types: guys, girls, punks, metalheads and rock-&-rollers. Everyone was cordial and there weren’t any egos polluting the room. The catering was fabulous, a huge spread consisting of starters, greens, salads and grilled meats. To top it off, a full-service bar offered every drink you could imagine and more.

  As we were chowing down on appetizers, two guys from Fast.Fun! blew through the room in an odd and cold shoulder kind of fashion. The singer, known as Fango, who I recognized from the promotional concert banners, was ahead of the other dude, cutting him off with every step. His face, adorned with dark eye shade and lipstick over pantomime white skin, was only eclipsed by his kinked up, blacker than black Bouffant hairdo. He wore a Joy Division t-shirt underneath a trench coat, the color of used motor oil sludge, vampire spandex pants and a pair of skinhead shit-kickers. The vibe stiffened, and everyone skirted to the side like they didn’t want to be infected by whatever strange condition those two characters were carrying around. The two specters floated by and when I tried to express my salutations with my mouth half full, both snubbed me as if I were speaking a foreign tongue. I realized then why the crowd parted to let them through undeterred. I didn’t want any of that creepiness rubbing off on me either and decided to let it go, assuming their aloofness was part of the act. After savoring a healthy slab of charbroiled beef, a generous portion of lobster sauté topped off with some young Merlot from the Valley, Amy and I decided to explore life on the outside.

  The good part about being an unknown band in Boston is that we could move freely amongst the attendees without being bombarded by fans and other star struck concert goers. It was a free open-air event set amongst the restaurants, shops and other localities. There were probably twenty thousand people, dressed in every style of garb and color of the rainbow that exists, sprawled throughout the nooks and crannies of the entire location. I must have been poked by at least ten sets of Madonna boob-cones. The weather was perfect, and everyone looked like they only wanted to have some carefree early summer fun.

  Amy and I found an area in the back of the square with room to move. Dale, Tommy and Stevie joined us; everyone seemed to dig the general ambience of the get-together while enduring a copycat band that sounded like Falco meets Wham! at the Culture Club. Piano Mike said he’d be doing ‘finger exercises’ in our private room. Playing with his organ instead of joining in the festivities to get pumped? We watched the next band’s set too and proceeded backstage. There’d be one more group performing after that, so we still had time to warm up and get into the necessary mindset needed to wow the crowd.

  I always had the same warm-up routine. I started with a couple of scales and eased into “I’d love to Change the World” by Alvin Lee. It was only to get the kinks out of my fingers. Next, I played a couple of random songs on guitar while singing along. As usual, I ended up with “Thank You”, a tender Led Zeppelin ballad. After that, I was ready to tackle anything.

  The group before us had finished, and the decibel level from the insatiable crowd skyrocketed. Many of the very old and very young were replaced by a tsunami of mature teens, college kids, and yuppies and dinks who were getting primed for a long night of partying. The intermission music came on, and we knew it wouldn’t be long until some security dudes whisked us up onto the stage. Although we couldn’t have been more ready, the anticipation was daunting.

  Finally, a head popped into the room and a young man called out to us. “Five minutes and we’re moving.”

  About ten minutes later, they escorted us to our places. The curtain was still closed, and the sun had all but faded. We took hold of our instruments, did the usual checks and the MC announced us as the biggest band from the smallest state. The curtain parted and slid gradually to the sides. We were front and center for all to see. Not wasting any time, we burst into song. The lights upon us were glaring, and I felt like we were on top of the universe beaming down on all of consciousness. The people were already going mental. I’d witnessed that many times as a concert goer myself, and our shows could get wild but never like this. We started with our brand-new tune “Born to be a Star” and then segued right into “Alive”, our standard opener.

  “Alive”

  Rolling through the dust of an ordinary day

  Back against the rack couldn’t see what’s in my way

  Smoking like a stack thought I’d take my stake and run

  Off without a plan we all need to have some fun

  But I’ve taken the turn and I want you to know

  That there’s nothing to do but go…

  Chorus:

  I’m alive / Don’t need to tell me I’m alive

  Don’t need to say cuz I’m on it / And I ride like I feel

  Taking it all in stride / I’m alive

  Just trying to stand high there’s just so much more to see

  Restless Joe’s are waiting but they won’t make room for me

  So, step right out upside and you’ll get a thing or two

  Don’t want to make you nervous it’s just what I seem to do

  But I came here to leave and want you to see

  That there’s nobody listening but me….

  [Repeat Chorus]

  Faneuil Hall roared like an ancient gladiator match in Rome’s grandest coliseum. I prayed that Amy was capturing it all on film, if even possible. The set only got better as it progressed. We continually doubled down, and the audience matched us and then some. The whole scene was propelled into an atmosphere of boundless energy, and we were the vortex, the givers and the receivers. It was nuts.

  Once as a young boy, riding my bike around the neighborhood, something went terribly wrong, and I flew over my handlebars, getting knocked unconscious. I awoke on someone’s lawn, being stitched up by a paramedic. It was a strange feeling because the clock seemed
to have stopped, and I could only remember sensations, but the actual events that took place seemed surreal. That’s how it was on Saturday night during our set. Between the opening of the curtain and when it closed on us for good, so many micro events occurred, yet I can only remember images and a wild bouquet of hazy perceptions. It was as if I dreamt it all, but I know I didn’t. It was as real as the split lip that I got as a kid when I crashed my bicycle and the surging pain that followed. In this case, it was pure bliss, a communion of humanity.

  After our final encore, we raced back to the room and fell into each other’s arms. Nobody seemed to care about the smells, bodily contact or swapping of sweat, spit or whatever fluids were oozing from our bodies. Everyone appeared to be elated and relieved that we aced our first real chance on the big stage. It took a while, and once we settled down and freshened up, we decided to stick around for Fast.Fun!’s set. After all, they were the real main act.

  We moseyed over to our spot in the square where we hung out earlier. Luckily, everyone had shed their rock star appearances and blended in again with the other music enthusiasts. The intermission songs playing over the PA were somewhat disturbing as a weird tension mounted. The sea of jolly faces we gazed down at from atop the stage seemed to mutate into a rather awkward mix of confusion and aggression with a pinch of dissonance. When Fast.Fun! took the stage, it was exactly like hours before at the buffet, when they literally parted a path through the other musicians. The crowd was still cheering, some fans rather wildly at that, but the tone of the event darkened, and a strange shadow seemed to set itself upon the festival grounds. I can’t say that the music was bad. It was like a depressing version of The Cure and after two songs, I couldn’t take it anymore. Everyone felt the gloom roll in, so we agreed to split on a high note.

  The gang, including Miss White, headed south back to Rhode Island. At first, we reminisced aloud about our recollections. That didn’t last long, though, and the way home quickly became more introspective and reserved. Dale crashed, Amy sipped on Bloody Mary’s again, and the rest of us seemed to have been floating down a river of our own thoughts. We emptied out of the vehicle back at the practice space, and except for some random mumblings, the band was short on words during departure. The equipment would only be delivered in the morning, so there was nothing to wait around for. Soon everyone was gone except for me and Amy. I walked her to her car and before she got in, she turned to me and said, “you were a hot shot tonight, Luke baby.” She took my face in both her hands and gave me a soft, wet kiss on the lips. It was very short yet still succulent. Without another word, she got into her car and sped off. I was dumbfounded and didn’t know what to think. I beamed from deep within and made my way back home.

  When I got in the house, I walked into my bedroom, threw off my shoes and dropped straight into bed, clothes and all. There was no desperate waiting and hoping. I was gone before I even hit the sheets. And that’s exactly what I plan to do again, right now…

  Wednesday, July 1, 1987

  When reading through Sunday’s entry, it’s hard to believe I’m feeling so downbeat only days after Boston’s life changing affair. No, not even days. It all started the next day, on Monday morning after my best Sunday night sleep in a long time. Carney was on the prowl, and I was the obvious victim. I heard the typical ‘MOOOOORE’ within minutes of me settling down at my desk with my second cup of coffee in hand.

  “Moore,” he screamed as he sped around the corner, hugging the walls of my cubicle before landing only inches away from me. “What may I ask is this?” He shoved some papers in my face so close I couldn’t even make out what it was. “I said what’s this?”

  “Since I can’t see it, I can’t tell you what it is. Piece of paper? Employee of the month award?”

  His face scrunched into an orb of scorn as he wielded the documents in his right hand. “This is an invoice from Jade Trade that YOU, boy blunder, denied payment for. The ladies from accounting told me that YOU ordered them to get a new invoice since there were some administrative issues, and YOU wouldn’t process the stupid thing before YOU got a proper one without the so-called administrative issues.” His voice wavered back and forth from a shout to a wimpy hair lip mimic every time he said the words ‘administrative issues’.

  “Let me see.” I ripped the document out of his hand. “This invoice, Mr. Carney, has more than just administrative issues. The only thing on here is an amount we should pay. No description of the products we supposedly bought or quantities we allegedly received. There’s no reference to any order. Matter of fact, there’s nothing on this piece of paper that gives me any reason to allow payment. Only a God damn amount and a large one at that.”

  We stood opposite each other like two defiant rams.

  “Moore, you listen, and you listen good. The owner of Jade called and said he’ll pull the plug on all our orders if they don’t get their money. Jade’s not an operation that fools around, and if they pull the plug, I’ll pull your plug before you can sing ‘do re mi’. You get that processed this second. And Moore, this is already incident number two. I don’t need to tell a wise ass like you what happens when you get another strike.” He turned and huffed it down the corridor before spinning back towards me. “And Moore, I’ll take you out myself, and you’ll be begging to come back once our common friends show up to collect what you owe. Got it?”

  “What’s this got to do with the loan?”

  “Got it, I said?”

  “Yes sir,” I answered, sucking it up.

  He threw the papers in front of me and stormed away with all the fury on which he blew in.

  God knows what kind of dirtier than dirt business that sleaze bag was up to? No company in their right mind would pay that bill. I cut the check anyway, since that hothead wanted it paid, and spent hours grumbling over the ridiculousness of the situation. Sunday’s seventh heaven had worn off quick, and the day fizzled out from there. That was my Monday.

  It got worse on Tuesday, much worse. The problem started before I even made it out the door in the morning. I was hovering over some much-needed java, still in a daze, when the telephone rang.

  “Hullo,” I said, barely able to get those two syllables past my tonsils.

  “Hi, Luke.” It was Piano Mike, nervous about something. “You uh, see the Boston Circle this morning?”

  “Mike man, why you calling me so early, and why would I even get the Circle? Don’t you realize it’s not even eight?”

  “You need to read the article on page one of the entertainment section. It’s about us and the festival in Boston.”

  I was ecstatic at first. I knew we nailed it and thought the Boston show could potentially be our big ticket out of Crapsville. I was certain that the article glorified our remarkable performance and concluded that we’d be the next big household name in the music world everyone would be raving about.

  “Luke, they tore us to pieces. And had nothing but praise for Fast.Fun!.”

  My early ecstasy dropped from my head to my stomach and straight to my bowels in a single instant. “Stay there. I’m coming right over,” I said and slammed down the phone. I ran for the john, barely got my pants down, and it all bottomed out of me until there was nothing left. It was as if someone had laced my coffee with a power laxative that waited for the right moment to strike and KABOOM. I felt like an empty shell sitting on that cold toilet seat. Not having read the article yet, I was hoping that Mike was only being his unwavering pessimistic self and that it really wasn’t that bad. Once I made it off the toilet, I jumped into my 1975 Chevy Nova, the ‘Grey Beast’ as I call it, and raced over to Mike’s apartment as fast as my ride could bring me.

  Mike was waiting outside and almost threw the paper at me. I read the column, word for word, and it was that bad. As a matter of fact, it was outright nasty. The critic, Devon Scheister, devised quotes like ‘Fast.Fun! proves why they’re at the edge of the New Wave while th
e Moore band bored us with their tired rock from the last decade. I’d have to rate their attempt at 70s nostalgia somewhere between lame and tame’. Or even, ‘let’s hear it for Fast.Fun!. And the band from Little Rhody? I can’t imagine why such a small-time crew would think they can play with the big boys. But hey, you can’t say those Bostonians didn’t give them their shot’.

  I was devastated and immediately called for a band meeting at The Corner to discuss what went wrong. I beckoned Amy to come too. We couldn’t have all had a mass hallucination. We saw how the audience went wild that night while we played. Or didn’t they?

  For the rest of the day, I was a mess and couldn’t concentrate on anything. Work was even more depressing than usual. The only comforting thought was knowing I’d have my gang with me later and get to hear their point of view. I left as soon as possible, straight for The Corner, and waited for everyone to turn up. Besides me, there were only a couple of lonely stragglers dispersed throughout the place, and I took a seat at the bar. Don, the bartender, was already there waiting.

  “How’s it going, Don?”

  “Well, hey there, Luke. What can I get for you this evening?” The bass harmonics in Don’s voice warmed like a frothy hot chocolate after sledding.

  “Guess I’ll start with a…”

  “Budweiser?” he said, finishing my sentence. Without me noticing, Don had already popped the top off and placed the bottle on the counter in front of me. “What’s ailing you, son? Seen better days, haven’t you? Heck, last time you was here, you tell me you giving a concert way up there in Boston. Not go so swell?”

  “Actually, it went great. At least we thought. Then I got a call this morning, from Mike, the piano player. You know, that frazzled looking guy who comes here sometimes.”

  “Fella with them owl-eye glasses?”