AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  “Remember,” Kevin cautioned, “I’m going to do a slow lead-in. You have to wait for me to slip into the beat, then I want you to nonchalantly approach the mike, open with the guitar and bring in the vocals after everything is setup.”

  “Tell me again, why we’re doing this?” Jimmy pleaded, wishing he could run away.

  “I’m doing it because I need to stay in practice. You’re doing it to see what happens. As for going last, it’s the best spot on the schedule. By the time we get out there the crowd will be laughing and relaxed. They’ll be looking for a pair of amateurs mugging and dancing around. They’ll expect to laugh their way out when it’s done, but that’s not what’s gonna happen. They’ll see and hear a real talent for the first time all night.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No negative thoughts. Sedaka’s thing is good, a nice, teary first song. The older folks, who remember the original, will probably be surprised when they hear us drop it down. Once you’re done, everyone will know the laughs are over and it’s time to listen up. That’s exactly why I’m going to go long and slow on the drums before you launch into Lulu. By the time you move back to the mike, they’ll be on the edge of their seats. That’s when you have to be careful. Look out over their heads. Make no eye contact that could throw off your concentration. You have the three keys to a successful performance; good guitar, good vocals and a great song. You’re gonna wow’em.”

  Jimmy had grave misgivings. Singing and playing the Gibson had always been for him alone. Sharing it with others never occurred to him. Now, he stood backstage with his knees shaking and sweat beading on his brow, waiting to die. It was the opposite for the kid he barely knew, standing confidently by his side. Jimmy yearned to be as carefree and relaxed as Kevin. Is that all it took to banish the butterflies, a few gigs onstage in front of people? Jimmy glanced at his drummer, studying Kevin’s lack of concern as he joked with several others who had just exited the stage to hoots and hollers. Jimmy couldn’t talk. He could barely think beyond the whirling doubts that locked his nerves in anxiety. Kevin turned back from his chat just in time to catch Jimmy looking.

  “We’re up next.” He beamed with anticipation.

  When it was time to take the stage Jimmy knew he wasn’t ready. He stumbled on the side curtain, almost falling as the Gibson slipped off his shoulder. Kevin reached out and caught the guitar before it hit the floor. He handed it back to Jimmy with a wink. They emerged onstage just as the emcee finished their introduction, doing a perfect impersonation of Ed Sullivan. Jimmy stared out above the foot lights at the audience. Every seat was taken and there were dozens standing in the rear. Polite applause greeted them. The microphone stood at center stage. It was all he could do to get to it as his legs shook and sweat dripped from every pore in his body. Jimmy Buckman had a classic case of stage fright.

  The mike was set too low. With the Gibson strapped over his shoulder, he reached down and fiddled endlessly with the adjusting knob to no avail. He wanted to run away. From the audience came catcalls, “Get on with it! Then another, “It’s called a microphone!” Ripples of laughter rose from a few sections. Finally, Kevin raised himself from the drums and came to Jimmy’s side. He easily adjusted the mike to the correct height. Then he cupped his palm over the mouthpiece so he could speak without being heard. The emcee, offstage, was twirling his finger to speed things up. Kevin ignored him.

  “Never order the mushroom omelet.”

  “What?”

  “I had it for breakfast at the cafeteria this morning. Puked my guts out.” Then he waved at the audience and strode back to his drums, leaving Jimmy to stare, first at his backside, and then at the restless audience out front. He tried with all his might to collect himself as Kevin picked up his drumsticks and began to tap.

  In that instant it all changed. The audience broke into applause. Jimmy pulled the Gibson down from his back, lifted it high to his chest, brought his lips close to the microphone and began to sing. By the time he finished both the audience and his nerves were under control. Long before the first song’s applause died down, Kevin began to thump his base drum in a slow rhythm that Jimmy carefully waited on beat after beat. Seconds ticked off as the audience quieted and leaned forward in their seats. This was no amateur skit like the ones that came before. Kevin was right all along. As the drummer kept up the beat, Jimmy’s confidence grew. He no longer worried about the mike, his nerves or even the crowd that looked up at him in anticipation. When Kevin brought his drumsticks into the mix, rapping them sharply on the metal rim of his snare, not even the timing that it signaled, a faster tempo that they had neither discussed nor practiced, affected Jimmy’s calm. He simply tapped his foot and went with it as he launched the Gibson into the opening chords of Lulu. The opening was perfect.

  By the second verse clapping broke out, timed perfectly to Kevin’s beat. Jimmy’s fingers flew instinctively over the strings, stronger and with more purpose, matching the exhilarated intensity of his voice. This was his song, being performed before an audience for the first time, being played better than he had ever played it before, receiving rapt attention from people hearing it for the first time, filling its creator with a thrill he never dreamed possible.

  When he finished the crowd was on its feet, clapping and whistling. The emcee ran onto the stage and took Jimmy’s arm, raising it high as he shouted, “How’d you like that!” into the microphone. Kevin joined them, slapping Jimmy on the back as he acknowledged the crowd’s applause with a fist pump. Jimmy was stunned, unable to do anything, but take it all in.

  The curtain closed amid shouts for more. The stage manager hustled the rest of the night’s performers onstage. It took a few seconds for everyone to assemble before the curtains opened again. This time the clapping grew louder and shouts filled the theater. The emcee stayed close between Jimmy and Kevin, yelling in their ears, “Best finish since I’ve been here!”

  Two curtain calls later, the noise died down and the audience made its way to the exits. The performers left the stage, buzzing with energy. Kevin led Jimmy to the side, down the steps and through the back door, exiting to a small parking lot. He lit a joint, holding it out to Jimmy.

  “Man that was good!” he said, lighting another. “I haven’t felt this high since the battle of the bands back home.”

  Jimmy played with his smoke. “Where’d you get these?”

  “Pothead. You started out shaky, but then you found your groove.”

  “I would have died out there without you.”

  “That’s why I told you about the omelet.”

  “Yeah, what was that all about?”

  “Just a little trick to settle you down. Story’s true, though. Skip the mushrooms.”

  The Crusader Club hosted a party after the show. Beer flowed freely from kegs positioned in the center of the Quad. A bonfire raged at one end while a makeshift platform stood at the other with long wires running from microphones to amplifiers at each side. Faculty and staff knew not to come around when the Crusader Club threw one of its bashes. As long as the festivities didn’t migrate off campus, the administration was content to let the partying run its course. It was an all night binge for those who came, which was every student at the school. Some of the skits that garnered the biggest laughs were performed again on the platform, getting even more laughs from the drunken onlookers. Shouts of Lulu could be heard from time to time, but Jimmy and Kevin were partying too much to answer the call.

  The binge broke up at daybreak. Jimmy crashed in one of the empty bunks in Kevin’s room. Music played softly from the stereo, but neither of them heard it as they slept the day away. That night, still hung over, they gathered Jimmy’s things from his room and moved them across the hall.

  In the following weeks, the roommates went often to the basement of Regent Hall. Kevin set up his drums and began to tinker with Jimmy’s method, showing him how different beats and tempos could completely change a song. They tried dozens of combinations, but Jimmy consisten
tly fought Kevin’s insistence that he set the Gibson aside and go electric.

  “Right now, you think of yourself as a folk singer. There’s nothing wrong with that because you have a nice voice. Staying acoustic brings it to the forefront. So go ahead and hone your skills. Just remember what happened at the talent show when I kicked up the tempo, the song was better and you slid into it like a natural. That was the tip of the iceberg, just a drumbeat enhancing your guitar and vocals. Once you get a whole band behind you, your real potential will come out.”

  The combination of mid-term exams and a freak snowstorm just before the Thanksgiving break, kept the majority of students on-campus over a weekend. Kevin, true to his plan to flunk out, never studied. He had plenty of time on his hands. Jimmy, weary of the library and seeking a break, found him in the basement, as always, pounding away on his drums. He took the Gibson and joined in for an impromptu jam. After an hour, some students wandered in, pulled up chairs and sat down to listen. An hour later, Regent’s basement was full. Jimmy and Kevin played and sang deep into the night as the outside snow piled to two feet. Neither of them planned to make this a weekly gig, but it turned out that way, Friday and some Saturday nights, until Kevin’s disappearance the following March.

  Most nights, back in the room, Kevin introduced Jimmy to the music he described in his lecture. Mixed in with the best of Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis, were artists unknown to Jimmy like Louis Jordan and Bessie Smith.

  “What you’re hearing are the roots to everything we hear today. Folk rock, rock ‘n’ roll and, even some of the latest country music, can be traced back to the music blacks made all across the south. You really ought to ditch that Gibson for a bigger sound. We can go into Burlington tomorrow and get you a decent used solid body.”

  Jimmy demurred. “I like my Gibson.”

  “Sooner or later you’ll go that way.”

  “What did your uncle say when he heard the tape?”

  “What tape?”

  “You said you made a tape of me and sent it to him.”

  Kevin’s face lit up as he suddenly remembered, “Oh, that was just to get you to do the show.”

  “You never sent it to him?” Jimmy couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “People in the music business are snakes. My uncle is a King Cobra. If I sent him a tape of Lulu the next thing we’d hear is one of his studio boys on the radio singing it. He’d steal it without a second thought. Neither of us would ever see a credit or a dime.”

  “So what did you do with the tape?”

  “Never made one, but before we leave in the spring, me for good and you for the summer, we’ll do it.”

  “Then what?”

  “All part of my plan.”

  “Are you really going to leave?” Jimmy couldn’t understand why Kevin wanted to flunk out.

  “I’m outta here come May.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I’ll go to New York and work for my uncle.”

  “But you said he’s a snake.”

  “He is, but he knows the music business. I’ll learn as much as I can for a year or two then go out on my own.”

  “Seems like it could wait until you graduate.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  “Well?”

  “My dad is old school. We’ve been knocking heads forever. He doesn’t approve of my uncle, either. But they’re brothers so they keep in touch. Mostly when my uncle gets caught cheating somebody, then he comes running back to Massena to hide out for a while in my dad’s motel. We’ve talked for years about me coming down to work for him. Point is, I don’t need school to get where I want to go, but I do need time. Music is for the young. Ever heard of Aldon Music?”

  “No.”

  “It’s in New York, a place called the Brill Building. Two guys started it, Don Kirshner and Al Nevins. They round up all these kids, most of them our age, some even younger. They stick them in a bunch of makeshift rooms and just let them make up songs on pianos, guitars whatever instruments they want. Obviously, these kids have talent, either as songwriters, performers or both. A lot of the stuff we hear comes out of that process. Here you are singing something by Sedaka a few weeks ago. You probably don’t know he worked out of that building. That’s okay, though. The average listener doesn’t much care where the music comes from. Right now, a lot of good stuff is still coming out of New York, but the Brill Building isn’t the place. The newer guys have migrated down the street to 1650 Broadway and a couple of other buildings. What they’re doing is different, not the cute little ditties we used to get from Brill, but heavier stuff, jamming and drug rock. The same sort of process happened down south in the 50s at Sun Records.

  “This guy, Sam Phillips, went around listening to all the great black singers and musicians just working the circuit for whatever they could get. He brought them into his two-bit studio and recorded them all. Then he drove around to every radio station he could find, pushing the music as hard as he could all the while selling records out of the trunk of his car. Elvis Presley followed the black guys around, too, sometimes sneaking onstage during their breaks just to copy what they were doing in front of small audiences. When the blacks came back they’d shoo him off the stage, wondering where this kid got the nerve. One day, Presley showed up at Phillips’ studio, unannounced. He wanted to record a song for his mother. To read what Phillips thought about this naïve kid from nowhere is to understand the creative process. He said Presley was nothing but a nervous hillbilly, trying to copy the blacks. He spurned his attempts to mimic the blacks. He thought no whites could do it successfully. Still, he let him come around until he finally decided to work him hard. The rest is history. Presley got some confidence. Phillips said that all he needed was someone to let him air out his lungs and practice his moves without judging too harshly. As it turned out, Presley could mimic the blacks just fine, but Phillips saw that he had a charismatic style all his own. Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis followed in short order, making Phillips a legend.

  “Out in Detroit, there’s another music factory, Motown. All blacks this time, finally taking charge of their destiny. Yeah, it was all done before in Philly, but none of them got the money they deserved. It’s like an assembly line, putting all the pieces together to produce one great song after another. I’m going to start a business like that. I’ll take tapes of you and my band back in Massena. With luck, I’ll parlay some of it into a little money and we’ll be on our way.”

  “We?”

  “If you want in, you’re in. By the time you finish here, my company will be on its feet. You’ll have a little money from what I make for you from Lulu and we’ll go on from there.”

  “What will your father say when he finds out you flunked his money away?”

  “I’ll pay him back. He’s a good guy. Just doesn’t have any vision.”

  Christmas break came and went. When he returned, Kevin shyly announced that he was on academic probation. The harsh Vermont winter took hold with a vengeance. The first five days of February commenced with another two-foot snowstorm followed by several days of sub-zero temperatures accompanied by a persistent thirty-mile wind out of the north. Lake Champlain, at its widest point between Vermont and New York, froze over on February 18, much to the delight of the local snowmobilers and ice fishermen. The students hunkered down out of the cold and snow, waiting for something to break the frigid siege. As it turned out, the cold offered Jimmy and Kevin regular audiences for their jams in the basement of Regent Hall. Their reputation grew.

  One Tuesday morning, during the second week of March, Jimmy returned from class to find his roommate hastily throwing clothes into a small bag. Kevin didn’t look up when he entered and, surprisingly, there was no music coming from the stereo.

  “What gives?”

  “Going home. I have an issue to deal with.”

  “Your father?”

  “Will be when he finds out.”

  Jimmy went over and sat on
Kevin’s unmade bunk. “Finds out what?”

  “She’s pregnant.” Kevin still did not look up from his task, but Jimmy detected worry in his friend’s voice for the first time since he’d known him.

  “Pregnant? Who?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

  “On the keyboards in my band, Ginger.”

  “You never said.”

  “Well, doesn’t matter now. I need to go home.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.”

  “How are you getting there?”

  “I’ll catch a lift to Burlington. Then, once I get across the lake, I’ll hitch.”

  “You need some money?”

  “Couple of bucks if you can spare it.”

  Jimmy took everything he had out of his pockets, twenty dollars and some change. He handed it to Kevin. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. She’s real upset. Our folks don’t know, but we’ll have to face them together. She’s only sixteen. I’m in big trouble.”

  Jimmy’s jaw dropped. Kevin finished throwing some socks and underwear into his bag and crossed the room to get his coat. He opened the door then stopped momentarily and turned to look at Jimmy.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Two days later, the headline was emblazoned across the front page of the Burlington Free Press. Sick at heart, Jimmy spotted Kevin’s name in the second paragraph in bold type. He was reading the story, tears coming to his eyes, when two men in suits came up to his table in the cafeteria. The conversation was brief. Jimmy answered their questions as best he could, detailing his relationship with Kevin and describing their last conversation, but excluding any reference to Ginger. He struggled to keep his composure as he led them to his room in Regent Hall where the two detectives sifted through Kevin’s belongings. When they were finished, they thanked him for his cooperation, expressed their condolences and left. Pothead and Psycho stood in the hallway, watching. Neither boy said anything to Jimmy, who, unable to restrain his emotions, retreated back into his room.