“Like your sound,” Rash told him.
They chatted on and off during the night. Rash was a minor legend in the North Country across Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and southern Canada. He had a soft brooding style, unrushed. He got his start in Cambridge at Club 47, later renamed Passim, where his contemporaries, Maria Muldaur, Joan Baez, and Joni Mitchell performed before hitting it big. Rash went a different route, content to craft his music, unconcerned with money or fame. Despite the one meeting, it was Rash who urged Skip to seek Jimmy out. Later, it was a note from Rash with a referral to Passim’s manager, Pinky Kiel that sealed Jimmy’s decision to head for Cambridge. Rash left the note with Skip who passed it on with a knowing wink.
“Timmy thinks it’s time you moved on.”
Jimmy read the note and the accompanying letter of introduction to Pinky. Both were short and to the point.
Jim
I suggest you take your act to the old Club 47. It’s called Passim now, on Palmer Street in Cambridge. Summer is when they audition new talent for the fall. Pinky Kiel is the manager, a bit gruff but knowledgeable. I’ve enclosed a note for her. You won’t earn much so a day job will be necessary.
TR
The note to Pinky Kiel was even more succinct:
Pinky:
Have a listen and give Jim a shot.
TR
Jimmy never heard of Passim. Skip merely opened his palms, equally unfamiliar. “Some place Timmy used to sing at in college. That’s all I know.”
He struggled for a week, debating whether to leave or stay. Peggy would soon be back from Dartmouth. His plan, all along, was simply to stay the summer and deal with his future in the fall. He had decided to stay when the call came that his father had died.
He found a mindless textile job in North Chillingham and lived at home with his mother for a year. The job and its hours worked perfectly into his plan. He wasn’t looking for a career. He intended to take Tim Rash’s advice and pursue a gig at Passim. The other benefit was the tedious work. As each shift went slowly by, Jimmy passed the time creating melodies in his head.
Pinky Kiel was a short, plump woman in her mid thirties with a serious look that meant business. Her black hair was cut short, pixie style. Her most noticeable feature was her bright, pink face.
“So you know Tim?” she asked, looking up from Rash’s note.
“We shared a stage in Vermont.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you can do.”
She led Jimmy from her tiny office, through the back corridor and into the main room. It wasn’t much, a bare space with small tables positioned tightly in front of a floor level performance area, just large enough to accommodate a small band. A stool stood in the center where the previous night’s last act, a single, had left it. Jimmy spotted a console piano against the back wall. Passim was a Cambridge, Massachusetts coffee house, originally opened in 1958 as Club 47 because it resided in a failed antique store at 47 Mount Auburn Street. It moved to Palmer Street in 1963. In 1969 its name was changed to Passim.
Pinky took a chair in the middle of the floor and waited while Jimmy removed the Gibson from its case. Her stare made him nervous as he swung the strap over his shoulder and checked the tuning of each string.
“You should have done that before you came in.”
Jimmy looked up embarrassed. Then he remembered Tim’s description. He decided to play Lulu. It seemed appropriate to do something she hadn’t heard before. He did the song in Kevin’s up-tempo style, wishing furtively that his friend were there to back him on the drums. Pinky sat expressionless, watching his mannerisms as he played. When the song ended she said nothing and folded her arms across her chest, waiting. Jimmy wasn’t sure what to do, so he copied her and waited as well.
“You got anything else?”
“One more if you want to hear it.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Can I use the Piano?”
“Roll it out.”
Jimmy put the Gibson down in its case, walked the short distance to the piano and tugged the heavy instrument to the edge of the performance area. After he put the bench in place he sat down and tapped a few notes.
“It’s tuned. Let’s go,” Pinky said, impatiently.
Choral Guns was a hard melody, played loud with emphasis on Jimmy’s contra-tenor voice. Its words spoke of the fleeting freedom of youth. Pinky waved her hand, ending it before he was finished.
“Okay, button up your guitar and put the piano away. Then come on back to my office.”
A few minutes later, Jimmy found her seated behind her desk. He took the chair opposite and waited as she rifled through a desk drawer, looking for something. She spoke as she looked.
“Is that your own stuff you played?”
“Yes.”
“Got anymore?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Best get to writing some.”
“I’ll try.”
Pinky stopped searching through the drawers and looked up at Jimmy. “Here’s the deal. We don’t pay much, just enough to cover carfare or whatever, so you get here. All the coffee you want. You start next Tuesday and then every other night after that. Be here at seven sharp ready to play. Miss one night and you’re done.”
Jimmy nodded, suddenly unsure. Pinky had none of Skip’s laid-back manner.
The phone rang on her desk. She picked it up and, for the first time, smiled when she heard the voice on the other end. “Charlie, hold on a second.” She laid the handset on the desktop and simultaneously reached into the drawer, pulling out a handful of harmonicas. She dropped them on the desk in front of Jimmy.
“Pick one.”
Jimmy looked at the mouthpieces. “I don’t know how to play a harmonica.”
“I want you to work it into your act. It’s not hard.” She pointed. “This one belonged to Dylan. That one is a Joan Baez. That other one is Tim’s. Made him learn how to play it, too. He uses it when he’s here. Not so often anymore.”
Jimmy picked up Rash’s harmonica. It was bigger than the others, heavier than he expected. “I’m not sure it’ll work out.”
“Just do it.” Pinky reached for the handset. “We’re done. Remember seven o’clock sharp. No excuses. This is a business and I run it like one.” She brought the phone to her ear, smiling into the mouthpiece as she spoke. The interview was over.
During that summer and the following three seasons, marking a year, Jimmy learned more than he ever expected. It was four months before he felt comfortable with the harmonica, but as his competence grew, he found ways to work it into his songs, adding a new dimension to his act. He also wrote a dozen new melodies, well received by the regulars who kept the club afloat.
Pinky kept her distance, neither encouraging nor disparaging his efforts. She was an oddity to Jimmy, rarely responding to his attempts to make conversation between acts, but he was aware of her presence at all times. When he came to the mike she took her place at the coffee bar, paying close attention and taking note of the patrons who shuffled to the tables.
Alice appeared one night in late fall with several of her friends. He saw her taking notes at her table out of the corner of his eye. Although only a sophomore at McGill, she was already writing for Roundtop, a Canadian pop music magazine. He looked for her when his set was done, but she was gone. He knew her departure, without a word, signaled her response to the way he’d done the same to her sister six months earlier.
One night in early February, Pinky summoned him to her office before his first set. “When you’re done I want you to head over to BZ for an interview with Dick Summer.” She said the words with a straight face, seeming not to notice when Jimmy’s jaw dropped.
Dick Summer was the overnight anchor on WBZ AM radio, taking over from the hugely popular Bruce Bradley, who held down the six to eleven spot. Together, the two DJs owned nighttime radio in Boston. While Bradley played the top thirty, Summer dove deeper into the folk-rock genre that was still a popular mai
nstay in the Boston area. His sleepy eleven to five shift was perfect for the format he preferred, long periods of music interspersed with live interviews and few commercial breaks. Through the years, Jimmy listened to him adroitly handle the most eccentric personalities of the day. Often Summer coaxed them to perform live without thought of remuneration and many debuted new releases, bantering back and forth with the prominent DJ in hopes of a plug. Summer’s endorsement carried much weight. Jimmy recalled the legends introduced in those quiet hours after midnight, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Odetta and many others. To be a guest on the same show filled him with a mixture of pride and unworthiness. He did not belong in their class, but he was thrilled with the honor.
Summer in person was no different than he was on the air, an unassuming man with a soft enticing radio voice that coaxed unexpected revelations from the people he interviewed. Jimmy was calmed quickly by the veteran radioman’s charm, even performing Lulu and Choral Guns live like so many others he’d heard before.
Thereafter, Passim was filled for every one of his sets. He saw many of the same faces night after night, enthusiastically applauding his songs and urging him on. For the first time in his career, Jimmy Buckman had a regular following. It felt very good.
The next months flew by with Jimmy energized by the nightly packed house. By April, he noted that there were people lining the sidewalk outside, waiting for the doors to open so they could be in their seats early for his first set. Pinky sometimes had to turn latecomers away. This, she did not like.
But, by June, the crowds thinned, as they customarily did during summer. The college students were gone home. The Cape Cod scene claimed many others. This is when Pinky went in search of new acts, using the time until September to break them in just as she had done with Jimmy the year before. Sometimes, an act would be held over for the next season, but this did not happen often. Pinky liked to keep things fresh. Jimmy figured his gig was through when she called him to come in one afternoon well ahead of the regular reporting time. When he entered her office a man was seated across from her. Pinky beckoned for Jimmy to sit in the empty chair next to him.
“Jim, I want you to meet Charlie Montez. He’s here from New York.”
Charlie thrust out his hand with a smile. “How do you do?” He was older than Pinky, with graying hair. Jimmy pegged him for his late forties.
Pinky took control of the conversation. “The simple fact is you’ve outgrown Passim and it’s time for you to think about a better showcase.”
“I’m happy here. No complaints.”
Pinky raised her eyebrows. “Really? So all your chatter about adding electric and amping your sound is just talk?”
“You said no.”
“I didn’t say no. I said you need to get some accompaniment for that to work.”
“I took that as a no.”
“I can get you some backing musicians and you can plug in, but I’ll tell you right now the folks who come to see you every night won’t like it. Your rep around this town is set. People don’t like change.”
“Are you firing me?” Charlie burst out laughing. Jimmy gave him a sharp look.
“When Pinky fires somebody they know it right away.”
“Charlie’s right. You can stay, but it’s not in your best interest.”
“So, what is?” Jimmy didn’t like the way the conversation was going.
“Charlie?”
The older man turned to look at Jimmy. “I own a club in New York, Greenwich Village. We think you should take your act there and polish it up before a new audience. If you want to expand I have some session guys who can back you up, percussion, keyboard, anything you want.”
Jimmy stared from Charlie to Pinky, a feeling of uncertainty overtaking his thoughts. The year at Passim had filled him with new ideas. People applauded when he sang. A growing group of regulars made it their business to be at their seats when he performed. Lulu and Choral Guns, as well as a few of his newer songs, received favorable reviews in the Boston Phoenix. Things were going well, but he was becoming restless. As his confidence grew, Kevin Royce’s prediction that he would want a bigger sound proved true. He was also exhausted. His gig at Passim had gone to six nights a week, including every Friday and Saturday. His monotonous day job, followed by a hasty drive into Cambridge at rush hour, was taking its toll. He wanted to devote more time to his music, write more songs and test out keyboards and an electric guitar. All of this took practice and practice took time. Time he didn’t have.
“I’m working days just so I can come here at night. I’d need to find a job in New York.”
“No, no,” Charlie cut in, “this is fulltime at good pay. I also own an apartment building. You’ll do okay financially and be able to concentrate on your music. In fact, that’s all I want you to do.”
“It’s your best option,” Pinky said, expecting an answer.
Charlie spoke again, “I realize this is a big step.” He reached into the inside pocket of his immaculately tailored sports jacket and pulled out a business card, handing it to Jimmy. “The offer’s good for two weeks. Give me a call if you have any questions.”
Pinky stood up, signaling an end to the meeting. Jimmy shook hands with Charlie, glancing at Pinky, thoroughly confused. As the older man left, he studied the card. On the back was a dollar sign followed by an amount seven times his current earnings.
He was dumfounded when his mother told him to get on with his life. He finished his last weekend at Passim, said thanks to Pinky who, surprisingly, gave him a hug then boarded a train for the Big Apple, at once, excited and nervous.
Twenty-Three
By the time Aaron could recognize the faces around him, he understood that he was in a base hospital in Egypt with many others. He could hear and speak, although his speech was slurred. The loss of his arm and severity of his head wound were explained to him, as was the expected recovery time for his leg before he could once again stand. Who he was and what had happened to him were also explained, but here he drew a blank. The trauma of his amputated arm filled him with melancholy, which went untreated amidst the many others who suffered from similar distress. That he could recall nothing of his life before the explosion was disconcerting, but less so than the horror of his lost limb and the impatience to regain the use of his leg. To his doctors, however, the more remarkable observation was his seeming complete physical recovery from the head wound that had worried them most. The holes in his forehead and behind his ear healed, leaving only tiny scars. Observation of his motor skills indicated no impairment other than the obvious missing limb and the inability to walk until he could be taken out of traction. Sight had even returned to his damaged eye. Everyone was pleased with this soldier’s progress. As for the amnesia, little could be done. Perhaps his memory would return one day as mysteriously as it had departed.
The news that her son was in hospital in Egypt hit Melba hard. It came only three weeks after she learned of her younger brother’s death on the RMS Lusitania, the doomed ocean liner he had joined as a crewmember. It was sunk by a German U-boat on its final voyage out of New York. Panic gripped her for days as she wandered the beach at Apollo Bay, waiting for more news and trying to decide how to care for Aaron when he returned.
As December 1915 passed into the heat of January 1916, word reached the tiny seaside hamlet that the Gallipoli campaign had ended. From Sydney to Perth demonstrations of pride poured forth in the streets. Parades and festivals greeted the returning soldiers in the cities where they disembarked and later in the towns they called home. Most of the young men were shocked at the glorious receptions, not understanding the ironic disconnect between their humiliating defeat and the unending praise they received. Their countrymen, it seemed, saw no failure, only gallant bravery. To say you were on the lines at Gallipoli soon became a mark of honor and fame never before thrust upon their own by the Australian population. In time, the truth of the battles on the peninsula became lost in exaggerated legends about small victories that grew i
nto epic portrayals of valor.
Melba returned to the farm to wait for her son, but each day she made the trek into the village to look for mail and scour the newspapers for information. She hated waiting in ignorance, not knowing when he would appear or how badly he might be damaged. She busied herself cleaning and redecorating the cottage. In the afternoons she took respite in Nathan’s songs, going over them one by one, sometimes penning lyrics or adding a note here and there by sounding them out on the piano. At night she lay awake in her bed, restless, her heart heavy with loneliness and fear for her only son. She berated herself for not fighting his decision to leave more vigorously. Nothing good ever came from fighting other people’s wars, she thought. Grief stalked, as she thought about her elderly parents alone on Nantucket, so far away and now in need of her. Twenty-four years since she had seen them or her lost brother, a youngster in her mind’s eye and always to be because that is the only vision of him her mind could hold. She missed her husband most of all. His smile, his kiss, the laughter and joy he brought into her heart. The emptiness never left her. What had she done, but fall in love with a wonderful man from this far off land? Did she deserve this hated fate so distant that she could be of no comfort to her family? Wracked with guilt, she sometimes could not fall asleep and rose to walk in the darkness, peering up at the stars to implore her God for guidance.
Six months passed and, after most of Australia’s soldiers had returned from the Turkish adventure, a small buggy appeared at the bend in the path to the cottage. Melba was rocking in a chair on the tiny porch when she heard the neigh of a single horse. She knew in her heart that it was Aaron, finally home. She stood, lifting her eyes to greet whatever awaited her. As the buggy came near she saw two figures, a woman with the reins held loosely in her hands and a man slumped at her side, looking downward, unmistakably her son. Unable to contain her emotion, she leapt from the porch and rushed toward them, holding her skirt in her hands as she ran. The young woman brought the buggy to a stop, rising from her seat. Their eyes met and each knew that the homecoming would not be the sweet joy that greeted so many other soldiers.
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