Harry Stahl had already ticked off the name of each song on the album, but he did it in the order that appeared on the recording. That meant Peg would come last. Before launching into the first song, Jimmy turned back to the band and shouted over the audience noise. “You guys okay with the reorder?”
“No worries.”
It was three in the morning when he returned to his hotel and spotted the blinking message waiting light. Peg required two encores. After the show, he accompanied the band to a small bar across town, far from the multitude that lingered on Aberdeen Street. He drank Pure Blonde, a pleasing Australian lager. Two was his limit, even though the others kept on with more in the private room they’d been given after the bar’s legal closing at midnight.
“How’d it go?” The message was from Miles.
“They love the album, especially Peg.”
“What’d you think of my little surprise?”
“The interview?”
“That and the broadcast.”
“You should have warned me in advance.”
“No screwups, I hope.”
“He plugged the album.”
“I had them change the billboard.”
“I saw that, thanks.”
“So, now you’re Jim Buckman. Just toe the line and we’ll make sure it sticks.”
“How’s it selling?”
“I was going there next. I planned to press another thousand, doing ten instead.”
“Too many.” McCabe didn’t reply for a moment. “You still there?” Jimmy asked.
“You sold out in Perth yesterday. I’m shipping the extra ten thousand by air now.”
“Sold out in one day?” Jimmy was incredulous.
“You’re hot and I want to be ready.”
“I’ve never sold that many in one day anywhere.”
“Listen, I have another promotion lined up for Friday.”
“Another interview?”
“Television. There’s a show over there on channel seven. I’ve arranged to have them do a segment on you before you go to Broome.”
***
Brittany Holborn was the type of wholesome young woman that Australian television viewers liked to watch. That she was sweet, articulate and deceptively intelligent merely added to her on-camera charisma. In the three years since she joined the Today Tonight broadcast, she had swiftly ascended to the Friday night anchor slot, earning the Australian equivalent of an Emmy for insightful reporting.
She knew nothing about Jim Buckman or his music. On the plane back to Perth from an assignment in Sydney, she scoured everything her producers had provided. She read the briefs about The Jimmy Button Band, something about a brawl during its last concert - trouble back in the States and now, a new name and a new start in Australia. That would be the hook.
They sat opposite one another in comfortable chairs arranged on a set designed to look like a typical living room. Jimmy was nervous. He was unfamiliar with television production, people all around checking lights, conferring with the star, make-up technicians applying their skills to the two of them in between cautious directions from other technicians and, of course, the director himself. Through it all, Jimmy was all but ignored, just another guest of temporary use to fill airtime.
“Welcome to Australia, Mr. Buckman.” Brittany’s eyes were bloodshot from the limited sleep she had gotten during the past six hectic days. “Can I call you Jim, or would you prefer Jimmy?”
“Call me Jim.” He was still getting used to it himself.
“Here in Perth for less than a week and already you’re climbing the charts. What do you make of that?”
“I’m surprised.”
“So you didn’t think it would happen?”
“I hoped it would be a good reception, but I’m still getting used to it.”
“Your album is sold out in Perth and Peg looks like it’s going to be a big hit. Tell us how you came to write it.”
Jimmy wasn’t sure what to say. The truth was private, between Peggy and him. He preferred to keep it that way. “I reconnected with an old friend and put it to music.”
“Touching. So Peg is a real person. Are you in love with her?” Jimmy frowned. The director swiftly turned the camera back to the smiling Brittany.
“It’s not about romantic love. I was rethinking my career. She helped me work through some issues.”
Brittany turned to face the cameras. “Jim may be referring to a troubling time when he called himself Jimmy Button.” She turned back to her guest. “Perhaps the best way to introduce this to our audience is to show a tape of your last concert in the United States. We don’t have time for the whole performance, but here are some excerpts. Would you narrate for everyone?”
The ambush, so deftly set, enraged Jimmy. He shot an angry look at the interviewer, realizing that this was her angle all along. He cursed his naiveté. Brittany returned his look with an innocent smile, carefully captured by the cameras.
The next fifteen minutes were the most embarrassing of Jimmy’s life. He had never seen a tape of the Atlantic City meltdown, didn’t even know one existed. His voice shook, as he was smoothly coaxed to explain what was happening above the riotous shouts that filled the images on the screen. As he responded to Brittany’s questions, he tried to gather his emotions, not sure that he could keep his embarrassment from overcoming the calm he knew was necessary. All he wanted to do was escape, but he had no option. He was forced to describe his meltdown as best he could. The music was terrible. Everything Cindy told him was true. The instruments were woefully out of tune, the band listless and uninvolved. Then the fighting began and he saw himself on the floor, looking helpless and hopeless as Benson waded into the fray. It was worse than he imagined. When the tape ended, the cameras returned to show him slumped in his soft chair, looking demoralized. Not even the makeup, so carefully applied before the broadcast began, could hide the nervous blush that filled his cheeks.
“What became of your band back in the states?”
“We broke up.”
“Now you’re striking out on your own under a new name?”
“Buckman is my real name.”
Brittany turned back to the cameras. “Few performers can make a comeback after what we just witnessed, but Jim Buckman is on the verge of doing just that in Australia. Let us show you what happened here in Perth a few nights ago.”
Another tape filled the screen, this time showing a huge throng gathered on the street in front of Mullygrubbers. Accompanying the scene was Jimmy’s voice singing one of the cuts from Button’s Back and Blue. The people filling the screen were singing along in front of the speakers arrayed on the sidewalk. It was festive, made all the better by the quality of Jimmy’s voice, rising above it all. After one verse, the music died down and the camera came back to the Today Tonight set.
“Where do you go from here?”
Jimmy lifted shamed eyes to face his oppressor. “To Broome and then along the coast for another three weeks.”
“If your reception is anything like Perth, all of Australia will welcome you with open arms. And,” she turned to the camera flashing her signature smile, “as we close our show for tonight take a listen to Jim Buckman’s new song, Peg, from his album, Button’s Back and Blue, released first and exclusively here in the great land of Australia.”
The Today Tonight credits filled the screen with Peg playing in the background. Behind the scrolling letters, Brittany could be seen leaning across, speaking animatedly, but inaudibly to her guest. “It’s the nature of the business,” she whispered. “You have a story the audience needed to hear.”
“You should have told me what you planned.”
“Would you have stayed on the set?”
“Probably not.”
“There you have it.” She sat back. “This show won’t do you any harm. You’re human. We Australians like that.” She tossed her head back in feigned merriment. It was a calculated move, intended to give her audience the impression that she
and her guest were long-time friends.
He thought about Brittany’s last words, unheard by her audience. ‘You’re human’ stuck in his mind. The embarrassment was wearing off. He hoped she was right. Seeing the tape drove home the sad truth that all that happened was of his doing. He couldn’t escape that fact, nor could he ignore it. Only sobriety and a continued focus on his music could erase the shame of it all. Gradually, his spirit righted itself. It was good to see the tape, to see the raw truth of his long courtship with the bottle. He vowed to keep those images foremost in his memory. Whenever he grew weary of long nights on the road and thirsted for single malt, he would summon those images and use them as a reminder.
The Today Tonight segment, broadcast live across Australia on Friday night, gave him a national boost. Jim Buckman, Button’s Back and Blue and most of all, Peg, became all the rage. The album flew out of record stores. In every city he found himself doing radio interviews, urged on by Miles who telephoned frequently to relate the sales figures and to make sure his star was still off the bottle. From Broome, where he needed security to keep fans from storming his dressing room, he traveled to a similar greeting in Darwin then to venues in Cairns, Brisbane and Sydney followed by a last minute gig back up the Gold Coast in a Miami Beach-like enclave called Surfers Paradise. There the reality of his Australian stardom hit home. In New Jersey, Miles was having trouble keeping up. His biggest decision each day, how many more copies of Button’s Back and Blue to press.
Thirty-Four
Preston Enterprises owned the Orchid Resort, recently constructed on Queensland’s Gold Coast. Reservations had been slow to build. The luxurious property was mortgaged to the hilt and the bondholders were getting edgy. Booking Jim Buckman might be the answer since Blossom Records over in the U.S. charged next to nothing for its singer’s services. The Today Tonight broadcast that charmed a national audience with its portrayal of the singer could only be good for ticket sales. Lots of cars winding their way down to the waterfront compound that bore the giant Orchid sign was just the attention the resort needed. An outdoor concert at dusk with the opening keys sounding out across the bay, that’s what Preston’s marketers envisioned. That’s exactly how it went, and the full moon added a nice touch to the party atmosphere.
Tickets went on sale several days before Jimmy and his back-ups arrived. The grassy plateau, just beyond the resort’s Olympic sized pool, could hold a thousand people. Australians love the outdoors and they love a party. Apart from the annual motor race, Orchid’s management wanted this gig to be the biggest party Surfer’s Paradise had ever seen. The first arrivers spread blankets on the grass and opened picnic baskets. Some brought young children that the resort admitted free. After all, it was the family vacation that brought in the most revenue. Two night stays were halved to be sure every room was booked, but that only ensured that the resort would hum with daytime activity. The real goal was to create a moonlit happening so big that Orchid Resort would become synonymous with the notion of fun. Plant the seed in the minds of prospective vacationers and The Orchid would be a prime destination for years to come.
Jimmy took it all in from the small balcony of his room. He continued to be astonished by the numbers who came out wherever he appeared. Peg was an established Australian hit. That, too, surprised him, not because the song was written quickly in a room in Vermont, but because its personal appeal seemed to strike a chord. He was taken by the way people joined in the chorus so spontaneously wherever he went.
Jimmy turned his eyes from the gathering to look at his makeshift band, also watching the scene below. As well as the other gigs had been received, he knew this venue was bigger, the audience expectation higher. He searched their faces for signs of nervousness. No matter what happened when their time together was done, he realized that each of their ambitions would be changed. The taste of fame was intoxicating. Performers sought nothing more than the all-consuming high that an adoring audience delivered. Once received, it was fixed. To be chased forever.
The full moon came up just as the opening set began. The party atmosphere called for a big sound so Jimmy led the band in a louder than normal rendition of Lulu. He held the opening chords so that Travis was forced to bang a solo beat on the drums, driving anticipation for the guitars. Still, he kept the crowd waiting for the words they wanted to hear. Jimmy stepped to the microphone, lifted his finger and summoned a long note from the keyboardist. Then his voice filled the air. It was a breathtaking prelude that brought most of the thousand fans to their feet.
Music filled the distance from the waterfront out to the street and into the main thoroughfares. Cars were still winding their way into the parking lots. Regardless of the full house, Orchid’s managers decided to keep the ticket booths open. If the grass in front of the stage was filled to capacity, if every balcony was jammed full with onlookers, even if the parking lots filled, they intended to let the people in. There was standing room.
Boats began to arrive, dropping anchor in the bay behind the stage just up from the water’s edge. Their running lights added an assortment of colors; red, blue, green and white beneath the moonlight. Another five hundred people took their places in every empty spot that could be found, careful not to tread upon those already positioned on the grass. More boats filled the bay and soon the cars that had been awaiting entrance to the parking lots, were abandoned in-place, their occupants hustling down the path, too impatient to miss another song. Everyone was cordial, but they were excited and they let their enthusiasm rise up to the kind of level that an outdoor venue permitted, appreciative, happy and clamoring for more.
Energy palpitated from the stage where the five men plied their instruments. Jim Buckman was at his charismatic best, finding every opportunity to commune with the cheering voices that met his verses. A groove was struck from the very beginning, even summoning something extra that none of the musicians had planned or practiced. Long jams became a part of every play. The guitars exchanged challenges with one another and then with the keyboard and the drums. Choral Guns exploded into the night with more power than ever, driving a frenzied response. At its end, a crescendo of horns rose up from the boats, joining the cheering acclaim, some fifty boats of all sizes, signaling involvement with what was happening on land. Everyone was having fun.
The first set echoed through the air a half hour longer than planned because of the extra jams. Speakers and amplifiers had been meticulously tuned to let every note bound off the buildings. The music came back into the ears of its players clear and true, adding extra exhilaration as they coaxed ever more sound from their instruments. Jimmy pranced the stage like always, but with a new spring in his step because he felt one with his listeners.
As the set wound down the audience sensed that the last two songs would signal an end to the gyrating they had come to see and join. Instead of continuing to stand and sway, the onlookers began to dance, spreading out ever so slightly to allow space for their arms to swing with the rhythm. Nearest the stage, young children assembled, urged on by their parents to shake and jive in their own way. Their faces shown with happiness because, as with children everywhere, when their parents were having fun, they were, too. Jimmy angled toward them. He waited for the last song to reach a low beat so he could swing the guitar over his back and stoop down. As the drum beat on, he reached out to the children, slapping hands and laughing with genuine pleasure when they entreated him for more. Then, gradually, the tempo picked up. He stood, shaking his head with a ‘gotta get back to work’ look on his face. As the children pressed against the stage, he whipped the guitar into his arms and launched into the climactic final verse with every ounce of breath in his lungs.
The crowd responded. Long before the last word sprang from his lips, the clapping and cheering drowned it out. Cries for more came up from all over the complex. Jimmy waved and smiled. Then he approached the microphone.
“Back and Blue up next. Don’t leave.”
Thirty minutes can be long or short
depending upon the mood of those who must endure its length. The band retreated to a small alcove beneath the stage. Though tired and thirsty they watched the minutes tick by far more slowly than they wished. Weeks of playing the same songs, night after night, from city to city did not prepare them for the special blend that captured their instruments under the moonlight in Surfers Paradise. Maybe it was the huge crowd that seemed to know every note and every word. It might be the picture of Jimmy Button painted by the Today Tonight broadcast, a different view of the man that caused his backups to re-assess his music. Jimmy felt it was his sobriety, enabling him to recapture his old self. Together, the five kicked back in their chairs, talking about the jams. There were chides about this or that riff, a sour note, or a missed uptake, but each of them knew something better had risen from the stage. They stole furtive looks at the clock, keen to return for the second set so they could absorb more energy from the fans now cramming every inch of space.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” said the oldest member of the group, the forty-year-old lead guitarist, bent over his knees, staring at the ground between his feet. “It’s loud, the people are yelling, but it’s peaceful at the same time. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this all my life.” The others nodded. Jimmy wanted to respond, but he didn’t know what to say. The young drummer chimed in.
“Bet it’s like this in the States every time, right?”
Jimmy shook his head, scanning his memory. Cities scrolled by; New York, Boston, Indianapolis, Fresno, Syracuse and Montreal. None made the cut. Only that first performance at Saint Virgil’s College with Kevin’s reassuring drumbeat touched the same keystone.
“Doesn’t happen often,” he managed to answer.
The forty year old spoke again, “I’ve been doing sessions all my life. Now, I know there’s more.” He looked up at the clock. “I want to go back out there, but I’m afraid it won’t be the same.”
The keyboardist stood to retrieve a beer from a nearby table. “Sure it will, mate. They love us. We can’t go wrong.”
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