AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  “I might not be able to bring him along.”

  The Mother Superior dismissed this with a shake of her head. “Mornings are best to teach him what he never learned. Do it apart from the other boys before the day’s routine. At night take him away again, read to him, hold him.”

  “Yes, sister.” Les got up to leave. Sister Marie reached for her hand.

  “This part of your job is just as important as all the other things you do. It is also the most rewarding.”

  “I’ll do my best, sister.” She turned to the door.

  Sister Marie called after her. “If you succeed he’ll feel loved, which is what he needs. If that happens you must guard your heart. In the end, our goal is give him the tools to find his own way. That is, if it’s not too late.”

  “Too late, sister?”

  “I have found that five is a precarious age. Psychological damage and the traits they manifest are often too ingrained to cure.”

  “But, Nigel…”

  “He was three when he arrived. Even so, he still harbors his demons. Time will tell with the Aldridge boy.”

  ***

  There is something about the California scene that no other place can match. Free spirited, innovative, careless, outrageous, laid back and intense all at once. Generations of writers have tried to capture what everyone knows can only be felt. The youth of California make newness seem easy. Celebrity rules - the assembly lines of back lots, manufacturing endless Charlie Chaplins and Marilyn Monroes who ascend the world stage from anonymity overnight. The opposite is equally true, precipitous falls.

  Alice Limoges considered this, as she forced her brain to fight through the previous night’s haze of sex and cocaine so she could concentrate on the theme of her next piece. The tide was turning. Jim Buckman’s six-month reign was over. He was an established star and there was no doubt he would continue to fill seats wherever he went, but Back and Blue no longer occupied the number one position on the charts. Like the others in Blossom’s remarkable stable, he had six months to go on the Blossom Presents national tour, but during those months another would eclipse him. Someone from far away who, based upon a brilliant number one debut album, would exit this bellwether state as fickle fandoms’ new king.

  Her editors wanted to know everything about this new singer from Australia. No, they didn’t care that his three current singles, sitting in Billboard’s Top Ten, were written by Jim Buckman or that a fourth, simply called Number Twelve was also Buckman’s and destined to reside at number one longer than any other single in history. Nor did they care that the rest of Yarra’s songs were collaborations with Buckman. Their readers didn’t want those details. They wanted to know about the performer with the magnificent voice. The huge Adonis who played the fiddle and pranced the stage with such energy, such originality that his live performances were becoming a must-see cult of braggadocio for anyone who could say, ‘I saw him live!’

  And, she sighed, her editors were right. His rehearsal sealed Alice’s opinion that he was one of a kind. Her loyalty to Jimmy was secure. He was first rate, finally recognized for the talent he possessed and holding the awards to prove it. But Nigel Whitehurst was something else. Jim Buckman led the pack of rock stars at the top of their games. Whitehurst played an altogether different and far better game. Tonight, California, represented by twenty-five thousand lucky fans, would witness a new level of live performance. Blossom Presents would reap even more grandeur. All of its budding artists would ride the coattails of the new megastar to stardom of their own.

  She had completed her interview a week earlier in New York. She had a better sense of the man, too. The kind a physical roll in the hay produced. That was nice, she thought, we’ll do it again. Now, all she needed was a taste of his presence on the stage. The rehearsal was a good start, but until she saw him for real, in front of a huge audience, she would not have what she wanted to finish her piece.

  The Riland Brothers Band opened spectacularly in front of their home state crowd. They were not the unsophisticated San Jose garage band that Cindy scooped from obscurity. The hard work in Millburn paid off with a better sound, honed to take advantage of Jeff and Randy’s special skills. Their truce made the difference. They exchanged fighting for cooperation. Impromptu practice jams with Jimmy and Sonny also helped, more than they cared to admit. By the time they left the stage their fates were sealed. Never again would they play small-time venues.

  It was much the same for Danny MacGregor. He was a throwback to a decade and a half earlier when folk-rock ruled. California loved the change of pace, loved the poetic lyrics and simple chords that created a story. Besides, the weed hadn’t taken hold. The minds of those listening still had enough clarity to follow the singer’s message. His album found a new audience, soon to build into a nationwide following just as McCabe hoped.

  Rebellion kicked off the main event. Kate blew the doors down with a combination of vocals and sexual energy that had the audience on its feet. It was expected, anticipated from months before when she surprised a nationwide audience with her win at the Grammy Awards. Her nerves always played a part, but now she harnessed the negative energy and used it to her advantage, turning her inner doubts to outward gyrations as she willed her voice to new heights. It came easier, the songs so ingrained that she found herself urging the audience to join in and gaining added confidence as the chorus of voices matched her’s above the earsplitting guitars. Sometimes, she cast her eyes to the side, looking for Jimmy, the only man she trusted to understand what it all meant, not the place, not the people, not the adulation. It was the music, her music that filled her heart with unearthly pleasure.

  The intermission was short. Rebellion exited to a standing ovation, leaving the stage to shimmer in low light as the roadies scurried to replace instruments and rearrange amplifiers. As if on cue, thousands of lighters twinkled, bringing life to an assortment of joints and emitting a similar, but slightly exotic aroma born from distant growing fields around the globe. Northern California, Mexico, Kansas, Central Canada, Hawaii, the Caribbean, Europe, Asia and yes, Australia, all contributed their special crops to the night air. Marijuana, that essential prop of the rock world, made its mind-altering entrance to the night scene, stimulating synapses so that vision, hearing and feeling all rose to the occasion.

  Nigel Whitehurst opened alone on his fiddle, a single spotlight blasting his image onto the video screens, obscuring all else on the stage. He began slowly, stringing single notes in long eerie back and forth motions of his bow. Jimmy recognized it right away, the song from the church in Apollo Bay. Once again, he found himself wondering who wrote it, wondering why it sounded so familiar yet so unique, determined to one day hear the original from which the Australian had created this version. The opening was little different from the first time Jimmy witnessed it at Willies. Nigel seemed to be at peace with this song, so unlike the ones they had written together and so unrepresentative of the booming voice that was to come. Still, it was the perfect opening. Whitehurst was building interest note by note, all eyes and ears on him, ready for the next level.

  Miles McCabe leaned forward in his seat. The luxury box was above and to the right of the stage. The Plexiglas windows had been removed so that nothing interfered with sight and sound. Cindy was standing in the corner, eyes fixed on the stage. Ellis, Winfield and some of the promoters stood at the opposite corner, also focused on the performer and his violin. Only Ellis had seen Whitehurst live on this national tour. He knew what would come next, but that did not interfere with his concentration. His interest was keen, born from an innate sense of what made money. He, like everyone else, was shocked by Yarra’s meteoric climb up the charts. Now, Whitehurst was out of the mid-America wilderness and on a huge stage in front of many thousands where his reputation as a live performer would be made.

  Gradually, Nigel picked up the tempo. The bass payer stepped forward, out of the shadows with his guitar. One by one, the other players joined in, picking up speed and growi
ng louder as each instrument added its role. The cavernous Coliseum began to vibrate as people started to clap with the beat. Then the drums kicked in, adding structure to the thunderous clap, clap, clap that rose from the thousands of hands in the audience. Nigel Whitehurst had not uttered a word of introduction, yet everyone was engaged. It was his night. The songs of Yarra captured the crowd from start to finish.

  Mid-way through, Winfield took the seat next to McCabe. “He’s your main man, now. We need to get behind him, re-work the tour schedule. I’ll take the lead.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “I’m switching from Buckman to him, starting now. I’ll takeover from Dorman. Everything I’ve done for Buckman; interviews, stage shows, promo parties, now I do that for Whitehurst. I’ll keep Yarra at the top of the charts for another six months.”

  “What happens to Jimmy?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Me, I care.”

  “Let Dorman, or that other guy with Rebellion run things for him.”

  McCabe was suspicious. He realized that Winfield was right about the ascendancy of Whitehurst, but he wasn’t sure a change was necessary. The Blossom Presents format was working well. Yarra was climbing without any special push from Winfield. Still, with Back and Blue past its peak, adding longevity to Yarra meant more money for the label. He was thinking several moves ahead.

  “What can you do for the Riland Brothers and MacGregor?”

  Winfield recognized the quid pro quo. “I can give their albums a push on my show. We do it slow. I hit the road with Whitehurst, pull out all the stops. We run from now to the end of the year, hyping the hell out of Yarra. In between, I give your other guys a nudge, nothing too obvious, airtime every other day, deep dive once a week for starters. Then when Yarra begins to drop, I’ll get behind the other two in a big way. All my buddies across the country, expert critiques, on-air interviews just like we did for Buckman and Back and Blue.” He saw Miles nod. “Yeah, they slide in right as Yarra fades, a nice bit of momentum until Buckman and Whitehurst release their next albums. Meanwhile, you bring in new talent and we ride this momentum thing as far as it takes us. Maybe it never stops.”

  Jimmy took the stage as a second to Whitehurst. His performance was as good as any other, but the crowd wanted the Australian. It was past eleven when the last words of Peg resonated from the sound system. Almost immediately after the applause died down, the shouting for Whitehurst to retake the stage began. The baton of Blossom’s main headliner was unceremoniously passed.

  ***

  “It’s all set. I’m switching over to Whitehurst.” Benson had joined Jimmy and Sonny in the hotel coffee shop the next morning. “I’m having my stuff moved over to his trailers.”

  “Who plays drums for Jimmy?” Sonny was irritated.

  “That kid from Australia. We switch bands. Like I said, it’s all set.”

  “When did you start making the decisions?” Jimmy was secretly intrigued.

  “We talked. Whitehurst is behind it all the way.”

  “He told me he liked Travis.”

  “Look, let’s be honest with each other. We aren’t the best of friends. You won’t even give me a song. Nigel’s willing to let me sing. We get along good. It’s going to be better for everyone.”

  “I want to run this by McCabe.”

  “Winfield’s taking care of that.”

  “He doesn’t speak for me.”

  “He’s going with Whitehurst too; me, him and Chase. That Travis kid comes over to you. Ellis, or that other guy, who took Cindy’s place with the Brits will takeover your part of the tour.”

  Nigel took Jimmy’s call in his suite. “No, that’s not what I said, mate. I told him it was all right with me if it was all right with you and McCabe. That’s all.”

  “He’s already moving his stuff.”

  “He’s your drummer until you say different.”

  “What about Travis? I thought you were happy to have him.”

  “We’re mates. Benson’s way ahead of himself on this.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to Travis. If he’s cool, I’ll run it by McCabe. You know Winfield’s switching over to you, too.”

  “Heard that one, mate. Ellis told me. He said he’s going to take over Rebellion’s gigs. Their guy runs things for you.”

  This smacked Jimmy hard. “Sounds like I’m the last to know.” There was knock on the door. “Someone’s here. I’ll get back to you.”

  McCabe came into the room followed by Ellis, Winfield and a man Jimmy didn’t know, but guessed was Rebellion’s road manager. They took seats on the couch and chairs. McCabe cleared his throat, showing signs of discomfort.

  “We’d like to make some changes.”

  Sixty

  The last six months of the 1980 tour were like a shooting star that bursts into a shower of beautiful lights just before the sky returns to darkness. That’s how it went for Jimmy, Nigel, Mike Winfield and me. It was heaven followed by hell.

  - Alice Limoges

  Travis moved into Benson’s role with ease. Jimmy was grateful that the Australian transplant had no objections. Losing Benson and his shifty friend was a relief. Now, they were Whitehurst’s headache. Ellis was another matter. That his agent elected to travel with Rebellion came as a surprise.

  “They need a steady hand. You don’t.”

  “The Riland brothers?”

  “They idolize you. At least that’s what I’m seeing. As long as you keep your nose clean, they’re going to stay in the line.”

  “So, now I’m a babysitter?”

  “Jimmy boy, you’re doing great.”

  “Everyday is a struggle.”

  “Keep struggling. No slips like you almost made at the wedding.”

  “When this is over we’ll need to sit down and talk.”

  “McCabe wants new albums, a world tour, you and Nigel.”

  “Not right away. I want a break.”

  “Sure. We’ll all need to take some time.”

  “A lot of time. Just because McCabe thinks he sees the future, I’m not sure I do.”

  “The girl in Melbourne?”

  “Yep.”

  “There’s room for her.”

  “She won’t leave Australia.”

  “Oh,” Ellis paused. “Complicates things.”

  The wedding between Miles and Cindy opened a wide door for others in Jimmy’s entourage. As the Back and Blue portion of the Blossom Presents swing shifted south, new arrangements came into play. Marsha abruptly quit her nursing job and joined Sonny on the tour. She moved in with the guitarist, effectively taking all of his free time. The relationship between Ted and Melinda also took a more serious turn. They no longer hid their infatuation. They, too, shared a suite. Jimmy found himself spending more time with Travis and the Riland Brothers. Eugene, always a loner, came by from time to time, but mostly he prowled the clubs in each city, getting deeper into his own musical preferences. Country captured his imagination. He’d had little exposure to this uniquely American genre. Now he couldn’t get enough, especially as the tour hit cities like Houston and Baton Rouge where the opportunities were everywhere.

  Jimmy felt more alone than ever. The recognition that met him wherever he went grew tiresome. He became weary of planning his every move just so he could get some fresh air. Photographers were camped out every step of the way. And, they were aggressive, blocking his path and thrusting lenses into his face so close that he had to bob and weave. The fans were little different, accosting him with high five’s, pointed fingers, demands for autographs and even a few taunts. Some women raised their blouses with bold offers, some merely seeking attention, others deadly serious and willing on the spot. When two young girls broke into his suite in Nashville, he was forced to flee. He felt violated, physically insecure for the first time in his life. From then on he forced McCabe to rent a house for him at every stop, a nondescript address away from downtown where he could escape the throngs, but he was still a prisoner.
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  Les listened to his complaints. She sensed a change in Jimmy, withdrawal taking the form of cynicism that she hadn’t seen in him before.

  “Can you get away for a while?”

  “The schedule is set, tickets sold. I’m on this treadmill until the end of the year.”

  “Suppose you got sick.”

  “Fake it, you mean?”

  “Whatever, come to me for a few of weeks.”

  “You don’t know how appealing that is. But, no, I have to fulfill my obligations.”

  She changed the subject. “What comes next?”

  “We all come together in Chicago next week. Then later we link again in Dallas.”

  “Nigel has become very big down here,” she declared. “Native son.”

  “He’s huge. Stole my drummer, too.” Jimmy said the words lightly.

  “Really? Are you two on the outs?”

  “No. I’m glad. Everything is fine.”

  “I miss you.”

  Miles put Cindy in charge of a new development department. The notoriety of Blossom Records had grown so big that unknowns, seeking recording contracts, were coming to Millburn’s doorstep in droves. With money pouring in, he had the means to hire the best evaluators in the industry. Cindy, with her own expert skills, headed the group, spending day after day listening to tapes and running auditions in the studios. When promising talent emerged she called Miles in to make the final decision. He never overruled her recommendations unless Felix found something in their backgrounds. Plenty of contracts went into the books. The funnel of new talent was humming. Miles Michael McCabe was very satisfied.

  Alice completed what she considered to be her finest piece back in her small apartment in New York. Whitehurst’s spectacular reception in LA gave her the insights she needed to spin a dazzling tale depicting artist and performance. She would join his tour the next day and stay with him, writing Dispatches From the Road for the rest of the year. Most times, she would pack her story in a manila envelope and walk it the few blocks to her editor’s offices. This time was different. She wanted a second opinion. Only one person counted on her scale of sharp-eyed critics.