Daron's Guitar Chronicles: Volume One

by Cecilia Tan

  Matthew beckoned for me to come up to the stage. He was standing there with two more guys I didn’t know but from the look of them I assumed they were the in-house tech crew. The stage looked permanent but the sound set-up didn’t, and I guessed the place was more used for dancing than for live music. The room was one open square of scuffed wood with ice rink type railings along the sides demarking the dance floor.

  I handed Matthew the screwdriver and he put it in his belt. "Where do we start?"

  "It’s got to be something we brought in because it wasn’t here when we started."

  I hoisted myself onto the stage and looked at the crisscrosses of black cables fixed to the floor with swatches of gray tape. "So let’s start unplugging things and see when it quits." Matthew waved to John who cranked the volume of the buzz up so we could hear it was still there.

  I started with the drum microphones, but they checked out fine. I moved on to the keyboard setup while Matthew followed behind me, reconnecting what we could rule out. He ducked his head under Martin’s china cymbal and said "How’ve you been enjoying New York?"

  I shrugged, then realized he wasn’t looking at me as he spoke. "I haven’t been out much."

  "Oh, you feeling alright?"

  All I could say was "No." He didn’t ask me any more questions after that. We didn’t find the source of the hum either. It just went away sometime between 6 o’clock, when we gave up, and 7:30, when Remo returned. He had the Musician reporter in tow, and someone else I didn’t recognize. I went through the preshow setup like a sleepwalker.

  The only thing that broke my reverie was when Remo introduced me to the man I hadn’t recognized earlier. "Daron, you remember Artie Hansen? From Wenco A&R?"

  "Nice to see you again," Artie said, shaking my hand.

  "Yeah, likewise." It hit me suddenly who this guy was. This was the guy who discovered Nomad all those years ago. He’d seen one of the shows I played in, and Remo and Martin and me had made a demo tape for him to bring back to his company. It hadn’t been the first time Remo had made a tape for someone and we’d all thought nothing would come of it... and were wrong. Five years ago? "You look different," I said, for lack of anything else to say.

  "So do you." He gave me a business card. "Remo tells me you have a band of your own now. Give me a ring if you ever play in town."

  "Yeah, I will." I tucked the card into the breast pocket of my denim jacket. Then, even more dazed than before, I went back to sitting around doing a lot of nothing and staring at the tops of my sneakers.

  The next thing I remember was stepping onto the stage into lights and waves of sound and energy. The lights swirled and it was impossible to make out any faces in the crowd; the audience existed as a wall of approving noise. There I was with all the people I had barely spoken to for two days, really there, like I woke up from a dream. The stage was a little small so I was right in front of Alan’s keyboard rig, Remo next to me with Alex on the other side. We clicked so well I forgot to worry about all the press there covering the event. I played so hard I didn’t have any trouble getting to sleep that night.

  That’s What Friends Are For

  The show in New Haven was nothing special, good, but not special. Everyone seemed to have blown out so much extra energy in New York that there wasn’t much left for this one. Backstage, when the packing was done, Martin was the only one with any pep. He drummed out a pattern on my shoulder. "Hey, I know this bar, wanna go?"

  "Long as you realize I’m still underage."

  He gasped with maniacal glee. "Wonder what the Connecticut penalty for corrupting a minor is?"

  "I think you’re too late, " Remo cut in. "We beat you to it." He didn’t say who the ’we’ was, but I knew he was thinking of Digger and himself. "Going to the Bullfrog?"

  "Yeah, you coming?" Martin ushered us both toward the exit.

  "No, I’m heading to Boston tonight. Publicity," he growled. "I’ll see you in a couple of days." He dropped behind us and put a hand on my shoulder. "You take care of yourself."

  It wasn’t a long walk to the place, and New Haven reminded me a lot of Newark, which gave me the urge to walk faster. Sketchy, to say the least. The real reason Martin wanted to go to the Bullfrog Bar and Grille, I discovered, was to scope for Yale co-eds. But with classes out of session, the place was almost empty. He settled for the world’s largest margarita and flirting with the blonde bartender. She brought us round after round of exotic drinks until I couldn’t tell what they were anymore. The light was dim at the bar—bright behind it where the bartender walked back and forth in her white Reeboks, but murky at the actual seats. I told Martin about music school, he told me about how he was buying a house.

  "Somewhere to go when all the traveling’s done?" I asked between frothy gulps of something that wasn’t as sweet as it looked.

  "No, no, man. You gotta learn this now: once your bank account hits a certain size, you have to start buying things like houses, collecting cars, that kind of stuff. So when your career goes down the tubes later, you have all this shit to sell off for much more than you paid for it. The word for it is: Equity."

  I laughed. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes." He balanced a wet straw on his nose, or tried to. "You gotta learn all this shit now, you know."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Before you get too famous and have a lot of accountants and investors trying to get at your money. Your liquid assets," he drawled and shook his longstemmed glass at me.

  "It’s going to be a long time before I have to worry about that, if ever."

  "Don’t kid yourself." He leaned closer to me and his cowlick flipped into his eyes. "You’ve already played in front of what, twenty thousand, thirty thousand people in the past month? And you got mentioned in a review. And you’re the hottest thing since Hendrix. And," he paused to drain his glass, "you’ve got connections."

  I sat back. "Maybe."

  "Come on!" Martin hit me a little too hard on the shoulder. "You’re made for the big time, Daron! You think Remo’s dragging you around just for a favor?"

  "Well, yeah..."

  "Bullshit!"

  Suddenly, I was angry. "Bullshit, yourself! What do you know!" I banged my fist on the bar and it hurt. The bartender raised an eyebrow but I looked away and lowered my voice. "Remo’s giving me a handout because he feels too guilty to let me end up busking for loose change in the subway."

  "Fuck you, this ain’t charity." He knit his eyebrows in confusion. "He was bitching for a month before he called you that he couldn’t play these parts. We had a guy rehearsing with us for a while, but Remo fired him, said he just didn’t ’mesh.’ But you, man, you mesh. You mesh like you never left."

  Remo had said something similar about charity or lack thereof. And I was either too drunk or too sober to say anything beyond that. Martin went on. "Like we never left, I mean. Did I ever tell you I thought it was stupid?"

  "What was stupid?"

  "Moving us all to LA." Martin motioned to the bartender. "I mean, I didn’t argue of course. I was like twenty two, right? And I wanted to get away from my parents, so it was like ’Bye Mom! We’re off to get famous!’ And it worked, you know. But I think we would have done just as well if we hadn’t switched coasts."

  "How do you know?" I smiled at the bartender as she brought us two more drinks. Mine had a tiny plastic monkey hanging by its curved tail from the edge of the glass.

  "It’s just what I think. I mean, Artie was our main record man and he was from the New York office, the media behind us were from all over, they could have been anywhere, why did we have to be in LA?"

  I returned his shrug. "Maybe Remo always wanted to move there."

  "I doubt it." He took a swig of the drink. "Yow! What is this stuff!" He made a horrible grimace. "I like it!"

  I couldn’t really taste what I was drinking, most of me felt wrapped in a soft haze, warm and numb.

  "So tell me more about Boozeville or wherever the hell it is you live now."
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  "Providence?" I thought about it. "It’s small. But Boston’s only an hour, New York is like three. I can live with that."

  "You looking forward to going back?"

  "Maybe." Yes and no.

  "Missing someone? Got a girlfriend?"

  I forced my eyes to stay on my drink. "No."

  Martin laughed, there was no malice in it. "You’re just like Remo, married to his music. So let me rephrase, missing someone? Your band?"

  "A little." I felt the corners of my mouth jerk upwards. "I don’t think they’re going to last, though."

  "Why not?"

  "Singer’s a flake and my roommate, not dependable, bass player’s excellent but has classical aspirations, and we haven’t been able to keep a drummer longer than two months yet."

  "Sounds great. I liked your demo tape, by the way."

  "You heard it?"

  "Yeah, I stole it out of Remo’s tapedeck when he wasn’t paying attention. So I can ransom it for megabucks when you’re rich and famous."

  The bartender wiped down the dim spot of bar in front of us. "Last call, guys," she said. "Any last requests?"

  "Yes! I’d like a last cigarette and send a note to my wife saying I died happy." He looked at his glass, still half full. "Stick a fork in me, I think I’m done." He hit the bar with a dramatic slump. Then he jerked upright, "Oh wait, I don’t have a wife."

  I nodded at her. She smiled at us both and went away.

  I Know What Boys Like

  When we finally arrived in Boston the next day, after some mishaps with bad roadsigns, or maybe just bad roads, Remo was waiting for us in the lobby. He was talking to the Musician reporter again, a hand-size tape recorder on the table between their chairs. They stood up when they saw us coming. Waldo burst out with a tirade, spit flying. I hardly understood a word he said but I knew it was about the directions. Remo handed him the keys and that shut him up.

  Waldo fanned the keys like playing cards. "We only got one for each room right now, you can get dupes at the desk. Up for grabs..."

  I took one and hooked Martin by the arm. "You and me, man." He gave a groggy nod and came with me. I didn’t see who Matthew went with.

  The first thing I did after putting my stuff down in the room was to call Bart. I hadn’t talked to him since the day he’d left me at TF Green. Martin crashed like a rotten tree and started snoring.

  "Hello?" A woman’s voice answered.

  "Hi, I’m looking for Bart, is he around?"

  "No, I’m sorry, he’s at the summer house on the Vineyard. Would you like the number there?"

  "Yes, please."

  She read me a number in another area code. I dialed it and listened to the interchange click and beep distantly before it rang, making me wonder if maybe I had the wrong notion of how far away Martha’s Vineyard was, like maybe it was actually part of Canada. I let it ring ten times before I hung up.

  I wanted Bart to come up and see the show, to hang out with the band and see how things were. Bart was maybe the best bass player I’d ever met, but he’d spent most of his life in practice rooms and recital halls. I hoped my impression that the Vineyard was like an hour or two drive was right.

  I took a nap. It was dinnertime when I woke up and I dialed the number again. Still nothing. And Martin was still sleeping.

  There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Matthew standing there. "I wondered if anyone here was conscious for dinner...?" His gaze slid past me to Martin’s still snoring figure.

  "No, I don’t think so. Thanks." I stepped back to close the door.

  "Daron..." His hand twitched and I fixed my eyes on it. "I’d like you to come and eat with me."

  I held my eyes on his fingertips, their slight curl, as I said "I’m sorry, I’m not hungry."

  I knew he was searching my face but I didn’t move a muscle. "Won’t you at least come along?"

  "No, I’m sorry." I pushed the lie one step further. "I have plans."

  His foot moved forward just a tad. "Then I’ll have to say what I have to say to you right here." His eyes flicked toward Martin again.

  I leaned my head on the door. "I don’t think we have anything to discuss." My heart was getting loud.

  "Daron," he began but didn’t finish. He ran a hand through his hair, then shoved it into his front pocket.

  I made the mistake of looking at his face. The lines there were deeper when he frowned. And in his eyes I saw something honest and sad.

  "Don’t give me that pitying look," I said. It was the sort of thing Digger would have said to Claire and I regretted it immediately.

  "I just really think we should talk," he said, without sounding like either one of my parents.

  "Okay." I stood there, waiting to hear what he was going to say.

  "It’s been really great having you along this trip," he said, and it sounded sort-of rehearsed. "I mean, I usually spend my of hours by myself."

  Except when you’re in New York, I thought, and surprised myself that I was gritting my teeth. It made me even more angry that as I sat there, feeling angry, I was still wanting him, still wanting to taste him, to feel that rush. And I was angry because I didn’t know why I was angry. I didn’t have any right to be angry with him and that made it worse. "Me too," I managed.

  "Daron, I just want to be clear about a few things."

  "Okay." Martin snored behind me and Matthew lowered his voice even more.

  "I know you’re anxious about a lot of things. That’s natural. You need to take your time..."

  "Take my time doing what?"

  He sighed and looked up and down the hall. "Let’s just say I know things aren’t always easy. In this business..." He stroked his mustache in a worried way. "What I really wanted to say was, I didn’t want you to go away hurt or angry."

  "And why..." I started, but I couldn’t finish. I felt dizzy. He started to answer but I stopped him. "You promised. You made me a promise you wouldn’t say a word about..." Us? "...it to any living soul. That includes me."

  He stood back an inch, unhappiness aging his face. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t have anything to discuss."

  "Of course not." There was no it. No us. But if that was true, why did I feel exactly the way he’d described me? Maybe it was nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me. "So will you quit with the mother hen act?"

  He pressed his hands together and I had the feeling he wished he were holding my hands. "I just worry about you, that’s all. I want to be sure you’ll be okay."

  I stood up. "Don’t worry about me," I said. The bubble of anger that I’d been carrying around since New York began to sag and I wanted to leave before it burst and left me empty. "Just don’t worry, Matthew. There’s nothing you can do anyway. Forget about it." I don’t even know what I meant by that, but I left him there with it, and tried to follow my own advice. Forget about it.

  We shook hands then, which felt even more ridiculous than the handshake Remo’d given me back at the Cage. And then I closed the door.

  I resolved to wait a few minutes until I was sure he was gone, and then slip out and get something to eat by myself. The only drawback to this plan was it meant sitting in the dark for several minutes with nothing to do but think about things like why I felt hurt. Especially since I didn’t know why the fuck I felt hurt. I didn’t figure it out while sitting there, either.

  I got sick of that pretty quickly and closed the door behind me with a soft click. From the lobby I picked a direction to walk at random. The hotel was in a downtown-ish area, most of which seemed to have closed up at five pm. I wandered around darkened storefronts and closed cafes until I got tired and sat down on a bench under some thoroughly city-made trees, thin maples growing out of brick-edged squares of dirt.

  I watched a car pull up across the street and a James Dean look-a-like in a bomber jacket and crew cut climbed out. The car drove away and Mr. Dean struck a pose against the walls of a posh but closed jewelry store, lighting a cigarette. I wat
ched him take a drag, then lean his head against the window as he exhaled, then take anther drag, and do it again. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. A brown hatchback drove past. His chin turned slightly as he tracked it around the corner. I wondered if he was hot in that jacket. The sun was going down but the heat rose up out of the concrete. Another guy, black hair, also smoking, came around the corner and they nodded to one another. The guy kept going. Then the brown hatchback drove past again. Mr. Dean watched it again. Then he took a drag on his cigarette and leaned his head back. I began to feel like I was caught in a film loop.

  When the brown hatchback came around the third time, it slowed to a stop. Mr. Dean walked up to the passenger window, then got in. I watched them drive away, rooted there by the realization of what was happening. I wondered if James Dean was just cruising, or if he was tricking for money.

  A car pulled up in front of me, the driver’s side window beginning to slide down. I twisted off the bench and ran. I went back to the hotel, back up to the room, and was suprised to find Martin was gone. My hands shook as I picked up the phone. The hotel operator patched me through to Carynne’s room.

  The Cure

  She was at my door within minutes, her hair still wet from a shower with some flowery shampoo.

  "You okay?" she said, and I wished she hadn’t. "You seem really jittery."

  "Anxiety is my normal state," I said, which came out sounding serious rather than a joke. "Let’s go out somewhere, see some bands or something."

  She eyed me with a crooked eyebrow. "And you’re not going to disappear on me when I turn around?"

  I blushed. I suppressed the urge to stammer something stupid and untrue. "I promise I won’t," I said. "Let’s go down to Landsdowne Street and see what’s up." It was the one part of Boston I knew.

  We took the subway there, coming up in the middle of an area busy with pizza shops and convenience stores. We could have been any one of the college-age couples walking around on their first date. I led her over the highway to where a string of clubs inhabited the block opposite the big green wall of Fenway Park. In Boston, the same real estate mogul owns almost all the clubs. On Landsdowne Street there were half a dozen places, some large, some small, changing names every few months as fads allowed, but remaining basically the same. I knew what we’d find there — some places where no matter what was going on it would be too loud to talk. If I could, I’d get too drunk to do anything later but pass out. I was glad she was with me, it made me feel safe, somehow. But I dreaded what might come later if I didn’t play my cards right.