Realizing that time was running short, his attention returned to the garage, with its oil-stained cement floor, walls of exposed 2x4’s revealing the dry wall attached to their far side, and two bare bulb industrial light fixtures mounted on the ceiling. He’d left a few items on the shelves, mostly gardening and automotive supplies, but the rest of the garage, and in particular the floor, had been cleared out.
The band would be arriving in a few minutes, and he imagined where each person and piece of equipment would be set up. It would be tight. He wondered if they would even be able to close the garage door.
Aaron was the first to arrive. He emerged from the passenger seat of a well-worn Chevrolet Cavalier, the rear seats and trunk filled with his disassembled drum kit. Dave helped Aaron unload the equipment onto the grass near the curb while Aaron’s friend who had driven him waited, the car idling. Aaron yelled out a quick thank-you as the car pulled away and he and Dave began carrying the kit to the garage.
“Not a very portable instrument, the drums, are they?” said Dave, making conversation with the young drummer.
“Nope. Makes it a little tricky to practice, dude. You can’t take them outside easily, they take up a lot of space at home, and pretty much everyone complains no matter where you play.”
“I’ll help you set up,” Dave offered, having seen enough equipment in his time to be able to adequately lend a hand. While they were working, attaching cymbals, moving pedals, and twisting clamp bolts, Dave’s son Jack came into the garage.
Jack stood a little more than four feet tall with curly, sandy hair. He looked very much the school kid in his high-top canvas sneakers, baggy pants, and pocket T-shirt.
Dave noticed him first. “Jack, go back into the house, please.”
“Dad, can’t I stay and watch? Pleeease!” Jack pleaded.
Jack trotted across the garage to watch the two men.
Dave shook a finger before Jack could whack the cymbals with a raised palm. “Jack, this is Aaron, I mean, uh--”
Aaron cut in. “Hi, little dude! My friends call me Bongo Joe. How old are you?”
Jack ignored the question. “That’s a funny name.”
Aaron started to answer, but Dave cut in firmly. “Jack, I need you to go inside with Mom. We’ve got a lot of work to do out here.”
“Okay,” Jack answered in a disheartened tone, then slumped his way back through the garage side door, across the short walkway, and into the house.
“He’s a great kid,” Dave said to Aaron in explanation, “but he would have trouble staying out of the way if I let him watch. He’s somewhat learning challenged, so we have to be a little extra careful with him.”
“How old is he?” Aaron asked.
“Just turned nine last week. He goes to Howell Elementary. My wife and I wanted to send him to a special education facility, but Jack really wanted to stay in the regular schools. We agreed to let him as long as he showed he could keep up.”
“How’s he doing?”
“So far, so good. I mean, he works twice as hard as any other kid and that’s just to get ‘C’s’, but he’s handling it.”
Their conversation was cut short by Ethan’s arrival, guitar case in hand. “I see our leader hasn’t arrived yet,” he said scornfully.
“They’ll be here, dude,” Aaron responded quickly. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to cut them a little slack.”
“Well, maybe you have time to waste sitting around, but I have a life outside of this,” Ethan returned.
Aaron pointed to Bert and Charlie, who were coming up the driveway, followed by Abe who swept his cane in front of him. “See? Nothing to worry about,” Aaron said.
“All right. Let’s get set up,” barked Bert eagerly as he strolled into the garage. “Who’s missing?” He looked around. “Ah, Gene. Well, let’s get set up and hopefully he’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Sure enough, by the time everyone had unpacked and plugged in their instruments, Gene had arrived and joined them. “Sorry I’m late, fellas,” he said. “I’m not yet adjusted to having to depend on the buses.”
It was cramped in the garage, but it worked. Aaron put his drum set in the rear of the garage, facing out, with the side door immediately to his right. Gene sat to his left, his amplifier wedged behind him, between the drum set and the wall.
Ethan stood in front of the drum set, with Dave to his left. Dave positioned his keyboard parallel to the side wall of the garage so he could sit with his back to the wall and not block Gene’s view outward. Out in front, just where the inside met the outside, stood Abe, with Charlie to his right.
Bert addressed them. “Close your eyes now and burn this moment into your memories. Think about it as we strike the first notes. When we’ve reached our destiny, you can think back and remember this as the moment when it all began.” He paused to let each of the band members contemplate what he said. Then he shouted, “Let’s start with “Dock of the Bay.” Bongo Joe! Give us a four count and then everyone come in.”
Aaron held his drum sticks aloft so they were visible over the drum set and struck them together, simultaneously counting off, “One, two, three, four!”
And the music began.
Well, it was something approximating music, Dave thought as he winced. The sound fell somewhere midway on the spectrum between music and white noise. Not as bad as some of his students’ beginning efforts…but chaotic. Though the tune was clearly recognizable, it sounded as if each musician was locked in a separate room, each told to begin playing at a specific time, but just off enough from one another to produce a sound consistently out of phase.
It didn’t help that Aaron’s drum tempo was inconsistent, the pace quickening and slowing sporadically throughout the song. But that was clearly not the only issue. As the members tried to adjust to one another, they simply created different out-of-phase sequences. When the song ended, they looked to Bert for reaction.
“Okay, let’s try it again now that we’ve had a chance to run through it together. Bongo Joe, keep the drumbeat steady. Gene, turn up your amp just a touch. Dave, you’re getting ahead of everyone. Remember, this is an expressive, thoughtful, reflective song. Play to the mood. Bongo Joe! Four count!”
And so it continued. The second rendition was a slight improvement from the first, and when it was over, Bert had the band go through it a third time. Over the course of the next hour and a half, Bert dragged the band through this song and a couple of others from the CD he had provided. Each time, he added some instruction and some words of encouragement. Dave was impressed. He usually taught individual students and admired Bert’s ability to orchestrate the ensemble.
Several times, the band members verbally sparred over who was throwing off whom, who was too quick, too slow, who was making mistakes, who was too loud, who was too soft. Perhaps struggling the most was Abe, who did yeoman’s work, holding his melody despite the conflicting timing behind him.
About half an hour into the practice session, Dave had noticed a crack of light emanating from the doorway that led outside from the garage. The door would slowly open wider until it got just wide enough to reveal a pair of eyes peeking through and then close again whenever he looked over in that direction. After a couple of tries, Aaron was able to catch Jack’s eyes and signal him with a head nod to come into the garage and join them. Jack opened the door and hesitatingly walked into the garage. Aaron gave him a big smile and motioned to him to take a seat on a crate along the wall.
Dave started to send a glare Jack’s way, but Aaron caught his eye and gave him a comforting nod that conveyed that Jack was fine where he was.
Jack sat quietly through the remainder of the practice, a behavior that surprised Dave. While Jack had always been a good-hearted kid with the best of intentions, his learning disability frequently manifested itself as an inability to focus on any one thing for long and a compulsion to start wandering and exploring. Dave liked to deal with him in a quiet environment whenever he could, to help Jack w
ith his control and learning issues and not have them out in the open.
When the practice session ended, under Bert’s direction the band worked out a practice schedule, factoring in both the commitments of the working members of the band and Ethan and Dave’s class schedules. Bert had made a modest and unsuccessful effort to convince Dave to take a leave from his job and Aaron to quit his in order to devote themselves entirely to the band, but he didn’t push too hard. It was too early, and he knew that the band’s credibility didn’t justify it yet. He had steered clear of asking any time concessions of Ethan. The group finally agreed to meet on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and Saturday morning each week.
When the band members dispersed, Aaron hung around for a few minutes to talk to Jack. “So, Jack, what do you think of your dad’s band?” he asked.
Jack looked up at him, and in a reserved, quiet way, commented, “Dad’s CD’s sound better.”
Aaron laughed. “You know something? I think you’re right. You had fun watching us, though, didn’t you?”
Jack nodded.
Aaron continued with a genuine warmth in his tone. “Do you like music?”
Jack nodded again.
Aaron put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Well, dude, I need to get going. But it was really nice meeting you. I hope you’ll come watch us again on Thursday. Maybe one day we’ll sound as good as your father’s CD’s.” Aaron smiled and shook Jack’s hand.
“Hey, Dave!” Aaron called while Dave was straightening out the garage a bit, “Do you mind if I leave my drum set here?”
“Not at all, Aaron,” came the answer. “See you Thursday.”
Aaron gave Jack a wink, waved a goodbye to Dave, and headed out of the garage and up the street.
Chapter 8 – The Lesson
“I don’t know, Ted." Bert sighed. “I’m starting to become concerned that the band won’t ever blossom.”
Three weeks had passed since the first practice session at Dave’s house. Dave had continued to churn out songs, creating the instrumentation for three new ones since the day he’d debuted his first one for Bert and Charlie in the park two months back. And the songs were fabulous.
But on the performance side, while the band had improved upon the cacophony of their initial jam session, they had quickly reached a plateau. At each of the practices over the last week, the band had sounded flat and uninspired--as if they were mechanically producing each note rather than having the music stream through their senses. It was stiff and businesslike, not fluid and natural. Like the manager of a baseball team in the middle of a losing streak, Bert was finding that the more he and the members pressed, the more tense and error-prone they became.
“How long have you been at it now?” Ted asked. “A few weeks?”
“I know,” responded Bert, “patience, patience.”
Ted smiled at Bert, silently acknowledging that Bert had accurately predicted his advice. “How’s that drummer kid I helped you out with?”
“To tell you the truth, he’s been part of the problem. Good kid, don’t get me wrong,” Bert quickly added, knowing that Ted would be embarrassed if Aaron had been a source of anxiety for Bert. “In fact, everyone in the band loves him. Well, maybe everyone but Ethan. Ethan doesn’t seem to like anyone.
“It’s just that Aaron--you know, Bongo Joe--needs to unify the band with his drum beat. But he’s erratic and inconsistent and I think that makes it harder for the others.”
“Are you thinking about replacing him?”
“I think about it a lot, but something inside keeps telling me he’s the real deal. I just need to find a way to reach him.”
“I admire your faith. What about Ethan?” asked Ted, shifting gears. “You say he doesn’t like anyone?”
“Yeah. Well, maybe Dave. I think he thinks Dave is on his perceived level. The kid has a chip on his shoulder. I’m thankful that we have Dave there to help mediate.”
“How does the band feel about Ethan?”
“They keep their distance from him for the most part. Ethan isn’t too subtle or reserved with his feelings, so the band members pretty much know where they stand with him.”
“Thinking about maybe making a change there?”
“No,” Bert answered without hesitation. “He’s probably the best musician we have after Dave. Ironic, huh? I wish I could combine Aaron’s easygoing manner with Ethan’s ability. Then I’d have something.” He laughed and took a long drink from the coffee that sat on the counter in front of him. “Then again, it could be that easygoing manner that’s getting in Aaron’s way.”
“Need a refill?”
“Sure,” Bert said gladly, pushing the coffee cup forward on the bar. He adjusted his position so that his crossed arms now rested on the near edge of the bar, and he leaned forward on the stool, eager to hear Ted’s thoughts.
“What kind of songs have you been playing?” Ted asked.
“Mostly classics -- Otis Redding, Otis Blackwell, Faces. We also started on the songs Dave wrote, you know, filling in the instrumentation behind the melody. Good tunes, but they still need a lot of work. The guys are having some difficulty with them. Right now, it’s been a little easier to work with the songs they know.”
Ted went to wait on another customer and returned a few minutes later. “So what kind of music do you envision your band playing, I mean once you hit your stride?”
Bert described his vision of a unique, not easily categorized sound with a rock n roll foundation, heavy bass line, saxophone accompaniment, and a big, full texture with elements of R&B and funk.
“Street thump,” said Ted matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“Street thump. That’s what I call the music that blasts out of those boom boxes the kids set up when they’re hanging out down here on the wharf. You know, when the music is so loud that all you can pick up is the bass line.”
“I love it!” exclaimed Bert.
“You love that noise?” Ted’s eyebrows shot up.
“No--well, I do like that sound, though it’s obviously not being played with the right balance. I mean, I love the name ‘street thump.’ Can I steal it for our identity?”
“Of course.” Ted laughed. “It’s just something I made up. Just remember to acknowledge me on your first gold record.”
Bert finished his coffee, thanked Ted for the inspiration, and feeling renewed with energy and focus, headed off.
* * *
The band continued to rehearse and improve, not in leaps and bounds, but little by little. At one of the sessions shortly after his talk with Ted, Bert addressed the band. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have a musical direction for us. Are you ready?” He looked around at the expectant faces. “It’s called ‘street thump.’”
“What the hell is that?” asked Abe derisively.
Bert gave the band members a wide smile to acknowledge their confused looks. “We need a style that separates us from the thousands of other bands jamming away in garages all over the country. And that style is ‘street thump.’ What does it mean, Abe? It means what we feel it should mean.
“Create a sound in your mind. Think about roots rock, add in a strong base line, toss in Charlie’s saxophone, a funked-up drum beat. Make it fun. Hip. Vibrant. Let it flow through you. That, my friends, is street thump.”
“I like it,” said Dave.
“Me too,” chimed in Charlie. “It’s got a certain panache.” Around the room, the band members nodded heads.
“Speaking of naming things,” said Dave, “when do we give ourselves one?”
All faces turned toward Bert. “Any ideas?” he asked the group at large.
Abe piped up. “How about Abe and the Wanderers?” A murmur of dissent went through the group.
“What about an antiestablishment name like the heavy metal bands use? Like ‘Alcatraz’ or ‘Biohazard’?” suggested Aaron.
“Or a punk name like ‘Exploding Mucus,” offered Dave jokingly.
Several mome
nts passed in silence as the musicians thought, trying to conjure the right name for their collective of misfits. At last, Gene broke the silence in his quiet voice. “The Redeemers,” he said.
A hush went around the garage as each of the members knew that the soft-spoken bassist had just taken a fastball and pounded it into the upper deck.
“The Redeemers,” echoed Charlie in a whisper.
“Wow. That’s it. That’s the one,” said Aaron emphatically.
Bert could almost hear the heavenly trumpets announcing their approval: The Redeemers.
* * *
The band was taking a break an hour into the next rehearsal session. To Dave’s surprise, Ethan approached.
“Hey,” said Ethan.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure.”
“You know, I’ve been assessing the band, and I think that your friend Bongo Joe is killing us. I mean, we’re starting to come together and he’s the only one not getting any better. I know I criticize a lot of things, but I do really want this band to work out. If we’re all going to invest this kind of time and effort, we might as well do it right.”
“Aaron’s just as much a member of this band as you and I are, Ethan,” responded Dave.
“No, he’s not,” Ethan countered. “Aren’t you watching him? There’s no passion, no fire. He’s a slacker!”
Aaron had finished adjusting his drum kit and had come up behind Ethan as he continued to rail. “Until he decides he wants to win, he’s going to be a loser and drag us down with him!”
“We need to stick together. He’ll get there,” Dave replied calmly, and then watched as a dissatisfied Ethan abruptly turned and walked away, bumping Aaron’s shoulder as he stormed off. Dave wasn’t so sure about Aaron either, but he wasn’t ready to give in just yet. Besides, he really liked Aaron and so did Jack.
Right from the first encounter, a bond had formed between Aaron and Jack. Jack would come out to the garage and listen to the practice sessions, always sitting quietly on the crate near the drum set. Aaron was always the last to leave, taking the time to check in with Jack on what he had been up to: school, his friends, the skateboarding that Jack loved. On a couple of occasions, Aaron had brought his own board to Dave’s and shown Jack a few moves.
Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers Page 9