WEST
SEATTLE
BLUES
CHRIS NICKSON
WEST SEATTLE BLUES
First published in 2014
By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House, 273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.
Copyright © 2014 Creative Content Ltd
The moral right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published
In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.
The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.
Cover design by Daniel at HCT Creative
Typesetting by Creative Content Ltd
eISBN 9781908807250
To Graham, my son and inspiration - you might see a little of yourself in here.
And to Gary Heffern and Chris Eckman, who remain two of the good guys.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Author
Also by Chris Nickson
Acknowledgments
There is no Carson Mack, and sometimes I think that’s a pity; I’d have loved to have heard him. But there is a Beach Drive and a West Seattle and White Center, and in part this is a love letter to them. I’m incredibly grateful to Creative Content for believing in Laura - and having a hand in her creation, reall: to Ali Muirden for shepherding, and to Lorelei King, for her sharp eyes and whose wonderful voice brings Laura fully alive. Thanks to Lynne Patrick for the sound comments and good advice she always gives, and for her friendship, and to Peter Lavery for his hard work editing the book. And always, my gratitude to Penny, for whom any words of thanks are not enough. She listens, reads, and loves.
The loss of Kurt Cobain was very keenly felt, especially in the Pacific Northwest; it was one of those events that defined an era. But there was far more happening musically, as I’ve tried to show. Some may have spotted a mention on No Depression in 1994, a little bit early. Poetic license.
“West Seattle Blues” sung by Gary Heffern. Guitars, recording and mixing: Rustman.
Recorded at Rustman’s Country Garage, Varjakka, Finland.
Prologue
“Yeah, I’ll see you soon.” He lifted his hand in a wave as he walked away, heading out of Surf’n’Turf and into the night. He could taste the whiskey chaser on his lips, the residual burn that felt so good.
Outside the bar, Seattle was February raw, the wind blowing up Pike Street off Puget Sound. He buttoned up his coat, the battered Carhartt he’d bought from a thrift shop, and stuck his hands deep in its pockets.
There’d been sharp squalls of rain earlier, but the sky had cleared. Looking up, he could pick out a few stars, not that he knew what any of them were called. He crossed Third, heading toward the quality stores, with jewelry glinting behind thick glass. A few young couples were out and about, looking at rings. Further up the block were the boutiques, selling designer names he’d never heard of and didn’t care about.
He had a good buzz. Not drunk. Just right. Just enough. He’d come down here and shot the shit with Kyle and Rick at the Mirror, playing a couple games of pool. Then Rick had headed off to work and they’d moved on to the other place to enjoy a few shots.
His car was still parked up on Capitol Hill. He’d walk there now, just take his time and let everything wear off before he headed on home up to Everett. Maybe even stop somewhere for a cup of java before he hit the freeway.
He fumbled in his pocket, brought out half a joint and lit it, inhaling the smoke deep. It hit his brain and he smiled. Felt good. Just to keep it all going. Maybe he’d find himself a cute hooker just to round off the night.
He continued past the Convention Center and over the freeway, glimpsing traces of lights heading north and south. He began to feel the burn of exertion in his calves. Used to be a time when there’d be girls looking for business along here, but they’d cleaned it all up now.
A couple more tokes and he threw the roach in the gutter, waiting at the light while cars proceeded along Boren. The Hill itself started on the other side; at least that was what he always thought. With its businesses and bars. Restaurants and that funky movie theater.
As he drifted up Pike, not even really thinking any longer, he glanced through the window of Seattle Eagle at all the leather-clad men inside. He could never figure that. Too weird for him. They could like guys, if that was their thing, okay, as long as they stayed away from him. But the leather and mustaches? He’d never understand that.
Right on the corner, by the parking garage, a figure stepped out from the shadows. It took him by surprise, then he saw the face and started to smile.
“Oh man, you scared me. How the hell are you?”
“Hello, James.” The other man’s eyes were hidden in shadow. He wore an old jean jacket, denims that were a size too big, and scuffed cowboy boots.
“How long you been out? You should have called me, man.”
“A month now. Kicked me out early for good behavior. You still got the money you’re keeping for me?”
“Sure,” James answered. Then he smiled. “Not here. At home.” He took the wallet from his jeans and opened it. “A little walking-around money, that’s all I got.”
“Right. I saw you earlier with a couple guys.”
“Just buddies.”
“One thing, James.”
“What’s that?” He could feel the high fading. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“I went by your place earlier.”
“I was down here,” James reminded him.
“I took a look around inside, but I didn’t see the money anywhere.”
“You went in my apartment?”
“I know where you stash things, James. Remember that? You always liked to hide it in the closet, in among your socks.” He gave a thin, dark smile. “I was careful, wore gloves. But there wasn’t any money.”
There should have been five grand. They’d split the money from the robbery fifty-fifty. That is what they’d agreed. Wasn’t his fault Nick had been dumb enough to get caught. At least the guy had kept his mouth shut or they’d both have ended up in Walla Walla.
But he’d needed some money to get himself through the last three years. Times had been tough. There was still a grand tucked away in the lining of the guitar case. He could give Nick that at least, and stall him on the rest.
“You want to come over tomorrow? I’ll have it for you then.”
“How you going to do that, James?” The man moved a step
closer, till James could smell the sour breath. A car passed, picking them both out in its headlights for a moment.
“I’ve kept it somewhere safe.”
“Anyone ever told you that you can’t lie for shit, James?”
“I’m telling the truth.” He held up his hands. “Come on, man, we’re friends.”
“That was a long time ago, before my last stretch in prison.” His voice sounded dead. No emotion, no expression.
“I’m serious. I’ll have it there tomorrow, every penny of it.” He could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back. “Come on, man, I didn’t know when you were getting out.”
“The money, James.”
“I told you. Tomorrow. I swear.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” James shouted out the words, trying to make him believe. Hoping someone would hear and come by. “Tomorrow, I mean it.” He swallowed hard, watching as the other man reached behind his back and brought out a gun. “Come on.” James tried to laugh. “I already said I’d have it tomorrow.”
“The clock’s been ticking a long time and it just ran out.”
The first shot knocked him off his feet. James felt like his chest was on fire, his skin burning. He tried to focus, but everything was blurred. His hand touched something warm and wet. He wanted to speak but his mouth wouldn’t open.
The second shot jolted him up off the sidewalk. He could taste blood in his mouth and smell something sharp in the air. Somehow there was a roaring in his ears.
He never even heard the third shot.
One
Down on Western Avenue, all over downtown and up on Capitol Hill, the tattoo parlors were busy. In Seattle in 1994 the cool thing was to have ink and piercings - to be visibly part of the new tribe. It was body art and people were happy to be the canvases. Never mind that in a few years most of these self-satisfied customers would be paying fortunes to dermatologists to remove them; for now they were proud to be walking galleries of Celtic bands and Chinese symbols.
I’d met my friend May for coffee at Cyclops, then we’d walked up the hill into the heart of Belltown. I had Ian with me in his stroller; he was eleven months old, awake and eagerly curious at the life and the people around him, so much busier than our own street in West Seattle.
The neighborhood was changing. All Seattle was changing, really, with house prices going higher and higher, but around here everything seemed even more blatant. Not too long ago, Belltown had been pleasantly neglected, with affordable apartments and a happily down-at-heel style. Now it was the place to be. The buildings down by the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which had recently been cheap artist’s lofts, were now expensive condos. Three years before, the Crocodile had opened, bringing in the best bands to play to packed crowds. Trendy boutiques and hairstylists lined Second Avenue, and developers were putting up high-rises on every corner.
“What are you thinking?” May asked, prodding me out of my thoughts. She was Asian-American, in her twenties, and her clothes always that perfect mix of thrift-shop scores and Nordstrom’s Rack. Her black hair was glossy, even in the dull March light. May was a California transplant, and the only one of them I liked. She’d grown up in the LA suburbs with a Japanese mother and an American father, and had once been one of those high achievers, the type everyone hated.
Except it was impossible not to love her. She was naturally open, the kind of person who’d do anything for a friend. And she loved music. She lived and breathed it, having started out by writing about the hardcore bands where she lived, then quickly widening her horizons, learning and listening avidly. She graduated from fanzines to magazines and then moved up here a couple of years earlier to work the music beat at the Post-Intelligencer, reviewing concerts and writing features on all the big names who regularly hit town these days.
And there were plenty of those. I could recall when a major band coming to play Seattle was a rare event. Now we were a destination on every tour schedule. We’d turned things upside down. Seattle had become the center of the music world. Nirvana was the biggest band on the planet, with Kurt Cobain the global icon of Generation X, closely followed by Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden was barely a length behind. We were also the coffee capital of America, with Starbucks spreading the gospel around the entire fifty states. Six years earlier we’d been named the most livable city in the US, and it seemed as if we still held the title. Everyone wanted to be us. Everyone wanted to live here. On the downside were all the hopefuls walking the streets with guitar cases and backwards baseball caps, thinking they could make their fortunes, and the fact that someone had called our sound ‘grunge.’ Even worse, there was Candlebox and Sleepless in Seattle. Not that I needed a movie to tell me about that. I felt as if I hadn’t had a full night’s rest since Ian was born.
“Just that I feel kind of distant from all this now,” I finally replied.
I was still a music journalist. I reviewed albums and interviewed artists. And I loved it. But I didn’t work as hard as May. My diary wasn’t filled with interviews or gigs these days, but that was fine. I’d been there and done that; now I was too busy being a mom. And when I wasn’t doing that I was cranking out quickie unauthorized celebrity biographies under a pen name – because Laura Benton was never going to be known as the author of those; I valued my credibility too much. My husband Dustin helped by taking on much of the child care when he was home, but I still felt permanently exhausted. By nine at night the last thing I wanted was to head out to a bar and hear music. I just wanted to crawl into bed. Motherhood, it was like instant sleep deprivation.
“I feel like I could crash for a week,” I said. “Look at the bags under my eyes.”
May squinted at me. “Bullshit,” she began, than glanced down at Ian, thinking maybe she shouldn’t swear in front of him. “You look great.”
I shook my head. “You better get glasses, then. I’m going to take him home. It’s almost time for his nap. But I’m glad you invited me out.” I’d been stuck at home for a week, finishing off a book. Another celebrity bites the dust, meaning more money in the bank account. I needed the break, to be out in the real world. The writing made me feel like a hooker, prostituting my talent, but I never hesitated to cash the checks and use them to pay down the mortgage.
“It was really good to see you again, Laura.” She gave me a hug and that continental air-kiss on both the cheeks. “I’m headed to the Backstage on Friday, for David Lindley. You want to come?”
“Love to, but no. Thanks anyway, though.”
I fitted Ian into the car seat and headed back over the West Seattle Bridge, gunning the vehicle up the long hill from Delridge and along 16th, past the community college, to Highland Park. It was a blue-collar area of frame houses, a mix of whites, Latinos, Filipinos and everyone else who was part of the American patchwork. It was also one of the few places we could afford when we were originally looking to buy. The sale of Dustin’s condo gave us the deposit and, with our incomes, we could manage the payments and still have money to live on. It was a good house, bigger than it appeared from the outside, a solid place. It had been remodeled to give four bedrooms, with a fair-sized garden surrounded by a chain-link fence, and a garage. We’d been there nine months and it was just now starting to feel like home. Once spring arrived, we’d give it a new coat of paint. I already had the color picked out: a pale duck-egg blue.
Ian had fallen asleep and I carried him inside carefully, sliding off his bootees and laying him in the crib before pulling the blanket gently up to his neck. Another few weeks and he’d be a year old. I remembered the time before I was pregnant, back when kids were all theory and other people’s experiences. People had told me I’d love my baby more than anything I could imagine. I didn’t believe a word of it. How could that happen? But they were right. From the first moment I saw his face, I knew this wasn’t like anything else. It was total. Even now, each time I looked at him I felt a rush of love that overwhelmed me. I’d been a late mother, thirty-six when he was
born on April 5, 1993, right at the top end of it being safe. It had been the best day of my life. He took my breath away: so beautiful, so eager, so full of the future. I didn’t care that I was bathed in sweat and still in pain when the nurse handed him to me. He was so tiny, so delicate that it scared me. But he was completely perfect, and he was mine. Dustin and I had talked about kids before we got married, but in the end he’d been an accident. A gorgeous one. I left his room quietly, went into the kitchen and started to fix a pot of coffee. Then I noticed the light blinking on the answering machine.
“Hey, Laura, it’s Tonia. Give me a call, okay?”
She didn’t leave the number but I didn’t need one. I’d worked for The Rocket for many years. It was the only music paper in town, a great magazine. I dialed and asked for Antonia Hillman. She’d been the editor for seven months now, younger, smarter, prettier and a way better writer than me. I loved her. A Southern girl, in her late twenties, she had earned a degree in journalism, then she’d done some time in public relations with a couple of record companies before becoming a freelance journalist. The paper had taken a chance on her, because she wasn’t local and she’d never been an editor. But she’d more than rewarded their hopes; circulation and ad revenues were up. More than that, the writers liked her. She was even and open-handed on assignments. Also, she listened as much as she spoke.
“It’s Laura,” I said when she answered. “What’s up, lady?”
“I got a weird one,” she began in that light honey of an accent that was guaranteed to melt hearts.
“Weird is good, right?”
“Well, maybe,” Tonia laughed. “I’m not so sure about this one, though. You ever heard of a guy called Carson Mack?”
“Carson Mack? Are you serious?”
“Deadly.” She gave a husky chuckle. “One hell of a name, isn’t it?”
The strange thing was that I did know who he was. A couple of minor country hits in the early Seventies, then he’d gone on to become a songwriter. But that was the extent of my knowledge.
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