Dead People's Music

by Sarah Laing

  Our new apartment isn’t a Park Slope brownstone, it’s in Fort Greene. Low-ceilinged and aluminium-windowed, it looks cheap and new, but it’s ours alone. We were lucky to get it, because although Toby now has a social security number, he still doesn’t have the credit history or references that most landlords require. Ours is an exception, a retired sociologist who bought the place for nothing in the 1970s. He’s paid off the mortgage; now he’s affluent and uses us to salve his conscience. Our neighbourhood is ethnically diverse, and if I walk to Flatbush Avenue on Sundays I can see the old African American ladies coming out of church, wearing their lemon or lilac suits with matching pill-box hats, a net to obscure their eyes. We have a favourite place we go for brunch, a Louisiana-style café, where a turbanned woman serves us catfish, collard greens and grits, Jill Scott playing on the stereo.

  Up on stage for the soundcheck, I make sure my contact condenser mike is still sticking to the bridge, and I tentatively prod my foot controller, scrubbing in a chord, then playing it back with my big toe. On top of this, I float a melody. I adjust the vocals mike, making sure I won’t knock it as I bow.

  ‘Sounding nice,’ says Ryan, doing a show-time drum riff. ‘And I’m feeling nervous — that’s a good sign. I got a bit jaded with my old band. Besides, we were usually wasted by the time we went on stage. But I’m only going to have a beer tonight, I want to stay sharp. For you baby. It’s your debut!’ He does another drum roll. ‘Come on, we’d better get off. We don’t want to spoil the surprise.’

  There’s no green room to wait in, so we go sit at the bar to collect our complimentary beer. I test my blood sugars for the second time, because the last thing I want to do is get low during a performance. Not that I’d notice; in fact adrenalin usually sends my blood sugars up. And I skimped on insulin tonight, serving myself an extra scoop of rice.

  ‘How can you play after you’ve done that to your fingertips?’ says Ryan.

  ‘Doesn’t hurt much,’ I say. And my blood sugars are fine; they’re fine. I can relax, although of course I can’t because I’m as nervous as hell. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

  ‘I think people will like us. You’re good with the pop hooks, you’ve got a real sense of melody and I’m gonna play me some mean drums.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t say much about the lyrics, they’re not my thing, but I’m sure chicks will dig them.’

  ‘You think so?’ I try not to absorb this back-handed compliment.

  Toby comes and sits next to me. ‘I hope the computer doesn’t crash.’

  ‘It won’t crash, will it?’ I say, suddenly feeling panicky, my beer burping up again — maybe I shouldn’t have drunk this before I started singing.

  ‘Nah, shouldn’t. I installed some extra memory, so it should be fine. Just computer geek nerves — it’s not just musicians that get antsy. Hey, I’m so proud of you, Beck.’

  ‘Don’t be proud of me yet. We haven’t even played.’

  ‘But you’ve made it here. This is what you came for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘So it doesn’t matter if you fuck it up, not that you will. You can tell the kids back home that you played a gig in New York City.’

  ‘I need to pee. Where’s the loo in this place?’

  ‘Through there,’ says Ryan, pointing to the left.

  I slide off the bar and head towards the back. Inside, a girl leans into the mirror with a red sharpie marker; she’s doing her eyeliner. ‘Mnaa, mnaaa, oo-ooh,’ she sings to herself. I open my bag and apply another coat of lipstick, aligning my hair, smoothing my orange satin gown, whose gauzy sleeves may or may not get caught in the strings. The girl squirts flowing soap and rubs it into her hair to spike it up. ‘I’m on at ten. I’m freaking out. Mnaaa, mnaaa, oo-ooh.’ Her T-shirt is safety-pinned in a hundred places, her skirt super short.

  ‘Me too. I’m on first,’ I say, not feeling punk enough for this place. But maybe my music will be. Maybe it will be something fresh, an unexpected juxtaposition. ‘Good luck!’ I say.

  ‘Break a leg.’ She shakes her head experimentally and the spikes stay in place.

  When I emerge, Toby grabs me by the elbow. ‘We’re on,’ he says. ‘Get on up there.’

  I walk up the stairs, feeling the crown of my head heat up beneath the spotlights. The crowd isn’t big, but it’s ample. I think about my spiel, my big explanation for what I’m doing, the one I wrote last night on file cards, but I decide to leave it till later. Maybe after the second song. I’ve been waiting to play this music for months, no, years. I look over at Ryan; his drumsticks are in mid-air, as though someone’s pushed pause. I check Toby; he too is ready, his finger cocked above the mouse. I give the signal to Wendy to switch the video projector on.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to the Michael King Writers’ Centre, where I wrote the final draft of this novel. To Harriet Allan for her ongoing support. To Anna Rogers for her clear-eyed edit of the manuscript. To the Sittenfelds — Amanda Samuel, Anna Jackson, Bianca Zander, Janis Freegard, Jared Gulian, Kate Simpkins, Michelle Arathimos and Sarah Bainbridge — who offered thorough and inspired feedback. And to Curtis Sittenfeld, who helped kick-start our novels at the IIML. To my readers — Helen Lehndorf, Louise O’Brien, Melissa Laing, William Laing and Clare McIntosh for their insights. To my mother, Robyn Laing, who looked after the children so I could keep on working, and provided specialist Pahiatua knowledge. To Tim Cundy, who offered diabetes-related advice (although I am responsible for any errors!). To the people who enjoyed Coming Up Roses and told me they were looking forward to the next book. And to Jonathan, who read and reread this book, in all its iterations, and encouraged me unrelentingly.

  About the Author

  Born in 1973, Sarah Laing grew up in Palmerston North, went to Victoria University in Wellington and worked as a graphic designer in Manhattan. She now lives in Auckland with her husband and two children. Her first book was a collection of short stories, Coming Up Roses, and she won the Sunday Star-Times Short Story Competition in 2006. In 2008, she was a writer-in-residence at the Michael King Writers’ Centre.

  Copyright

  The assistance of Creative New Zealand is gratefully acknowledged by the publishers.

  A VINTAGE BOOK

  published by Random House New Zealand

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  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

  Random House New Zealand is part of the Random House Group

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  First published 2009

  © 2009 Sarah Laing

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 86979 109 4

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