On the way over, Terry talks about her brother, Houston. She tells me stories about when they were little kids. He was a real joker, sounds like. One time he invited her up into his tree house and then nailed the door shut. Terry was stuck in the tree house yelling for hours. When he finally pried open the door, she was crying. It sounds pretty mean. But I’ve never had a sister or a brother. Maybe that’s normal. And she’s laughing when she tells the story.
When we pull up to Houston’s house, my heart sinks. It’s an old one that at one time was probably really nice. Like back in 1900 or something. There’s a big front porch with fancy columns. But the whole thing is sagging in the middle. So is the roof. And the paint’s peeling off.
The grass is three feet high, which makes me wonder if maybe musicians just aren’t good with gardening. And there’s a rusted baby buggy in the middle of the lawn. Weird. If this was my house, I’d get rid of the buggy, for starters.
The door’s got a big metal knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Terry knocks—whack, whack, whack—and then she knocks again. Still no answer. She walks over to a window, looks in, bobbing her head around, trying to see in. Terry looks at me and makes a face as if to say, “What the heck?” Then she knocks again.
Finally the door creaks open. The guy who opens it is wearing a stained white underwear shirt. You know, the type they call a “wife-beater”? He’s in sweatpants. His hair is long and tousled and gray. He has a five-day growth of beard. And he looks a lot like Terry. That is, if Terry were a guy and hadn’t taken a shower in two years.
“Hey, man,” he says, rubbing his scrubby jaw. “What’s up?”
“Houston. Houston, this is Duncan. You know, the young man I told you about? The musician. I said we were going to come this afternoon. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Forget?” Houston sticks his hand down the waistband of his sweats and readjusts something. “Naw. I knew you guys were comin’. I just…ah. Well, come on in.”
It’s dark and just plain strange in Houston’s living room. He pulls back the ratty curtains, letting a little light on the situation. Holy cow! I mean, I’m not the neatest guy in the world. But this place is a total dump. Magazines and newspapers strewn all over the place. Beer cans on the coffee table. Piles of empty pizza and KFC boxes. The place is dusty and full of mothballs. Really dirty. It smells like dead mice.
“Oh, Houston. I thought you were going to hire a cleaning lady to help you with all this,” says Terry. She scoops up an armful of magazines and sets them down in a neat pile. Clouds of dust puff up.
“Oh yeah. Sure. I mean to do that real soon. It’s, like, on my list.” Houston winks at me. I don’t wink back. He’s freaking me out a little, to tell the truth.
Not knowing what to do, I walk over to look at some posters on the wall. One says, The Amazing Rhythm Kings— Live at the Yale. Another says, At the Triple Door for Two Nights Only!—The Amazing Rhythm Kings.
“That was my band, Duncan,” Houston says. “The Rhythm Kings. Pure, one-hundred-percent southernfried soul. Only we weren’t from the South. We were from Victoria, British Columbia, the land of tweed raincoats and tea-bag earrings.”
Houston starts laughing, a funny kind of hoarse laugh. A smoker’s laugh. I was happy he remembered my name.
In a corner of the living room was a piano. Or I thought it was. But when I got closer, I saw it had two sets of keys.
“Is this an organ?” I ask.
“It sure enough is,” says Houston. He slides over onto the bench and flicks a switch. There’s a whirring noise. Kind of like starting a car.
“This, my friend, is a 1969 Hammond B-3 organ. The king of the rock and jazz organs. The king of all organs. And over there—the big thing that looks like a wooden fridge? That’s a genuine Leslie 122 speaker.”
Houston bends over the organ and starts playing. And let me tell you. I think my life changed from that point on.
This thing sounded…well, indescribable. The sound filled the room, a giant swirling thing. Almost like a gigantic human voice. Houston cranked it up so loud, you could see dust rise from the mantel over the fireplace. He kept pulling little switches in and out, here and there. Sometimes it sounded glassy and smooth, sometimes it sounded down-and-dirty greasy. Sometimes it whispered, sometimes it shrieked and moaned like a crazy witch or a monster. It was something else.
And this guy is crazy good on the keyboards. His sound is so funky and just plain fantastic. Let me tell you, I went from thinking he was a doofus in a dirty undershirt to believing Houston was the coolest dude on planet Earth.
“Holy crap,” I say when he’s finished.
“Duncan!” says Terry.
“That’s okay. This young brother’s just responding righteously to the sound o’ the mighty B-3,” says Houston, pretending to sound like a black guy. Then he bends over and coughs. “Wanna try?”
Did I? Yes! But I’m a little nervous too. I mean, I took piano lessons when I was a kid. For six years, in fact. But the organ was a whole new deal.
I sit beside Houston on the bench. He shows me the on/off lever that makes the horn speakers in the Leslie speaker whirl around. He shows me how those switches—they’re called drawbars— push in and out to change the sound. After about thirty minutes or so, I’m sort of getting the hang of it. Houston shows me how to play a few blues licks that sound really amazing.
“Know this one?” he says. And then he starts to play “Green Onions.” Only when Houston plays it, it sounds different. Of course there’s no drums, no band. But the sound is just, well…huge. Massive. I’m so excited I could jump up and do some kind of crazy leprechaun dance around the living room. But I don’t, because that would make me look like a complete numbnut.
We goof around on that organ for a couple of hours. Or more. The time just flies by. In fact, I don’t notice Terry has even left until there is a knock on the door. It’s Terry. She’s brought a whole load of Chinese food. I eat like a starving man. Two and half platefuls.
“How did you like that?” Terry asks me in her car on the way home.
“Terrific. I love Chinese food.”
“No, silly. I mean playing the organ,” she says.
“I loved it,” I say. “Houston’s great. He’s cool, you know.”
Terry looks ahead, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s had a tough time of it,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, I told you how he got all caught up in his band before. It was too much for him. I think he had a nervous breakdown.”
“You mean he went nuts or something?” I ask.
“It’s like when the world gets too much for a person. They sort of go off the deep end, maybe shut down,” she says. “Houston gave up. He hasn’t tried to get back into music ever since then. It’s been a couple of years. And he’s sort of a recluse.”
“He doesn’t leave the house and all that?”
“Yeah. Well, he’ll go out for groceries. That’s about it. His friends used to come around, but that dried up. I’m worried about him.”
I look over at Terry. She looks like she’s going to cry. I don’t know what to say, so I just stare out the window, keeping quiet. It starts to rain a little. Just spatters. And then it begins to come down hard.
Chapter Eight
I’m trying a little harder in school, catching up on overdue assignments and stuff. You know why? Houston. It’s weird, but I keep thinking about the guy. He’s a great musician and all, but if Terry’s right, it seems like he’s burned himself out. I’ve got it in my mind, that could happen to me too. You know, becoming a lonely old musician in a creepy old house with a rusty baby buggy rotting away on the front lawn. It freaks me out. So I’m putting in some real grunt work—probably the hardest I’ve worked at school since Mom died.
It’s extra tough hanging in at school, because all week I’m thinking about the party on Saturday night. It’s the band’s first gig, so it’s a big deal. I
asked Jennifer to come, and right away she said yes. She seemed happy. It’s going pretty well between us. She’s the first girlfriend I’ve ever had. I mean, I think she’s my girlfriend. And Jason’s coming too.
To get ready for the gig, the band is practicing three times this week: Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. Primal Thunk is getting tight. Me and the drummer are really locking in well, sounding like a unit. Like a machine. The music is all fast metal: thunka-thunka-thunka-thunk. I’m not sure if metal’s my favorite thing, but it’s fun to play in a band. It’s a rush, you know. I can’t compare it to anything. Maybe it’s like white-water rafting, when a crew of your buddies zooms down the rushing river, all paddling together. I don’t know. I’ve never done that. But that’s how it feels.
We’re supposed to get to the party house at 8:00 on Saturday night to set up our gear. Set up our gear. I like the sound of that—kind of professional.
Saturday finally rolls around. Dad and I have supper together. And right off, between bites of Shake’n Bake chicken and mashed potato, he starts lecturing me about the party.
“Duncan, exactly what kind of gathering is this going to be?” he says.
“I dunno,” I say, spearing a piece of broccoli with my fork. “A party-party.”
“Don’t get fresh with me. You know, if I don’t like the sound of this, you can just stay at home.”
Dad’s frowning. Jesus.
“It’s just a regular party. With regular people. And my band’s going to play at it. Jennifer’s coming. So’s Jason.”
He doesn’t say anything, like he’s mulling it over. I know Dad’s thinking if Jason’s there, it’s probably okay. He likes Jason because he’s a good student. Also, Dad’s met Jennifer and he likes her too. He said she’s polite and doesn’t wear too much makeup. Which I guess is true.
“Well,” he says after a moment, “just be careful. No drinking.”
“Okay,” I say.
“And no drugs.”
I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?” says Dad.
“Nothing.”
After dinner I run upstairs to dress for the party. I’m going to wear my rocker jean jacket. I ripped off that stupid Metallica patch after the drummer bugged me about it. No big deal. Heck, I don’t even like Metallica.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I wonder if I even look like a guy in a rock band. My hair’s still pretty short. And my face is kinda young-looking. My cheeks are all rosy and healthy like. Crap. I muss up my hair so it’s all jagged. Better, I guess. Can’t tell.
I grab my bass and head downstairs. Terry’s come by—she’s sitting on the couch with Dad. They’re watching some stupid animal show on TV. It’s about all these little pathetic-looking turtles making a beeline down the beach and then swimming in the waves.
“Hey, you,” says Terry. “Going somewhere?”
“It’s our first gig. You know, Primal Thunk.” I grin. It sounds cool to say that.
Dad looks over at me.
“Duncan, go comb your hair. You look like you just rolled out of bed,” he says.
I put my hand to my hair. It’s all stiff and spiky because I put gel on to keep it in place.
“Dad, it’s supposed to look like this.”
“Duncan. I’m not kidding. You look like a mess. You go upstairs and comb your hair.”
“No,” I say.
There’s a silence of, like, five seconds. It’s a funny thing, but five seconds seems like an awfully long time when people are mad at each other and all. It seems like five hours. I’ve never said no to Dad before. Not directly. There are butterflies in my stomach.
“Oh, hon, let him go. That’s how kids wear their hair these days,” says Terry finally.
Uh-oh. Dad hates it when anyone contradicts him like that. Now I’ve gone from butterflies to feeling scared.
“Terry,” says Dad, not looking at her. “Please be quiet. I’m trying to set boundaries for my son.”
Terry’s face kind of changes. I wish Dad hadn’t said that to her.
“Go—comb—your—hair,” he says to me again.
“No,” I say. And I grab my bass and walk out the front door. On the sidewalk I wait for Jason. His mom’s giving me and Jennifer a ride to the party. The wind’s cold, even icy, but that’s okay because my face is all hot now, like someone slapped me. I keep thinking Dad’s going to come out and make me stay home. But he doesn’t. Loud voices are coming from our house. I feel awful and wish none of the last ten minutes had happened.
I see headlights, and a Range Rover pulls up. It’s Jason, his mom and Jennifer.
I throw my gear in the back, tumble in and feel in my pocket for the address, scribbled on a piece of paper. The tricky thing is, I want Jason’s mom to drop us off a block away, rather than right at the door. That way no one will know we don’t drive, and that one of our moms had to give us a ride. So it won’t look so lame and all.
“You can drop us off here, Mrs. Richmond,” I say. “Thanks for the ride. Appreciate it.”
“That’s not the address,” says Jason.
“Shut up,” I whisper. “We can’t let your mom drop us off right at the front door. We’ll look like total dorks.”
Jason gives me a dirty look. “Oh, man,” he hisses. “Not this stuff again. It’s like you’re ashamed of us or something.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “It’s just…oh, just shut up, Jason, for Christ’s sake.”
Jason is pissed. Jennifer looks at us both, sighs a little sigh, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if she overheard. It’s hard to read her face. She’s all dressed up for the party, in a black dress that’s kind of glittery. She looks really awesome, if you want to know the truth. I can’t believe she’s going to a real party with me.
We walk up the block. The wind is like ice needles. I shiver in my jean jacket. Jennifer doesn’t even have a jacket on—maybe it was a stupid idea to get dropped off so far away. I offer her my jacket, but she says no. It’s dark now, and the street numbers are hard to make out. It’s a pretty crummy area. The kind of street where people park their stupid big-wheel pickups in the middle of their chewed-up front lawns.
Some guys wearing hoodies suddenly run in our direction. They brush by, and one bumps my bass guitar case.
“Hey, watch it man,” I say without thinking.
He stops, turns slowly around and walks back to us. I feel my stomach fall. Oh crap. What now?
“What’s your problem, kid?” he says. He’s about twenty, with a face full of pimples and a homemade tattoo of a cross on his neck.
“No problem. Sorry. You just, you know…you knocked into my guitar case.”
The guy just keeps staring at me, like he hates me or something. Then one of his friends shouts out, “Hey, Pig-man, come on. We’re gonna be late!”
Pig-man looks over his shoulder at his friend, then back at me. He says, “Just watch it, punk.” And then he takes off.
“Jesus,” says Jason. Jennifer takes my arm and shivers a big body shiver. Is she cold or scared? I look at the number of the house in front of us. This is it.
Oh god.
This place makes Houston’s house and the Primal Thunk practice space look like Donald Trump’s mansion. There are motorbikes parked in the front yard with guys sitting on them, drinking beer. Some I recognize, but I’m not sure. Some of them look older, like in their twenties. The front door of the house is open, and there’s loud thumping rock music coming out.
A girl in a purple tank top stumbles up the front path toward us.
“Are you Tom?” she said, grabbing my arm. “Tommy? Are you Tom?”
Yikes. She sinks down at our feet, all crumpled. She has dyed blond hair with black roots. The guys sitting on the motorbikes start laughing at her. I kneel beside her. I don’t know what to do, so I hold her hand, which feels clammy. She seems okay though. I mean, she’s breathing and everything. Just passed out. I help her into a lawn chair near the front door.
“Duncan?” says Jennifer. Her face looks scared.
“Don’t worry guys , ” I say. “Everything’s cool. Let’s go in.”
I’m trying to act confident, but to be honest, I feel scared. What kind of a party is this, anyway? Who are these biker guys?
The place is stuffed with people. We have to squeeze by to get through the front hall. I think I recognize some kids from high school, but no one I’ve ever talked to before.
The living room is crowded too. It smells funny, like rancid milk. The stereo’s so loud you can’t talk—it’s a punk song, with the singer screaming “Everybody gonna die now!” over and over. If this was a movie or a TV show, I’d laugh. But it’s not.
I look at Jennifer and instantly regret bringing her to something like this. Her shoulders are hunched up like she doesn’t want anyone here to touch her. Her body language says, “Get me out of here.” Jason looks at me and opens his eyes wide, as if to say, “What the heck?”
“Hey, who’s this douche?” says a ratty-looking short guy in a flannel shirt. “Did your momma dress you, boy?”
He’s talking to Jason. Jason is dressed kind of weird, especially for someone going to a party. He has a short-sleeved shirt on, buttoned right to the neck. The shirt’s pattern is old-fashioned cars. And he’s wearing a pair of khakis. It looks like he should be manning the sugar-cookie booth at a church fair.
“Who invited this jerk to the party?” says the ratty guy. He blows smoke from his cigarette in Jason’s face, like some actor from a gangster movie.
Jason coughs. “Smoking will kill you,” he says.
“What?” Ratty moves toward Jason a little, sticking out his chin like he wants to fight.
“Jason.” I yell it into his ear, because someone’s cranked up that stupid punk song even louder. “Don’t even talk to him.”
At that moment, Jennifer kind of starts and lets out a little yip. I look over, and Ratty jumps back. He’s grinning. I just know he’s groped her or something like that.
“Hey, dude, you made it!” It’s Grant, holding out his hand and smiling like he’s Hugh Hefner at the Playboy mansion. He seems different, like he’s blurry or something. Maybe it’s just me. This is turning out to be one very weird night.
Rock Star Page 4