“Daniel?”
I looked at Nita and refocused. “Sorry,” I whispered, measuring my breath.
“That’s O.K.,” she said uncertainly. “I take it you don’t get along with her.”
“Do you with your bloody parents?” Uh-oh. Mick, again.
Silence. I looked at her and waited, smelling the leather of her jacket mingling with the odor of blue smoke.
“They’re split up, too,” she finally said. “Maybe we should get back to music.”
“Good idea.” I closed my eyes, searching for P. D. B. Travers. Keep breathing.
“Tell me why you really play. I want to know.”
“I told you.” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice, but she wasn’t deterred.
“That wasn’t an answer. At least, not the entire answer.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
She tugged at a sleeve and kept her eyes trained on my face. “Daniel, I paint abstracts. It’s my way of staying in touch with my inner self. Do you understand? And when I do, when I put the brush to canvas, I sometimes feel something move through me. It’s something exhilarating, like, I guess you could say, love might be. Something very pure. Is that what you feel when you play?”
I stared back at her across the interior of the van. Love? Purity? Good God. My head swam. I concentrated on the glowing end of the joint that was once again in my hand, opened and closed my eyes, and tried to sort through the various voices running through me. I knew she wanted to hear the truth, and I could sense that it was somehow important to her, but I wasn’t sure I could articulate what I felt.
“O.K.,” I said with a defeated sigh, already knowing that my explanation was doomed to failure. “This may sound silly, but when I’m playing, I can sometimes get to a place where I’m totally inside myself. Like I’m in a little world where it’s just me and my guitar, and I’m someone else, floating around above it all.”
I suddenly wondered, was that the Real Me? I paused and glanced at her, but she only nodded in response. I took a breath and went on. “And when we’re onstage, when we’re in a groove, I feel an energy that I don’t get anywhere else, like I can almost reach out and touch people, and that they want to connect with me. It’s the only time I ever feel that connection. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s hard to explain.” I suddenly realized that the fingers of my left hand were moving, as if trying to find Pete Townshend’s Universal Chord.
And I also realized that I must have sounded like a complete idiot, but she nodded again and seemed to study my face. “Transcendency,” she murmured. “I understand.”
Transcendency? Could that be it? No, it wasn’t that lofty, if I understood her meaning. But what else could I say? That I’m playing music because Kevin didn’t stand up to Mom, and now I’m doing it for him? That Pete Townshend resides in my brain, and the only way I can accommodate him is to plug in and bash chords? That music and uppers are the only way I can keep from becoming a total freaking quadropheniac? No, the truth was no good.
I gazed across the space of the engine well separating our two seats. Then I heard Sam’s voice in my head: “O.K., maybe you’re right,” he said for me. “I really do play just to get girls.”
She laughed. “I knew it. You guys are all the same.”
I breathed out more easily. As usual, marijuana had done its sneaky little job of making us think that things were all right. I mentally thanked Sam and handed the joint back to her. “You need to relight it. Sorry.”
She reached down into the purse resting on the floorboard as I turned on the overhead light to help her. When she straightened, the front of her jacket fell open, revealing the words printed on her T-shirt: WATCH OUT, PUNK IS COMING.
“Where’d you get the T-shirt?”
“Do you like it?” Nita had the joint going again and handed it to me. “My older brother lives in New York, and he sent it to me. It’s for a new music magazine called Punk. ”
“Punk?”
“Yeah. You know, punk music. Has it made it up here, yet?”
I turned off the light and took a drag on the joint. “Not really,” I said, breathing out. “But I’ve been hearing some interesting stuff on KSAN lately. I can pull it in from San Francisco at night on my home stereo.”
Her face became animated. “KSAN? That’s what I listen to. So you’ve heard Jonathan Richman and Patti Smith and Richard Hell and Television?”
I grinned back at her. “And the Ramones.”
“They’re so cool.”
“Nobody else listens to KSAN up here,” I said, my heart pounding erratically once again. “You’re the first person I’ve found who even knows about those bands.”
She grinned. “Well, Daniel, we’ve got a little secret then. They don’t know what’s coming.”
I grinned back at her. “Yeah, and I’m ready for it. Those short stripped-down songs, like what the Who used to do—they’re the original punks, y‘know?—anyhow, that’s what I’ve been trying to write lately, but the band doesn’t like doing ’em.” That was an understatement. Yogi liked the song ideas I was bringing in, enjoying the opportunity to bash away, and Rob seemed slightly amused by the vitriol of the lyrics, but the other two saw that my songs would do nothing but drive our audience away. And maybe they were right. After all, how could you dance or party to a song that basically said “Fuck you and your empty-headed values”?
But Pete and the Who knew that rock music had to change to survive. And I knew it. From what I knew about punk bands, they saw it the same way: Tear that shit down, strip it away, build it all up new from the bottom. From London to the Lower East Side, they were ready, driven to do that, no matter what it took—what it cost....
Of course they weren’t here in Creedly. That left me by myself to ask the inevitable question: What about me? Was I ready?
“No,” I said, feeling euphoric and agitated at the same time, “the rest of the band doesn’t really understand what it’s all about.”
“Then you’ll have to educate them. After all: ‘Punk is coming.’ ” She giggled, stubbed out the roach in the ash tray, and looked toward the house. “Betty probably thinks you kidnapped me. We’d better get back inside.”
“I guess you’re right.” With burning eyes, I gazed across at my new friend, her blonde hair somehow shining in the darkness, and I realized that I was higher than a Bee Gee on helium.
5
I AWOKE FIVE MINUTES before the alarm thinking about Nita, my eyes buzzed wide open by the thought that she was thinking of me this morning. Or was she? The more I thought about it, the more I figured, Not bloody likely. Even so, I rolled up onto the sloshy edge of the waterbed and reached for the bookmark with the phone number she’d pushed into my hand when I left the party. I stuck it inside a Graham Greene paperback that I’d been reading and, after climbing out of bed, jammed the book into a zippered side pocket of my suitcase.
Sam, with Yogi beside him, pulled up in his parents’ faded brown station wagon a few minutes before seven. Sam didn’t mention the party or Nita, but he gave me a quick wink and grin when he saw me. A few minutes later, Candi dropped off Rob in front of the house while we were loading my bags. With Rob barely out of the car, Candi pulled a U-turn and sped off. Not able to hide his look of relief, Rob ambled up the driveway.
“Everything O.K. with Candi?” I asked. We threw his bags into the station wagon.
“Yeah, she’s cool,” he replied, glancing in the direction of Candi’s exhaust. “And I’m cool.” He tugged at the brim of his Stetson, putting his I-don’t-give-a-shit persona firmly back in place. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
After locking up the house, I slid into the van beside Yogi as Rob climbed into the station wagon with Sam. We drove the short distance to Mick’s parents’ house, and I parked on the street while Sam eased up the driveway. Yogi and I watched as Sam strolled up to the front door, where he was met by Mick’s mother. After a short discussion, the door shut, and Sam, scowling and mut
tering to himself, walked over and stuck his head through the passenger-side window of the van. As expected, Mick had just gotten up and was running late. “I’ll go in there and drag him out myself if I have to,” Sam said, his dark eyes flashing. “I feel like shit, too, but I got up at six so we could hit the road early. I’m giving him a half hour, no more.” He stared down the street for a few seconds before stomping back to the station wagon.
While we waited, I kept an eye on the front door, fearing that Mick’s father might appear. An evangelical minister who led a fiercely loyal flock of followers, Mick’s father had a reputation in town for his theatrical pulpit presence and unpredictability. I had never been within fifty yards of his church, but from a safe distance I’d once witnessed a baptismal session at the Sacramento River that had come perilously close to an organized drowning. And everyone in town had heard about his Elvis-like gyrations and the women swooning at his feet during altar calls. Half of his father’s sermons apparently dealt with his son’s sinful ways, and Mick worked hard to give him plenty of good material. Mick and his father might have hated each other, but they were alike in one way: From what I’d heard, Mick had stolen most of his stage moves from his old man.
Fortunately, it was Mick, with black-rimmed glasses askew, shirttail hanging from his jeans, and hair glistening wet, who finally emerged through the front door, his mother trailing behind him. Mick held a small suitcase in one hand and a brown lunch bag in the other, reminding me of a little boy being sent off by his mom for his first day of school. He remained on the porch while his mother gave him a smothering hug. Finally, he spun away and staggered toward the station wagon, his mom watching from the porch while he tossed his suitcase into the back of the station wagon. He crawled into the seat behind Sam.
With Mick finally settled in the car, Sam carefully backed the station wagon down the driveway. I started the van and edged away from the curb as Mick’s mom waved. But before the station wagon reached the asphalt of the street, I saw it slow. The side rear passenger door popped open.
“Now what?” I sighed, stopping the van with its nose halfway into the street. I checked my side mirror for oncoming traffic.
Suddenly I heard Yogi gasp. “Oh, my God!”
I jerked around and saw Mick leaning out the car door, his head and glasses hanging inches from the surface of the driveway. His mouth opened and out it came: an awful, runny mess that hit the concrete and ran down the driveway. I quickly glanced back at the house, seeing Mick’s mom holding a hand over her mouth as if muffling a scream. Suddenly the dark shape of Mick’s father appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, shit!” I shoved the van into gear.
With Mick still hanging partway out of the car, Sam quickly backed the station wagon into the street, straightened up, and sped past us. I took one last look at the house, spun the wheel, and took off after the station wagon.
“Did you see their faces?” I said, starting to laugh. I watched Mick edge himself back into the station wagon, pulling the car door shut as he did.
Yogi giggled and sang out, “Mama told him not to come.”
We caught up with the station wagon at the first stop sign. While Sam waited at the stop, Rob turned in his seat and looked back at us through the rear window of the wagon. He grinned broadly and flashed us the peace sign. Mick was nowhere to be seen.
I wiped tears from my face as we followed Sam the few miles to I-5, which we’d be on for the next 500 miles, and continued to laugh to myself while veering onto the northbound on-ramp. I thought about how little Mick had changed over the years, and as I did, I started to worry about him. Then I started to worry for all of us.
Mick’s entry into the band, on a stifling Creedly night in August, came about a year after Rob and I had added Yogi to the mix, officially forming a group. That night we were working our way through Jumpin’ Jack Flash in the garage of Rob’s parents’ sprawling ranch-style house, which was tucked into one of the better parts of town. His folks were out, so we had the garage door up, trying to catch whatever breeze might saunter by before one of the neighbors would invariably tell us to shut up. Rob and I had tried trading off the lead vocals, but neither one of us could come close to approximating the sneering tone needed for the song.
“I dunno,” I said to Rob, who had just finished another attempt at the vocal. “I’m not sure this song’s right for us.”
“Like any of the others are?” Rob fingered his bass. “Look, man, I’m cool with kicking these things around for fun, but I never wanted to be a lead singer. And you’ve got a better voice anyhow.”
“Rob’s right,” Yogi said, red-faced, sweat dripping down onto his snare drum. “You’re like, um, that guy in Bread. You know, the baby I’m-a want you guy.”
As usual, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew one thing: I would not be the lead singer. The thought of it turned my blood cold and made my sweat run even hotter. I shifted my guitar strap from one shoulder to the other, wiping my palms against the front of my sweat-splotched T-shirt. I let my eyes roam across the rock posters tacked to the garage walls, lingering for a moment on Grace Slick’s face, before looking out into the gathering darkness of the street. That’s when I first saw Jack Kelly. He was leaning against the garage door jamb, a smirk plastered on his face, puffy lips parted by the stub of a cigarette. A small, wiry guy about our age, he immediately struck me as someone clinging to a rung on the evolutionary ladder somewhere between Jagger and Steven Tyler.
He squinted back at me. “Nice go,” he said. “At least the instrument part. But the singing’s a bit wonky.”
Wonky? Rob, Yogi, and I exchanged glances. I looked back at the kid, taking in the dirty shag haircut, tight sleeveless black T-shirt, and blistered cut-offs, and asked, “Who are you?”
“Me? I’m Jack, mate,” he answered, now grinning, “but everyone calls me Mick, as in Jagger, right? Didn’t mean to interrupt your show. Just passing by to pick up a pack of fags.”
Yogi’s acne-marked forehead wrinkled. “Did you say fags?”
“Smokes. Ciggies, right?”
“Oh.” Yogi’s expression faded to relief, and the bright smile came out. “Are you from England?”
Mick’s grin increased in width. “Might as well be, mate. But I live a ways over there, right?” He gestured with his head to the south of us, where the neighborhoods shifted to solid middle class.
I didn’t know what to make of him, the funky accent, his street-tough pose, but I knew we didn’t need a critic hanging around while we mauled perfectly good songs.
“Well,” I said, again shifting the weight of my guitar off my shoulder, “you’re welcome to listen if you want, but maybe we should be getting on with it.”
I turned to fiddle with the knobs of my amp, but I heard Rob clear his throat. Looking up, I saw that the kid had walked into the middle of the garage and was standing at the mike stand.
“Mind if I have a go at it?” he asked, bobbing on the balls of his tennis shoes and fingering the mike.
“What?”
“That Stones song, mate.” He took the mike out of its stand. “I know the words.”
“Uh”—I looked over at Rob, who shrugged—“you sing?”
“Bloody right,” Mick spit out. “Gotta for the birds, y’know?”
I looked around at the guys again, but I wasn’t going to get any help from them. I guessed that he might split if we let him embarrass himself, so I nodded at the kid and said, “What the hell.”
I lit into the opening riff. To my surprise, the cocky little guy came in right where he should, with an angry, sneering vocal that, if anything, one-upped Jagger’s. Looks flew around the room as my guitar, Rob’s bass, and Yogi’s drums quickly coalesced around his voice. By the second verse, Mick was working the wall across from us, bouncing and pointing and gesturing as if the faces on the posters were adoring fans. By the end of the song, he had already made us a better band, a realization that was not lost on Rob and Yogi, judging
by their stunned expressions. I knew that we had found our singer.
YOGI AND I rattled and shimmied along at 55 mph, staying a comfortable distance behind Sam’s station wagon. The Blue Bomb, which earned its nickname by blowing up at inopportune times, wouldn’t go much faster, especially when fully loaded, so I settled in for the long haul. I turned on the radio, and we soon had Reeling in the Years humming above the sound of the van’s slant-six engine, accompanied by the tippity-tap of Yogi’s drumsticks on the dashboard.
Creedly disappeared in the rearview mirrors, and I felt good. No need yet for my mood-altering, cross-topped little buddies. Mick’s spirited adios on his parents’ driveway had loosened me up, and I figured that no matter what happened the rest of the trip, nothing could be more unexpected than that. I also thought about Nita again, and my pulse settled into a comfortable groove with the realization that nothing could be done about her, at least for now.
As we wound up the freeway past Shasta Lake and climbed the long grade toward Mt. Shasta, the scenery slowly changed from rolling oak-studded hills to steep-sided ridges, dotted with evergreens. Yogi offered me a powdered doughnut from a bag his mother had sent with him, and we were eating away when we started losing the radio station from Creedly. I finally turned it off when the static got annoying. In the absence of music, the numbing rattle of the van filled my head. No vacancy here, I whispered to myself.
Maybe my whispered words had been audible because Yogi turned his head and gave me a quizzical look. Powdered sugar ringed his mouth like clown makeup. I grinned and sighed. Christened Edward Leonard, Yogi had an awesome talent for searching out and destroying food—an ability that hadn’t escaped Mick, who had gleefully compared him to the picnic-basket-stealing cartoon bear. My grin faded with the nagging realization that my future, at least in part, rested on the erratic skills of this grown-up adolescent. I shook my head and started thinking about the vial in my pocket.
Getting in Tune Page 5