Most of the show was a blur to Ethan despite his attempt to savor each moment. He remembered little after grabbing the mike to sing “Never Say Never” in front of an audience of thousands. He had become increasingly self-conscious of his singing but unaware of what he’d sung or where he’d gone afterward. He said as much to Jonah after the show. Jonah responded, “You’ve quite a presence on stage, young man.”
On their return home, though exhausted, they talked about writing more material. The song ideas started to come, but it wasn’t long before they discovered that ideas were not the problem; the problem was deciding which ones to pursue. They all jotted stuff down, but it was Syd who began consuming what they wrote, connecting notes and melodies to the words dropped in her lap.
The band had arrived back in Toronto midday yesterday, which was Wednesday. After a surprise call from a club owner in Oshawa they’d played again last night. They were to head to London, Ontario, tomorrow to play a new bar on Friday and Saturday. Jonah told them he would keep them booked. They hadn’t signed anything, but they had their manager.
It was now ten o’clock in the morning. Ethan didn’t want to be up after getting in late from the gig in Oshawa, but Jonah wanted to meet with him—alone—before the Release headed to London. Ethan took the bus to a coffee shop on Eglinton. Jonah was there when he arrived. With all that was going on, Ethan hardly paid attention to the decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the small shop. “Merry Christmas” was stenciled on the windows with spray-on snow. Tinsel and garlands surrounded them. Ethan moved his mug of black coffee back and forth across the tabletop, anxiously listening to what Jonah had to say.
Jonah’s inscrutable facial expression was difficult to read. Ethan had anticipated Jonah wanting to set the terms of an agreement with the Release. What came instead proved to Ethan just how wrong he could be about Jonah.
“Ethan,” Jonah said, leaning forward and hooking his index finger into the handle of his coffee mug. He leaned back and took a sip of coffee. When he set the coffee mug down, he seemed different to Ethan. “Ever done any acting?”
CHAPTER 43
Thursday, December 13, 1984
The question was so out of sync with anything Ethan had anticipated that his first response was an incredulous “Pardon me?”
Jonah’s eyes widened. “Acting—like in the movies.”
“Why are you asking me that?” he answered, still thinking about a contract and a tour for the Release.
“Because I have to.”
Jonah shifted his chair forward, causing the wood legs to scrape on the coffee shop’s beige ceramic floor tiles. He suddenly looked much more interested than he had in anything else they’d talked about.
“Why? What’s that got to do with the Release?” Ethan asked.
“Nothing,” Jonah said. His open right hand slid palm down across the tabletop as if he were smoothing its hard surface. “Nothing at all.” He picked up his coffee, this time without using the handle. He didn’t drink.
“I don’t follow you,” Ethan said when it became apparent Jonah wasn’t about to say more.
“Randy’s told me some of your story.” Jonah stopped. His eyes didn’t leave Ethan’s.
Something trembled in Ethan’s head when he heard the name. It was the first time Jonah had mentioned Randolph.
“It’s kind of amazing, don’t you think?” Jonah set his mug back on the table.
Ethan was disappointed not to be talking about the band. Acting didn’t play a part in his life anymore. He didn’t feel good even thinking about it, as Mila’s memory was always close by when he did. “The Angel” expressed how he felt.
“That time has passed. I really don’t think about it anymore,” Ethan said, his tone implying a finality.
Jonah nodded. “I get it. I won’t belabor the point. But here’s my question. Would you consider doing some?”
Ethan didn’t want to answer the question. He knew where things were heading. He avoided anything to do with acting. He didn’t go to the movies, rent VCR tapes, or watch TV; they didn’t have a VCR or a TV at the house. He’d blocked it all out. Deep down, he wondered whether a movie might trigger him to go back. He was terrified of going away for good. He didn’t want to talk about acting—or even think about it. But there it was, back again.
“Why are you interested?” Ethan asked after his moment of retrospect.
“Because Randy lit up when he talked about you. He told me you were remarkable.”
Ethan held Jonah’s stare. It was the only way he could remain steady; the heavy padlocked door was already edging up beside him.
“How would that work exactly?” Ethan asked, frowning, doing his best to avoid where Jonah seemed to want to take him. “I thought we were here to talk about the Release.”
“We are, and we’ll get there. What are you afraid of?”
Ethan squinted, affecting confusion, but he was anything but confused. He wasn’t about to take the bait. “What? Are you a doctor too?”
The padlocked door seemed to be right beside the table. Ethan’s stomach tightened; his teeth ground together.
“No,” Jonah replied, “but I know when I see something special. It’s what I do—and I’m fucking good at it. You transform onstage. Few do it naturally; even fewer know it.”
Ethan didn’t say anything.
“I want to get you in front of a camera.”
“What does that have to do with music?” Ethan asked. “Or the Release?”
The big door was at his side as Syd’s prophetic words came to mind: “Someone else will see you, with power and money, and steal you away.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with the band or your bandmates,” Jonah said, “or even music, for that matter. This is about you and a gift.”
“No, this is supposed to be about the Release and our future,” Ethan said, leaning over the table on his forearms. His fists were clenched. “That’s the deal. You’re our guide through the fucking music business. End of story.”
Rage suddenly inflamed Ethan. The heavy door was close. Open me! it seemed to yell.
Jonah pushed his mug across the table away from him. “I know what my job is,” he said, appearing unperturbed by Ethan’s sudden outburst, “but I’m not your manager yet.” Jonah paused; his hand didn’t leave his mug. “You have something that’s rare. I’ve seen it. Randy confirmed it. There’s no question of your talent in the band. But there are hundreds of talented musicians around. You can see them any night of the week. You have a couple of good songs. But what makes the Release special is you—your transformation onstage. It’s not just about music, Ethan. It’s about what you create, what so many strive for yet rarely achieve. When an audience witnesses these moments, it’s magical, and they know it.”
Jonah stopped and rolled his mug back and forth between his hands. He looked as if he were warming them up, but Ethan knew what he was really doing: Jonah was trying to pry open what was locked down tight.
Jonah was right; Ethan was scared. Even a peek into what might be behind the padlocked door might take him away forever. That was the risk, and he thought it was a good fucking reason to be scared. He’d gone away and had somehow come back. As Dr. Katharine had repeated, they didn’t know why. The human brain was like that. He was doing his best to pretend he wasn’t having the episodes, but he was, and they were real. Only Christa knew. He was having this conversation because of them. Somehow, he was controlling them. He didn’t know why he could leave now and come back, but he could. The fade-outs in the studio, onstage, and even at Mila’s grave—each time, he had come back. He gave one remarkable performance after another, unable to recall where he went or what happened, knowing only that he went somewhere else and that most liked what he did while he was there.
“But I’m here to talk about the Release,” Ethan said, interrupting his own thoughts, “
not about me and acting.”
Jonah’s eyebrows rose as his head shifted to the right as if to say, “Really?”
“Acting was another time—another place,” Ethan said, noticeably uncomfortable. “I barely remember it. I’ve moved on, and you need to too—as does Randolph, apparently.”
Jonah didn’t move; he only looked at Ethan. His right hand covered his left on the table.
“So here’s the deal,” Jonah said, still not moving. “I will manage the Release under one condition, which is not negotiable. You have to audition for the work I get you as an actor.”
Ethan made to stand up. Jonah raised his hand.
“Let me finish,” Jonah said, his hand returning to the table to cover the other. “I will not overload you. I will pick carefully, but refusing an audition will be a breach of contract—our handshake—and result in my termination as the band’s manager. Or you can decide right now that I’m not right for the Release, and I will get up and walk away.”
Ethan started shaking his head before Jonah finished. “This is bullshit,” he said. “Fucking blackmail.”
“It’s neither, but you can call it what you want. Opportunity is knocking, Ethan. It’s the deal I’m prepared to make. It’s up to you.”
Ethan continued to shake his head. He didn’t like being coerced into making a decision.
“So pack your bags,” Jonah added before Ethan said anything. “The Release is going to be busy.”
Ethan turned his head and stared out the front window of the coffee shop. A couple of kids were standing on the sidewalk. One looked to have a can of Coke in his hand. He was wearing a pair of red canvas high-cuts. The other kid was talking. The kid opened the can and took a drink. He then handed the can to the other kid in exchange for what looked like a couple of coins. Both kids smiled. Ethan turned back and looked at Jonah. The padlock was hanging from the door latch. The lock was open. The heavy door was slightly ajar. Someone was inside. Horrified, he recognized the face. It was Robbie, his roommate from university. The heavy door then slammed closed with shocking suddenness. Ethan blinked.
His own voice brought him back to the table.
“You know I can’t say no,” he said. “It means too much to the others.”
“It means a lot to you,” Jonah said. “Look, Ethan, I’m not here to fuck you around. There are too many who thrive on that in this business. People who do what they love to do are very vulnerable to it. They can’t help themselves. The business is full of people chasing dreams. Fight your fear; you won’t regret it.”
Ethan was struggling. It’d been all of six months since he’d come home. Music had consumed most of that time. He loved it but fought it too, especially when he watched Syd or Gus. They were hardwired to music; to them, nothing else mattered. There was a sense of reverence in watching them. But it wasn’t Ethan’s musical ability that made him part of it; it was how he made the songs come to life to touch people. It wasn’t something he could explain or even know that he was doing. People saw it, felt it, and lived it. He became what they wanted to be; he gave them a chance to be someone or something else for a while.
What kind of musician disappeared from the music he was playing to become a character—to become something the audience could relate to and feel they were? Yes, it was artificial—or was it? The music was the message, the truth, but for Ethan, it was the trigger—the means—that bore something else. The war was within him; he could fight it, but he could never win because the music wasn’t really him. He was just another singer, but what he could become made his singing special. He knew what he was. He’d known since meeting Mila.
“You can run away, Ethan,” Jonah was saying as Ethan returned to the conversation. “You’ve already got a good start. But you know. Only you can know.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Ethan said. He was suddenly aware that his hands had slipped to the edge of the table. The skin around his fingernails was white with the grip he held on the table.
“It’s not what I know, Ethan,” Jonah replied. “It’s what I see. It’s what Randy’s seen for a long time. He talks like you’re Al Pacino. It’s only a matter of time before you figure it out. You can’t keep running.” Jonah paused for a second. “I think you have figured it out, and it scares the shit out of you.”
Jonah took a drink of his now cooled coffee. Ethan stared at him, holding back where the name seemed bent on taking him. He didn’t want to even think. His plan for a life in music was crumbling, almost as if he’d known it would, and he felt helpless to do a thing about it.
“Raj said you were performing—but not music; you were somewhere else.”
“Raj said that?” Ethan asked, surprised. “He never said anything to me.”
“Raj makes great songs,” Jonah said. “He counsels only to make a better song. He’d have fucked things up if he’d have said anything.”
Ethan rubbed his chin, sensitive to the sandpaper feel of his unshaven skin. “So what now?” he asked, feeling he’d been pushed down a hill and had to find another way up.
“Do we have a deal?” Jonah asked.
Ethan knew his decision. “You already have it all lined up, don’t you?” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“You’re on to me, Ethan.” Jonah laughed. “And yes.”
CHAPTER 44
Monday, December 24, 1984
To say the last few weeks had been busy was an understatement.
The day after Ethan met with Jonah, Jonah was true to his word again and had him set up with his first audition. The audition was in a warehouse east of the city, down on the lakeshore, next door to a sound stage where the film’s production company would shoot the picture. Ethan hadn’t known the place even existed. No one in the band knew about the audition.
That was yesterday, Sunday, the day after their second gig in Sarnia that Jonah had also booked after their meeting.
The Release had played five shows in the last week, four of which were a lead-in to a tour that would start their New Year off through southwestern Ontario. They’d also returned to Oshawa on the Wednesday to do another show at the club owner’s request. The two Sarnia gigs had the Release billed with a more established band from Toronto who had become popular playing the Ontario club circuit. Smash Dickson had become a fan favorite on late-night FM radio. The Release had partied with the band after each show. To Ethan, it seemed the party had become as important as the show to the veteran band. He wondered how increasingly difficult it was to stay motivated to the music after years of trying to make it. Those who weren’t in love with their art and what they created inevitably moved on or became lost in the distractions of drugs and alcohol, which were almost necessary to the lifestyle. Friday and Saturday seemed to magnify his meeting with Jonah.
On arriving back at the house late yesterday morning, Ethan was anxious—about the audition later that afternoon and about keeping it from the others—but he didn’t let on. With Sarnia being their last gig until New Year’s, they all were headed back to their families for Christmas. Syd left for Ottawa shortly after they returned. Gus and Greg headed out soon after they’d unloaded the van. Ethan said he was leaving for his parents’ at four o’clock but had actually headed to the audition.
Now he was on his way back to where he’d auditioned to pick up a revised copy of the script he’d read from for the actual audition. They wanted to see more. After getting the script, he would head to his parents’ place.
Ethan was just about to leave to catch a bus downtown when the phone rang.
“So,” Jonah said before Ethan even said hello, “how did it go?”
Ethan was excited but didn’t want Jonah to know that. He’d been low-key after the audition and sat around the house most of the night reading one of the copies of Browning Station he’d bought as a Christmas present, reliving the audition over and over again. With Jonah, he wanted to m
ake the audition sound like no big deal and pretend everything wasn’t in Jonah’s hands. Ethan didn’t want to admit the latter to himself, but the deal was done, and he knew it. He was certain Jonah did too. In his heart, acting was the centerpiece, no matter how much he wanted music to be. He wanted to act—needed to act, had to act—all reservations aside. It was in his blood. He had tried to ignore it, but he knew it wasn’t working. He’d refused to admit it until Jonah. Like a virus, the acting bug had infected him and came out in their shows. High school drama class had introduced him to acting, but he hadn’t had the wherewithal to understand or acknowledge it. But being onstage with Mila had made it so. He’d landed two loves at the same time. But his love of acting had become fear after Mila’s murder: love for what it was and fear of what it might become. Yet it seemed to have been lying there all along, waiting for that moment to rise up and take over his life. Talking with Jonah had relit the embers he’d thought dead, and they’d exploded in flame at the audition. He was good, and he knew it. It didn’t take long for those watching to know it too. He hit the mark and then some, but he didn’t want Jonah to get wise to how right he was in reading him.
The Musician Page 22