The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “Terminal One, Departures,” the driver said, stopping at the curb.

  “Thanks,” Ethan said, climbing out.

  “Whoa!” the cabbie shouted. “It’s twenty bucks from downtown, man.”

  “Sorry. Thought it was paid,” he said, as he’d thought Jamie had it covered. He hoped he had enough. He had only a ten and a five in his wallet. “Shit!” he said as his hand slipped into the front pocket of his jeans. A crumpled five, change from coffee that morning, brought him relief. He handed the three bills to the cab driver.

  “Have a good one,” called the cabbie.

  After making his way through the lineup for his gate pass, he headed to the gate. He got there to find his flight was delayed twenty minutes. Jamie’s well-organized schedule was getting squeezed.

  Rather than sit and stew about getting to the show on time, he decided to call Christa. After finding a vacant pay phone, he dialed her number.

  By the fourth ring, his mind had wandered back to his missed lines.

  He’d messed up several takes. After his lapse, he could only remember Jake standing up excitedly.

  “Hello?” Christa answered.

  “You’re home,” Ethan replied, her voice causing whatever else he was thinking about to vanish.

  “Just got in. Where are you?”

  “At the airport.”

  “The airport?” she said, sounding surprised.

  Ethan had expected her to be surprised. When they’d last talked, he’d just received the film schedule. Things were happening almost quicker than the plans to put them together.

  “Yeah, my first scene was today.”

  “No way!” Christa said, all but yelling into his ear. “That’s awesome! How’d it go?”

  “It was cool.” He was about to tell her more when she came back to her first question.

  “Why are you at the airport then?”

  “We’ve a show in Windsor tonight. With the shoot today, it’s the only way I can get there in time.” He paused and looked at his gate pass. “But my flight’s already been delayed, so who knows?”

  “It’ll work out,” Christa said.

  “I’d expect you to say that,” he said, smiling and thinking of Jonah’s last words, “and I hardly know you.”

  “You keep saying that,” she said, “as if I’m someone you met in a bar. It’s not like that.”

  “It kinda is,” Ethan said, chuckling to himself, thinking of the night at Benny’s. Many things about her ran through his head. She knew much more about him than he did her; she’d mentioned things he knew nothing about. In their time together, they had only scratched the surface.

  “You know what I mean. When are you back?” she asked.

  “Not till the weekend,” he said, knowing he was flying back in the morning for another shoot only to come back later for their second show. He thought of his lie to Syd and the guys about driving his folks’ car. It hardly made sense. “We’re back at Tormo next week. London after that. Then Bogart’s in Ottawa. Or something like that. And filming in between.”

  He wanted Christa beside him and wished she could have come with him. It was strange how their relationship didn’t have the anxiousness of a new one but, rather, felt like an old, established one.

  “My shifts change next week,” Christa said. “I’m on nights and two weeks of hell.”

  “I’ll find you when I’m back,” Ethan replied.

  “Okay, I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Do that.”

  That ended their call. Ethan hung up feeling good that Christa wanted to see him. Back at the gate, he discovered his flight had been delayed another fifteen minutes.

  The knot in his stomach tightened.

  CHAPTER 58

  Thursday, January 17, 1985

  His flight was an hour late landing due to snow. Five minutes after getting off the plane, he found his driver holding a sign with his name on it in the small Arrivals area of Windsor Airport. The two hustled to the driver’s snow-covered car. Toronto had had no snow. There was no act too brazen for the driver to get Ethan to the arena. Red lights, the posted speed limit, and even illegal U-turns didn’t slow the drive.

  When they entered the arena’s parking lot, groups of teenagers reluctantly moved to let them pass. Single-finger salutes and foul curses muffled by the car’s closed windows followed them in. The driver stopped as close as he could to the front entrance. Clusters of kids stood outside, seemingly immune to the snow and the cold, while a line of people filed in. As they left the car, Ethan noticed the musty-sweet smell of pot in the air. The driver guided him through the crowd. Most were cooperative and let them pass unencumbered. Inside, the mixed aromas of tobacco and weed were stronger. Ethan and his driver entered the large lobby and the Plexiglas viewing area into the rink. Memories of his winters as a teen surfaced. He thought of his father sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup at his early-morning hockey practices. It seemed ironic now that it was music, not hockey, that brought him to the rink. Moving through the crowded lobby, Ethan noticed the rink-side windows were dark, covered in black draping. There would be no watching hockey from the lobby that night, which was a little surprising, given it was the middle of January. They kept moving.

  The driver, who hadn’t shared his name, pushed open the swinging rubber-edged doors into the ice area. There was a growing crowd around the temporary stage that backed into the lobby’s windows they’d just passed. Rows of gray folding chairs lined the plywood-covered ice surface. A lot of work had gone into converting the rink into a concert hall. Ethan guessed the arena had a three-thousand-seat capacity and maybe another four hundred on the covered ice surface. The Living Cult had quite a following in southwestern Ontario. The crowd and the venue were evidence of that. He wondered how many in the audience had even heard of the Release, much less knew any of their songs.

  Ethan felt anxious anticipation for the night’s rock show. It was a little hard to believe that in a matter of minutes, he’d be performing on the matte-black stage in front of him.

  “You’re in dressing room two,” his driver said as they descended the stairs.

  “I feel like I forgot my equipment,” Ethan said as they passed the red-painted handrails that separated spectators from the aisles.

  “Your mike case is in the dressing room,” said the driver. “I dropped it by on my way to the airport in case we were late.”

  Ethan smiled, as his attempt at a joke had been lost on the driver. The equipment he’d been referring to was hockey gear. He didn’t bother to add that he was the only singer.

  The driver knocked on the door and then pushed it open. Gus and Syd were sitting on one of the painted benches that lined each side of the dressing room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ethan said, walking into a room that immediately brought back hockey memories.

  “Glad you could make it,” Syd said, standing up. “We’re supposed to be on in five minutes—four fucking minutes ago.”

  Ethan turned to thank his driver, who had already disappeared. “Where’s Greg?” he asked, taking off his ski jacket.

  “No fucking idea,” Gus replied, shaking his head. “He partied with the Living Cult last night in London. I drove the rest of the way on my own.”

  “Fuck!” Ethan said. He’d thought he was the only one to worry about.

  “Hans is pissed,” Syd said, and she nodded in the direction of the door. “Who the fuck was that?”

  “One of the arena staff I asked where to go,” he lied, not wanting to get into anything before stepping onstage.

  “I hope he told you,” Syd said. “Like fire and brimstone.”

  “Hans?” Ethan asked, letting Syd’s comment slide.

  “A piece of work,” Gus said, cracking his fingers.

  “He’s an asshole,” Syd said. “Wasn’t gonna give us a dressin
g room ’cause only two of us were fucking here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said, and then he slipped up. “The plane was late.”

  “Plane?” Gus said. “You flew? What the fuck?”

  Ethan looked at Syd. She shook her head and looked away.

  The door swung open.

  “Yer ready?” asked a gray-haired man with a ponytail and curly pork-chop sideburns. “Yer on in two.”

  “We need—”

  “We’re ready,” Ethan said, interrupting Syd and nodding as Hans turned away. The door closed. On the opposite bench was a Detroit Red Wings cap. Ethan went and grabbed it. “We’ll start with ‘Don’t Tell Me.’ Gus, you start. Hit it hard. Repeat the first bit twice—no, three times. We’ll follow and hope the fuck Greg shows up.”

  “That’s Hans’s,” Syd said, pointing to the hat in his hands. “You fucking wear that, and you might just get to die onstage.”

  “I won’t be alone,” Ethan replied.

  Gus didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Their set would evolve on the stage.

  Ethan put the Red Wings cap on backward and then looked at Syd. “Eyeliner?”

  Syd went to her bag, pulled out a small tube, tossed it at him, and then glared. A sink and mirror were behind a protruding section of cinder-block wall at the back of the dressing room. The mirror was cracked. A shower and toilet were beside it.

  “What are you doing?” Syd shouted as Ethan went to the mirror.

  “Preparing,” Ethan replied. Despite their predicament of a missing drummer, he felt surprisingly calm. “The show must go on.”

  “You’re fucking nuts!” Syd yelled, smiling. She knew.

  Gus was strapping on his bass. Syd was holding her white ES like a teddy bear, with both arms around it. The door opened again.

  “Yer on!” shouted gray-haired Hans.

  Gus, with his Fender Jazz in place, looked at Ethan as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. He nodded and left.

  “This is madness!” Syd screamed as she slung her guitar strap over her head. “Absolutely fucking nuts!”

  Ethan couldn’t remember seeing her look more excited.

  CHAPTER 59

  Thursday, January 17, 1985

  Ethan was climbing the temporary aluminum stairs at stage right when Gus hit the first low notes of “Don’t Tell Me.” The house lights dimmed. The stage lit up. Gus was at center stage. Ethan could only imagine what Greg’s friend Steve was going through in getting their lights and sound up from the limited access he likely had to the headliners’ sound equipment. But Gus looked and sounded great. The music swelled Ethan’s heart. Excitement like electricity filled the air. Gus’s playing had never sounded so good. His buzz-saw bass notes had a chest-ripping resonance through the arena, like the gut-wrenching power of a race car rocketing up to speed. Adrenaline surged through Ethan. He could only imagine how Gus felt as he heard his bass rumble through the arena, shaking anything that wasn’t fastened down. Ethan looked up into the darkness of the rafters and then at the crowd. Most were standing. The darkened rink and melodic thunder Gus was pounding out caused many to hustle toward the stage, silencing the din of conversations Ethan had walked into only moments before.

  As he stepped on the stage, teens were moving through the open doors in the white hockey boards. Syd sauntered into the stage lights, her guitar riff ripping through the dark air of the rink. Together they sounded magnificent. Ethan climbed behind Greg’s drum kit, which he figured Gus must have set up. He would pray and at least try to keep the beat. He only hoped Steve could keep up with their improvised start on the mixing console.

  As Gus repeated the first part of the song for the third time, Ethan started a simple rhythm on the rim of Greg’s snare. He’d keep a steady beat, sing to Syd’s guitar accents, and pray Greg was just late. He kept glancing stage side. They were screwed if Greg didn’t show soon, no matter what condition he was in; Greg seemed to play better high. The drugs appeared to relax him and quiet whatever was humming around inside his head.

  Ethan hadn’t played two bars of his click beat when Greg jumped onto the stage, opposite where the rest of the band had come on. A cheer rose from the small crowd gathered around the front of the stage, as if it were a choreographed part of their show. They could have rehearsed for weeks what happened next and never come close to what they pulled off.

  Greg took over his drum stool as if Ethan wasn’t there, never missing a beat in their improvised start. He looked high but lively.

  “I can—”

  Syd’s guitar riff overpowered Greg. He frowned and shook his head.

  Ethan looked up in time to see Syd glaring at Greg, playing as if her guitar were a low-slung shotgun pointed at the last person she wanted to see yet needed to see. Ethan knew she wouldn’t let Greg forget she didn’t appreciate his disappearing act, but their show would go on.

  Gus was all over his bass. Center stage was an unusual place for him, but he seemed to relish in its glory. He was coming to the end of his groove-pounding start with Syd trailing on the guitar when Ethan raised his new microphone to his lips. He didn’t move from his place beside the drum kit.

  “You can’t know what I’m feeling. You can’t know who I am,” he sang into the tight-wire mesh of his mike. No one could see the source of the voice coming through the PA except for the few standing right in front of the stage.

  The crowd erupted as he broke into the second part of the first verse.

  “But I’ll always be here for you, no matter where you think I am.”

  Several people pointed at him. He took it as his cue to move out beside Gus to sing the next line. He then bent forward and closed his eyes, feeling his long hair fall around his face. He screamed the next line.

  He gripped the mike tighter, its weight apparent. When he opened his eyes, Syd was beside him. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but understood the words “One Thing.” He turned as Gus approached her. She mouthed the same thing to him and then pounced on the final chord of “You Don’t Know What You’re Saying.” Ethan’s present had missed the set, but his somewhere else had been very present.

  In seconds, Syd jumped on one of her effects pedals and was into the first chords of the Fixx’s “One Thing Leads to Another” as Gus pulled the bass line apart. It would be the last song of their night.

  Ethan was quickly aware of where he was. It was the first time they’d played the song live. He smiled, remembering the night of Syd’s arrangement of “American Woman” at Benny’s. They were pulling out everything to finish, considering their nearly disastrous start.

  As they played into the final chorus, the house lights came on. Confused for a second, Ethan realized they’d worn out their welcome—but not with the crowd. Therein lay the problem: the crowd loved them too much.

  They kept playing in the full brightness of the arena’s house lights with no less intensity. Ethan kept singing. A moment later, the power was cut. Ethan could hear only his own voice and Greg’s drums. The crowd started to boo.

  At the best of times, performers were insecure out there in front of an unknown world; ego got all mixed up in the fold. The Release’s playing too long and too well with the crowd cheering had surely pushed the Living Cult beyond what they could take. The Release had broken the cardinal rule: no matter what, the opening act couldn’t outshine the headliner, no matter how good it felt. That night, a jealous headliner dealt with the situation the only way they knew how. Competition was the enemy.

  It was the last time the Release would open for the Living Cult. It was the last time the Release would open for anyone.

  CHAPTER 60

  Thursday, January 17, 1985

  Knowing why they’d been kicked off the stage didn’t lessen Ethan’s anger. But it wasn’t deep and faded quickly. He was more bothered by the pettiness of the action and getting shut down while p
laying a good song.

  “What the fuck was that?” he yelled, running down the stairs of the short corridor to their dressing room. The crowd’s disdain continued; the booing grew louder. The audience was never fooled.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Greg shouted right behind him. “That was amazing!”

  Syd was next and then Gus. Both had their guitars, never wanting to leave them unattended at shows where someone might damage or, worse, steal them. The growing angst of the crowd made them even more cautious.

  “Brilliant, Eth!” Gus cried, pulling a can of Budweiser out of the cooler that had become part of their entourage. His Fender Jazz was already in its case on the benches across from them. “What a way to start the show!”

  “Saved your fucking bacon tonight, buddy,” Ethan said to Greg, catching the can Gus tossed him. He pulled the aluminum tab. “Wait. Everybody get one.”

  Gus tossed cans to Greg and Syd. Greg’s sprayed against the wall as he opened it, splashing Syd.

  “You’re so fucked!” she screamed, opening her can in Greg’s face. She laughed as she emptied it on his head.

  “You bitch!” Greg shouted, shoving past her to grab another can while wiping the beer from his face. “Without me, tonight would not have happened.”

  Syd turned, her eyes wide in disbelief. She stood in front of her guitar case as if she were guarding it. “Without you?” she shouted. She pointed at Gus. “Without fucking him, you mean!”

  Gus smiled and raised his can. “To the Release!” he said, and he tossed another can to Syd. “And new beginnings!”

  “Just like every night,” Syd added, popping open her second beer.

  They all raised their cans and drank.

  “Let’s have another!” Ethan yelled, digging in the cooler for four more after downing his first. He was experiencing a feeling like the band’s name—the release of pressure built up from the show, his shoot, and his schedule. It was an addictive roller-coaster ride of never-ending ups and downs. When it seemed to be done, he knew it wasn’t over, and he found himself wanting and needing to repeat it again and again. He tossed a new can to each of them.