Apprehended (6 page)

“Don't worry about it,” Mack said placatingly. “She'll be very professional.”

Gordon didn't look convinced.

“Uh, Buzz,” Mack said, “the house is starting to fill up. Maybe you should find some seats for your friends.”

I thought Mack was just trying to make the band's in-fighting more private, but when Buzz led us back out into the club, a transformation had taken place. Taped music was playing over the speakers, a recording of frenzied sax riffs that could barely be heard above people talking and laughing and drinking.

There was an audience now. The man in the business suit had left the bar, and the place was starting to fill up with a crowd that seemed mainly to be made up of young . . . as I sought a word for the beret-clad, goatee-wearing men and their mini-skirted female companions, Frank whispered, “Beatniks! And to think I gave away my bongo drums.”

“Poetry and bongo drums?” I whispered back. “Did Kerouac make you want to run away from home?”

“As Buzz said, I'm not
that
old.”

Buzz wanted us to sit near the stage, but I knew better. I muttered something about acoustics and we found a table along the back wall, next to the sound man. Buzz sat with us for a few minutes, and I was pleased to see that Frank was starting to genuinely like him.

Buzz might not be sarcastic, but he is Irish, and he was spinning out a tale about learning to play the uilleann pipes that had us weeping with laughter. Just then a woman walked on stage, shielded her eyes from the lights and said over one of the microphones, “Buzz! Get your ass up here now!”

Q:
 What's the difference between a singer and a terrorist?

A:
 You can negotiate with a terrorist.

The club fell silent and there was a small ripple of nervous laughter before conversation started up again. The sound man belatedly leaned over and turned off her mike. He shook his head, murmured,
“Maybe
I'll remember to turn that on again, bitch,” and upped the volume on the house speakers. I could hear the saxophone recording more clearly now, but I was distracted by my anger toward the woman.

She was thin and dressed in a black outfit that was smaller than some of my socks. Her hair was short and spiky; I couldn't see her eyes, but her mouth was hard, her lips drawn tight in a painted ruby slash across her pale face.

“Joleen,” Buzz said, as if the name explained everything. He quickly excused himself and hurried up to the stage as Joleen stepped back out of the lights. The other members of the band soon joined them on stage. If Buzz had been bothered by her tone, he didn't show it.

The group did a sound check, only briefly delayed while Joleen cussed out the sound man and proved she might not need a mike. The members of the band then left the stage with an argument in progress. Although I couldn't make out what they were saying, Gordon and Joleen were snapping at one another, the drummer looking ready to raise a couple of knots on her head. Mack was making “keep it quiet” motions with his hands, while Buzz seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, ignoring all of them.

“I think I'm going to need a drink,” Frank said. “You want one?”

“Tell you what—I'll drive home. Have at it.”

Frank spent some time talking to the bartender, then came back with a couple of scotches. He downed the first one fairly quickly, and was taking his time with the second when the band came back on stage.

Q:
 How can you tell if a stage is level?

A:
 The bass player is drooling out of both sides of his mouth.

The sound man turned on his own mike and said, “Club Ninety-nine is pleased to welcome The Waste Land.” There was a round of enthusiastic applause. Joleen held the mike up to her lips and said softly, “We're going to start off with a little something called ‘Ankle Bone.' ” Amid hoots and whistles of approval, the band began to play.

The music was rapid-fire and intricate, and quite obviously required great technical skill. Joleen's voice hit notes on an incredible range. There were no lyrics (unless they were in some language spoken off planet), but her wild mix of syllables and sounds was clearly not sloppy or accidental.

The rest of the band equaled her intensity. As Mack and Buzz played, their fingers flew along the frets; Gordon drummed to complex and changing time signatures. But at the end of the first song and Frank's second scotch, he leaned over and whispered, “Five bucks if you can hum any of that back to me.”

He was right, of course, but out of loyalty to Buzz, I said, “They just aren't confined by the need to be melodic.”

Frank gave an emperor's new clothes sort of snort and stood up. “I'm going to get another drink. I'll pay cab fare for all three of us if you want to join me.”

Figuring it would hurt Buzz's feelings if we were both drunk by the end of his gig, I said, “No thanks.”

Q:
 What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?

A:
 A guitar player.

By the end of the set, I was seriously considering hurting Buzz's feelings. “Get outside!” one member of the audience yelled in encouragement to the band, and when the sound man muttered, “And stay there,” I found myself in agreement. The crowd applauded wildly after every piece (I could no longer think of them as songs, nor remember which one was “Jar of Jam” and which was “Hangman's Slip Knot”), but long before the set ended, I had a headache that could drive nails.

Buzz grabbed a bottle of beer at the bar and came back to our table, smiling. Frank surprised me by offering the first compliment.

“You're one hell of a player, Buzz.”

“Thanks, man.”

They proceeded to go through an elaborate handshaking ritual that left me staring at my husband in wonder. I was spared any comment on music or male ceremonial greetings when Gordon grabbed the seat next to Buzz.

“Excuse us,” Gordon said, turning his shoulders away from us and toward Buzz. “You never told me—did you listen to that tape?”

“Keep your voice down,” Buzz said, glancing back toward the stage, where Joleen was apparently complaining about something to Mack. He turned back to Gordon. “Yeah, I listened. Your friend's got great keyboard chops.”

“Yeah, and you have to admit, Susan's also got a better voice than Joleen's. Great bod, too.”

Buzz glanced back at the stage. “Joleen's bod isn't so bad.”

“No, just her attitude. Think of how much better off our band would be with Susan.”

“But Joleen started this band—”

“And she's about to finish it, man. She rags on all of us all of the time. I'm getting tired of it. This band would be better off without her.”

“But they're her songs.”

“Hers and Mack's. He has as much right to them as she does.”

Buzz frowned, toyed with his beer. “What does Mack say?”

Gordon shrugged. “I'm working on him. I know he was knocked out by Susan's tape. If you say you're up for making the change, I know he will be, too.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Look, Buzz, I really love playing with you. Same with Mack. But I can't take much more of Joleen.”

“But Europe . . .”

“Exactly. Think of spending ten weeks traveling with that bitch. You want to be in a car with her for more than ten minutes?”

I looked up and saw Joleen walking toward us with purpose in every angry stride. “Uh, Buzz—” I tried to warn, but she was already shouting toward our table.

“I know exactly what you're up to, asshole!”

Gordon and Buzz looked up guiltily, but in the next moment it became clear that she was talking to the sound man. He didn't seem impressed by her fury.

“You're screwing around with the monitors, aren't you?”

The sound man just laughed.

Joleen stood between Frank and me and pointed at the sound man. “You won't be laughing long, mother—”

“Joleen,” Buzz said, trying to intercede.

“Shut up, you little twerp! You don't know shit about music. If you did, you'd understand what this jerk is doing.
You
try singing while some clown is fooling around with your monitor, making it play back a half-step off.”

The effect the sound man had created must have been maddening; the notes she heard back through the speaker at her feet on stage would be just slightly off the notes she sang into the mike. Still, I couldn't help but bristle at her comments to Buzz.

Instead of being angry with her, though, Buzz turned to the sound man and said, “Dude, that's a pretty awful thing to do to her. She's singing some really elaborate stuff, music that takes all kinds of concentration, and you're messing with her head.”

The sound man broke eye contact with him, shrugged one shoulder.

“See?” Buzz said to Joleen. “He's sorry. I'm sure it won't happen next set.” Before Joleen could protest, Buzz turned to us and asked, “How's it sounding out here?”

Picking up my cue, I said, “Wonderful. He's doing a great job for you guys.”

“And what the hell would you know about it?” she asked.

“Joleen,” Buzz said, “this is my friend from the paper.”

She stopped mid-tantrum and looked at me with new interest. “A reviewer?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Well, I was right, then. You don't know what you're talking about.” She eyed Frank and said, “You or this cop.”

“How did you know he's a cop?” Buzz asked, but before she could answer, Frank took hold of her wrist and turned it out, so that the inside of her arm was facing Buzz.

“Oh,” he said, “junkies just seem to have a sixth sense about these things.”

She pulled her arm away. “They're old tracks and you know it. I haven't used in years.”

Frank shrugged. “If you say so. I really don't want to check out the places I'd have to look if I wanted to be sure.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but stomped away without another word.

“Shit,” Gordon said. “You need anything else to convince you about what I said, Buzz?”

“She brought me into the band, man. It just doesn't seem right.”

“If another guitar player came along, she'd do this to you in a minute,” Gordon said. “You know she would.”

Buzz sighed. “We've got three more nights here. Let's at least wait until we finish out this gig to make a decision.” Gordon seemed ready to say more, but then excused himself and walked backstage.

The minute Gordon was out of earshot, Buzz turned to Frank. “Were they old tracks?”

“Yes.”

“I feel stupid not noticing. Not that it matters. If they're old, I mean.” His face turned red. “What I mean is, she can really sing.”

I watched him for a moment, then said, “You like her.”

“Yeah,” Buzz said, and forced a laugh. “It's obviously not mutual.” He looked toward the stage, then rubbed his hand over his chest, as if easing an ache. “Well, I better get ready for the next set.” Frank watched him walk off, then looked over at me. He pushed his drink aside, moved his chair closer to mine.

Q:
 What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend?

A:
 Homeless.

Buzz seemed to recover his good humor by the time he was on stage. There was an air of anticipation in the audience now. It seemed that most of them had heard the band before, and were eagerly awaiting the beginning of this set.

As the band members took their places, I sat wondering what Buzz saw in Joleen. My question was soon answered, though not in words.

Buzz and Joleen stood at opposite ends of the stage, facing straight ahead, not so much as glancing at one another. She sang three notes, clear and sweet, and then Buzz began to sing with her, his voice blending perfectly with hers. It was a slow, melodic passage, sung a cappella. The audience was absolutely silent—even Frank sat forward and listened closely.

They sang with their eyes closed, as if they would brook no interference from other senses. But they were meeting, somewhere out in the smoky haze above the room, above us all, touching one another with nothing more than sound.

The song's pace began to quicken and quicken, the voices dividing and yet echoing one another again and again until at last their voices came together, holding one note, letting it ring out over us, ending only as the instruments joined in.

The crowd cheered, but the musicians were in a world of their own. Buzz turned to Gordon and Mack, all three of them smiling as they played increasingly difficult variations on a theme. I watched Joleen; she was standing back now, letting the instrumentalists take center stage, her eyes still closed. But as Buzz took a solo, I saw her smile to herself. It was the only time she smiled all evening.

The song ended and the crowd came to its feet, shouting in acclaim.

Q:
 Did you hear about the time the bass player locked his keys in the car?

A:
 It took two hours to get the drummer out.

Mack joined us during the second break between sets. With Buzz's encouragement, he told us about the years he studied at Berkeley, where he met Joleen, and about some of the odd day jobs and strange gigs he had taken while trying to make headway with his music career—including once being hired by a Washington socialite to play piano for her dog's birthday party.

We spent more time talking to Mack than to Buzz, whose attentions were taken by another guitar player, a young man who had stopped by to hear the band and now had questions about Buzz's “rig”—which Mack explained was not just equipment, but the ways in which the guitar had been modified, the set-up for the synthesizer, and all the other mechanical and electronic aspects of Buzz's playing.

“None of which will ever help that poor bastard play like Buzz does,” he said. “Buzz has the gift.”