AT 29 (24 page)

“Maybe I ought to give you a picture of that future since that's where you're going. Well, maybe not, since you don't have the nerve to start here and now. But, let me paint it for you anyway. Right now, the music's fused together. That's our rock ‘n' roll; all bunched up with rhythm and blues, southern jazz, gospel, boogie and swing, tightly bound. The pendulum swung that way at the end of World War II because all those guys came home from the war aware that they were lucky to be alive and eager to pursue anything that signified enjoying life to the fullest. They knew how short it could be. They had no interest in being tied down by the superstitions and artificial barriers of their parents. Remember, they had already seen it all; death, destruction, utter despair. So, if they heard something they liked, they allowed themselves to enjoy it and they didn't care one bit about where it came from. That's why Sam Phillips and his peers didn't give a damn about who was making the music or the classifications between this kind and that kind. Throw it all together and see what happens, that was the mantra. Now, we are well into the revolution. In a few years the pendulum is going to start swinging back. Rock will begin to split into subcategories where its practitioners will go deeper into unique styles and types. For my money it will be future fabulous black musicians who will lead the way again. Maybe we'll hear horns muscle today's king guitar out of the way. Maybe there will be artificial machines that branch off into a completely new sound. Then in our old age or after we're dead, it will all fuse together again and on and on. But, so what? You don't care! Your music is only for you. Nobody knows you. Nobody knows anything about your music.

“The fat kid, the pimply kid, the beautiful girl, my brother, you're just like all of them, raw talent that needs a push. Go ahead, sit here with this psycho, but don't ever say you didn't have a chance!”

He left the room, slamming the door while Jimmy and Psycho stared wide-eyed in shock.

“What was that?” Psycho asked.

Jimmy left the room without answering. He tiptoed across the hall and sheepishly peered through Kevin's partially open door, spotting him fiddling with the knobs of his stereo. He pushed the door wide.

“Tell me more.”

***

Wilder Auditorium housed a bandbox theater on the edge of campus. Backstage, there was little room for the volunteer performers who huddled together, some quietly nervous like Jimmy, others whispering jokes back and forth, unconcerned. Good-natured catcalls mixed in with applause as the show worked its way through each act. Most were amateur takeoffs of well-known songs with a few hilarious skits mixed in.

Kevin and Jimmy had decided what they wanted to do the day before. They closed the door to Kevin's room and ran through two songs with Kevin doing a soft beat on his set of drums in the corner. Jimmy stood in the center of the room, pretending to sing into an imaginary mike. The real thing would be in front of him onstage. He'd never stood before an audience and, therefore, had no idea what to do with a microphone.

“You'll have to get up close like you're kissing it,” Kevin said. “Whatever you do, sing naturally like you would if it wasn't there. Let it carry your true voice.”

Jimmy closed his eyes, trying to imagine what to do. He sang a slow version of Neil Sedaka's,
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
, then waited several moments for Kevin to set the beat to
Lulu
.

“Remember,” Kevin cautioned, “I'm going to do a slow lead-in. You have to wait for me to slip into the beat, then I want you to nonchalantly approach the mike, open with the guitar and bring in the vocals after everything is setup.”

“Tell me again, why we're doing this?” Jimmy pleaded, wishing he could run away.

“I'm doing it because I need to stay in practice. You're doing it to see what happens. As for going last, it's the best spot on the schedule. By the time we get out there the crowd will be laughing and relaxed. They'll be looking for a pair of amateurs mugging and dancing around. They'll expect to laugh their way out when it's done, but that's not what's gonna happen. They'll see and hear a real talent for the first time all night.”

“I doubt it.”

“No negative thoughts. Sedaka's thing is good, a nice, teary first song. The older folks, who remember the original, will probably be surprised when they hear us drop it down. Once you're done, everyone will know the laughs are over and it's time to listen up. That's exactly why I'm going to go long and slow on the drums before you launch into
Lulu
. By the time you move back to the mike, they'll be on the edge of their seats. That's when you have to be careful. Look out over their heads. Make no eye contact that could throw off your concentration. You have the three keys to a successful performance; good guitar, good vocals and a great song. You're gonna wow'em.”

Jimmy had grave misgivings. Singing and playing the Gibson had always been for him alone. Sharing it with others never occurred to him. Now, he stood backstage with his knees shaking and sweat beading on his brow, waiting to die. It was the opposite for the kid he barely knew, standing confidently by his side. Jimmy yearned to be as carefree and relaxed as Kevin. Is that all it took to banish the butterflies, a few gigs onstage in front of people? Jimmy glanced at his drummer, studying Kevin's lack of concern as he joked with several others who had just exited the stage to hoots and hollers. Jimmy couldn't talk. He could barely think beyond the whirling doubts that locked his nerves in anxiety. Kevin turned back from his chat just in time to catch Jimmy looking.

“We're up next.” He beamed with anticipation.

When it was time to take the stage Jimmy knew he wasn't ready. He stumbled on the side curtain, almost falling as the Gibson slipped off his shoulder. Kevin reached out and caught the guitar before it hit the floor. He handed it back to Jimmy with a wink. They emerged onstage just as the emcee finished their introduction, doing a perfect impersonation of Ed Sullivan. Jimmy stared out above the foot lights at the audience. Every seat was taken and there were dozens standing in the rear. Polite applause greeted them. The microphone stood at center stage. It was all he could do to get to it as his legs shook and sweat dripped from every pore in his body. Jimmy Buckman had a classic case of stage fright.

The mike was set too low. With the Gibson strapped over his shoulder, he reached down and fiddled endlessly with the adjusting knob to no avail. He wanted to run away. From the audience came catcalls, “Get on with it! Then another, “It's called a microphone!” Ripples of laughter rose from a few sections. Finally, Kevin raised himself from the drums and came to Jimmy's side. He easily adjusted the mike to the correct height. Then he cupped his palm over the mouthpiece so he could speak without being heard. The emcee, offstage, was twirling his finger to speed things up. Kevin ignored him.

“Never order the mushroom omelet.”

“What?”

“I had it for breakfast at the cafeteria this morning. Puked my guts out.” Then he waved at the audience and strode back to his drums, leaving Jimmy to stare, first at his backside, and then at the restless audience out front. He tried with all his might to collect himself as Kevin picked up his drumsticks and began to tap.

In that instant it all changed. The audience broke into applause. Jimmy pulled the Gibson down from his back, lifted it high to his chest, brought his lips close to the microphone and began to sing. By the time he finished both the audience and his nerves were under control. Long before the first song's applause died down, Kevin began to thump his base drum in a slow rhythm that Jimmy carefully waited on beat after beat. Seconds ticked off as the audience quieted and leaned forward in their seats. This was no amateur skit like the ones that came before. Kevin was right all along. As the drummer kept up the beat, Jimmy's confidence grew. He no longer worried about the mike, his nerves or even the crowd that looked up at him in anticipation. When Kevin brought his drumsticks into the mix, rapping them sharply on the metal rim of his snare, not even the timing that it signaled, a faster tempo that they had neither discussed nor practiced, affected Jimmy's calm. He simply tapped his foot and went with it as he launched the Gibson into the opening chords of
Lulu
. The opening was perfect.

By the second verse clapping broke out, timed perfectly to Kevin's beat. Jimmy's fingers flew instinctively over the strings, stronger and with more purpose, matching the exhilarated intensity of his voice. This was his song, being performed before an audience for the first time, being played better than he had ever played it before, receiving rapt attention from people hearing it for the first time, filling its creator with a thrill he never dreamed possible.

When he finished the crowd was on its feet, clapping and whistling. The emcee ran onto the stage and took Jimmy's arm, raising it high as he shouted, “How'd you like that!” into the microphone. Kevin joined them, slapping Jimmy on the back as he
acknowledged the crowd's applause with a fist pump. Jimmy was stunned, unable to do anything, but take it all in.

The curtain closed amid shouts for more. The stage manager hustled the rest of the night's performers onstage. It took a few seconds for everyone to assemble before the curtains opened again. This time the clapping grew louder and shouts filled the theater. The emcee stayed close between Jimmy and Kevin, yelling in their ears, “Best finish since I've been here!”

Two curtain calls later, the noise died down and the audience made its way to the exits. The performers left the stage, buzzing with energy. Kevin led Jimmy to the side, down the steps and through the back door, exiting to a small parking lot. He lit a joint, holding it out to Jimmy.

“Man that was good!” he said, lighting another. “I haven't felt this high since the battle of the bands back home.”

Jimmy played with his smoke. “Where'd you get these?”

“Pothead. You started out shaky, but then you found your groove.”

“I would have died out there without you.”

“That's why I told you about the omelet.”

“Yeah, what was that all about?”

“Just a little trick to settle you down. Story's true, though. Skip the mushrooms.”

The Crusader Club hosted a party after the show. Beer flowed freely from kegs positioned in the center of the Quad. A bonfire raged at one end while a makeshift platform stood at the other with long wires running from microphones to amplifiers at each side. Faculty and staff knew not to come around when the Crusader Club threw one of its bashes. As long as the festivities didn't migrate off campus, the administration was content to let the partying run its course. It was an all night binge for those who came, which was every student at the school. Some of the skits that garnered the biggest laughs were performed again on the platform, getting even more laughs from the drunken onlookers. Shouts of
Lulu
could be heard from time to time, but Jimmy and Kevin were partying too much to answer the call.

The binge broke up at daybreak. Jimmy crashed in one of the empty bunks in Kevin's room. Music played softly from the stereo, but neither of them heard it as they slept the day away. That night, still hung over, they gathered Jimmy's things from his room and moved them across the hall.

In the following weeks, the roommates went often to the basement of Regent Hall. Kevin set up his drums and began to tinker with Jimmy's method, showing him how different beats and tempos could completely change a song. They tried dozens of combinations, but Jimmy consistently fought Kevin's insistence that he set the Gibson aside and go electric.

“Right now, you think of yourself as a folk singer. There's nothing wrong with that because you have a nice voice. Staying acoustic brings it to the forefront. So go ahead and hone your skills. Just remember what happened at the talent show when I kicked up the tempo, the song was better and you slid into it like a natural. That was the tip of the iceberg, just a drumbeat enhancing your guitar and vocals. Once you get a whole band behind you, your real potential will come out.”

The combination of mid-term exams and a freak snowstorm just before the Thanksgiving break, kept the majority of students on-campus over a weekend. Kevin,
true to his plan to flunk out, never studied. He had plenty of time on his hands. Jimmy, weary of the library and seeking a break, found him in the basement, as always, pounding away on his drums. He took the Gibson and joined in for an impromptu jam. After an hour, some students wandered in, pulled up chairs and sat down to listen. An hour later, Regent's basement was full. Jimmy and Kevin played and sang deep into the night as the outside snow piled to two feet. Neither of them planned to make this a weekly gig, but it turned out that way, Friday and some Saturday nights, until Kevin's disappearance the following March.

Most nights, back in the room, Kevin introduced Jimmy to the music he described in his lecture. Mixed in with the best of Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis, were artists unknown to Jimmy like Louis Jordan and Bessie Smith.

“What you're hearing are the roots to everything we hear today. Folk rock, rock ‘n' roll and, even some of the latest country music, can be traced back to the music blacks made all across the south. You really ought to ditch that Gibson for a bigger sound. We can go into Burlington tomorrow and get you a decent used solid body.”

Jimmy demurred. “I like my Gibson.”

“Sooner or later you'll go that way.”

“What did your uncle say when he heard the tape?”

“What tape?”

“You said you made a tape of me and sent it to him.”

Kevin's face lit up as he suddenly remembered, “Oh, that was just to get you to do the show.”

“You never sent it to him?” Jimmy couldn't hide his disappointment.

“People in the music business are snakes. My uncle is a King Cobra. If I sent him a tape of
Lulu
the next thing we'd hear is one of his studio boys on the radio singing it. He'd steal it without a second thought. Neither of us would ever see a credit or a dime.”