“Come on, you two!” Akim shouts. “Get your hands out of each other's pants and get out here!”
They tiptoe through the curtain. Lola's face is flushed. Jimmy T turns away for a moment and zips his fly, pretending to be discreet about it, but of course wanting us all to know that he's just scored again. They assume their positions in front of their microphones, but they are still unable to keep their hands off each other.
“Oh, come on,” moans Akim, from the other side of the stage, “can't we even do a sound check without you two getting it on?”
“You're just all worked up 'cause you haven't had any for a couple of weeks,” Jimmy T grunts. “You'll get some soon enough.”
“Such a classy guy,” Akim says.
“Let's play the new song I wrote,” I suggest.
“Oh, the one about
Zoe
?” Jimmy T mocks. “Looks like Dak is trying for a conjugal visit as well, eh? Good luck, bro.”
“Just play the damn song, Jimmy,” Akim says.
“Hey, it's not my fault he's chasing after a chick who doesn't want him,” he says.
“Shut up and play!” Tristan says. I guess the road trip is finally getting to him, too.
The song starts with just Akim and Jimmy playing a funky little reggae bit (Akim nearly gave himself a migraine trying to teach Jimmy T how to play the simple, muted rhythm chords). Then I come in with a syncopated beat on the high-hats, and Tristan follows with a twisty, slithering bassline. Lola harmonizes perfectly with me as we sing:
Even the waitress in the restaurant
where we used to go
Even the waitress in the restaurant
she wants to know
“Where's your girlfriend? What a couple!
I love serving you!”
Everybody knew we had it
except for you
I can live through this
But I can't smile or sing or dance
On the word “dance,” I rip into my drums full force. Akim kicks the switch and sends his amp buzzing into overdrive, and Tristan begins plucking little bursts of thunder from his bass strings. Jimmy, as usual, forgets to switch his overdrive on, but luckily the rest of us pretty much drown out the feeble, squeaky chords bleating from his amp.
Now I'm howling (and, on a good night with a good crowd, people would be jumping to their feet to dance along with the pounding rhythm):
I would love to see you open up to me
But I will not pry
And I could use a little release
But I cannot cry
And I love the way that you erode me
Every time you sigh
And I would love to move you
But I will not push
And I would love to tell you everything
But I'm muffled by this hush
And I'd like to take your burdens on me
And laugh as I get crushed
Jimmy adds a third vocal harmony to Lola's on the chorus, and it sounds so good that I almost forgive him for his lame guitar sound:
And I can live through this
But I can't smile or sing or dance
A short, sweet solo from Akim, then:
The answers to your questions came to me
as if from above
And I could feel you from across a table
such metaphoric love
And our words all worked together
Like lines in a movie script
But you've torn the sails, and the rats have bailed
And I'm sinking with the ship
Tristan, Jimmy T, Lola and I are all singing in harmony now:
I can live through this
But I can't smile or sing or dance
A big wail-a-thon, with Akim wrenching beautiful soaring notes from his Strat, Tristan thumping up and down and all around on the bass, and even Jimmy, who has finally remembered to kick his distortion channel on, laying down some chunky rhythm guitar, only to have to switch it off again for the softer ending: the return to the simple reggae beat of the introduction:
Even the waitress in the restaurant
where we used to go
Even the waitress in the restaurant
she wants to know
. . .
“Damn that song kicks ass!” Jimmy T cheers. “We need to keep ol' Dak here lonely and horny so he can keep writing good shit like that!”
Tristan calls out to the waitress behind the bar at the other end of the long room.
“Everything sound okay back there?”
The waitress flashes us a thumbs-up.
“Great!” Jimmy T says, setting his guitar down. “Sound check's over. I'm getting a beer!”
Akim and Tristan sit down at a table to write out the song list, and Jimmy T runs to the bar to order a drink from the cute waitress, leaving Lola standing there on the stage with me.
“Jesus,” Lola says to me. “He knows I'm right here, doesn't he? I'll bet he flirts even more when I'm not around to keep an eye on him.”
Since she didn't exactly ask a question, I'm relieved that I don't have to give her an answer. “You sounded great on
Even the Waitress
, Lola.”
“It's a good song. If Zoe doesn't come running back to you after all these songs you keep writing for her, I'm going to have to give her head a shake!”
“I'd rather you didn't.”
She sighs. “I wish someone cared as much about me.”
“What about Jimmy T?” I say, immediately regretting it.
Lola simply glances toward the bar at the back of the room, where the waitress is giggling at whatever tale Jimmy T is spinning for her.
“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You're more committed to Zoe than Jimmy is to me, and I
sleep
with Jimmy T. Zoe isn't even
dating
you. She ought to have her head examined.”
Lola steps toward the back of the stage, adding, “And so should I.” She disappears behind the black curtain. I step down from the stage to join Akim and Tristan, when Lola pokes her head out from behind the curtain.
“Hey, Sifter. Are we gonna do the
other
new song, the song about you-know-who?
“Definitely.” I say. “Especially if she brings
him
along.”
“Good,” Lola says. “I'm in the mood to see an asshole suffer.”
She disappears behind the curtain again.
We've played a hot first set, and Rockin' Rob's Roadhouse is now filled to capacity. The air rumbles with the sound of a hundred voices, accentuated with the percussion of beer bottles hitting tabletops, pool balls clacking together, and the occasional glass smashing against the concrete floor. As Tristan, Akim and I file onto the stage to play our second set of the night, and Jimmy T and Lola appear from behind the black curtain, the crowd erupts, cheering and hooting. Wow. After three weeks of playing mostly-empty small-town watering holes, this is a rare and welcome show of enthusiasm.
Jimmy T would normally be eating up every second of this adoration, stretching himself wide to absorb it all, but at the moment he looks meek and shrunken. In lieu of their usual pre-set quickie, Lola has spent the last ten minutes backstage screaming at Jimmy T for his second trip to the bar to visit the attractive waitress. When he claimed that he was just doing his “public relations job,” that just pissed off Lola even more. As she takes her position at centre stage, her face is still flushed red from her tantrum.
Akim and Tristan wave to the energetic crowd as they strap on their guitars, but their minds are elsewhere. Sung Li and Veronica have not arrived at the bar yet, and they were supposed to have been here over an hour ago. Of course I'm worried, too. Zoe is supposed to come with them.
Lola's anger, though, brings the rock ân' roll back to our otherwise deflated band.
“How's everybody doing out there on this fine Saturday night?” she shrieks at her microphone.
The crowd roars back at her.
“Do you feel like rockin' on this Saturday night?”
Another roar, even louder.
“Do you feel like jumping up and down? Do you feel like spinning all around? Do you feel like
kicking some ass
on this Saturday night?”
The hundred voices reverberate like a thousand.
Lola counts the band in, “One, two, ONE TWO THREE FOUR!”
We kick into one of our best cover songs, one that Lola has introduced perfectly: “Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting”.
The dance floor is jammed with bodies, dancing, jumping, spinning. Lola's gritty vocals are more powerful when she's angry, and her energy drives the band, and the crowd, into a frenzy. On the dance floor, bodies careen around wildly. Then there is bumping and shoving. A few random fights break out. At the end of the song, there is a roar like ten thousand voices, wanting more, more, more.
Then I see Zoe's face pop through the surface of the writhing sea of frenzied dancers. Tristan waves to Veronica when he catches her eye. Akim grins as Sung Li pushes her way through the crowd to the front of the stage.
As Lola shouts, “Yeah! Rock ân' roll!” my soaring heart stalls and crashes. Emerging from the crowd behind Zoe is Jerry. Great. Her “boyfriend” tagged along for the ride. Wonderful.
Lola glances back at me, then says into the mike, “How would you folks like to hear a Featherless Bipeds original?”
Of course the crowd responds at full volume; Lola holds them in the palm of her hand.
“Our drummer wrote this! Take it away, Dak!”
Holding her outstretched arms in my direction, Lola steps aside. Down there at the edge of the stage, Zoe's mouth is open, and she's looking right up at me. Immediately my throat gets dry.
Then I see Jerry. He's standing to one side of Zoe, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, muttering to himself. A new feeling rushes through me like a cascade of cool water.
“This one's called âStunt Man',” I say into my mike. “And I'd like to dedicate this song to my old buddy Jerry.”
Tristan starts the song with a throbbing bassline, I dig into the drums, and look right at Jerry as I start singing:
Unlike the moving picture
Projected on that silver cloth
Who plays the lover's role
Who plays the hero's part
There's no need here for a mannequin
With plastic hair and breasts
To complete a movie still
Behind a plate of plastic glass
Won't see me in a tailored trench coat
Playing dress-up debonair
Blowing smoky movie promises
As the camera lens inhales
Lola joins in with a high, powerful harmony on the next verse, mirroring the same wicked grin that stretches across my own face.
But when the script calls for your body to
Thrash helpless through the air
And the leading man can't take the risk
of messing up his hair
The stunt man will be me
The band pauses, the hiss of a crash cymbal and the sustain from one of Akim's power chords still hanging in the air. The crowd holds their breath, and I sing:
I'll be there
Then, one by one, Lola adds a harmony layer, then Jimmy T another, then Tristan; then Akim throws in a rumbling bass part:
I'll be there
. . .
I'll be there
. . .
I'll be there
. . .
I'll be there
Akim cuts into a sizzling solo, and everyone in the crowd thrashes about like it's their last night on Earth. Veronica, Sung Li, and Zoe writhe and spin like they're possessed, which only makes Akim, Tristan and me play even harder.
Jerry does not dance.
We play a dozen more songs, and the collective frenzy does not subside. By the time Lola finally calls out, “We'll be back after a short break!” every member of the Featherless Bipeds, and just about everybody else at the Triple R, is drenched in sweat. During our smash-n-crash rundown of the last song, I pump the bass drum pedal so hard that it breaks through the drum skin. Oops
â I'll have to patch that up before our next set begins.
Sung Li scrambles to climb the stage to get to Akim, then continues climbing him. Tristan jumps from the stage to meet Veronica. It's as if they're bonding chemically. Jimmy T inches over to Lola and puts his arm lightly around her shoulder. She shrugs his arm away and stomps off to the backstage room. The waitress behind the bar waves to Jimmy T, but this time he just looks away, and slumps along behind me down the steps from the stage to the floor.
I walk over to where Zoe is standing with Jerry. Zoe is bouncing on her toes. She is glistening with sweat. I can almost feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“Wow! That was soooooo awesome, Dak!” she cheers. “You guys sure have come a long way from you and Tristan making a racket in your dorm room.”
As if she can't contain the residual dance floor energy bubbling inside her, she jumps forward, throwing her arms around me.
Jerry clears his throat. Zoe steps back from me.
“Hello, Jerry,” I say to him.
“Hello, Dick,” he says.
“Dak, actually,” I remind him.
“Hey, man,” Jimmy T says, stepping out from behind me, extending his hand to Jerry, “Is that an Alpha Beta fraternity ring you're wearing?”
“Uh, yes, it is,” Jerry says.
“Well, then,” Jimmy T says brightly, “I guess that makes us brothers, eh?”
“You're an Alpha Beta?” Jerry says, tentatively shaking Jimmy T's hand.
“So was my father,” Jimmy T says. “You've heard of Bentley K. Tanner?”
“Holy shit,” Jerry gasps, “our chapter's Patron of Honour! Let me buy you a beer, man.”
The two of them saunter off to the bar like true rent-a-friends. Jerry glances over his shoulder and probably realizes that he's just left Zoe and me standing there alone together, but it's to late for him to turn back. He and Jimmy T are “brothers”, after all.