unclench your right hand
unclench your left hand
unclench your lips and teeth
exhale
be still
just stand there and breathe
and be alive, be alive, be alive
just be alive, be alive, be alive
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
feel the earth tug
at your soles,
the musky air settle on your skin
let it saturate
your brittle bones
bring you back to earth again
and be alive, be alive, be alive
just be alive, be alive, be alive
be alive, be alive, be alive
be alive, be alive, be alive
(repeat to fade)
I
t's nearly two am on a Saturday night, and Akim, Tristan, Lola, Jimmy T and I are playing rock ân' roll together on the stage at Harlock's Roadhouse. We've practiced every day from noon until two in the morning for the past two weeks, so we come across like a veteran bar band. Well, sort of â the generally high blood-alcohol level of the patrons is also contributing to our critical success. The women dance and spiral to Akim's hot guitar solos, and the guys cheer for Lola's singing, and likely also for her latest outfit (a present from Jimmy T, who seems to officially be her new boyfriend). The short skirt and dark stockings accentuate the curves of her legs, and the low-cut top displays her ample cleavage. She looks like a rock star.
Sure, each of us makes a few mistakes. Jimmy T plays an entire song one fret too high, but his shrill little amp is so drowned out by the rest of us that nobody in the audience notices anyway. Lola starts a song a couple of beats late, Tristan knocks over his mike stand with the neck of his Rickenbacker, and my timing veers off a couple of times as I watch Zoe writhe on the dance floor in front of the stage. But it doesn't seem to matter. The electric charge from the crowd is positive.
We finish the final song of our third set with a triumphant blast of sound. We acknowledge the noise of a few dozen clapping hands as if it's the thundering roar of a sell out crowd at a football stadium.
“Thank you very much! Give it up for Akim âFingers' Ganges on guitar, Tristan âThumper' Low on bass, âDrummer' Dak Sifter on the drums, and âLuscious' Lola Young on vocals!” Jimmy T barks into his microphone, with rhythm and cadence that suggest he's been practicing this moment all week. “And me? Me? Well you can call me Jimmy T! Thank you! Good night!”
Lola tugs him from the stage, slaps his ass, and they fondle each other into the shadows of the backstage area. I've spent my whole life chasing after Zoe Perry, and Jimmy T conquers the mighty Lola in less than three weeks? My mind reels. Does she really like his Mercedes that much?
“
Fingers?
” Akim protests as he sets down his guitar and departs the stage, “I'll give
him
the friggin'
finger
!”
“Hey, man, he called me âThumper', like I'm a Disney cartoon bunny or something,” Tristan says, “but so what? We sounded good tonight.”
A few people in the crowd start to chant for an encore, and soon nearly every voice in the bar has joined in. The cheering, combined with the effect of the many beers I chugged down between songs, plus the images of Zoe bouncing and gyrating in front of my drum set, inspires me to take a risk.
“Tristan,” I say, “Let's go up there and play that song we were working on together back in September.”
“Wha?” Tristan blurts. “You mean that ballad? The acoustic guitar thing?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Aw, I don't know, Dak,” he said. “It's maybe a bit quiet for this crowd. Besides, Akim is the guitar player, not me.”
“Go for it, Tristan,” Akim says. “I want to hear the song.”
“Aww, I don't know,” Tristan says.
“Tristan,” I tell him, “I want to sing it for Zoe.”
Tristan, perhaps recalling that it was me who helped him get together with Veronica, shrugs in agreement, and we step back onto the stage. Even though he's a bass player at heart, Tristan picks up Akim's Takamine semi-acoustic, and begins gently strumming as if he was born with it in his hands. I step up to the mike at centre stage.
“This is what our drummer looks like when he's not hidden behind the drums,” Tristan says into Akim's seldom-used mike. “He's gonna sing an original tune for you called âInvitation'. ”
The noise of people laughing and talking fades to almost nothing, and eyes turn towards the stage. I can see Jimmy T mouthing the words, “What The Hell Are You Doing!” from off stage.
“This is about a girl I knew in high school,” I say, and I look right at Zoe.
The song started out as a poem I wrote for her. I recited it out loud in front of everyone in Mr. Alvinstock's grade eleven English Composition class, and didn't even care about the other guys laughing at me from the back of the classroom. For a short but beautiful time after that, Zoe became my girlfriend. Maybe lightning can strike the same place twice. I begin singing:
You tell me
You grew up in a town
Where smiles disguised intentions
You tell me
You were brought up in a house
Where dreams were never mentioned
You imply
you can't distinguish
Truth from invention
It seems that we grew up together
It seems that we're from different places
Same town, same house, same run-around
Same problems, different cases
Tristan joins in on the next part, his thin, gritty singing voice creating a sloppy-but-charming drunken-sounding harmony, kind of like when Keith Richard harmonizes with Mick Jagger:
This is an open invitation
to come as you are
no need to dress up or down
no need to make a reservation
to dance without light
to drink all the night
from the shadows
We can tango through
this rainy syncopation
with heartbeats as strong and steady
as ritual drums
This is your invitation
To come
This is your invitation
To come
This is your invitation
To come
Zoe sways back and forth looking at the floor. Mission accomplished. The crowd erupts with applause, and Lola, Jimmy T and Akim join us onstage for the encore set.
“Good stuff, man,” Akim says to Tristan as both resume their positions on either side of the drums.
“Nice,” Lola agrees.
“We'll have to work on it as a band, though,” Jimmy T grunts. “It's not fair to take the spotlight away from the rest of us.”
Akim rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, you're the star of the band, right
Jimmy T?
”
But Jimmy T has already turned toward the crowd, shouting, “Can we rock you one more time? Can we please rock you one more time?”
He grins widely as they scream in response.
Everyone plugs in, cranks up, and we make with the loudness once again.
The crowd is still calling out for more as the houselights come up and the waitresses begin collecting empty bottles and glasses.
Lola and Jimmy T retreat behind the stage to thrash and roll around in a ball of limbs and sweat. Sung Li runs over to Akim, climbing him as she wildly kisses his face. “Hey, hey, don't knock over my Strat!” he grumbles, but you can tell he's enjoying the mauling.
Veronica meets Tristan on the other side of the stage, locks onto his mouth with hers, and whispers something in his ear that causes a happily dazed expression to spread across his face. Out on the dance floor, newly-minted young couples flirt and mouth promises to each other. All around me, lovers dance the dance.
I sigh and step out from behind the drums, to find Zoe standing right in front of me, her hands jammed into the front pockets of her jeans. Her eyes are big and round and liquid, her lips are tight.
“You played well tonight,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“You looked kind of good up there playing those drums,” she says quietly.
“You looked
very
good down there on the dance floor.”
“Um,” she said, “we could get together for lunch tomorrow, if you want to.”
“I'll come over tonight, if you want me to,” I said.
“Well . . . no, tomorrow. Maybe.”
She leaves to catch a ride home with Sung Lee, collecting glances from the remaining men as she moves through the thinning bar crowd.
Now the barroom is nearly empty, and all the members of our new band are gathered around one of the big, round tables â covered in sweat and stinking of nicotine, quaffing cheap, watery draft, basking in the afterglow of our first gig. My body feels as if it's been pumped full of helium. I feel like I'm either going to explode or float away.
The owner of Harlock's (whose actual name is Johnson) has paid us a hundred bucks each, and has booked us for another show in a month. He sends the waitress, Suzy, over to our table with fresh pitchers of lukewarm beer.
“On the house, kids,” Suzy says. “Mr. Johnson likes you. But you better get a name for this here band of yours, so he's got something to put up on the sign outside.”
She waddles away towards the bar.
“Okay, here's an idea for a band name,” Jimmy T says, nodding enthusiastically, “how about âJimmy T and the Jam'?”
“
Jimmy T
has got his head
jammed
up his friggin'
hole
if he thinks we're going to call our band that!” Akim says. “What the hell is this? Suddenly you think you're our leader?”
“Look, guys,” says Jimmy, gravely, “We need a name. I've given this a lot of thought . . . how about âJimmy T and the T-Birds', then?”
“Why don't we all dress up in matching shirts and pants, too, like the Dave Clark Five,” Akim scoffs. “Wouldn't that be
neat-o
, Jim?”
Jimmy T rolls his eyes, as if dealing with an unreasonable child. He turns to face Tristan and me. We've been nursing our beers across the table from the other three.
“What do you guys think of âJimmy T and the
Tramp
s', then? “
Before either Tristan or I can think of anything diplomatic to say, Akim shouts, “Listen up, dude! â
Jimmy T
' is gonna get â
tramped
' if he doesn't knock it off!”
Jimmy looks confused.
Akim shakes his head. “There are five of us in this band. We are not
your
band, get it? If you wanna have your name in the title, the most accurate name for our outfit would be âA
Good
Singer, Three
Good
Musicians . . .
and Jimmy T
'!”
Akim looks around desperately at Lola, Tristan, and me.
“Haven't you guys got any ideas for a name? And if one of you says âTristan's Treble Knobs', or âDak and the Dung Diggers', or âLola and the Lickers', so help me God I'll kill you all.”
“Lola and the
what
?” Lola says.
To prevent violence from breaking out, Tristan jumps in.
“How about âNot the Beatles'? We could have album titles like âNot Abbey Road' and âNot The White Album'.”
“Wait, wait!” says Jimmy T, his eyes lighting up eerily, “We're on the right track here . . . a
concept
name! We need a name that has a
cool explanation
. . . you know, something we can explain in interviews . . . like . . . like . . . ”
I can almost smell the grey matter scorching inside Jimmy's skull.
“
Jimage
!” he cheers.
There is confused silence all around.
“Jimmy, what are you talking about?” Lola asks.
“Wait, wait, this is good!” says Jimmy, “Listen to this: When a guy named Jim, like me, let's say, looks in the mirror . . . ”
“That's it,” Akim says, “I am going to
kill
you, you egocentric . . . ”
“Wait!” Jimmy says, “Hear me out! When a guy named Jim looks in the mirror, what does he see? Does he see his
image
?
No!
He sees his
Jimage
! Get it?”
We were all too stunned to speak.
“What?” he says, palms up in the air. “Is it too
conceptual
?”
“Yeah,” says Tristan, as seriously as he can, “it's too conceptual. People might not get it, you know?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees, nodding, “maybe it's a little too intellectual for a rock band name.”
Akim tries to catch my eye, but I can't look at him. I don't want to risk having my stomach wound re-opened by laughing. Or by Lola, either, who has already thrown me from a building on one occasion, and who might take offense at us mocking her new boyfriend.
“Um . . . what about âLoose Fish'?” I offer.
“Fish who like screwing?” Jimmy T smirks.
“It's a term from early Canadian history. Guys in the legislature who were independent and didn't belong to a political party were called âLoose Fish' by the other members, because they seemed to flap back and forth from the Left to the Right. Or something like that.”
“Thanks, Einstein,” Jimmy T says, “I didn't think it was a bad name until you gave the lecture. Now I
hate
it! I started playing rock ân' roll so I wouldn't
have
to know anything about history.”
“Last call, kids!” Suzy yells from behind the bar.
“Another round, Suze!” Akim hollers back, “we're not leaving here until we've got ourselves a name!”