Tempo Change (18 page)

“How long are you here for?”

“Just the week. I’m driving up north to see some friends. Then it’s back to Paradise.”

“I wonder. I mean, if it’s so great … I wonder if I shouldn’t come over and visit you sometime?”

His face didn’t change so if he hated the idea he hid it well.

He said, “Absolutely. Maybe a graduation present. When does that happen?”

“Two more years.”

“Well, maybe before that. But let’s not jump ahead. We’ve got today.”

“Yeah, and maybe you could stay for the concerts tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

By now Ella and Gigi had figured out what was going on. They wandered over, keeping a bit of a distance, until I waved them over, indicating it was safe.

“Ella, Gigi, Dad. Duncan Kelly.”

They mumbled something about being honored and shook his hand.

“So this is the band? Nice look. The Fringers. I get it.” He pointed to Ella. “Drummer?”

She nodded.

“Bass?” he questioned Gigi.

“Yes, but it’s not my first instrument. I’m a pianist. But we needed bass and my dad used to play so I just picked it up in a matter of weeks.”

I widened my eyes at her. She was turning into her own PR agent, as if she were auditioning for him. When she saw my expression she just shrugged.

“Well, congratulations on getting here,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

I saw Rodney and Erica approaching and my stomach started to turn over. I realized it was getting close to time to start and that this was it for my big encounter with my father. We could talk later but the grand reunion moment was complete. It wasn’t what I’d thought it would be. Nothing is. But it was good. And now he could see me play and that would seal the deal. He would know what he had started, he would know what he had walked away from, and I doubted he’d let so much distance exist between us again.

“Time to get ready,” Rodney shouted. “Got to tune up and everything.”

I winced and so did Gigi. She turned to my father.

“He doesn’t really know about music.”

Dad just smiled. “He’s right. You can’t tune too much.”

“Okay, let’s go,” I said.

Dad lingered. He said, “I’ll be over in a minute. I just want to take in the surroundings.”

We walked away and I glanced once over my shoulder. I saw him watching the crowd and I wondered what was going through his head. I wondered if he was remembering his time in the spotlight. I saw someone turning to look at
him and I felt like he was aware of it. Then I had a terrible feeling in my stomach. Maybe he was waiting to be recognized.

I put that thought away and moved on toward the empty stage.

W
HEN WE TOOK THE STAGE
, I
FELT ALL THE THINGS YOU FEEL
times a hundred. I felt important because people were staring at me and I felt like a fraud because I couldn’t pull it off and I felt proud because somewhere I believed I could. Of course, I remembered my father said that every time he took the stage he told himself, “I’m up here and you’re not.” He said the willingness to get up there absolved you of anything that could go wrong.

I told my mother that once, and I remember this amused look passing across her face.

“You don’t agree?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten onstage. I only know that he tortures himself when it doesn’t go well. So I’m not sure how much he knows about absolution.”

I remembered what she said even though I didn’t completely understand what absolution was. Or self-torture for that matter. I knew plenty about it later but back then I couldn’t imagine beating myself up when it felt like you had the whole world to do that for you if you wanted it.

Still, I tried to hold on to that idea when I got on the stage and started plugging my guitar in and making sure I had capos and picks and the set list on the floor in front of me. The sound guy kept coming out to make sure everything was plugged in and to test our levels. “Is that enough guitar for you?” he’d ask, referring to the monitor. As if all of this were about pleasing me. As if I were the star.

Every time I looked straight ahead, I saw all these people and this vast open space and I realized that I was actually at Coachella. That made me feel like I was in some kind of dream. Or, for a very brief moment, I had an understanding that I had envisioned this and I had somehow made it happen. Including the part where I brought my father into the dream. And if that could be true for Coachella, it could possibly be true for the rest of my life.

Maybe like Ella said: What’s the difference between hoping for the best and praying?

I searched the crowd for him but couldn’t see him. I decided not to worry about it. It wasn’t likely he had flown all the way from Hawaii to miss the set. I did, however, see Redmond Dwayne, standing in front of the stage, smiling at me. I wondered what that expression on his face meant. Was it just a really bad disguise? I had already caught him hoping for my failure. It was only fair because I was hoping for his,
too. There seemed to be something else in it, too. A twinkle. Like warriors before a match. Knowing they had finally found worthy opponents.

I smiled at him. He smiled back.

My heart flopped around in my chest.

Gigi touched me on the arm and I jumped a little.

“Hey, is this really the time for that?”

“No. You’re right. I’m not even interested in him. Do you need a set list?”

“No, I have it, but the stage manager wants to talk to you.”

“Where?”

“Backstage.”

I went down the stairs and behind the curtain and saw a woman with a headset and a clipboard. I was surprised to see her talking to my father.

I went over to them.

She gave me a big grin and said, “You’re Blanche? Honestly, we had no idea.”

“No idea what? Who are you?”

She giggled nervously. I could tell my dad was the cause of that.

“Sorry, I’m Meg, the stage manager, and I just found out that your dad is, well, your dad.”

My father looked at me and smiled and shrugged.

“So I was talking to Paul, the producer of this segment, and he thought it would be a great idea for your dad to join you onstage.”

“You mean at the end?”

“The end, the beginning, wherever you want to work him in.”

I looked at her. I didn’t look at him.

“Oh. Well. Is that appropriate? This is the Unsigned Competition.”

Dad laughed. “I don’t have a label.”

“But you wouldn’t want to do that.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say these words:
Because this is my show.

Somehow the silence said that anyway.

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Blanche,” he said.

I felt myself falling through space. Everything went out of focus for a moment and came back in. I looked at Meg and my father and I couldn’t imagine how I’d gotten here from where I’d been just a second before.

Meg said, “I see on your set list that you’re doing ‘Glass Half Shattered,’ which is your dad’s song.” She turned to my father. “I love that song, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Anyway, I see you’re closing with it, too, so why don’t we just have him come on right before that song?”

I looked at Dad. He was smiling at me in a way that I couldn’t interpret. Way more mysteriously than the way Redmond Dwayne was looking at me. I couldn’t tell if it was affection or pride. Maybe some of that was in there. But I saw a glint of something that worried me. He raised his chin a little, and in that gesture was the tiniest question and the question was,
Please?

Persuasion.

He needed this. He was asking me for it.

Now my stomach felt really bad, churning around as if I’d swallowed a sudden poison.

This was my father. My sainted father. The artist. The dreamer. The philosopher, the visionary.

Please.

“Okay,” I said without much emotion.

Because it didn’t matter much anymore.

Nothing mattered much anymore.

As easy as I’d thought my life was going to be just a few seconds before, that’s how hard I suddenly knew it was going to be now and for a long, long time.

We played as well as we ever had. Better. I’d say flawlessly except for a couple of bad notes Gigi hit on the bass because she was busy trying to find Redmond Dwayne in the audience, which might have been his evil plan by standing there.

Then, before my dad made his entrance onto the stage, Meg came out and made a big deal about him. She announced half his credits and called him the Vanguard of Poetic Punk, or something equally disturbing, and it suddenly occurred to me that I used to say things like that. Back when I was a critic. Back when I was somebody who just talked about other people’s work in a sassy way, trying to invent new phrases and make it all sound so important. That was before I knew what it was like to try to put the whole thing together and actually perform for people and get something across to them.

My dad walked out with shy posture, waving one hand
to the crowd and carrying a guitar with the other. He had brought his own guitar. I was floored. Now I knew this idea had occurred to him a while ago.

The crowd went nuts.

Gigi and Ella stared at me. All I could do was shrug.

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Stone in the audience, clapping and whistling.

I saw Redmond Dwayne clapping as hard as he could and staring at my father as if they might make eye contact and become friends.

When I looked back at Gigi and Ella, I found they had gotten into it now and had somehow started to believe the applause was for them, too. They were smiling and waving at the crowd.

My father strapped on his guitar. He approached the mike and said, “Test, one, two,” into it and the crowd went nuts again, as if he’d actually done something.

He smiled at me and then said into the mike, “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

More rapturous screaming.

He said, “I want to thank my daughter, Blanche, for talking me out of hiding.”

Again with the roar of approval.

He said, “It’s an honor and privilege to play with the Founders.”

“Fringers,” I said, off-mike. He’d said it right just a while ago.

“What?” he asked with his face.

“We’re the Fringers,” I repeated.

“Oh, right, the Fringers,” he said into the mike.

People laughed.

I turned so hot I thought I might blow a circuit in the amp. It was a wonder my guitar didn’t feed back from the electricity in my body. I thought for just a second of putting my guitar down and walking offstage.

Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night wondering why I didn’t do that.

It would have been something I could have owned. I could have taken the whole thing and made it into my moment, which was the original idea.

But I just kept thinking about the advice my father, the one I’d adored, had given me as a little girl and all my life. No matter what happens, he said, play through.

So we played through.

Later, one of the music critics from some national magazine said in print, “Duncan Kelly might have had a more shining moment onstage, or a more brilliant rendition of ‘Glass Half Shattered,’ but I can’t find anyone to attest to it.”

The thing the rock critic never mentioned was that the particular arrangement of “Glass Half Shattered” was mine—Blanche Kelly’s. In front of the crowd, my father even found himself adjusting to some of the changes I made onstage. He wasn’t used to the song having drums, for example, and I had made up a guitar-picking pattern that threw him at first, but he fell into step with it. The song he was so famous for was just him and an acoustic guitar and some violins added later. The song was all about him. And this time, he had to incorporate all these other sounds and people into it. What he figured out, halfway through the song, was that the band was not there to fight the song but
to support it. And I saw him relax into it and finally he rode along on it and even as his voice lifted above all of us, I knew that the platform he’d found to fly from had been provided by us. I’d gotten him there; I was elevating him. And then it hit me. That was what I’d always done.

But I don’t want to take everything away from him. Listening to him sing the song he wrote, all those years ago, and hearing the cry in his voice and watching the way he melted into the whole expression as if nothing else on earth mattered, I saw his greatness. I understood why everyone loved him. I saw why my mother had put everything in her life on hold for him and I saw why he found it so hard to live in the world with the rest of us. He was blessed or cursed with whatever that was. The vision. The voice. The need to bring something down from the metaphysical and make people believe they could live it. I saw his dream and I saw his isolation and I felt all the pain he must have felt for so many years when he was trying to just dwell among the mortals.

I saw it all. I just didn’t care.

C
OACHELLA
J
AIL ISN’T REALLY A JAIL
. I
T’S THE BACK ROOM OF A
security office toward the end of the field, behind the tents and the barbecue and the performance art and all. You can’t really see it from your blanket when you’re enjoying the festivities. I guess that’s because they don’t want you thinking about malfeasance while you’re eating your frozen lemonade. It’s a festival, after all, and even though people like to think of themselves as outlaws and renegades, they don’t necessarily want to be reminded of the experience.

I was sitting in the back room of the Coachella Jail drinking a bottle of water and rubbing my head and wishing the real drunks in the room could tone it down a notch or two. I hadn’t really tied one on. I was such a lightweight that the two beers I downed in a minute after I’d snuck into the beer garden had gone right to my head. Then someone
passed around a joint and I took a hit of that, even though I had no idea what I was doing and coughed more than I inhaled. But I started feeling like I had gone to all that trouble to sneak into the beer garden and I had gotten some guy I barely knew to buy me a beer and I had consumed most of it in one enthusiastic swallow, so I was obligated to act a little cheerful about it.