Totally Unrelated (3 page)

Gran gets up and starts clearing plates as the rest of us try not to fall asleep.

I'm in the middle of doing this thing where I shift my eyes and the pattern in the tablecloth turns 3-D, when Dad says something that snaps me back to attention.

“But the real big news of the summer,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking at us with a gleam in his eye, “is that we are currently lined up to open for the Vince Beach Band in Halifax at the end of the month. Saturday after Deep Cove Days, if I remember correctly.”

Our mouths drop open at the same time.

“What's the Vince Beach Band?” asks Gran, dropping pieces of pie in front of the twins.

“Are you kidding?” asks Johnny. “The Vince Beach Band is one of the biggest country bands of the last few years. You know, Gran—he sings ‘Big Old Boots'.”

“Never heard of him,” she says.

“How the hell did you swing that, Dad?” asks Shamus as Molly and Maura start singing.

“Big old boots, big old hat, big old truck, ain't nothin' better than that.”

“Turns out I used to go to school with one of his managers,” says Dad. “I reconnected with him online a few months ago, and one thing led to another.”

“We'll have a big old time at the bingo hall, I've got a big old heart, and you can have it all.”

I'm not into country music, not even a little bit, but I have to admit that opening for the Vince Beach Band is a pretty big deal.

“We're not the only openers. It's a big show and they'll have a couple of other acts, but we'll get to do three songs,” Dad says. He's obviously pleased with himself, and for good reason.

“That'll be a big audience,” says Kathy.

“Biggest one we've played yet,” says Mom. “By a long shot.”

“Who knows, kids.” says Dad. “This could be our leg up to the big leagues.”

Four

“The Vince Beach Band?” asks Bert, his mouth hanging open.

“That's what I said,” I tell him. We're back in his basement, trying to figure out what to play at the talent show. I've agreed to do it on two conditions: that he promises to practice, and that I can decide to pull out at the last minute if I want to.

I'm actually kind of excited now that I've decided to give it a shot. Bert's right. It can't hurt to put some effort into playing something I like for a change. Even if it all falls apart, it'll be kind of fun to jam without my parents breathing down my neck and my little sisters stepdancing around the room.

“That's totally nuts, Neil,” he says. “The Vince Beach Band is, like, a real band! They're, like, on TV and in magazines and stuff.”

“Yeah, Bert,” I say. “I know.”

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “How does something like this even happen?”

“It's not that big a deal,” I say. “Dad is friends with some guy who hooked us up.”

“Oh man,” says Bert. “You'll be rolling in cowgirls. Vince Beach kind of sucks, but chicks dig him. He's bound to let you make out with some of his extra honeys.”

I laugh. “We'll see.”

“So when is this happening, anyway?” he asks me.

“Saturday after Deep Cove Days,” I tell him.

“You're sure it's not going to mess with the talent show?” he asks.

“Yes, Bert,” I say. “It's on Saturday night, and I've told you a million times, we always have Thursday off.”

A couple of years ago, when we found ourselves playing lots of shows, our parents laid down the rule that Thursday would always be a day off. No practice, no shows, not even costume fittings or choreography. They said it was important for us to have a break to look forward to, and since a lot of our bookings are for Friday and Saturday nights, Thursday became our mini-weekend.

“So what's the plan, anyway?” I ask him. “Do we want to try to figure out a cover song, put our own spin on it?”

“No way, man,” he says. “If we want to impress the judges, we need to show up with our own material.”

He jumps up from his drum set and runs across the room to grab a pile of loose leaf, which he shoves at me.

“I've been working on some lyrics,” he says. “I've got a couple of options. What do you think?”

I look at the first sheet.
Like Yo Wiggle
is written across the top in giant block letters, flanked by what I think are supposed to be naked women, but which look more like otters with wigs and big boobs.

“What is this?” I ask him.

“Just read it,” he says.

I like yo wiggle.

I like yo jiggle.

Come on and snuggle, My sexy muggle.

I look up from the paper. “
Sexy muggle
?”

He shrugs. “It's hard to find something that rhymes with ‘
snuggle
.'”

I shake my head and keep reading.

I wanna kiss ya.

I really miss ya.

I wanna make ya

A sexy cake, yeah.

“Bert, these are the worst lyrics I've ever heard,” I say.

“Oh, well, excuse me,” he says. “Maybe I should have written them in Gaelic, so you could truly appreciate them.”

“Seriously, man, they're just rhyming couplets.”

“What's wrong with couplets?” he asks. “The Beatles had lots of songs with quick, snappy rhymes.”

“So you want us to be like the Beatles?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “I was thinking of something more like Jay-Z meets One Direction, only with lots of hardcore drumming.”

“Sorry, Bert, it sucks,” I say. “There's not even a chorus.”

“Fine,” he says, snatching it away from me. “Read the other one.”

He's obviously taken more time with this one. Half of the words have been scratched out and rewritten.

Pass the Test

I really hate to study, but I'd study lots for you.

I'd listen well, so you could tell that I'm in love with you.

I'd work hard on my essays, my readings would get read

And I'd go over all your lessons, every night in bed.

Chorus:

I wanna pass the test.

I want you to be impressed.

Out of all your other students, I want you to like me best.

“Holy crap, Bert,” I say, looking up. “This isn't half bad.”

“You think so?” he asks.

“Well, it has a chorus at least,” I tell him. I keep reading.

I'll meet you in your classroom, when everyone's gone home,

And you can give me special lessons, now that we're alone.

If I can be your favorite, the apple of your eye

I'll write it on the chalkboard, a hundred thousand times.

I wish that graduation wasn't quite so far away,

I wish that I could kiss you on your luscious

lips today,

I wish that you were thirty, and I was twenty-nine,

I wish that you weren't married to that meathead

Mr. Klein.

“Bert!” I say. “This song is about Mrs. Klein?” Mrs. Klein is our math teacher. Bert is always talking about how hot she is, but personally, I find her kind of scary.

“I think I love her,” he says. “She's so hot.”

“You are insane,” I tell him. “We can't use this song. We'll get in trouble.”

“Leave that to me,” he says. “All I have to do is rewrite the last verse and nobody will have any idea who the song is about.”

“I guess that could work,” I say. “I have to admit, the lyrics are pretty catchy.”

“What about music?” he says. “Do you have anything in your bag of tricks?”

Although I like to make up melodies and screw around with different chord progressions, I've never tried to do anything with lyrics. I try out a few riffs I've messed around with, but we both agree that none of them sound right.

“I don't know,” I say. “I guess we have to start with one or the other. Trying to combine lyrics that have already been written with music that's already been written just doesn't work.”

“Well, we have the lyrics,” he says.

“Yeah. Give me some time to come up with something,” I tell him. “I still don't know how we're going to make this work without a singer, though.”

“We'll find one,” he says. “You've gotta have faith, my man. I think we should start asking around, see if anyone's interested.”

“Yeah, well, don't blab it everywhere yet,” I tell him. “I don't want anyone in my family to find out that I'm doing this.”

“What's the big deal?” he asks. “You guys play music for a living. What difference does it make if you have a little side thing going on?”

“I just don't want anyone interfering,” I tell him.

“Whatever you say, man,” he says. “But I sure wouldn't mind some help from Kathy.”

I spend a little time trying to come up with some music for the song, but nothing comes to me. When Bert starts banging around on his drums, suggesting that he might find a melody in the noise, I decide to leave. I'll probably have an easier time figuring something out with a clear head.

Five

On the first Saturday of July, we cram into the minibus and head off for our first show of the season.

My parents bought the bus a couple of years ago, when we started getting more out-of-county bookings. It originally belonged to the Nova Scotia Department of Natural Resources. It's old and kind of beat-up, with some rust around the wheel wells, but it runs well and, like Dad always says, as long as it gets us to our shows on time, it doesn't need to be pretty. It's still its original bold blue, although Dad has painted over the government logo and stenciled the band name on the back and sides. It's safe to say that we stick out when we're on the road. The most important thing is that it fits all of us. There's room for twelve passengers, all of our gear and some boxes of the swag that Gran sells at the merchandise table before and after our shows.

Today's gig isn't far from Deep Cove. We drive just a few miles out of town and then Dad turns on to an unpaved road, and we chug along for a few hundred meters before pulling into a gravel parking lot behind a quaint old church. We've done this same show, a fundraiser for the church, every year since we started performing. It's a good way to kick off the season. The acoustics are great, the crowd is small but enthusiastic, and, best of all, the local ladies make sure we're well fed. There's always a table full of sweets and little sandwiches set up in the meeting room at the back of the building. It's kind of like a green room, only there's a picture of Jesus staring down at us while we eat.

Johnny and I help Shamus and Kathy unload the gear from the bus while Mom and Dad go inside to find Gladys, the woman responsible for organizing the event. Gran drags the merch boxes out and starts to organize them, and the twins chase Gladys's dog, Buster, into the field behind the church.

“In here, guys,” Dad calls from the front of the church as Johnny and I hustle one of our amps through the back door. We maneuver around the tables and chairs in the meeting room and make our way out front. We stomp up some steps and onto a wooden stage that faces the pews, and set down the amp. The thud echoes through the church.

“Hello, boys,” says Gladys. “Glad you could make it again this year.”

She's staring at me with an eyebrow raised, and I wonder if I have a booger hanging out of my nose. Then I notice my Dad pointing at his head.

“Oh, right,” I say, reaching up to pull off my baseball cap.

Gladys smiles and turns back to my parents. “What a lovely bunch of children you have. To think of all that talent under one roof. It must be just wonderful, all of you living together and making music.”

“Wonderful” isn't exactly the word I would have chosen.

I help Gran set up a folding table by the front door and carry the T-shirts and CDs in for her, then head back to the meeting room to check out the grub.

Shamus and Kathy have carted the last of the instruments in from the bus and are taking them out of the cases. I grab my guitar and drag a chair over beside the food table. I shove a couple of cookies into my mouth and begin to pick away on my guitar.

From the front of the church, I hear my mother begin to run chords along the piano. It sounds pretty flat, but Mom has yet to meet a warped old piano that she can't wrestle a tune out of. Sure enough, she quickly gets a feel for it, and as she starts to play a little jig, the noise magically turns into music.

I quietly strum on the guitar, listening to her play and twisting the tuning pegs until the guitar is in tune with piano. We always tune from the piano. Usually, Mom just plugs in her electric keyboard, which makes things pretty easy, but when she has the chance to play on a big old-fashioned upright like the one in this church, she can't resist if it's even halfway playable.

Once I get my guitar tuned to the piano, I begin to play along with what she's doing. I chord at first, then add a bit of finger picking, working off the notes she's playing so that a bit of harmony emerges. This is what happens when we're all onstage—our instruments start speaking to one another.

People march in and out of the meeting room, moving instruments, dragging cables, discussing acoustics and space for dancing. Nobody pays any attention to me, which is how I like it.

Mom stops playing abruptly, and I hear her discussing something with Dad. I reach over and grab a sandwich. While I'm chewing, I run through Bert's lyrics in my head.

I've been thinking about them for the past couple of days, trying to come up with a melody line. Playing along with my mother seems to have unstuck something. I start to pick out a tune on the guitar, starting and stopping, gradually figuring out what will work, what will sound good but also be unique.