“Nonsense. You got the grades on your own, and all the talent and practice time for the music was your own. But when your dad told me you dropped out at the beginning of this past semester, I just figured-”
“I loved school. I only left because I had this opportunity.”
“What opportunity?” Frank asked.
“The band you’re going to hear tonight,” he said proudly.
I was puzzled. “It’s still avant garde?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. I guess I never thought there was much money in avant garde.”
“Not here in the U.S.-locally, Club Ninety-nine is about the only place we can play regularly, and they don’t pay squat there. Our band is too outside for a lot of people.”
“Outside?” I asked.
“Yeah, it means-different. In a good way. You know, we push the envelope. Our music’s very original, but for people who want the Top Forty, we’re a tough listen. That’s the trouble with the music scene here in the States. But Mack-our bass player-came up with this great plan to get us heard over in Europe. We made a CD a few months ago, and it’s had a lot of airplay there. We just signed on for a big tour, and when it’s over, we’ve got a steady gig set up in a club in Amsterdam.”
“I had no idea all of this was happening for you, Buzz. Congrats.”
“Thanks. I’m so glad you’re finally going to get to hear us play-three weeks from now, we’ll be in Paris. Who knows when you’ll get a chance to hear us after that-Frank, it’s been awhile since Irene heard me play and-oh!” He pointed to the right. “Here’s the club. Park here at the curb. There’s not really any room at the back.”
He had pointed out a small, brown building that looked no different from any other neighborhood bar on the verge of ruin. A small marquee read, “Live Music. Wast Land. No Cover Charge Before 7 P.M.”
“Wast Land?” Frank asked. “Is that your band?”
“The Waste Land. The ‘e’ is missing. And the word ‘The.’ ”
“You named the band after the poem by T.S. Eliot?” Frank asked.
“You’ve read T.S. Eliot’s poetry?” Buzz asked in unfeigned disbelief.
“Yeah. I think it made me a more dangerous man.”
I rolled my eyes.
Buzz sat back against the seat and grinned. “Cool!”
Q: What band name on a marquee will always guarantee a crowd?
A: “Free Beer”
As we pushed open the padded vinyl door of Club 99, our nostrils were assailed by that special blended fragrance-a combination of stale cigarette smoke, old sweat, spilt beer and unmopped men’s room-that is the mark of the true dive. I was thinking of borrowing Frank’s cotton and sticking it in my nose.
Behind the bar, a thin old man with tattoo-covered arms and a cigarette dangling from his mouth was stocking the beer cooler, squinting as the cigarette’s smoke rose up into his own face. He nodded at Buzz, stared a moment at Frank, then went back to his work. We were ignored completely by the only other occupant, a red-faced man in a business suit who was gazing into a whiskey glass.
“I thought you said the band was meeting here at seven,” I said as we walked along the sticky floor toward the stage. I glanced at my watch. Seven on the dot.
“The others are always late,” Buzz said. He set up his guitar, then invited us into a small backstage room that was a little less smelly than the rest of the bar. It housed a dilapidated couch and a piano that bore the scars of drink rings and cigarette burns. The walls of the room were covered with a colorful mixture of graffiti, band publicity photos and handbills.
“Is there a photo of your band up here?” Frank asked.
“Naw. Most of those are pretty old. But I can show you photos of the other members of the band. Here’s Mack and Joleen, when they were in Maggot.” He pointed to two people in a photo of a quartet. Everyone wore the pouting rebel expression that’s become a standard in band photos. The man Buzz pointed out was a bass player, about Buzz’s age, with long, thick black hair. The woman, boyishly thin, also had long, thick black hair.
“That photo’s about ten years old. Mack and Joleen were together then.”
“Together?”
“Yeah. You know, lovers.”
“They aren’t now?”
“No, haven’t been for years. But they get along fine.”
Q: What’s the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?
A: With a drum machine, you only have to punch in the information once.
“Over here’s a photo of Gordon. He’s a great drummer,” Buzz said. “He hates this photo. He said the band sucked. Its name sure did.”
He pointed to a photo of a band called “Unsanitary Conditions.” Buzz was right-I didn’t think too many club owners would be ready to put that on their marquees. The drummer, a lean but muscular man, wasn’t wearing a shirt over his nearly hairless chest. He had also shaved all the hair from his head. He held his drumsticks tucked in crossed-arms. He was frowning. It didn’t look like a fake frown.
Live, updated versions of two of the band members arrived a few minutes later. Gordon looked pretty much the same as he did in the “Unsanitary Conditions” photo. He was wearing a shirt, and he had short orange hair on his head, but the frown gave him away.
“Her royal-fucking-highness is late again, I see,” he seethed, then upon realizing that Buzz wasn’t alone, smiled and said politely, “Hi, I’m Gordon. Are you Buzz’s folks?”
Frank snorted with laughter behind me.
“Oh man!” Buzz said in embarrassment. “These are my friends. They aren’t that old!”
“Oh, sorry,” Gordon said. “Buzz, did you listen to that tape I gave you?” He broke off as the door opened again.
Pre-empting a repeat of Gordon’s mistake, Buzz quickly said, “Mack, these are my friends. Frank and Irene, this is Mack.”
It was a good thing Buzz introduced us. Mack was now balding, and his remaining hair was very short, including a neatly-trimmed beard. I judged him to be in his mid-thirties, closer to our age than Buzz’s, with Gordon somewhere in between the two.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, but seemed distracted as he looked around the small room.
“No,” Gordon said, “Joleen isn’t here yet. Shit, can you imagine what touring with her will be like?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mack said placatingly. “She’ll be very professional.”
Gordon didn’t look convinced.
“Uh, Buzz,” Mack said, “the house is starting to fill up. Maybe you should find some seats for your friends.”
I thought Mack was just trying to make the band’s in-fighting more private, but when Buzz led us back out into the club, a transformation had taken place. Taped music was playing over the speakers, a recording of frenzied sax riffs that could barely be heard above people talking and laughing and drinking.
There was an audience now. The man in the business suit had left the bar, and the place was starting to fill up with a crowd that seemed mainly to be made up of young… as I sought a word for the beret-clad, goatee-wearing men and their mini-skirted female companions, Frank whispered, “Beatniks! And to think I gave away my bongo drums.”
“Poetry and bongo drums?” I whispered back. “Did Kerouac make you want to run away from home?”
“As Buzz said, I’m not that old.”
Buzz wanted us to sit near the stage, but I knew better. I muttered something about acoustics and we found a table along the back wall, next to the sound man. Buzz sat with us for a few minutes, and I was pleased to see that Frank was starting to genuinely like him.
Buzz might not be sarcastic, but he is Irish, and he was spinning out a tale about learning to play the uilleann pipes that had us weeping with laughter. Just then a woman walked on stage, shielded her eyes from the lights and said over one of the microphones, “Buzz! Get your ass up here now!”