“Oh,” he said, “junkies just seem to have a sixth sense about these things.”
She pulled her arm away. “They’re old tracks and you know it. I haven’t used in years.”
Frank shrugged. “If you say so. I really don’t want to check out the places I’d have to look if I wanted to be sure.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but stomped away without another word.
“Shit,” Gordon said. “You need anything else to convince you about what I said, Buzz?”
“She brought me into the band, man. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“If another guitar player came along, she’d do this to you in a minute,” Gordon said. “You know she would.”
Buzz sighed. “We’ve got three more nights here. Let’s at least wait until we finish out this gig to make a decision.” Gordon seemed ready to say more, but then excused himself and walked backstage.
The minute Gordon was out of earshot, Buzz turned to Frank. “Were they old tracks?”
“Yes.”
“I feel stupid not noticing. Not that it matters. If they’re old, I mean.” His face turned red. “What I mean is, she can really sing.”
I watched him for a moment, then said, “You like her.”
“Yeah,” Buzz said, and forced a laugh. “It’s obviously not mutual.” He looked toward the stage, then rubbed his hand over his chest, as if easing an ache. “Well, I better get ready for the next set.” Frank watched him walk off, then looked over at me. He pushed his drink aside, moved his chair closer to mine.
Q: What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend?
A: Homeless.
Buzz seemed to recover his good humor by the time he was on stage. There was an air of anticipation in the audience now. It seemed that most of them had heard the band before, and were eagerly awaiting the beginning of this set.
As the band members took their places, I sat wondering what Buzz saw in Joleen. My question was soon answered, though not in words.
Buzz and Joleen stood at opposite ends of the stage, facing straight ahead, not so much as glancing at one another. She sang three notes, clear and sweet, and then Buzz began to sing with her, his voice blending perfectly with hers. It was a slow, melodic passage, sung a cappella. The audience was absolutely silent-even Frank sat forward and listened closely.
They sang with their eyes closed, as if they would brook no interference from other senses. But they were meeting, somewhere out in the smoky haze above the room, above us all, touching one another with nothing more than sound.
The song’s pace began to quicken and quicken, the voices dividing and yet echoing one another again and again until at last their voices came together, holding one note, letting it ring out over us, ending only as the instruments joined in.
The crowd cheered, but the musicians were in a world of their own. Buzz turned to Gordon and Mack, all three of them smiling as they played increasingly difficult variations on a theme. I watched Joleen; she was standing back now, letting the instrumentalists take center stage, her eyes still closed. But as Buzz took a solo, I saw her smile to herself. It was the only time she smiled all evening.
The song ended and the crowd came to its feet, shouting in acclaim.
Q: Did you hear about the time the bass player locked his keys in the car?
A: It took two hours to get the drummer out.
Mack joined us during the second break between sets. With Buzz’s encouragement, he told us about the years he studied at Berkeley, where he met Joleen, and about some of the odd day jobs and strange gigs he had taken while trying to make headway with his music career-including once being hired by a Washington socialite to play piano for her dog’s birthday party.
We spent more time talking to Mack than to Buzz, whose attentions were taken by another guitar player, a young man who had stopped by to hear the band and now had questions about Buzz’s “rig”-which Mack explained was not just equipment, but the ways in which the guitar had been modified, the set-up for the synthesizer, and all the other mechanical and electronic aspects of Buzz’s playing.
“None of which will ever help that poor bastard play like Buzz does,” he said. “Buzz has the gift.”
“He feels lucky to be in this band,” I said. “He has great respect for the other players.”
Mack smiled. “He’s a generous guy.” As Joleen walked over to Buzz and handed him a beer, Mack added softly, “He’s a little young yet, and I worry that maybe he has a few hard lessons to learn. Hope it won’t discourage him.”
“How do you two manage to work together?” I asked.
He didn’t mistake my meaning. “You mean because of Joleen’s temper? Or because we used to be together?”
“Both.”
“As far as the temper goes, I’m used to her. Over the years we’ve played with a lot of different people; I’ve outlasted a lot of guys who just couldn’t take her attitude. Great thing about Buzz is that he’s not just talented, he’s easy to get along with. He’s able to just let her tantrums and insults roll off of him.”
“And Gordon?” Frank asked.
“Oh, I don’t think Gordon is going to put up with it much longer. The musician’s lot in life, I guess. Bands are hard to hold together. Talk to anybody who’s played in them for more than a couple of years, he’ll have more than a few stories about band fights and breakups.”
“But from what Buzz tells us, you’ve worked hard to reach this point-the CD, the tour, the gig in the Netherlands-”
“Yeah, I’m hoping Joleen and Gordon will come to their senses and see that we can’t let petty differences blow this chance. And I think they will.” He paused, took a sip of beer. “You were also asking about how Joleen and I manage to work together after being in a relationship, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, she and I have always had something special. We write songs together. Musically, we’re a good fit. When we were younger, when we first discovered that we could compose together, there was a sort of passion in the experience, and we just assumed that meant we’d be a good fit in every other way. But we weren’t.”
“Still,” I said, “I’d think it would be painful to have to work with someone after a breakup.”
He smiled. “I won’t lie. At first, it was horrible. But what was happening musically was just too good to give up. The hurt was forgotten. Over the years, we each found other people to be with. And like I said, we have something special of our own, and we’ll always have that.”
He glanced at his watch. “Better get ready for the last set. You two want to come out to dinner with us afterwards?”
“Thanks for the invitation,” Frank said, “but I’m wearing down. Irene, if you want to stay-”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll have to take a raincheck, too, Mack.”
“Sure, another time. I forget that other people aren’t as wired after a gig as the band is. I’ll check with Buzz-I can give him a lift home if he wants to join us.”
I toyed with the idea of heading home early if Buzz should decide to go out to dinner with the band. But my mental rehearsal of the excuses I’d make on my way out the door was cut short when Buzz stopped by the table and said, “They asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with them, but they’re just going to argue, so I’d rather go home after this last set. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as phony as it felt.
Q: Why did God give drummers 10% more brains than horses?
A: So they wouldn’t crap during the parade.
“What was the name of the first song in the second set?” Frank asked Buzz as we drove him home. He was being uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the car window. But at Frank’s question, he smiled.