Someone who did have fans was Tom Lieberman.
Tom had been front man for a legendary local rock band that almost made it big. An excellent guitar player with a powerful, quirky voice, he wrote songs that were too offbeat for AM radio play. But the group got a lot of local club gigs and for a while was the house band at a local strip joint in the days of G-strings and an emcee between peelers.
When the band came apart, Tom took an acoustic guitar and reinvented himself as a folk club and coffeehouse performer. Like the Plates, Tom had a dedicated cult following. He was also newly back in town after eight months in Vancouver. Kevin reasoned that people who hadn’t heard Tom for a while would jump at the chance.
Tom had surprised Kevin with his phone call. “This is Lieberman.”
Kevin stayed professional. “Uh-huh,” he said.
“I want to play at your establishment,” Tom said. “I understand you pay four hundred dollars. That’s fine. Next week suits me.”
Kevin had a female duo booked for the following week. I was keen on the tambourine player. “I have something lined up,” said Kevin, who was a good friend.
“I’m sure you can be very persuasive,” Tom replied.
Kevin shifted the booking by giving the duo a second week and the promise of more time down the road. When he called Tom back to confirm, the singer said, “Good. I’ll take cash in advance.”
Kevin figured that having Tom on the bill was going to be a good thing, so he said yes. Having the tambourine player around for a second week made me happy, too. Kevin was a good pal.
It was obvious that Tom didn’t want to be a singer anymore. His deal called for four sets of at least thirty minutes each. He timed each set to the second. Sometimes he’d check his watch in the middle of a tune, see that his half-hour was up, and stop playing. “That’s enough of that delightful ditty,” he’d say, and he’d leave the bandstand.
Behind the restaurant was a small employees-only parking lot with a larger public parking lot behind that. A low wooden fence divided the two lots and, on nights when the weather was good, Tom would perch there between sets and talk if someone else was there, or write if he was alone.
While out west Tom had published a collection of delicate poems called Lover Man. Gerald Haney, in the Toronto Star, said the book contained “luminous poems of lust and yearning.” There was a rave in the Globe and Mail and Now claimed it was “a profound work of deep insight that stands with the best of Leonard Cohen and Gwendolyn McEwen.”
Tom did readings whenever he could, selling copies from the stage. But it was hardly a living. The only other marketable skill he had was making music. So he played as infrequently as possible. Kevin was one of the few people who would give Tom work on his terms.
One night, a woman came in and sat at the table in the corner farthest from the bar. Tom was tuning his guitar and did not notice her. But I did. Even though the corner was dimly lit, I could tell she was good-looking. I went over to her table.
“Can I sit here?” I asked.
Her eyes were fixed on Tom. “I’m with the band,” she said. I thought she was joking. Friends of band members always sat near the stage. But Tom never had girlfriends or groupies come out when he was playing. He was strictly business.
I looked at Tom, on his stool with a quart of Old Vienna on the floor beside him, as he plunked and bellowed. I looked at the woman again, but the way she was watching Tom told me my prospects were slim. I left. I doubt she noticed.
After the set, I went out back. “There’s somebody here to see you,” I said to Tom.
“They’re all here to see me.”
“I don’t think she’s just anybody.” I described her.
“Where is she sitting?” As I told him, he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. I looked at my watch. It was time for Tom to go back on. Scrupulous as he was about ending his sets on the dot, he was just as precise about starting on time.
“Coming in?” I asked.
“I’ll be along,” he said. Ten minutes later, he came in. His next set was subdued, all tender ballads. He hardly spoke. And he kept looking into the far corner of the room, but he wouldn’t have made out much. He’d be able to tell that someone was there, but no more. There was nothing to see by then anyway. When I’d come in from the parking lot, she was gone.
The first two nights he played the Backroom, Tom read poetry during his sets. “This ain’t a goddamn literary salon,” one of the owners said to Kevin. “Tell that goofy bastard to kill the lovey-dovey stuff and sing.”
Surprisingly, Tom obliged. Kevin struck a compromise with him. Other performers sold their homemade cassettes from the stage, so Tom could sell his book. Every night, he’d carve a few minutes out of each short set. “I have copies available for just two dollars and fifty cents. Is it worth it, you ask? Indubitably. This inspiring volume includes words like succulent, evanescent, languid, and voluptuous. In fact, reading aloud from this book is guaranteed to get you laid. If it doesn’t, my friend, then nothing will except cash money. That’s why I’m not permitted to read aloud from my book this evening. The proprietors fear the orgy that is certain to ensue, and the subsequent descent of the morality squad.” He’d go on in that manner for five minutes or more before starting another song. He sold a book or two every time.
The week after Tom played, the female folk duo came in. I was looking forward to watching Pat, the tambourine player, bang and rattle for two weeks. She had long dark hair and wore flowing ankle-length skirts that she made herself out of flamboyant fabrics. She’d sing and shake her head, setting her earrings jingling in time to the music. I was mesmerized. The second night they played, I’d had enough beer to make me relaxed but too much to let me remain cautious. I asked her out. She said no.
When I told Kevin how badly I had fared he said, “It’s those skirts she wears. I bet there’s something wrong with her legs.”
For the next ten days, until Tom was booked in again, I didn’t hang out much at the Backroom. I know when I’m not wanted.
Tom was friendly when he wasn’t onstage. Out back, between sets, he’d talk about politics, literature, and the rise of the philistine.
At that time I wanted to be a writer, too, although not a poet. I saw there wasn’t much money in that. I wanted to be a novelist. Tom was the only published author I knew, so he seemed like a good person to talk to. I worked up the nerve to ask him to look at a manuscript I’d completed.
“I’ll take a gander,” he said. “Scribble a few notes.”
“I’ll bring it tomorrow.” I wanted to ask him how quickly he’d be able to look at it, as I was young and anxious, but that seemed pushy. Instead, I decided to curry favor. “Can you read me one of your poems?”
“What kind of poetry do you like?” he asked.
In school, teachers had read “The Ancient Mariner” and “Prufrock” and “My Last Duchess” by Browning. Each had been exciting, but I had no idea how to answer him. “All kinds,” I said.
He shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”
“But I don’t know.”
“That’s crap. You do know. You just don’t have the guts to say it. You need a definite opinion and you need to be tough enough to stick by it. Here’s a poem for you.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and then spun it away through the darkness. He breathed in, and recited, “If I could take a soft-tipped pen/And gently trace the course of your freckles/From next to next to next/Like numbered dots in a child’s puzzle book/They would reveal to me/Not an image of bird in flight or wind-blown tree/But instead a richer secret/A chart to the center of love.”