The next thing he knew, the band had started. Brian was right; they played a blend of music difficult to pin down. There was blues underlying it, definitely, variations on the twelve-bar structure with a jazzy spring. Andy’s ghostly keyboards floated around it all, and Brian’s guitar cut through the rhythms clear as a bell. When he soloed, which he did very well, his sound reminded Banks of a cross between early Jerry Garcia and Eric Clapton. Not that he was as technically accomplished as either, but the echoes were present in his tone and phrasing, and he got the same sweet, tortured sounds out of his guitar. In each number, he did something a little different. The rhythm section was great; they kept the beat, of course, but both Jamisse and Ali were creative musicians who played off one another and liked to spring surprises. There was an improvisational, jazzy element to the music, but it was accessible, popular. For a few songs they were joined by a soprano saxophone player. Banks thought his tone was a bit too harsh and his style too staccato, but bringing the instrument in was a good idea, if only they could find a better player.
They paused between songs and Brian leaned into the microphone. “This one’s for an old geezer I know sitting in the audience,” he said, looking directly at Banks. The girl with the stud in her lip frowned at him and he felt himself blush. After all, he was the only old geezer in the place.
It took a few moments for Banks to recognize what the song was, so drastically had the group altered its rhythm and tempo, and so different was Brian’s plaintive, reedy voice from the original, but what emerged from Banks’s initial confusion was a cover version of one of his favorite Dylan songs, “Love Minus Zero/No Limit.” This time it swung and swayed with interlaced Afro rhythms and a hint of reggae. Andy’s organ imbued the whole piece, and Brian’s guitar solo was subdued and lyrical, spinning little riffs and curlicues off the melody line.
Dylan’s cryptic lyrics didn’t really mesh with Brian’s own songs, mostly straightforward numbers about teenage angst, lust, alienation and the evils of society, but they resonated in Banks the same way they did the first time he heard them on the radio at home all those years ago.
Before the song was over, Banks got a lump in his throat and he felt his eyes prick with tears. He lit another cigarette, his fourth of the day. He wasn’t feeling emotional only because his son was up there on a stage, giving something back, but the song also brought back memories of Jem.
After Jem’s death, no one came to the bed-sit to claim his belongings. The landlord, whose musical taste ran more toward skiffle than sixties rock, let Banks take the small box of LPs. Being more into Harold Robbins than Baba Ram Dass, he also let Banks take the books.
Banks and Jem had listened to Bringing It All Back Home a lot, and the first time he took it out to play in Jem’s memory he found a letter stuffed inside the sleeve. It was addressed to Jeremy Hylton at an address in Cambridgeshire. At first, he wasn’t going to read it, respecting Jem’s privacy, but as it usually did, his curiosity got the better of him. According to the postmark, the letter was dated five years earlier. He had known Jem was older than him, but not by how much. The letter was very short.
Dear Jeremy,
I’m writing to your parents’ address because I know you’re going home for Whitsuntide, and I won’t be here when you get back. I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to tell you that it just isn’t working between us, but you won’t listen to me. I know this is the coward’s way out, and I know it’s hurtful to you, but I don’t want the baby, and it’s my body, my lifelong burden. I have made arrangements with a good doctor, so you needn’t worry about me. I’ve got the money, too, so I don’t need anything from you. After that I’m going a long way away, so don’t even try to look for me. I’m sorry, Jeremy, really I am, but things were going badly between us before the pregnancy, you must know that. I don’t know how you could think that having a baby would bring us closer together. I’m sorry.
Clara
Banks remembered being puzzled and upset by what he read. Jem had never mentioned anyone named Clara, nor had he ever mentioned where his family lived or what they did. He looked at the address again: Croft Wynde. It sounded posh. He hadn’t a clue what Jem’s background was; his accent was neutral, really, and he never spoke about the world he had grown up in. He was clearly educated, well-read, and he introduced Banks to a whole world of writing, from Kerouac and Ginsberg to Hesse and Sartre, but he never said anything about having been to university. Still, everyone was reading that kind of stuff then; you didn’t need a university course to read On the Road or Howl.
When Banks had finished thinking about what he’d just read in the letter, he made a note of the address. He decided to drive out to see Jem’s parents. The least he could do was offer his condolences. His time in London had been lonely, and would have been a lot more so if not for the shared conversations, music and warmth of Jem’s tiny bed-sit.
The song finished and the audience’s applause brought Banks out of his reverie.
“That was weird,” the kid next to him said.
The black-haired girl nodded and gave Banks a mystified glance. “I don’t think they wrote it themselves.”
Banks smiled at her. “Bob Dylan,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. Right. I knew that.”
After that, the band launched into one of Brian’s songs, an upbeat rocker about race relations. Then the first set was over. The band acknowledged the applause, then Brian came over. Banks bought them both another pint. The couple at the table asked Banks if he would please save their seats, then they wandered off to talk with some friends across the room.
“That was great,” Banks said. “I didn’t know you liked Dylan.”
“I don’t, really. I prefer The Wallflowers. It used to drive me crazy when I was a kid and you played him all the time. That whiny voice of his and the bloody-awful harmonica. It’s just a nice structure, that song, easy to deconstruct.”
Banks felt disappointed, but he didn’t let it show. “I liked the ones you wrote, too,” he said.
Brian glanced away. “Thanks.”
There was no point putting it off any longer, Banks thought, taking a deep breath. Soon the band would be starting again, and he didn’t know when he would get another chance to talk to his son. “Look,” he said, “about what we said on the phone the other day. I’m disappointed, of course I am, but it’s your life. If you think you can really make a go of this, I’m certainly not going to stand in your way.”
Brian met Banks’s gaze, and Banks thought he could see relief in his son’s eyes. So his approval did matter, after all. He felt curiously light-headed.
“You mean it?”
Banks nodded.
“It was just so boring, Dad. You’re right. I screwed it up, and I’m sorry if I caused you any grief. But it was only partly because of the band. I didn’t do enough work last year because I was bored by the whole subject. I was lucky to get a third.”
Banks had felt exactly the same way about his business-studies course – bored – so he could hardly get on his moral high horse. Well, he could, but he managed to put a rein on his parents’ voices this time. “Have you told your mother yet?”
Brian looked away and shook his head.
“You’ll have to tell her, you know.”
“I left a message on her machine. She’s always out.”