Tonight there was no bass player, and there were no keyboards on the stage. It was just the three of them, and they’d had to improvise and fill in and do what they’d needed to do, but they were professionals and the show must go on.
But not, as Nomad had realized, on and on and on.
He looked out at the small lights of cellphone cameras. Some people had brought video rigs and set them up, but the space was tight. It was okay with the band that the whole concert was filmed. Put up on YouTube. Used to show the grandkids what grandmom and granddad did back in that long-ago summer of 2008, before musicians played everything in the air on virtual instruments.
It had been a quiet show. Nomad had done a couple of hot movers but his heart really wasn’t in them, and they didn’t sound so hot without Terry’s keys swirling in and out. Tonight belonged to Ariel’s voice. It belonged to her acoustic guitar, which she played with the precise passion of someone who wants not only to be clearly heard, but to clearly speak.
“I guess everybody knows, this is our last show.” He held up a hand, palm outward, when the predictable moaning and groaning came from the audience, but they knew it already and they were just doing what they thought the band expected. It was like a heart thump that went into a peace sign.
“The Band That Will Not Die!” someone shouted, over on the right.
“Yeah!” another voice hollered, and then the crowd erupted into whoops and whistles and whatever they needed to do to express themselves, and Nomad waited until they were done until he smiled out at all the faces revealed by the reflection of stage lights and said, “Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “We lost three of our friends last time out,” he said. It was the first he’d spoken of this tonight. There’d been a brief introduction from the MC, and then The Five had started right into ‘When The Storm Breaks’. The songs had gone past with just a brief intro from either Nomad or Ariel between them. He didn’t make any jokes about limping around like an old man, because his sprained right ankle was still bothering him though it was taped up under his jeans. Ariel said nothing about her slightly purpled nose. Neither did Berke offer any explanation about the bass guitar pin she wore on one lapel of her black jacket, and the keyboard pin on the other. The news stories had told everything, to everyone who wanted to know. Nancy Grace had done her interview and so had Greta van Susteren. Berke had done a telephone interview with Rachel Maddow on her radio show and was going to be featured in The Advocate next month. She would go again to the obvious tag the press wanted: Deranged Iraq war veteran stalks rock band, is killed in the New Mexico desert, hi ho.
That was the line they had pushed, with True’s help.
The magazines and newspapers and networks and bloggers had emerged by their multiple thousands. Even Wally was a celebrity who found reporters hammering on his trailer door. Wally on his motorcycle, coming upon what appeared to be a wreck in front of the old Pure station that had once served the community of Blue Chalk, and then the people staggering out to the road, and all that blood.
Eric Gherosimini had been discovered by one of those tenacious door-knocking reporters. Rediscovered. The genius of the 13th Floors, one of the most influential acid-rock bands of the ’60s. Justin Timberlake said he’d been looking for him for years, to get permission to re-do a song in modern style. Lily Allen said she had all his old shit in a box in her closet. Eric Gherosimini announced through a spokesman that he was moving to Jamaica.
But not before he left a boocoodle of money to the University of Oklahoma to offer music scholarships at the American Organ Institute in the name of Terry Spitzenham.
They specialized in maintaining the tradition of the magnificent pipe organs that were played in churches, cathedrals and in the grand movie theaters, the kinds of keyboards most people never knew still existed.
George called them from the hospital when they were being interviewed by remote on MSNBC. He was doing some therapy now, he said. He was out of the woods. He was home free. He sounded strong. Nomad took the opportunity to ask him, on the air, why he wore pennies in his loafers, and George said that was easy to answer: for good luck.
“This is our last show,” Nomad repeated to the audience. “We have one more song to do.” He had to pause for just a few seconds, and Ariel wanted to touch his shoulder but she stayed her hand. He was a big boy now. “This will be the last song,” he said. “We’re not going to do an encore. It’s late, and from the looks of some in this crowd it’s past your bedtime. Kidding,” he said to the exaggerated boos, but he really wasn’t. “This song is one we wrote together on the road, all of us adding some lyrics. Ariel’s going to sing it, and it’s called ‘New Old World’. Thanks again, guys.” He stepped back, so Ariel could be front and center, and the audience applauded and waited as Berke started a steady beat, smack on 126 beats per minute, relying on the dark voice of the bass and the bright snap of a hi-hat.
Ariel strummed the intro on her Ovation. She was dressed tonight more funky than lacy, because she wanted to try something different. She had on a pink blouse, black jeans and a sleeveless blue vest with large red and pink polkadots. She wore a blue porkpie hat, tilted jauntily to one side on her strawberry-blonde ringlets. She had made the decision that it was time for her to start having fun at this, her calling. She thought there’d been enough pain, and now it was time to let some pleasure in. Starting with her closet full of hippie duds. She would always go vintage, but she needed more and brighter colors. Like the song said, some things do change, and they change with you.
She began on the A chord. The song had a triumphant sound. It suggested just a hint of strut. It bore in its bones the strength of English ballads and smoldered with the earthy heat of Tejano. At its heart there was a touch of Soul, but at its heart of hearts classic rock ’n roll.
She sang in her warm, full voice.
“Welcome to the world, and everything that’s in it.
Write a song about it, just keep it under four minutes.
Got to figure what to keep, what to leave behind, and like life it’s never easy.
I wish you safe travel, and courage when you need it,
I wish you safe travel, and courage when you need it.
You’ll need it. Oh, you’ll need it.
Won’t you move my hand, please tell me what to write.
I’m sitting here like a candle on the darkest night.
I’ve got my hot flame, got my flicker on, but where am I when my light is gone?
I wish you safe travel, courage, you’re gonna need it.
I wish you safe travel, courage, you’re gonna need it.
Gonna need it. Oh, gonna need it.”
There had been a meeting in Roger Chester’s office.
It had been yesterday afternoon, up on the fourth floor in the gray building on Brazos Street. The Five had cancelled their Friday night gig in Dallas. They’d stayed with True in the hospital in Albuquerque until his wife could get there. The Albuquerque FBI had been very helpful. They’d arranged for the contents of the wrecked U-Haul trailer to be truck-shipped to Austin, they’d taken care of Terry’s body and brought Jeremy Pett in from the desert where he’d died, and The Five had flown from Albuquerque to Austin courtesy of Roger Chester’s checkbook.