“Can I explain myself?”
“No way you’re pulling out,” Nomad repeated. “You go, the band goes.”
“That’s not true.” Terry was speaking carefully. His tongue were testing every word for sharp edges. His armpits were damp under his blue-and-purple paisley shirt, one of many vintage shirts in his wardrobe. “I go, the band changes. Can I explain myself? Please?”
“Yeah, we’d like to hear it,” Berke said. “Are you going into business with George’s cousin, too? Well, shit, how about me being the California rep? Just show me where to sign.”
“Cut it out, let him talk,” Mike told her, and she made a noise of disgust and curled up again in her seat.
Terry glanced at Ariel, whose dark gray eyes were wide with shock. “Jesus,” Terry said, with a quick nervous smile that hurt the tight corners of his mouth, “I didn’t kill anybody. I made a decision, that’s all.”
“What, a decision to kill the band?” Berke countered.
“A decision,” Terry said, focusing his attention on Nomad, “to go into business for myself.” When no one spoke, he forged ahead. “Not my own band, if that’s what you’re thinking. I need a break from this. I’ve been at it a long time, John. You know I have.”
Nomad did know. He and Terry had been together in the Venomaires—a tough ride—for over a year, and then in The Five for the last three. Terry had been through a half-dozen bands before the Venomaires, had gone through a divorce last summer that had weighed heavily on him during their Southeastern tour, and had had a brief flirtation with OxyContin before his band-mates helped him close the door on that dangerous romance.
Looking into Terry’s face, Nomad thought he might be seeing his own. Or Mike’s, or George’s, or Berke’s or—if you got past the blush of youth that was still fresh on her cheeks—Ariel’s too. They were all tired. Not physically, no; they had strength enough to keep pulling the plow all right, and they would do their jobs and be professional, but it was a mental weariness. A soul weariness, born from the death of expectations. There were so many bands out there, so many. And so many really good ones, too, that were never going to get the break. Everybody could record CDs on the little portable eight and twelve-tracks these days; everybody could put up a half-assed video on YouTube, and make a MySpace page for their creations. There was just so much noise. How did anybody ever get listened to? Not just landing on a playlist as more noise, but listened to, in the way that people put down their cellphones and tuned out the fast chatter of the world for a minute and actually heard you? But there was so much noise, so much chatter, and faster and faster, and so much music—good and bad—going out into the air, but for all the purpose it served—all the worth it had—it might just as well be played on low-volume continual loops in elevators, or as background buzz for shoppers.
“Can I explain?” Terry asked.
Nomad nodded.
“I want to go into the vintage instrument business. I’ve got some money saved up, and my dad says he’ll help me with a loan.” The way Terry said it—a rush of words, an outpouring, a release—told Nomad that this decision had been working on him for a long time. Maybe it had begun as a passing thought, way back when they were with the Venomaires. Maybe it had just evolved over the years until it had grown wings and purpose, and now it was big enough to fly Terry away.
Terry went on, obviously relieved to rid himself of what he’d been keeping. His plan, he said, was to go back home, to Oklahoma City. To set himself up there in a business that would buy old keyboards in any condition—vintage Hammond organs in their many variations, aged Farfisas, Rhodes pianos, the Hohner keyboards, the Gems, Kustoms, Cordovoxes, the Elkas and the Ace Tones, the Doric and Ekosonic lines, and other proud ancient warriors—and bring them back to life. He already had most of the manuals, he said, and he’d always been good with fixing the vintage keyboards in his own collection. He thought he could repair just about anything that came along, and if he couldn’t find the parts he could make them. These old keys were collector’s items now, he said. They were a dying breed, and really most of the makes and models had died when disco boogied in. But there were those who wanted to either find instruments they’d played on as teenagers in garage bands or repair the ones moldering in the basement, he said. And he’d begun hearing some of them on new songs, too. He believed he could start an Internet search service for musicians or collectors looking for a particular electric keyboard, he told them. Some of the details had to be figured out yet, but he thought it would be a good start.
When Terry was done plotting his future course, Nomad didn’t know what to say. He saw a billboard up ahead on the right, as they neared the outskirts of Temple. It showed from the waist up a trim Hispanic man with a silver mustache and thick silver muttonchop sideburns; he was wearing a black cowboy hat, a black tuxedo jacket, a black ruffled shirt and black bolo tie with a turquoise clasp, and he was smiling and pointing to the legend Sometimes Good Guys Don’t Wear White. Over his head were the big words, in red, Felix Gogo Toyota and next to that Temple…Waco…Fort Worth…Dallas. At the bottom of the overcrowded ad were the words “Walk In, Drive Out!”
“So,” Terry prodded, “what do you think?”
Nomad didn’t answer, because he was pondering the many ways a band could die.
He’d seen nearly all of them. The war of egos that ultimately exploded, the simmering resentments that built up over time, the quick flare of anger that hid exhaustion at its heart, the hard and final bang of a door slamming, the parking lot scuffle, the on-stage implosion, the rehearsal walk-out, the accusations of betrayal as cutting as the death throes of a marriage, the silence that screamed, the guitar flung across a motel room like a flying scythe, the fist into the wall and the broken fingers, Black Tar and Buzzard Dust, Twack and Shiznit, New Jack Swing and all the other combinations of heroin, crack, meth and whatever could be cooked, smoked, inhaled or injected.
Nothing was pretty about the death of a band.
He was staring into space, his eyes unfocused, but he thought he was looking into an abyss. Sure, they could go on without Terry. Have to find another keyboard player, if that’s the way they wanted to go. But Terry provided a sound integral to The Five, ranging from raw and rowdy to the swirling of psychedelic colors to a dark bluesy wail that particularly complimented Nomad’s own rough-edged, smoke-and-whiskey singing voice. Sure, they could go on without Terry. But it wouldn’t be The Five anymore, not even with another keyboard player. It would be another band, but not this one.