A Song to Die For (10 page)

“Creed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be with you in a minute!” the voice said, apparently coming from a kitchen, where Creed could hear an ice tray crackling and cubes falling into glasses. “Make yourself comfortable!”

Creed put his guitars down and tried to shake off his nervousness. He looked around the living room. A large stone fireplace stood at one end, a huge cypress beam serving as a mantel. Overhead, a chandelier made of elk antlers hung from wrought-iron chains. A few obligatory whitetail deer heads and shoulder mounts jutted from the walls. The wall opposite the fireplace had eight gold records displayed in frames.

“You want some iced tea?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sweet or unsweet?”

“Plain is good. Unsweet.” Creed felt drawn to the large bank of plate-glass windows facing the rear of the house. He strolled toward them and beheld the most dazzling view he could remember seeing anywhere. The backyard dropped away to the creek bottom, the gently sloping banks having been mowed all the way down to the stream's edge. There, rivulets of clear water snaked among the trunks of bald cypress trees so huge that five men clasping hands wouldn't reach all the way around one. Upstream, white water shimmered down a slanted rock slide and gushed into a perfect natural swimming hole.

“It's a little strong,” Luster said, his voice nearer, “but the ice will melt and cut it like branch water in a jug of shine.”

Creed turned and prepared to meet his country music idol for the first time. The legend came out of the kitchen, carrying two large glasses of tea. Creed's jaw dropped when he recognized the man's face—the same face he had seen across more than one poker table. “Boss?” he said, in disbelief.

Luster began laughing. “You ought to see the look on your face! You're starin' at me like a calf at a new gate.”

“I'll be go-to-hell. All this time I wished I had met you, and turns out I already have.”

“Well, you can't meet somebody too many times.” He handed Creed the glass of tea and shook his hand. “Sit down.”

Creed fell back onto the sofa, still shocked. But he had to admit he wasn't nervous anymore. He looked hard at Luster's face, trying to find some resemblance to the album cover photos he had seen years ago. Back in those days, Luster had been known for wearing sequined suits and rhinestone-studded guitar straps and hatbands. Clean-cut and clean-shaven, that younger Luster Burnett didn't bear much resemblance to the man sitting in the living room in his work clothes, with three days of beard stubble on his tanned face and a shaggy mop of hat-molded hair.

“I can't believe I never recognized you before, but I see it now.”

“I was always good at going incognito. That's why I started wearin' all those fancy suits for all my publicity pictures and shows. Everybody got so used to seeing me that way, that I could dress in some old jeans and a work shirt, and nobody had a clue who I was.” He smiled, ran his fingers through his hair. “Plus, twenty years of ranchin' tends to take the bloom off the rose, if you know what I mean.”

Creed shook his head, and felt a smile stretch across his face. “I can't believe I'm sittin' here with Luster Burnett. If you had any idea how many times I've spun your records and learned those licks. Yesterday alone! I boned up as much as I could in one day's time.”

“Relax, kid. You already got the job—if you want it. I know your background in Nashville, and I've been to some of your shows in Austin. I've even heard you play a couple of my old songs, and you nailed the guitar parts. You don't sing nothin' like me, but you got the guitar parts down.”

“Nobody sings 'em like you,” Creed allowed.

“Well, I hope you'll take the job, but it probably ain't exactly what you had in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“This comeback of mine is gonna be like startin' over from scratch. We're not gonna have any label support because I don't have a label behind me anymore. We're not gonna have a sound crew, a tour manager, a stage boss, any roadies or guitar techs. We're gonna lug our own amps, just like we did when we started out. I'm sure you started like that, too, right?”

Creed nodded. “Hell, yeah. I was the driver, the booking agent, the stage crew, the sound man, Jo Ann's bodyguard…”

“Jo Ann?” Luster said.

“Dixie. Dixie Houston. Her real name's Jo Ann.”

Luster's eyes twinkled. “I saw her on the
Glen Campbell Good Time Hour
. Lord, have mercy! What was it like working with her? She's a looker, son, I'll tell you…”

“She's a handful, that's for sure. Not shy.”

“She's a pistol, no doubt. Sings her ass off, too.”

“We had a hell of a run. Then I got drafted.” He didn't mention how Dixie refused to even see him after his return from Vietnam; how he suspected she had doctored the songwriters rights on “Written in the Dust,” cutting him out of most of his duly earned royalties.

“Well, she's a big star now. And we're not. That's my point. Ain't gonna be no tour support. We're gonna have to do everything ourselves. This is a grassroots resurrection. I'm rising up from the grave, son.”

“Do you plan to look for a deal in Nashville?”

“I already tried. Half the snot-nosed punks on Music Row said ‘Luster Who?' The other half kissed my royal ass, but wouldn't give me a record deal. Hell, the mob has bought up the big labels and hired a bunch of coked-up college boys trying to force-feed country music to city folks. Gone are the days, Creed, when the pickers used to push a plow. Bunch of rejects from rock, pop, and folk; don't know a whip-poor-will from a washtub.”

“Nashville's lost its way,” Creed agreed. “This Texas scene is still authentic, though.”

“Yes!” Luster said, lunging forward in his chair, sloshing his iced tea in his excitement. “It's regional, and therefore only marginally profitable, but it's the real deal. We can adopt this sound and grow it nationwide. That's the reason I didn't try to put the old band back together. Hell, half of them are in nursing homes, anyway. I want a bunch of young, hungry guys in the band; guys who understand this new sound. What do they call it? Progressive country?”

Creed smirked. “I don't know what to make of that term. I think we could use a little bit of
re
gressive country these days. You do plan to do all your old stuff, right?”

“Oh, hell, yes. We've got to do the hits. But we've got to create a new sound. Something else. I just don't know exactly what
else
is yet. This ain't gonna be just some oldies band. I don't want my comeback to peak on Lawrence Welk. I want Johnny Carson.”

“Heeeeere's Johnny,” Creed answered, taking a long draw of the iced tea. “The sound will depend a lot on the pickers.”

Luster nodded. “That's why I need to know right now: Are you in or out? You know the score. It ain't gonna be no trip down Easy Street. But if you're in, you're the band leader, and you need to help me pick the players.”

“I'm in,” Creed said. “There's not a doubt in my mind. I wouldn't miss this opportunity for anything.”

“Good,” Luster said, looking out through the front window, “because here they come.”

Creed followed his gaze and saw a line of beat-up cars, vans, and pickups streaming out of the pecan orchard. “Auditions?”

“I sent the word out through some contacts I could trust for bass players, drummers, fiddlers, and pedal steel guitar players. I figured you and I would have the guitars covered.”

“Release the hounds,” Creed said, watching the hopeful musicians pile out of the run-down vehicles.

“Stick your head out there and tell 'em to wait around back till we call 'em in. I'll meet you in the studio, through this door.” Luster pointed at the door beside the eight gold records.

“Before we get started, I better give them the same speech you gave me. Some of them may be expecting tour buses and fat per diems.”

“Good idea. That'll cull some of the runts.”

The doorbell was already ringing, so Creed went to the door and asked the musicians to walk around the house and wait on the back patio. Once they had gathered around back, he gave them the speech, and indeed several packed up and left. He went back into the house, collected his guitars, and entered the windowless studio adjacent to the living room. Luster was switching on amps and tapping on microphones to ensure they were on. Creed placed his cases on the floor and opened them.

“Let's see what you've got there,” Luster said, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, a Martin D-twenty-eight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good guitar. Uh-oh,” Luster said, sounding disappointed. “You brought a Strat? I figured you'd bring a Telecaster.”

“If I had a Tellie that played like this Strat, I would have brought it in. This Strat is special. But if you want me to play a Tellie, I've got one in the van.”

Luster looked at the guitar with a furrowed brow. “No, you play what feels right. Maybe this new sound of mine is gonna be more of a Strat thing, anyway.”

“We'll figure it out, Boss. What do you want to do first?”

“You're the band leader.”

“Let's start with the bass players.”

“Put some bottom on it. Good call.”

Creed went through the living room and out through the back door to the patio. “Hey, y'all,” he said. “Listen up. I need anybody auditioning for bass guitar to wait in the living room. We'll call you in one at a time. The rest of y'all just make yourselves comfortable out here. This is gonna take a while. Smoke 'em if you got 'em.”

Five bass players came into the living room and Creed picked one at random to invite into the studio. Luster picked up an acoustic Gibson guitar and prepared to sing one of his hits so the bass player could play along. With the first note Luster belted, Creed felt himself in the presence of a master vocalist, and it wasn't even showtime yet. Relieved that the legend could still sing, Creed played the lead parts on his Strat with all the soul he could muster.

He gave each bassist a verse and a chorus to get into the groove, and that was enough to know that none of them understood the style. It was just plain ol' country music, but you had to know how to put the note in the pocket.

“If you don't hear from us by tomorrow, you'll know we decided to go with somebody else,” Creed told each of them.

“Are there any left?” Luster asked after the fourth one.

“Just one. I hope he can lay down a foundation.”

“Yeah, that last guy couldn't lay a ten-dollar whore.”

The last hopeful carried in his case without a word and began to open the latches. He was taller than Creed, and lean. He had a roofer's tan. Creed could see by the pale flesh around his hairline that he had just gotten a haircut, maybe for this audition, to look more country and less hippie. His dark brown hair was combed down with a little dab of Brylcreem. He wore motorcycle cop shades, though the studio was not brightly lit.

“This is Luster Burnett,” Creed said.

“I figured that,” the man said, without looking up. “Who are you?”

“Name's Creed Mason.”

The man nodded and strapped his bass guitar over his shoulder. “They call me Tump. Tump Taylor.” Only now did he venture across the studio to shake Luster's hand. Walking back to the bass amp, he paused to shake Creed's hand. “Creed Mason, huh? ‘Written in the Dust.'”

“Right. You got a particular Luster Burnett song you want to audition to?”

Tump shrugged. “One of them F-sharp tunes, I guess.” Tump plugged his guitar chord into the bass rig, hit a few notes, and adjusted the amp settings to his liking.

“Dear John Note,” Luster suggested.

Tump nodded.

Luster sang the a cappella intro and Tump stabbed the downbeat for the first bass note. Halfway into the first verse, one side of Tump's mouth drew up in a wry smile, as if playing the bass was the only thing that even remotely gave him any happiness. His head bobbed to the meter and his fingers walked up and down the frets as smoothly as pistons.

Finishing the song, Creed nodded. “Good.”

“Damn good,” Luster added.

“I want to play that,” Tump said, pointing at a stand-up bass leaning in the corner.

They decided on a bluegrass number Luster had written called ‘Chuck Will's Widow,' Tump beating a sure rhythm, every note precise on the fretless neck of the acoustic bass fiddle.

“I've heard enough,” Luster said.

Creed nodded his agreement. “You want to stay and play so we can audition the drummers?”

“I got nothin' else to do.”

*   *   *

The drummers proved more painful. After the third one was dismissed, Tump shook his head and groaned. “Holy shit, that was bad.”

“Sounded like he was buildin' a house back there,” Creed opined.

“Sounded like a gunfight at a poker game to me,” Luster added, shooting a glance at Creed.

The door from the living room opened, and a young Chicano kid stepped in. “I gotta be next,” he said in a south-of-the-border accent, tapping his wrist, even though he wore no watch. “I gotta be at work in forty-five minutes, man.”

“Where do you work, son?” Luster asked.

“I've been bussing tables at Matt's El Rancho. I just got to town last week, man. Metro. Metro Valenzuela.” He shook hands with the three older men.

“Where are you from, Metro?” Creed asked.

“The Valley, man. Harlingen.” He took the liberty of sitting on the drummer's stool. He picked up some sticks, tested the kick drum and high-hat pedals.

“Are you old enough to know any of my tunes?” Luster asked, suspiciously.

“Shit, yeah, man. My great-grandpa had all your records. He was a gringo.”

Luster laughed. “Great-grandpa! All right, let's see what you've got.”