Finding Abbey Road (12 page)

So we keep moving: Whitehall to Big Ben, a venture out over the Thames to look at the Eye, a trek through St. James's Park to Buckingham Palace.

We walk in the crowds, making the same route that
everyone out in London today seems to be making, cameras held out in front of them as they go.

It seems like we spend more time sidestepping and ducking around groups and couples taking selfies (which Val takes special pleasure in photobombing) than we do actually looking at the sights around us, and yet I find the crowds comforting. We will be nearly impossible to spot, for whoever might be looking for us.

Val and I are almost into it, letting ourselves make jokes and feel like we are tourists. Caleb has moments when he seems like he's here with us, but mostly he's quiet.

When we get to the palace, Caleb and I pose by one of the guards, but none of the silly poses we make can get him to break his serious face.

Val hands back my phone and says, “That note on the record. Eli mentioned ‘Her Majesty.' Any chance that he wants to meet us here?”

I look around at the throngs passing by. “I don't know. It's too visible, I think.”

“Maybe that's the point,” says Val. “No one would suspect.”

We linger for a little while, and when no mysterious strangers approach us, we start back through the park, on our way to the record store.

Caleb is quiet. “Want to talk?” I ask him as we cross over a meandering pond that is dotted with swans.

“I just can't believe he's still making us chase him,” says
Caleb. He checks his watch. “Forty-eight hours from now we'll be on a plane home. And with Kellen here . . . It all just makes me more furious with him than ever. I almost wish we didn't come.”

“We're close, though,” I say. “We might still pull this off.”

“I know.” He squeezes my hand. “I'm doing my best to remember that.” But it's hard, I can tell, and part of me thinks he's right. Just think of all the trouble we could
not
be in if we'd just stayed home, just let this go. But if there's one thing that makes me and Caleb and Val alike, it's that letting go with ease has never been our style.

12:09 p.m.

Berwick Street Records isn't too busy at noon on a weekday, but it's still alive with people thumbing through stacks and reading labels to one another. The listening stations are full of listeners bopping their heads, so we queue up nearby. CDs line the walls, while bins of vinyl dominate the center of the store. There are posters along the top of the wall and on the ceiling, T-shirts and other memorabilia pinned all around.

We've been waiting about five minutes when I spy Susan emerging from the back room. I wave and get her attention.

“Well, there are my prospective tenants,” she says with a smile. Her wavy hair is down now, and she's wearing hip
glasses. “Sorry about the act back at the flat, but it's easy to be paranoid. With something this sensitive, you can never be too sure who might be listening.” She smiles warmly at Caleb and Val, and a look flashes across her face like she might cry. “I can see him in you both.”

They both squirm a little at this.

“So,” she says, glancing at the record. “Do we need to give that a spin? We've got a turntable downstairs with some vintage speakers.”

We follow Susan into the back offices, and down a narrow staircase. There's a makeshift lounge set up: three couches and a stereo system, surrounded by walls made of stacked cardboard boxes.

“Did Eli tell you we were coming?” Caleb asks. “Sorry, Mr. Walsh.”

“It's okay to call him Eli down here,” says Susan. “He told me very little, in case he ever got found out. He didn't want me to get in trouble. He never even officially told me who he was, but I figured it out. He looked familiar to me from the day he arrived, and I didn't even have to search beyond the record store stacks to put two and two together.

“When he got back from his trip to Glasgow last week he told me he was moving out. He said he'd be out by Friday, but then yesterday he said he'd be gone by midnight. I'm assuming it was because of his old band mate showing up.”

“You knew who that was,” I say.

“I know how to do a Google search, yes.”

“Eli didn't got to Glasgow,” I add. “He came to New York.”

“Ah. Because you were there for the pop festival.” She winks at me. “I follow Dangerheart's activities, too.”

“He told you about us?”

“Well, no,” Susan says, “but I read the music sites, and word of who you were made a pretty big splash last fall.”

Susan takes the Pink Floyd record and slides out the vinyl. “Eli told me to give this to the right visitors, and that he was sorry but he had to stay cautious. I was pretty sure I knew who he meant.” She hands the sleeve back to Caleb and puts the record on. “Ready?” she asks, picking up the needle.

“Ready,” says Caleb.

The needle pops and hisses in a repeating pattern. The speakers breathe like it is going to be loud, and when it begins, the sound seems brown and warm and knife-edged. Volume overwhelms the space and the raw live track swallows us like the maw of some ravenous creature.

The guitars scream. The drums bash. The whole song hums and warbles and vibrates. By any modern standards it's a poor-quality recording. But as a bootleg from a small club more than forty years ago . . . it has this undeniable energy, primal, like something ancient clawing its way to life. You can almost hear the sound hitting the walls in that room, feel the air that the amplifiers are pushing. It sounds like what
being
at a show is actually like.

“‘Reaction in G,'” says Susan, reading off the track listing. “This is a song about how much they hated playing their first hit single.”

“I don't hear any words,” says Caleb.

“That's part of their reaction,” says Susan. “I remember seeing them do this in Liverpool once. It was so strange. And so captivating.”

“You saw Pink Floyd in 1967?”

“I saw all the bands back in the day. It wasn't even that big a deal. Going to see Floyd or the Who was like if someone came to see Dangerheart at that Holiday Meltdown you played a few months ago.”

“I'd say it's pretty different.”

“Give it forty years,” she says. “Maybe people will be passing around bootlegs of your shows.”

When Syd Barrett starts to sing on the next track, it's so distorted and maxed out, you can barely decipher the words.

“These guys are terrifying,” says Val, smiling big.

“What was more terrifying was trying to get them anywhere on time and sober,” says Susan.

“Wait, you
worked
with them?” I ask.

Susan nods. “Briefly. I helped out with them, and a couple other bands. That was before I took a job with Apple Records.”

“Were you a musician?” Caleb asks.

“Careful with your tense there, mister. Just because I'm
an older woman doesn't mean I exist in the past tense
.
I still play guitar, pretty darn well, but I didn't have the voice for a girl group, or like a Janis or someone, and rocker women like Joan Jett were still a decade away. So yes, I am a musician, but back then, no, I worked behind the scenes.”

“That's cool,” I say. This Susan woman is easily the most interesting lady of my parents' generation that I have ever met.

We swim through the artful noise of the next song, “Arnold Layne,” and then “One in a Million” begins.

I realize the turntable doesn't have a time display. “I'll keep track of the time,” I say, holding up my watch.

The song is a slow, dirty groove, psychedelic, I think it would be called. Menacing, but with a swagger that makes you want more. That said, we can barely make out the words.

“Here.” Susan hands Caleb her tablet. She's pulled up the lyrics online. “If I remember right, that line you wanted is pretty hard to hear.”

“Here it comes . . . ,” says Caleb.

Syd Barrett screams:
“When they tell you you can't live your life . . .”
Barely audible over the smashing drums and screaming guitars.

“Pretty much exactly the one minute mark,” I say.

We listen through the song and after it slams its way to the end, Susan picks up the needle.

“Okay . . . ,” says Caleb. “So we're supposed to meet
him at one o'clock, tomorrow, but where?”

“He didn't tell me,” says Susan.

“Did he leave anything else behind?” Val asks. “Or say anything else?”

Susan shakes her head. “I'm afraid not.”

“It must be in this message,” I say, running my finger over the scrawled lines. “What does he mean that Her Majesty was set free . . . ?”

“We were thinking Buckingham Palace,” says Caleb, “which might be perfect because it's crowded or totally wrong because it's crowded. Hard to say.”

Susan stands. “Let me think some more about it. We have a little time. At the moment, though, I need to set up for this afternoon's in-store show. You know, I could swap out that dust jacket, and you could sell that record for a nice price, if you need a little extra cash for this trip.”

“That would be great,” I say.

Susan finds another white paper dust jacket in a stack of albums by the stereo, and while she replaces the vinyl, I fold up the one with Eli's message and tuck it away.

We head upstairs and bring the record to Susan's associate, Derek. “Ooh, nice,” he says, inspecting the record's condition. “Haven't seen one of these in a bit.” He's wiry and covered in multicolored tattoos, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He's sporting a finely trimmed beard and a bow tie around his bare neck.

He consults a weathered book on the back counter. “I
can give you guys forty pounds for it, if that works? It's rare, but not like
Sgt. Pepper
in mono or anything.”

“We'll take it,” I say.

“What are you doing with the rest of your day?” Susan asks as we're splitting up the money.

“Trying not to lose our minds,” says Caleb.

Susan checks her phone. “The in-store is at three. A band from Manchester called the Poor Skeletons. They were actually supposed to be here by now to do a soundcheck but their train is running late. Maybe you guys could be my soundcheck band instead?”

“Um,” says Caleb, but he can't hide a grin. “It would be so nice to play. Except we don't have half our band.”

“The Poor Skeletons are an acoustic trio,” says Susan. “I'm only setting up for two guitars and a kick drum. Anything you could do with that arrangement?”

“Remember what we were messing around with a couple weeks back?” says Val. “That one time in rehearsal?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, “that—”

Val holds a finger to her lips.

“If you have a couple acoustics,” Caleb says to Susan, “we could maybe practice for a minute in the basement?”

“Sure,” says Susan. “Let me get you set up.”

As we head back to the basement, Caleb turns to me. “How's your foot-tapping ability?”

I nearly implode with stage fright. “I don't—”

“You can do it,” says Val with a sly grin. “This is the
perfect place to fulfill your Yoko/Linda destiny.”

“Shut up,” I say, and yet, I allow a nervous smile as we head downstairs.

1:28 p.m.

We return to the main floor a half hour later, and things have completely changed. The area all around the front of the store is crowded with people, a mix of teens and hip twentysomethings. A line has formed outside the front windows, growing by the moment. Susan stands on a tiny triangle stage in the window. She has set up two mics and an old Gretsch bass drum with a sparkly teal coating.

“Umm . . . ,” says Caleb, “so much for this just being a soundcheck.”

“Come on, brother,” says Val, slapping his shoulder, “this is way better than a soundcheck.”

As we push our way to the stage, I can barely breathe. My part is very small, and yet, getting it wrong would ruin the song. The distraction of practicing has been just what we all needed, a welcome time away from all things Eli, but now I am really picturing being up there with all those eyes on me, and it is the opposite of what I ever want. I like to be at the side of the stage, at the back of the room, just beyond the lights, and yet I have to admit: in spite of the fear, there is also something magnetic about this idea of being not just in the music, but part of making it.

Caleb leans against me from behind and kisses the side of my neck. “You've got this. Just watch us and pin yourself to the quarter notes.”

“Right,” I say, but still, as we're stepping onto the stage, I am basically having a heart attack.

Val and Caleb assume their stage personalities, all business. They find the coiled cables on the floor and plug them into the pickups on their acoustics. I squeeze into the corner, behind the bass drum. My shoulder touches the cool window glass. The people in line outside are less than a foot away from me, some with their backs to the glass, others leaning in curiously, trying to assess their chances of getting a spot inside. I glance at the crowd milling in front of the stage and bristle at their quizzical gazes: sizing us up, deciding if they will make room among their tastes and opinions for us, whoever we are.

“You guys ready?” Susan asks.

Caleb checks back with me. I probably look like I'm going to barf, but I nod. “Pluto strong,” says Caleb. “We got this.”

I feel his confidence, and realize that while I've seen stage-Caleb a hundred times, I've never been with him in this exact moment, never felt the way that, once the lights are on and there's no turning back, he seems to emerge from the cloud of doubt that can so often swirl around him, and become a kind of energy source, radiating confidence and certainty. He
knows
he's got this, that he can own the
moment, and while I've seen him pull it off so many times, I never realized just how strongly he exudes this power onstage. I want to let that confidence in, to be that
sure
, in the moments when it's most needed.