Power Chord (3 page)

Den is busy tweeting. “I kind of like that,” he says. “What about…” Then he forgets to say anything.

We have to walk the rest of the way to my house. At every rest stop, Denny tweets how far we've gone in case any girls want to rush on down to help us. Nobody does.

“Gee, Den,” I say, “Maybe you gave the wrong directions.”

“Aw, Ace. You watch,” Denny says. “Give it one month, and we'll be chick magnets.”

“That's how long it's going to take to get to my house,” I say.

Denny changes the subject. “I think we should call ourselves The Spank. We could play in jock straps, like the Chili Peppers.”

“Spitfires,” says Pig.

Denny shakes his head. “That would be like a Kiss cover band. You know, spitting fire? This drum is heavy.”

Now Pig shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything. We walk, talking names. Then we stagger, talking names. At least, Denny and I stagger. Pig doesn't even break a sweat.

Pig suggests Surface to Air and Wing Commander or something, and Chopper. I like Chopper. Denny doesn't. Then Pig goes back to Incoming.

I can't think of anything good that isn't taken. Every name I think of reminds me of some other name. By the time we turn down my street, we're back to The Spank or Incoming. Finally, I vote with Pig for Incoming.

“I was just kidding about the jock straps,” Denny complains.

“I don't want to get spanked,” I say. “I'm not a little kid.”

“It's okay,” Denny says. “Lots of rock stars are short.”

“I'm not short, either,” I say. I change the topic. “Incoming, for now.”

“It can't be for
now
,” Denny says. “We have to start a Myspace page, post pictures, list influences.”

He's right. I hate it when Denny's right. I hate carrying a bass drum even more. Luckily, we're at my house.

“Incoming,” I say again as I put the drum down on my front step. My fingers stay bent. Archie watches us from the porch.

“Too bad Archie can't take pictures,” Denny says. “He could take our first group shot.” He drops the snare on the grass. Our lawn isn't much bigger than the drum.

“Hey,” says Pig.

“Sorry.” Denny lays the other stuff down to tweet again. “Okay, influences?”

Maybe there's blood getting to my brain again. I say, “Nirvana.”

“Billy Talent.”

“Green Day.”

“Chili Peppers.”

“Doors.”

“Alexisonfire.”

“Led Zep.”

“Slayer.”

“Hendrix,” says Denny. His thumbs fly, tweeting. More names come up. It's cool to sit here like real musicians and toss around names of bands we want to sound like.

I imagine our video. I get that image of playing onstage in my head again. I press my fingertips. It's cool that they're sore. Only musicians have sore fingers. And maybe martial-arts guys, from all that eye poking they do. But that would be different. When we stand up again, I'm all stiff. That's cool too. It feels like a sacrifice for my art. I'll blow off some homework and practice again tonight.

Chapter Six

We have our first practice the next afternoon. I discover seven important things about starting a band.

One:
You can't look cool if practice
is at your house.

Denny has spent the whole day carrying his gear around school. I've always made jokes about guys who carry guitars around, but I wish I needed to do it. I know it would make me look way cooler.

Two:
You need all your strings.

When Denny unpacks his guitar, I say, “Hey, your guitar is missing the high string.”

“Oh, yeah. It broke.” Denny plugs in. He slips the strap over his shoulder. “Don't worry, I don't use that one much yet anyway. I'm all about the power chords.”

He sets his fingers, then jabs at the strings. Out comes a sound like pigs in a blender.

“You got that tuner thingy?” Denny asks.

I hand it to him. I look closer at the head of his guitar. “I thought you said you had a Telecaster.”

“I said it was a Tely.”

“That says
Teleporter by Thunder
on the head. A Thunder Teleporter? A five-string Thunder Teleporter?”

“So I'll get another string. Anyway, it's a good amp.”

The amp says Melodia. It looks like a kindergarten toy.

Three:
Bring earplugs.

I figure I'm good with tissue, like at Battle of the Bands. Pig pulls on a monster set of noise-blocker head phones.

“What's with those?” I say to him and point.

He pulls a giant padded yellow cup off one ear. “Industrial strength,” he says and puts it back on.

Denny finishes tuning his five strings, plugs in and turns up his amp. He tries his power chord again. The top of my head almost comes off. I yell something that not even I can hear. Archie streaks for the stairs.

“Told you it was a good amp,” says Denny.

As I dig for more tissue, Pig yells, “Turn up your guitar. I can't hear it.”

“What?” yells Denny. “My ears are ringing. I can't hear you.”

“What?” Pig hollers as he lifts off a headphone.

“What we all need are earplugs,” I say.

“What?” they both yell.

Four:
Don't kiss the microphone.

Since they can't hear, I lean close to the microphone. Too close. The microphone is also plugged into Denny's amp. There is a shriek louder than the Thunder Teleporter. Upstairs, Archie howls. I pull back and try again.

“What do you want to play?” I ask.

Five:
Your own voice will surprise you.

I don't hear their answers. Instead I'm thinking, Why does my voice sound whiny and crappy? Do I always sound like that? That can't be me. It must be a cheap mike.

Six:
It's harder than you thought.

We all look at each other. This is it. We are going to play music. There's a lot of music in the world. Where are we going to start?

It's a no-brainer. We choose “Brain Stew” by Green Day. I've only been playing bass for four days, and I can play it already. You just stay on the top string and work down from the fifth fret. The guitar part is Denny's favorite. It's nothing but power chords, two fingers, max.

“Wait,” Denny says, “I'll tweet the world what our very first song is.” Out comes the cell.

“Let's go,” I say. All at once, I want to play.

Denny finishes. He puts down his phone. We get our fingers ready on the strings. Pig taps on the hi-hat with a stick. “Two, three, four—”

We all start on a different beat.

“Try again,” says Denny.

“What?” says Pig.

“Take your headphones off,” I yell.

“What?” says Pig.

I scream, “
Take your headphones
off. So we can all hear.
”

Pig frowns. He keeps the phones around his neck. Denny adjusts the mike. We get ready again.

“Two, three, four—”

Denny and I start on different notes. It's my bad.

“Two, three, four—”

Denny drops his pick. He stands up and bumps the microphone stand. It wobbles toward the amp. There's another feedback scream. I grab the stand and bump the crash cymbal, or is it the ride cymbal? Pig dives over the toms to grab it. I jerk back. There's a crackle and a
gadump
sound as my bass cord pops out.

We settle again. I plug back in.

“Two, three, four—”

This time we get it—for a little while anyway. The first notes of “Brain Stew” fill the room. They're wobbly but loud, and I think they are music. We get through the song twice. Denny's screams are pretty good. Pig has trouble keeping the beat with his feet, but he starts to get it. Even with only five notes to play, I'm not always sure where to fit them with the drums.

The second time through, Denny tries to solo. This is a mistake with only five strings. Oh, well. Pig and I power on.

Seven:
Bring rubber gloves.

It's not until everything stops and I pull the tissue out of my ears that I hear another sound. It's weird and high, like Robert Plant screaming on a Zep song. Only it's not Robert Plant.

It's Archie yowling and throwing up in the front hall.

“I think we're an extreme band,” Denny says.

We are so extreme we make cats barf. I'm cool with that (except for having to clean up), because I love us. Whatever this is that we're doing is the most fun I've ever had.

Chapter Seven

After three more practices we're way better. You can tell because Arch doesn't barf anymore. Sometimes when I take my earplugs out, I hear him yowling upstairs. When I go upstairs to put him outside, he runs right to the door.

I also know we're better because we can blast through “Brain Stew.” We can play “Teen Spirit.” We're working on playing it backward too. We've started practicing “Seven Nation Army,” and we have a list of songs we're going to learn.

Denny now has all six strings. His screaming sounds good, but he doesn't do many stage moves. That's because the basement ceiling is too low.

Pig and I are getting it together too. On “Brain Stew” I match my notes with the bass drum for those two quick beats every time. At first I couldn't figure out when they came in. Then Pig showed me that I could count along to the beat of the hi-hat.

Pig had trouble because he had to make his left hand play every beat on the hi-hat while his right foot played the two fast beats on the drum. See? It's tricky.

Now I'm checking out websites about bass playing. I got some patterns to practice, and I play bass along to our songs on my mp3 player. I've played so much that my fingers hardly ever hurt anymore. My fingertips are all tough and callused, and I can't feel much with them. It turns out it's a good thing I bite my nails too. Guitar and bass players have to keep them short, especially on the left hand. I'm really getting into this, even apart from the girls. Not that I've forgotten that. Chuck said girls can tell musicians by their hands. I hope he's right. I try to keep mine out of my pockets as much as I can.

“Stage two,” Denny says while we're walking down the hall at lunch. We're going to eat outside on the bleachers. “We gotta do the Myspace page, and it's gotta have video.” He slings his gig bag higher on his shoulder. “My tweeting is already building a fan base. Now they want more.”

“How many followers have we
got
, Den?”

“I haven't checked lately. But I know it's for sure more than my mom. So, what we're going to do now”—Denny pulls the door open—“is ask the girls in the video club to help. And I happen to know that they always eat lunch out here.”

“
What?
” All at once I'm not hungry. “We can't just ask them. They'll think we're dweebs, that it's a put-on.”

I thought girls would gather around after they heard us. I never thought we'd have to ask them to make a video.

Denny shakes his head and says, “No, they won't. Will they, Pig?”

Pig shrugs. “I'll do the Myspace page.”

As we cross the football field, I see the girls in the video club sitting in the bleachers. There's Lucy, from grade school, and Jessica from math, and Alison and Nadia. Oh, man. I see hair and smiles and many round body parts. “Why don't you text them?” I whisper to Denny.

“None of them gave me their numbers,” he whispers back.

Great. It's too late now. They see us coming. Are they giggling about us already?

“Hey, Video Club!” Denny calls. Now they're giggling for sure. I can feel myself shrinking.

I look around for Pigpen. He's bigger, and maybe I can duck behind him. He's gone. No, he's sitting by himself way down the bleachers, opening his lunch. How did he do that? There's no time to wonder.

“You guys still looking for a video project?” Denny asks. He's already climbing the bleachers toward the girls.

“Maybe,” says Alison. I feel my face turning red, and I shrink some more. The other girls are still giggling.

“Well, me and Ace have got one for you,” says Denny. His grin is a mile wide. “You can record our new band. We need performance video for our Myspace page. Have you been reading my tweets?”

More giggling. “We didn't know you were tweeting, Denny.” That's Jessica. I love girls with black hair. In fact I love girls of all hair colors. But I have trouble talking to any of them.

Denny babbles on. “We have this new band, Incoming. It's really turning out cool. There's Pigpe…Jared on drums, Ace on bass—hey, that rhymes! And I'm on guitar and lead vocals.” Denny spreads his arms out wide. His gig bag bounces. “We promise to rock your worlds!”

Rock your worlds
? If I shrink any more, all that will be left of me will be shoes. There's nothing I can do but send beams of
shut up
thoughts at Denny.

“Where are you performing?” Lucy asks.

I guess Denny doesn't get my message. He blathers, “Well, nowhere yet. That's why we need a video. To get performances. We just started. We're practicing in Ace's basement.”

“In Ace's basement?” says Lucy. I think she's been there, at my sixth birthday party.

“Yeah,” Denny says. “Hey, you could put Ace's cat in the video! He barfs every time we play. That's how we know we're extreme.” Denny hoists his gig bag. “Or know what,
you could all
be in it too!
”

“As what,” Nadia says, “adoring fans?”

I wish, but I don't say so. I'd have better luck wishing for death.

Denny says, “Sure! But, no, like, we could make something up. Maybe you could all hate us as much as the cat—”

“You mean we have to barf?” says Jessica.

Denny laughs and says, “No, but, like, we play really badly at first. Then you come in and show us how to rock or something. You know, we could make up a story.”