Voice (26 page)

A quick look around the place, and all Case was able to find in the way of responsible parties was the bartender, so over to the bar she went.

“Hey!” she said. “Who’s running this show?”

The bartender himself looked like a scrawny lumberjack. An unlit cigarette hung off his lower lip, hovering over his beard.

“Tom, I guess,” he said.

“Where the hell is he?”

The bartender scanned the room. “Fuck, I dunno. He’s usually on time. Maybe he’s in jail or something.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“His shit’s all in a box under the stage. Go ahead and use what you can find.”

Case went over to the stage and lifted one of the panels, and sure enough there were two cardboard boxes full of tangled cables next to a disorderly heap of mic stands.

“What’s goin’ on?” the head lumberjack asked her, peering over the edge of the stage.

“Sound guy’s a no-show. You wanna play, get down here and help me get this stuff set up.”

“Who’s gonna run sound?”

Case slid one of the boxes out. “
I’m
going to run sound for you guys. Then you’re going to run sound for my band when we go on. Sound fair?”

“Cool.”

Danny came over while she was pulling cables from one of the boxes.

“What’s going on?” he asked, unknowingly echoing the head lumberjack.

“No sound guy, so we’re doing it ourselves.”

Danny laughed. “That brings back some memories. Just like the old days.”

She smiled despite herself. “Not all that old. But, yeah. You wanna set up some mic stands?”

He pitched in, and with the help of the lumberjacks (they moved veeerrrry slowly, but there were five of them), they got set up quickly. It also helped, Case thought wryly, that there were only four microphones. She’d heard or read somewhere that, if you only had a few mics, you should always mic the kick drum and the snare, so she had them do that. The other two mics were left for vocals, and the band would have to turn up their amps to do the rest. She would be “running sound” mostly by pointing at various band members and using her thumbs to tell them to turn their amps up or down. That had a kind of absurdity to it that she thought would have righteously pissed her off a year ago, but it made her laugh out loud tonight.

Danny handed her the cable from the kick drum mic. He was grinning, too. “This is ridiculous,” he said.

She grinned back, and she felt a sudden warmth in her belly as she met his eyes. “Yep.” She laughed again and went over to the mixer to plug in the cable.

***

The lumberjacks played the set Case expected—three songs, each about ten minutes long, consisting of endless noodling over the same two chords. She was a good sport about it, though, and took her job as impromptu sound guy seriously. She hoped they weren’t too stoned to do the same for her. They wrapped up late, partly because they’d gotten started late, and partly because Case didn’t feel like cutting them off when they’d gone on too long. The bar was filling up, a little, and she thought she’d let that happen for a bit longer. Anyway, the jam band guys were harmless. They’d be done soon enough.

“Thanks,” the head lumberjack told her after he got offstage. “That was a cool thing to do.”

“Lead vocal is channel one, kick and snare are three and four. Good luck.”

There was a bunch of fucking around to get everything onstage and get the volumes right, and some more fucking around when the lead vocal wouldn’t turn up—somehow the stands had gotten moved around, so the mic Johnny ended up in front of was actually on channel two—but Case didn’t care. She flashed Quentin and Danny a grin just before they started. “No pressure tonight,” she said. “Let’s have some fun.” Johnny scowled at her as though fun was strictly verboten. She ignored him and started the first song.

She had a blast. There was nobody to impress here, nothing to prove—just loud fucking rock and roll, and the equipment situation made the whole thing too silly to take seriously. She ended up sharing a mic with Quentin on some of the backup vocals, leaning in suddenly and surprising the hell out of him the first time it happened. The look on his face was priceless, like he thought she was going to bite him or tweak his nose or something. She’d had to turn up her amp to ungodly levels to get it loud enough for the whole room, and it sounded
amazing
. It also fed back like crazy, but she used that to extract some hellish noise out of her guitar that she thought was actually pretty cool.
I think I’m made to play dive bars,
she thought, and that made her laugh some more.

Even better, the vague weirdness that had haunted so many shows lately was gone. Johnny just sang, just rocked out, and he sounded good. Case lost herself in the deafening noise, the crash and thunder and squeal, even forgetting to be cautious long enough to go back and jam with Danny for half a song. The old electricity was still there, like a switch that had been waiting for someone to flip it, and the look he gave her was so hungry, so intense, that she bit her lip to keep from moaning. Then she laid into the bridge of the song, almost running back over to Quentin’s mic to get on the backing vocals before she missed the line.

She was leaning out over the monitors, holding the guitar in front of her in an overly theatrical pose while blowing through the solo in “Walkin
’
,” when a face in the crowd snagged her attention. There was an older guy, maybe forty, nodding his head along with the music and smiling, and something about him was terribly familiar.

It clicked a fraction of a second later.
Holy fuck. That’s Kerry Buchanan.

An awful squawk came from her guitar as she flubbed the end of the solo. She shook her head, trying to focus, but she couldn’t help stealing a second glance. It was Kerry Buchanan all right, and she recognized a couple of the other members of Crashyard, too.

Case turned her back to the small audience and concentrated on finishing the song without fucking up. As the song ended, she went back to Danny and leaned toward him.

“Kerry Buchanan is here!” she yelled, but he was already starting the next song, and he just gave her a puzzled look.

Fuck it. He’ll play better if I don’t tell him.
With that thought, she tried to push Crashyard’s presence out of her own mind and just play the way she always played. That didn’t work spectacularly well—every third thought seemed to be
Kerry Buchanan is here!
and if she’d ever imagined she was immune to being starstruck, she was being sharply corrected now. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy, as if they were cold, and her playing sounded wooden to her. Luckily, the set was almost over.

The band wrapped up the last song a few minutes later, and Case started to unplug her stuff in the time-honored tradition of getting the hell off the stage so the next band could set up.

“What else you got?” somebody yelled. “Play some more!”

Case wasn’t looking at the audience, but she knew the voice.
Holy fuck,
she thought again. Johnny was looking, though, and she saw his mouth drop open with the surprise of recognition. Danny and Quentin were only a second behind.

“Man, I really appreciate that,” Johnny said into the mic. His swagger had all but vanished for the moment. “But we gotta make way for the next band.”

“Ain’t nobody else!”

“Who’s playing next?” Johnny asked, looking across the crowd. Nobody said anything.

“Ain’t nobody else!” the bartender shouted, echoing Buchanan.

Johnny, Quentin, and Case huddled together around Danny, pulled automatically as if by chains.

“What do you think we should do?” Quentin asked.

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” Johnny said, his face alight with fevered excitement. “We’ve got another hour or so of good shit we know backward and forward, and we’re gonna play until that motherfucker says stop.”

Case nodded appreciatively. “That’s what I’d say.”

“Let’s do it,” Danny said. “Go ahead and call the tune.”

“‘Burn,’” Johnny said. When Case gave him a surprised look, he shrugged. “It’s a tight fucking song, and everybody loves it.”

“No complaints here,” she said, and she started the song.

***

They played another dozen songs before they had to admit they were tapped out. By the second or third song, thanks in large part to shouts of encouragement from the crowd, Case loosened up and felt—and played—more like herself. A kind of euphoria set in, and despite the shitty sound setup and the comical mic sharing, they played a pretty good set. Danny
really
threw himself into it, pounding the skins with a manic energy Case hadn’t heard from him in a while, and she found herself back there jamming with him over and over again, sharing that intensity, staring a challenge into his eyes and receiving the same until she thought she might explode.

They got off the stage at almost one, ears ringing and bodies dripping sweat, all four of them grinning widely—

And the guys from Crashyard were waiting for them.

“Good fucking set,” Kerry Buchanan said, and Case almost squealed with glee.
Kerry Buchanan just told me I played a good set!
“What are you guys drinking?”

There was a shocked pause, and then they all answered at once. “Screwdriver.” “Shiner.” “Jack and Coke.” “Beer.”

Buchanan grinned. “All right, then. Let’s get ’em lined up.”

They ended up sitting around a couple of pushed-together tables—three of the guys from Crashyard (the rhythm guitarist, it turned out, was dealing with a family emergency elsewhere); the four members of Ragman; and Erin—the fifth Beatle, as Case had taken to calling her. Outside the circle of the table, a few crowd members and the entire cast of the lumberjack jam band hung out, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment they never got.

“Good band,” Buchanan said, and the four of them glowed. “You guys remind me of us when we were younger.”

Case thought she might pass out, and she caught a dazed grin from Danny next to her.

“Can I give you some advice?” Buchanan asked. Nods all around. “Whatever else happens, no matter what deal somebody offers you, keep your publishing rights.”

Case blinked. She’d expected something along the lines of “turn down the gain on your amp a little,” or “make more eye contact with the audience,” not a piece of contract wisdom. “Huh?” she said.

Buchanan took a sip of his drink—beer, Case noticed, and barely touched. “You guys are
not
major label material.”

Johnny bristled immediately. “Why not?” It was a challenge, not really a question.

Buchanan shrugged. “I don’t mean you’re not good enough—you got rough edges, but any idiot can see you guys have your shit down. But the market . . . Well, timing is everything. Believe me, I know.” Case knew what he meant—Crashyard had started playing their brand of rude, mean rock just about the time Nirvana killed off the hair bands and the entire music world rotated to focus on mopey “alternative” rock from Seattle. Crashyard was a great fucking band, but the kind of huge market that would have propelled them to superstardom had vanished right when they hit their stride. Buchanan didn’t seem to care, though. He smiled, a kind of cocked half-smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a younger Harrison Ford, if Ford had been hit in the face a lot more often. “Crashyard started out with a major label, but the label dumped us after we didn’t recoup our advance for the first album. There was a nasty little clause in the contract that we’d been too drunk to care about when we signed—and it gave them the publishing rights for every song on that album. The label sold some of the songs to fuck-knows-where—car commercials, movie soundtracks, and shit like that. I still hear ’em cropping up in weird places. The label gets paid for all of it, and I don’t get a dime.”

“No shit?” Johnny said.

“No shit. Don’t get me wrong—I got nothin’ to complain about. We’re on a little indie label now that likes us, and pop radio can go fuck itself. We’re not playing arenas or anything, but we’ve got loyal fans, and we’ve been making a good living doing what we love for fifteen years. Point is, if you’re gonna be in this for the long haul, nail down your publishing and you’ll be collecting checks for years. Without major-label marketing support and a huge fucking audience, those royalty checks will be a larger part of your income than you’d believe.”

Case filed that away for future reference, and the conversation (thankfully) lightened up after that. Buchanan told a bunch of tour horror stories—with color commentary from the other guys—that had them cracking up. Alcohol flowed liberally, and Case started feeling a pleasant buzz.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Quentin asked after the fourth round, “but what the hell are you guys doing here?” There was laughter all around, and he blushed.

“We got started in this shitty bar,” Buchanan said. “Me and Jason and Barry—he was the drummer then—played our first show here. Gotta remember your roots, man.”

There was much sober nodding at this comment, but by then that was the only thing that was sober. They all got drunker and louder and yelled over each other, and periodically the whole rowdy group was swept with gales of laughter as somebody got off a good one, often at Buchanan’s expense. Case could feel the presence of Danny’s body next to her, and her skin tingled every time he accidentally—accidentally?—touched her leg or elbow.