Nine Hundred Nights Page 5

  Ingy pulls into the driveway of Nick's house, exits the car and grabs his guitar case from his trunk. He walks toward the front door as it opens.

  Nick threatens as he stands blocking the entrance "You got a lotta nerve showing your face around here my friend…but you have one WHOLE HELLAVA lotta nerve darkening my doorstep after what you pulled."

  Ingy proceeds with the bulky guitar case, walking right into Nick as if he's not there at all; he nearly knocks him over as he storms by saying in a strained voice that was not quite a shout "Shut up and get the hell out of my way before you get hurt!"

  Nick begins to counter with "Hey! You can't talk to me like that…"

  But Ingy cuts him off at the knees "Don't gimme that crap…we've been ALL through this…play your friggin guitar and KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT!"

  This is the way it was, and would remain, between Ingy and Nick where humor was concerned; preparation was never allowed, it was always impromptu and twisted. They were both known to tell jokes, but never to each other; their interaction was always spontaneous. It started with the 'Trap Door' exchange during auditions, about ten seconds after they first laid eyes on each other…and it never ended. Each showed an all-consuming commitment to either make the other laugh first or to embarrass one another, and it required each of them to be mercilessly quick on the draw. Countless times someone would hear them going at it and be firmly convinced that they hated each other's guts and fists were about to fly, despite the consolations of the other band members who witnessed their warped humor on a daily basis.

  Now that the band lineup was complete, the next thing to do was practice, practice and practice some more. The two climb the narrow staircase to Nick's converted attic room, tune their instruments and warm up, absent-mindedly playing random guitar riffs. They sit huddled close together on chairs facing each other in secret conference, muttering in some cryptic guitar-duo code language. This is never a bullshit-session, never something casual. After some final settling down the room becomes conspicuously quiet, like a church at mid-day. Solemn. Serious. Devout. The Church of Don't-Let-Me-Fuck-Up…whose worshippers petitioned the gods for skill, precision and self-confidence.

  With a barely audible four count, the two electric guitars, many times not even plugged into an amplifier, would begin their musical discourse in perfect syncopation. Heavy Metal was certainly not Mozart, not in structure nor subtlety, but when played well it usually entails a high degree of coordination between the guitar players.

  They play a syncopated harmony that leads into the rhythm section of a popular metal song; long hair dangling and heads bopping in time; the sun sets as they sharpen their chops.

  At his construction site, Jimmy is about to take his break and makes his way to the roof of the building with a pair of drumsticks. The roof is strewn with construction debris and tools, and he rummages through the rubble and finds two empty plastic five gallon buckets; he upends them, sits on one and positions the other between his knees. With a stick in each hand, he does some fancy twirls and then begins to play drum exercises on the bucket. After a few minutes of this he starts playing songs from the bands' play list, stroke for stroke with no accompaniment and solely from memory.

  In a quiet residential neighborhood Tommy is painting the outside of a house and from a great distance the paint roller and long handle to which it is attached can be seen moving up and down in perfect and enduring rhythm. When we're closer we can see Tommy's headphones and hear him singing in a soft voice 'Ready For Action' by GAMMA…

  ME AND MY FRIENDS,

  WE'VE BEEN STANDING ON THE CORNER,

  UNDERNEATH THE BLINKIN' CITY LIGHTS…

  WHEN WE'RE IN THE MOOD

  WE'LL DO ANYTHING WE WANNA,

  LOOKS LIKE WE'RE IN THE MOOD TONIGHT…

  On a quiet street in a middle class neighborhood the cars traveling at high speed along Route 17 several blocks away can barely be heard. From a house with a small but neatly trimmed front lawn comes a vague booming…like a vibration, which turns into a recognizable bass guitar playing some staccato melody. It almost sounds like a horse's gallop.

  Inside, Kenny, legs apart in a wide and steady stance, stretches his long fingers seemingly effortlessly to span four, then five then six and ultimately seven frets as he pounds out the bass guitar parts to the bands' song list. A cigarette dangles precariously from the very tip of its filter which is lodged into the corner of his frowning mouth whose lips are tight with concentration. Kenny, once focused, can maintain this exact posture and level of concentration for hours at a time, pausing only to light a new cigarette.

  Sean, wearing a blood stained white butcher's coat, white plastic scuffed helmet with black Iron Main mascot 'Eddie' decal and thick framed safety glasses, is on the phone as he uses the band saw to cut a large section of frozen beef in two. It's a noisy environment and Sean has to yell to be heard on the phone, something that does not come natural to him. The phone is tucked between his shoulder and cheek as he slowly pushes the meat forward with a short piece of two-by-four.

  "We need the whole thing..." he raises his voice and tries again "I said we need the WHOLE thing. I'm not looking to rent the equipment. I'm looking for a lighting guy and a sound guy and ya know….exactly, exactly. They rent if they need to or whatever but I don't want to have to worry about it….Beautiful, right...how much?"

  Sean struggles to cut the beef, overcome the noisy environment and keep the phone tucked between his shoulder and his cheek. The phone slips away from him and the cord gets severed in the saw. He turns the machine off, bends down and retrieves the receiver from the floor, with the stub of cord sticking out of it.

  "Shit."

  Everyone was feeling the pressure to hold up their part, to come through and not let the others down. For each of them, having the drive and the desire to start something was one thing, but to be completely ready to perform was another. The pressure was shared so it tended to pull the band together.

  Jimmy's house is in the middle of a residential block in Hackensack, built upon a fairly steep hill, and when people park on the street they unconsciously tend to point their wheels inward toward the curb in fear that something might let go with their brakes or something. It's a two story brick house, three if Jimmy's finished attic bedroom is included, and if you don't count the unfinished basement.

  The studio was unavailable tonight as the landlord had some insurance inspection or something going on this day and the next. Ingy, Nick, Kenny and Tommy carry instruments up the walkway to Jimmy's front door and ring the doorbell.

  Grace, Jimmy's mother, hears the doorbell in the kitchen. She slides a casserole back into the oven and answers the door. She smiles at the boys in way of greeting, asks them in and calls "JIMAAAAAYYY!" in her thick Irish brogue.

  "Yeah?" the band hears from somewhere deep inside the house, but then Jimmy quickly appears in the hallway.

  "Ask your friends if they're hungry for dinner...Colcannon yeah?" Grace tells him.

  "I'll ask ma, lemme get 'em settled in the basement." Jimmy says as he appears behind his mother and kisses her on the cheek and then leads the boys down a narrow staircase.

  A few minutes later Jimmy calls up to his mother in the kitchen through the open door to the basement "Everybody ate ma, I'll come up later."

  Grace calls back "I'll make you a plate and leave it on the stove."

  As Grace is saying this, Jimmy's father, James Sr., arrives home through the front door and heads into the kitchen. He's tall, lean and powerfully built; his brogue is as thick as his wife's but harder to understand. He enters the kitchen.

  "The boys gonna practice eh?"

  "Sure they will. They're starting to look for their first gig."

  James Sr. yells through the open basement door as he passes "Give em hell Jimmy boy!"

  "Go get washed up, it's almost dinner."

  James turns back and kisses his wife on her head and moves off to get cleaned up.

  Fifteen minutes lat
er Sean climbs to the top of the basement stairs and closes the door, returning to the basement. Jimmy starts to twirl his sticks and do some warm up exercises on the skins. Ingy, Nick and Kenny turn their amps from standby and pick some fast finger patterns up and down their fret boards.

  The unfinished basement is cramped but well lit, with a ceiling low enough to require caution to avoid bumped heads. There is an oil fired boiler opposite Jimmy's 'practice' drum kit. The rest of the band has equipment crammed into every available space on the floor and Sean, sitting on top of the clothes dryer, is writing out his suggestion for the exact play list when they land their first gig.

  "What do you think?"

  "I'd swap Heaven and Hell with Hallowed."

  "Why?" Sean asks.

  "Heaven and Hell is more titanic…it's more of a juggernaut to close with." Ingy says thoughtfully.

  "Did you time the breaks?" Jimmy asks Sean.

  "Yeah."

  Ingy softly plays the beginning of Led Zeppelin's 'The Rain Song' as Sean tears the page off the pad and thumb tacks it to an overhead wooden beam "I'm off to get beer."

  As he turns to face the band, several dollar bills crumpled into little balls, hit him in the face; the reason for this is that, much to the band's chagrin, Sean insists on paying for nearly everything. The only reason that he doesn't succeed more frequently than he does, is that the boys have come to expect it and are usually ready for his charitable gestures with offerings of their own.

  Sean laughs and bolts up the stairs before he can be stopped; when he reaches the top step he turns and yells "I got it." followed by the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.

  "I love that guy." Nick says.

  Ingy teases "If you REALLY love him you'd let him have a slice of those sugar buns hidden in your tight rock 'n roll pants buddy boy."

  Jimmy cackles and Nick is shaking his head; Kenny plays the bass line of Lou Reed's 'Walk on the Wild Side'.

  The band dives into both playlists and then repeats them several times; twice they lower their amps as the hour grows late, until eventually it's too late to play at all. They knock off and drink the remaining beer while making small talk. Jimmy finds some blankets and spreads them on the concrete floor and by three in the morning everyone has drifted to sleep.

  At nine the following morning Grace is back in the kitchen cooking; she opens the basement door and yells down to the sleeping band members "Boys...BOYS! Breakfast is on the table. Sun's shinin' time to get up boys. Jimaaaayyy!"

  Grace sets food onto the dining room table and watches the disheveled bunch as they file up from the basement. She has prepared an Irish breakfast of eggs, blood sausage, potatoes, baked beans and muffins. There is a large metal coffee pot at the center of the table and a big ceramic pot of tea as well. Between them is a large bowl of apples and pears. Everyone is seated but no one takes Jimmy's father's chair at the head of the table.

  "Mom you rock." Jimmy says with passion.

  The band joins in, thanking Grace profusely.

  "You can't play that heavy metal on an empty stomach can you?"

  "Mrs. McGrath of all our parents, you're the one who seems the most comfortable with the band." Nick says "You and Mr. McGrath are the only ones who really encourage us."

  "I understand you boys." Grace says amiably, then sits down at the table and takes a sip of tea "When I was a little girl in Dún Laoghaire...in Ireland, I was quite a little songbird myself. I even won the contest at St. Joseph's on my ninth birthday." she sets the mug down and with a far away look says "Oh, I loved to sing."

  Ingy looks at Jimmy "See? If you'd told us that sooner Jim, we wouldn't be stuck with Tommy!" the boys grin, including Tommy good naturedly, but everyone's attention is still on Grace.

  "Why didn't you keep on singing?" Tommy asks.

  "Well you know, I did for a while. I led the church vocal services for a few years. Also, my older sister played guitar and we performed at quite a few small parties...birthdays and such.

  "What kind of stuff did you sing?" Tommy asked.

  "Oh this was a long time ago. It was folk music…Irish folk music you see. Back then there was nothing like the music you boys play. You'd have seemed like savages back then." she said with a smile.

  "Savages…" Nick says chuckling. "…why did you stop though?"

  "Well you know, when I was fifteen, my poor dad got very sick. He was bedridden you see, and my older sister and I had to make a wage to help out. A short time after he'd passed on I met James and we married and started the family."

  "I'm sorry you didn't get…" Tommy started.

  "Oh no, I don't have any regrets…" she interrupted "…I met Jimmy's father and we fell in love and had Jimmy. I'm grateful to God for the way things worked out." Grace said with a smile "But…can you see that Jimmy's quest was mine too? It's like a flame that you can feel inside of you…and when Jimmy plays his drums I can see him out there in front of an audience, holding them in the palm his hand. I want him to have HIS chance. James does too."

  Jimmy, with watery eyes, gets up, hugs his mother and mutters something about going to the bathroom and quickly leaves the room. The boys, without exception, work very hard avoid showing the emotion that Grace had provoked with her simple story.

  Track 6

  The First Gig

  Ingy pulls into the driveway of Nick's house. The sun has set and it's a starless night, muggy and damp. After one tap on the horn, Nick emerges from the house and the two head back toward the main road, no words are exchanged for a few minutes.

  "Ya ready to do this?" Ingy asks.

  "Yeah." Nick replies.

  They drive another mile.

  "Nervous? I'm a little nervous…" Ingy mutters.

  "Nope."

  They continue on for another mile.

  "Whatdya' think? Think we'll get it?"

  "Maybe."

  After two more minutes of silence Ingy's fed up "You're a friggin chatterbox tonight, aren't you?"

  "Yup." Nick says with a hint of a smirk.

  "Shaddap."

  Ingy pulls into the parking lot of 'Legend' and though both of them have been to Legend many times, they both somehow feel as though this is their first time. The hour is still early and the parking lot is sparsely populated; the glass main entrance doors are open and there is only a hint of music making its way to the door as a man with a broom sweeps some dust from the lobby out into the parking lot.

  Entering the club, Ingy and Nick find Jimmy at the bar. At this early hour there are only a few patrons, the stage is empty and dark, and over the sound system Ace Frehley is speedin' back to his baby.

  The boys exchange greetings and sit down together at the bar. After the first few sips of their beer, Jimmy can't contain himself.

  "You sure this guy's gonna be here?"

  "We'll probably catch him Jim, relax bro." Nick replies.

  "It's pretty early though."

  "He gets here early. The guy books the talent, that doesn't necessarily mean that he spends late nights viewing the talent."

  Ingy goads "Jimmy's got the butterflies. You got the butterflies don't ya Jim?" he says as he grabs Jimmy's ribs.

  "Get off! I'm a little nervous, so what?" which earns a weak laugh from the others, since they are just more successful at hiding in themselves what Jimmy's feeling.

  Jimmy asks "What are you gonna do if he says no?"

  "If he says no I'll be forced to use..." Nick does what looks like a magic trick, holding up his empty right hand, he shoots it out and magically a cassette tape appears. "…this!"

  "You recorded a practice?" Jim says unhappily.

  "No. It's your Aunt Helen at work on that 1-900 sex line."

  "That's fucked up." Jimmy says with raised eyebrows.

  "What?"

  "I actually HAVE an Aunt Helen. She's like 80."

  "She still has the moves bro." Nick says seriously.

  "Shut up."

  Nick presses on "Ingy, back me up
on this. When you call that 1-900 Dial-A-Suck number, DOES OR DOESN'T Aunt Helen still get the job done?"

  Ingy says uncomfortably "I thought we weren't going to talk about it in front of him."

  Jimmy pleads "Will you two shut up already! You taped us?"

  "I taped us."

  "That's gotta sound like shit. The tape machine in the studio is a piece of crap."

  "I listened to it and I admit it's not 'Dark Side of the Moon'…" Nick says reasonably "…but it's OK. Besides I won't use it unless I have to."

  Ingy gestures with his head and Jimmy and Nick both turn to see the club manager Stew Mills. Stew is in his mid-thirties; he's stocky and has a close cropped beard that's meticulously trimmed. He's wearing slacks, a white oxford shirt and a dark brown corduroy sports jacket.

  Nick takes a sip of his drink "OK. Wish me luck."

  Ingy shoots back "You suck and nobody likes you."

  Nick stands up with his eyes locked on Stew "Thanks."

  As Nick approaches Stew, Jimmy and Ingy watch intently from their perches down the bar.

  "I hope he doesn't offer him that tape, it can't sound good." Jimmy says.

  "Nick's a fucking perfectionist; if he's willing to let him listen to it then it can't be that bad." Ingy counters.

  "Uh Oh." Jimmy says as he sees Stew shaking his head, then Nick takes a step closer to Stew.

  Ingy offers "Doesn't look good...Fuck!"

  Jimmy says "I'm gonna go over there." but doesn't move from his barstool.

  They watch as Nick puts his hands in his jacket pockets, looks at the floor and nods his head as Stew is talking.

  "Doesn't look good."

  "There are other clubs Jim, this is the first one we're trying."

  Nick holds up the tape.

  Jimmy throws his hands up "Not that fucking tape!"