Practice itself was every bit as edifying as their first time on the Knickerbocker roof. Every song Clay wrote (with a little help from his not-quite-imaginary friend), Savy and the guys made better. They tested Clay, challenged him, forced him to practice harder, faster, to treat his guitar like an extension of his own body, and to never settle for anything that sucked in the slightest. If it took six months to fine-tune a song, so be it.
Vocal-wise, Clay felt like he was improving by the day. He would never have Boyle’s melodic growl, or Freddie Mercury’s four-octave range, but he was developing a sound and style all his own. What was more, and what really took their songs to a new level, were the two-part harmonies that he and Savy pulled out of thin air. When she locked word-for-word on his choruses, when she added the “Wooooooahs” and “Heeeeeys” to accentuate a verse, there was an audible magic that translated on even the shittiest one-track recordings. Not even Fiasco Joe denied it. However raw, they had something here.
If any further validation was needed, Boyle confirmed Clay’s belief when he listened to their first rehearsal tape; and he seemed to take pride in the fact (not only could Clay hear the disembodied voice of a dead man, he had a solid ear for rock tunes as well).
Two nights a week, after Savy’s day of mopping floors and serving geriatric meals at the Knickerbocker, the band jammed in a concrete laundry room behind Spider and Fiasco’s apartment in Eagle Rock.
On Fridays, practice shifted to the Generator. Playing in the same space as their Rocket Throne idols gave these sessions an added gravitas, with Savy demanding that they play “as if Throne were there to witness the performance”—and what could Clay do but bite his tongue?
Afterward, they barbequed in the outdoor kitchen and were treated to Fiasco’s rants on everything from L.A. drivers to major record labels. “Grammy Awards, record-release parties, skeezy execs who wouldn’t know great music from the trumpeting of their ass—that shit’s totally dead now. Long live indie music! Self-distribution and grassroots marketing!”
Sometimes they swam under the stars in the heated pool, and Clay did his best not to gawk at Savy in her one-piece. He failed more often than not, as did Fiasco and Spider—so that Savy began to “forget” her bathing suit and sit with her feet in the water while the rest of them backstroked and cannonballed. The notion wasn’t lost on Clay—Savy had won their respect as a musician, as their band leader, but in the pool she was still flesh to their libidos. After awhile he quit going in too, and not long after that, the pool went unused.
Once Fiasco’s ’85 Dodge van—which had been dubbed “BadVan” by all who dared ride in it—rolled off for the night, Clay returned to the Generator and listened as Boyle offered feedback for the songs in general, and praise for Savy in particular. At one point, when the smack was gettin’ over on me, I considered hiring another guitar to help me through the tour schedule. If Savy had tried out, I’d have hired her in a second. I’d have hired her if she was a hundred pounds overweight with bad acne—she’s that damn good.
“She’s not even fully aware how good,” Clay agreed.
That’s the beauty of true talent. Self-awareness ruins it.
“Savy doesn’t have a problem there.”
No, the problem’s with you, my friend. You want to make music with her and you also want to fall for her. I understand the desire, believe me. But lovin’ in bands? Don’t work, brother.
This seemed one of the true paradoxes of the universe—that a band could bond so fiercely through the intercourse of music, but the moment the sexy boom-boom asserted itself, everything went to shit. Was it like married couples who worked together—too much time in each other’s company? Was it the groupies lingering at every stage door? Or that two members had a closer relationship than the rest of the band? Clay couldn’t say.
There’ll be girls aplenty, Boyle assured him. But truly great guitarists come along once a career. Heed the warning. Don’t let your cock crow—heed the warning.
Still, Clay never missed an opportunity to spend time with Savy. Several times a month they ventured into Hollywood to catch bands at the Whisky, The Roxy, The Mint; everything from locals legends with cult followings to up-and-comers on self-funded van tours to electronica played by shirtless hipsters on laptops. They saw Springsteen at the Pantages, the Foo Fighters at The Forum, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at Ace Hotel. They caught Against Me! at Spaceland, The Raveonettes at The Echo, The Airborne Toxic Event at El Rey, Five Finger Death Punch at a venue Clay never learned the name of, Dream Theater at the Fox Performing Arts Center, the Melvins at the Troubadour, Florence + The Machine at The Wiltern. They lingered in booths at Fred 62 and House of Pies and In-N-Out, discussed the strengths of each performance, the choice of set lists, and what they hoped to include in their own eventual stage show.
They made weekly pilgrimages to Amoeba Records, that warehouse-sized haven of music, to lose themselves among the aisles of vinyl and CDs (such things still existed here and in great number); or to ascend to the DVD loft and people-watch in the aisles below—here, some indie kids in black-framed glasses, there a gang of ravers in neon spandex, and over yonder a mohawked bride in zombie makeup. A love of music seemed the only prerequisite. Even Boyle couldn’t resist writing a detailed list of albums he’d been longing to hear, and in the absence of Spotify in the Generator (the WiFi being iffy and resistant to extenders in the guesthouse), Clay was happy to hook him up. An existence without music truly sounded like hell.
They drove into Venice to witness the parade of tattoos and tourists, the loin-clothed skinny man with his boa
