“Okay,” Clay replied. “Isn’t it John Hancock though?”
The top right corner of the paper bent. An eye, bloodshot and unamused, glared back.
Clay shrugged and hurried through a narrow passage in the dangling instruments, into a second room where colorful Fender and Ibanez guitars lined the walls. And he wandered among the amps and shelves of song books and effects pedals for more than a minute before noticing the rectangular window cut into the back wall. In the soundproof domain beyond was the “sales staff”: Fiasco Joe jumping around, silently thumping his bass as Spider, his spiked hair flat today, pounded away on a 5-piece drum kit. A ridiculous image without the accompanying music. Spastic loonies in a padded cell.
A moment later, Fiasco caught Clay’s stare and gestured with his head. Clay opened the foam-lined door and was greeted by a skull-splitting crash of cymbals. He recognized what they were playing right away; it was the bridge groove of “McGorgeous” by Karney and the Demons. For the last few years, Davis Karney and his ever-shifting lineup of backup musicians had been something like the Hollywood band. If Rocket Throne was still around, Clay believed Karney would have thanked his stars just to open for them; but genius didn’t grow on trees and “McGorgeous” was a catchy-enough tune. Clay nodded his head along until Fiasco quit his bassline and Spider pulled up short on the beat. “The man with the house!” the bass player shouted into the sudden quiet.
Spider reached over his toms to soul-shake, but Fiasco only turned to click his amp off. “Figured I’d check you guys out,” Clay said.
“Glad you did,” Fiasco replied. “Let’s get you an axe to grind. See if you’ve got the stuff.”
Clay hesitated. “The stuff?”
“To be in our band, man.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you had an opening in The Quiet Desperations of Calcut….”
“Well, I’ve just revealed we do. Also, we’re no longer The Quiet Desperations. We now go by Sunset Rubdown.”
Spider shook his head. “I told you, Fee, there’s already another band with that name.”
“Is Savy around?” Clay asked, casual as he could.
“She’s at work.” Fiasco smirked. “And she doesn’t work here. Don’t worry, though, we can act as her, you know, proxy, and report back.” He stepped into the sales room. “Let me guess, you’re a Fender Strat man?”
In truth, Clay’s dream instrument was the Rickenbacker 370. Rocco Boyle’s guitar. A fact that Fiasco Joe would have found obvious and nauseating. The tall bassist didn’t wait for an answer anyway, just pulled an aqua-colored Stratocaster off the wall and thrust it at Clay, who caught it by the neck like a dead duck. He’d figured they would shoot the shit their first time together, see if their personalities jived before any music happened. He’d also assumed Savy would be the one dictating things—and knew she would have, had she been here. “What do you play?” Fiasco prodded. “Know any Yngwie Malmsteen?”
Clay’s smile felt plastered on. Not only did he not know any Yngwie, he didn’t know what the fuck a Yngwie was—guy, girl, band, subculture? “No prob, no prob,” Fiasco assured him, when Clay shook his head. “We’ve got his song book over here.”
The bass player made for the rehearsal room again, but this time Clay didn’t move out of his way. “I don’t read music.”
“Hey, I hear you. Makes the whole idea of rock-n-roll sort of… sterile, right? Like a great big musical condom.” Fiasco threw his hands up. “But until you know the tune, isn’t it easier to have the notation?”
“I don’t mean I won’t read music, I mean I don’t. I never learned.”
A moment passed before Fiasco glanced at Spider—with a look of such terrible glee that Clay knew he was being put on. Set up to fail for their entertainment. His cheeks burned. And the hot blood that started pumping was familiar. An anger that was constantly fighting for a way out. How nice it would be to surprise Fiasco Joe with a haymaker to the head, to watch his smile falter and his body crumble. The guy was taller and bigger in the torso than Clay—and arrogant enough to never see the blow coming.
Spider, for his part, looked uneasy. “How long have you been playing, Clay?”
“Five years or so.”
“And it never occurred to you what all those dots and lines meant?” Fiasco wondered.
“I never took lessons. Always just played by ear. I can figure most things out by listening. ‘McGorgeous,’ for instance, I’ll play start to finish—but I couldn’t tell you the key signature.”
“Okay, then can you play this by listening?” They waited awkwardly while Fiasco called up Yngwie on Spotify. Finally, the nearby speakers kicked to life with electric guitar work as intricate as the most experimental jazz, only played at twice the speed.
“Come on, Belasco, you fucking hate Malmsteen,” Spider said. “Let’s pick up ‘McGorgeous’ and see how it vibes—”
“It’s nothing personal,” Fiasco went on. “And I don’t know how they do things in the Philly scene, since I’ve never heard of a single, worthy band coming from there—but out here on the coast, it’s the big leagues. People travel far and wide to taste a little fame. And our girl—Savy? She’s the best guitar player in the whole fucking Valley. So what we need is a frontman who’s her equal. And a guy musically illiterate?”—his mouth twisted and his voice shifted—“Not gon’ cut duh mustard. It’s nothing personal.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
Spider dropped his eyes to his snare. Fiasco snapped his amp off again. Clay thrust the Fender into the bassist’s
