The Wild Harmonic Read online

  Rowan steps out from behind the board to help me carry my gear. I try not to think about his Hispanic-Cajun good looks, and as he greets me with a kiss on the cheek, I pray that my rising temperature doesn’t accidentally singe him. “How was your day?” he gently murmurs as we hoist my gear onto the stage.

  Oh, dear gods! I was planning on being Miss Cool, but I can’t help myself. I have all of the social graces and aplomb of a warthog in a tutu, and before I even realize it, I find myself spewing about my adventure.

  “You’re not gonna believe this. This afternoon, I was trying to drive across Camp Street, and this dude yapping on his cellphone and driving at this idiotic speed, ran a stop sign. Somehow I knew he was coming, and I swerved as hard as I could, but he totally plowed into me. Luckily there was no one riding shotgun. If there was, it would have been ugly … we’re talking major injury or death, and three generations to pay off medical expenses.” He nods sympathetically.

  “And when we got out of our cars to exchange info, he recognized me! Remember when I told you about that gig I played in the Quarter where this drunk dude cursed me out for three solid hours from the bar, and the rest of the patrons were getting pissed, but the bartender refused to throw him out because he was tipping her so extravagantly?” I don’t wait for a response. “It was him, and I wanted to kill him right then and there, but I had to act rational because by that time a cop had arrived on the scene. As they were towing away my poor crumpled car, he nonchalantly apologized for ruining my vehicle and my gig, as if he’d done little more than knock over my drink. I was so mad I was practically foaming at the mouth! So I asked him if that was all he could say, and he said that in fact, he had more he wanted to tell me. He asked me if I was aware of massive changes about to take place and the coming of a new heaven on earth. And he pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket … like I really want to be preached at by a religious freak! What kind of man tells you ‘join the angels’ right after he’s demolished your vehicle?”

  His expression never changes. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

  And in a split second, I am laughing. And then I realize that while I’ve been running my mouth and emotionally barfing, he’s set up my mic, run my amp through a DI box, and materialized a guitar stand for me seemingly out of thin air. He knows just by the sound of the room’s acoustics what settings I should use, and he’s surreptitiously adjusted my tone on my rig—I ‘ve been known to forget to do this myself when I’m really flustered before a gig. There’s even a bottle of water for me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was a freaking ninja.

  But I do know better. I wonder if he knows that I know? I’m terrified to ask him about it.

  It’s an extremely risky boundary to cross. It seems that many people choose to turn tail and shun the things that make them who they are: their quirks, their flaws and foibles, their hopes and fears, their heritage, and their private demons. It didn’t take me long to figure Rowan out, and the fact that I seem to be the only one who has caught on is extremely unnerving to me.

  A beverage-enhanced voice bellows from the crowd, “Hey, miss! You gonna play us a song tonight?”

  No, actually, I’m going to land a helicopter. Deep sigh. I have to be grateful that we live on a planet with only one moon. Especially on nights like tonight, when it looks so ripe, and when it plays with the tides of our bloodstreams.

  I glance at our band’s backdrop. Even the scowling Lion of Judah looks exceptionally ferocious in this light.

  I hate checking sound while audience members are trickling in. We try to get the right levels—play a little, adjust a little, play some more, the sound person tries to dial up the right tone and volume, tries to get us decent monitor mixes so that everyone in the band can hear each other—and in the midst of this, someone always screams, “Play a song!!!” We go to check our microphones (“One, two … one, two …”) and some genius shows off his intellect with “Three, four!!!” (This is why I always check my mic in Scots Gaelic.) The band that goes on last usually checks sound first, so at least I can get this over with, swap a few jokes with Raúl, and sneak away before I’m tempted to stare at Rowan.

  Now that there’s nothing left for me to do—except catch the other acts and wait my turn to go play—I have to step outside for a spell. Hanging out in the employees’ parking lot helps me clear my head, even in the humid evening air. Flanked by the back ends of adjacent businesses, it’s a good, private little spot to prepare mentally before a show, and with three other bands sharing the billing with us tonight, the green room is a little too crowded for my taste right now. The sun begins to set over the defiant buildings: intricate wrought iron balconies interspersed with the occasional potted fern contrasted against rugged walls. We haven’t had much rain yet this season, so the mosquito population isn’t too awful tonight. I lean against the sun-warmed bricks and begin to relax.

  Someone in the distance is having a crawfish boil … I can smell the highly concentrated spices and the salt used for purging the live crustaceans, and I can imagine how some nice, fat mudbugs would taste … small cobs of corn, potatoes, heads of garlic, and mushrooms boiled with them, absorbing all of those complex flavors and washed down with a cold Abita Amber beer. Farther off in the distance, a lone trumpet player is warming up outside another club. Long tones in some easy intervals, then an ambush of chromatic runs. Some jazz licks are flushed out of hiding … they run amok in whatever chord changes are playing within the unseen musician’s head.

  There’s a reason that New Orleans seems to attract the absurd. All sorts of misfits are more likely to be accepted here. Some people come here to be noticed, and some to hide. And it is indeed a supernatural town. The bright is just a little bit brighter, and the dark a whole lot darker. All of the frenetic tales, all of people’s secrets, hopes, and broken dreams get carried down the Mississippi river—all the way from the source. They end up here at the mouth in highly concentrated energy that pools near the Gulf of Mexico and runs this area like an unpredictable power grid. People flock from near and far because of the hype about voodoo, the cemeteries, the ghost stories, and endless books about vampires that take place here in the Crescent City.

  I suddenly snap out of my musings. Something doesn’t smell right. It’s not even the ubiquitous skunk-and-gasoline smell of pot that seems to loom over the music scene. That I don’t mind; it’s as ever-present as a backdrop these days—especially on reggae gigs like this one tonight—and although I don’t partake of it much myself, I’d rather deal with stoners than drunks. But it’s the three kids in the farthest corner who are trying to get their jollies who have caught my attention. And now it seems as though I have caught theirs. On my own turf, I am suddenly regarded as an intruder to their little party. I suddenly remember why drab colors are important for survival in the females of many species.

  They begin to approach me. I don’t even know what they want, but I do know that they’re not employees, nor are they here to contribute to the conservation of any endangered species.

  “There she is, the one that got away! You better be careful, or someone gonna bite you back!”

  I have had a crappy day, I’m trying to focus on the gig tonight, and I absolutely do not need these punks messing with me now. I stand as still as a stone until they step a little too close for comfort. They make the mistake of making eye contact with me. It’s an act of aggression that tips me right over the edge.

  A subtle feedback loop gnaws at my eardrums, and I’m dimly aware that an angry little song is rumbling in my throat. I think it’s an old Scottish call to battle that I learned as a kid, but I’m not really paying attention to anything other than how to make these kids to back off—now. One foot takes an involuntary step forward.

  And as if summoned somehow, Raúl is suddenly at my side, snarling what appears to be some choice words in Tsonga. He could be reciting the nutritional content off of a bag of Chee-Wees for all I know, but it sounds menacing enough to
make these punks step back very quickly, palms up in the universal “We don’t want no trouble” gesture. They wisely decide to move along.

  Trying to maintain some semblance of bravado, one spits on the pavement as a final gesture of defiance in the middle of his hasty retreat, marking his territory. They duck into an alleyway.

  Raúl resumes his relaxed smile, as though he’s just enjoyed this showdown like a funny film. “They don’t know much about who the real ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ are, do they?” he says. “Mess with one musician, you mess with the whole lot. Now let’s go back inside, before you attract any more attention. Who would it possibly be coming after you next time, hmm?” he teases. “Some mobster? Maybe some James Bond villain … no, I’ve got it! Disgruntled rodeo clowns. Come on, baixinho … if you weren’t like a little sister to me, I would marry you this instant. Since I have these scruples, I guess I can’t be a true Louisianian then, can I?”

  I look back to track our adversaries’ retreat, but there’s no sign of the kids. Only a cluster of rats skitters down the streets and into the gutters. One creature turns back to fix me with a menacing glare in its beady eyes before joining its scaly-tailed brethren. This clearly isn’t over.

  Teddy checking sound when we walk back into the club is such a welcome sight, I forget about the near attack. Raúl gives him a wave, and the comfort of friendship grounds me. I’ve borne witness to so much backstabbing and outright swindling over the years amongst club owners, equipment dealers, producers, and fellow musicians, so it seldom goes unnoticed by me how refreshingly real Teddy is. When you’re a bass player, you don’t often hang with your fellow low-end jockeys (the annual Mardi Gras “Bass Parade” notwithstanding), and I’m grateful that Teddy and I have each other’s backs.

  Tonight he’s playing with self-proclaimed guitar god Maestro Dude Holstein, a man known for his grandiose ego, pretty golden hair, and faster-than-the-speed-of-musically-pleasing guitar licks. I don’t know why Teddy is wasting his talent in a backing band for Maestro Dude Holstein. He seems content to just make his musical statement and then disappear into the shadows again. Not all of us are career-driven, I suppose.

  The Maestro, however, is a notorious asshole, and right now he happens to be mouthing off to my beloved Rowan. I try to mind my own business and appear casual, but the hair on the back of my neck and arms is beginning to rise. Maestro swears at Rowan over the mic, insulting his aptitude, his musicianship, and his manhood. Rowan calmly diffuses the situation by suggesting a different setting on Maestro’s rig. Maestro tweaks a few knobs, fails to see any more problems, then storms off the stage into the green room.

  Teddy makes a beeline for me as the next band sets up. “Can you believe that dipshit? I can’t take dealing with these asshats any more.” He grins as Raúl, who has also worked with Teddy, comes trotting over to commiserate. “I’ve been dying to take that guy down a notch or two, and tonight’s the night.” I must appear concerned, because he chuckles reassuringly, “Don’t worry. It’s not going to make the night go askew. But this douchebag might think twice before fucking with his fellow musicians. You guys in?”

  No need to ask us twice. With soundcheck officially over, and the canned music flooding the PA once more, we have a few minutes to spare before the showcase begins. Maestro has stormed off somewhere—he doesn’t seem to be close, as the smell of his rancid cologne (which I think is probably Chanel Number Two) is very faint. In a millisecond, Teddy has swiped the set list and procured a Sharpie.

  “Um, isn’t he going to notice …?” I venture cautiously.

  Teddy grins like a mischievous wild animal. “Who do you think had to write up his set list at the last minute while he was fixing his hair?” He flips the paper over, and we set ourselves to the task.

  Now there are three of us, huddled into a tight knot, howling with laughter. We substitute quite a few nouns in the song titles with “penis.” We compete for the most heinous plays on words, trying to keep our voices down.

  “Okay … now we have ‘Rising Farts’ and ‘Gland in Hand,’ and I think we’re good to go! Holstein is gonna have a cow!” Teddy triumphantly snatches the newly altered set list and is back at the edge of the stage so fast, he defies physics, while Raúl and I try to alleviate the pain in our faces from laughing by mashing our cheeks in our hands.

  I’m still wiping the tears from my eyes when I spot Rowan across the room, casually leaning against the railing intended to protect the sound board and crew from drunken idiots. He seems unfazed by the exchange with Maestro, but his mouth holds the barest hint of a smile, as if he’s actually heard our wicked plans. It’s hard to imagine him as potentially dangerous, as all I can see in him are sweetness and beauty. I am a little ashamed at how quickly my pulse begins to race again.

  I actually enjoyed Bad Pillow, which was a trio of cello, African percussion, and theremin, an early electronic instrument that sounded eerily reminiscent of early horror films. I endured Sofa King Bad, who probably did not intend to be New Orleans’ answer to The Shaggs. But with Maestro Dude Holstein up now, Raúl has managed to tear himself away from two lovely German ladies to sit with me. Women are crazy about him, with his high African cheekbones, exotic accent, and charming manners; pure animal magnetism.

  But apparently to Raúl, not even female attention can measure up to the impending hilarity. It is quite entertaining to see the megalomaniac Maestro Dude Holstein verbally shoot himself in the foot a few times, then scowl at his band and carry on the rest of the set with the proper titles, face darkening with each song. I’d swear that Teddy can see us, even through the blindingly bright stage lights that always make a dark club seem pitch black from the stage. He grins, and he throws some utterly sublime bass riffs my way. Between his amazing playing and what it meant to him that I was there, it was worth it.

  “I told you I’d make it!” hisses a familiar voice next to me. As I whirl around to face my best friend, Sylvia flashes me a toothy grin and raises one copper-colored eyebrow at me. “I’ll have to say at least a dozen Hail Marys for lying to Father O’Flaherty to get out of my chores. But he believed me when I told him that polishing the silver would soften my callouses, affecting my ability to play.”

  I nearly snort my water out of my nose as I hug the nun. “Callouses? You don’t need callouses to play keyboard instruments, you crazy Penguin!”

  She snorts. “I know that, but the priest doesn’t. I hate polishing silver. That stuff they give me to work with stinks. Why hello there, Casanova,” she says by way of greeting to Raúl.

  The Maestro hops off the stage to stand by his little table full of merch, and Teddy comes over to join us. It’s too late to holler out a request for a reprise of “Rising Farts.” My turn to do my thing.

  I’m been psychologically revving myself up for this moment. Now it’s as if my frustrating day never even happened, and a warm glow begins to kindle in my belly. Rowan’s obsidian eyes are shining behind the board. Sylvia is sitting at the bar, wearing her full habit of a black tunic, veil, and wimple and beaming at me. A million punchlines to this scenario of the nun at the bar come to mind, and it’s obvious by the glint in her eye that she’s found the humor in it too. A few curious young men begin to cluster around her, but she shoos them away with a comically stern glower. Friendly Teddy has already struck up a conversation with her, and the two are chatting like old friends. He is trying to keep a straight face at her theatrics before turning to me and giving me a thumbs-up, that huge chin of his turning on the full force of his generous grin.

  We’re the headlining act for this showcase and the final band, and we have to give the crowd its money’s worth. And we’re up, and it’s time to go. Now is not the time to think about future gigs, paying bills, or even Rowan.

  I may be a woman in love, I may be not entirely human, but all that matters right now is that I am a musician. And we’re off.

  The pull of the moon higher in the sky draws the crowd in a tide of swaying, weaving bodi
es. The songs seem to fly, one right after another … I can’t believe how quickly the set is going. We switch to a reggae adaptation of an old Hebrew chant, Nigel the singer lunging with conviction. The mix is intoxicating. A frequency thrums down my spine from the base of my skull to my tailbone, playing my body like a vibrating string. It feels so sweet and delicious. I shiver with pleasure and surrender completely to the groove. It carries me like a steady river, and I navigate through it easily in the boat of my musical mind.

  The lapse between my heartbeat and the pulse roaring in my ears creates a complex polyrhythm. Not only that, but the faint sound of the other players’ hearts adds to this vibe … just bass and drums now, and it’s a huge heartbeat.

  Lub, dub … lub, dub …

  Too soon we’re coming to our final crescendo, and now it’s my turn to shine. Solos for bass aren’t often called for in this kind of music, but I’ve just been given a cue. I’ve never taken a bass solo quite like this. The notes just choose themselves. My beats ever so slightly behind the solid bass drum, it seems that some sort of door has been opened. It’s as if I just haven’t been paying attention all my life … until now. I’m beginning to hear partials, overtones, harmonics, and all sorts of dimensions that I somehow should have known were there all along. I don’t know how Rowan is coaxing a sound like this out of me.

  Rowan. He’s not behind the board.

  It’s hard to make out the audience with the spotlights in my face, but the movements of my friends swim into view. Teddy is looking worriedly at me. Sylvia is pacing like a caged animal. In spite of their sudden concern, they look so hilarious somehow that I let out an involuntary bark of laughter. I must have forgotten to shave my legs this morning … why is this occurring to me now? My knees begin to bend into a slight crouch, and my stomach does a sudden lurch. I’ve lost the groove. Or has the groove lost me? Something’s wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone in here is afraid, and it stinks … pungent and sickly. But why? And of what? The audience seems oblivious, but the keyboard player and guitarist start inching away from me. Even tough-talking Nigel looks uncomfortable.