Road Rash (28 page)

“Just wondering.” He turned and spoke to everyone. “Okay, that’s probably as good as it’s going to get for now. See you guys at preflight.”

After sound check I checked my email. Okay, I guess I was still hoping for some response from Kimber, but no luck there. Maybe I’d have to get used to the fact that she was done with me.

Shit
.

Except for Alicia and my parents, I couldn’t really think of anyone who’d give a damn. How freakin’ sad is that?

The gig that night was weird, too. Well, not the gig itself … the venue was real nice—a big room with good sound and lights. And there was a great crowd, maybe the best we’d seen on a Tuesday all summer. Donna was sure right about it being the high season.

But something was messed up. Twice during the evening Brad turned around in the middle of a song and said, “You’re rushing!” And during one of the breaks he commented, “Hey, Zach, your timing’s drifting tonight. You tired or something?”

But I wasn’t tired, and as far as I could tell, my playing was fine. Or at least, up till then I’d
thought
it was fine. The rest of the night I just did my best to make sure everything was in the pocket.

The next night, before preflight, Brad held some papers out to me.

“What’s up?” I said, taking them. They looked like a set list, only with some numbers after each song.

“I guess I was channeling our baby brother and becoming a den mother,” he said with a grin. “Anyway, here are the BPMs for all our songs. So before we start each tune, you can check the
tempo with this”—he held up a little electronic metronome—“and we’ll be right where we need to be.” He handed it over. “Just trying to help,” he added.

I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but could I really guarantee that I was always perfect? Not hardly. So I sucked it up and smiled as I took the metronome.

“Thanks, man,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Cool.”

Actually, it was anything
but
cool. The more I thought about holding down the tempo, the more it seemed to slip away. I’d dial up the correct beats per minute, watch the flashing light for a few seconds, then count off the song. And a few bars in, it would feel too slow or too fast. Then the question becomes, do I try to hold the line no matter how much the band is pulling or pushing, or do I go with what feels right and deviate from the “correct” tempo?

I made it through the night, but it wasn’t like playing music. It was more like being back at the yard-supply place, loading trucks in a hot warehouse. And I
love
drumming.

God, how did something that was so much fun turn into such a drag?

If anything, Thursday’s gig started out even worse. First of all, it was Kimber’s birthday. She had to have gotten my present by now, but of course I didn’t hear anything. And I sure wasn’t going to call her, after she’d made it so clear that she wasn’t interested. So I tried to forget about it and get on with my day. (Yeah,
right
. I wandered around town—a gorgeous place—but I couldn’t tell you a single thing I saw.) By the time the gig rolled around, I wasn’t exactly a bundle of joy.

Usually a gig will pick me up if I’ve had a crappy day, but I sure wasn’t looking forward to another show like last night’s.

Okay, whatever. I tried to quit feeling sorry for myself and spent the first set just concentrating on looking at the little blinking light and trying to keep things on the money. And it worked about as well as it had the night before. In other words,
not
.

What really bugged me was that—at least up until this week—things had been going great, music-wise. And now supposedly I didn’t really know how to play in time anymore? What the hell?

During the first break I pulled Glenn aside. “Look,” I said, “this metronome crap isn’t working. I mean, I gave it a fair shot, but …” I stopped and looked him in the eye. “Okay, straight up—do I suck? Have I lost it or something?”

He shook his head. “What sucks is that you even have to ask.”

“Well, something must be off if Brad’s so concerned about it.”

He just looked at me for a second. “Go get your set list and the metronome.”

I ran and grabbed them, and he looked at the list and said, “Okay, start tapping out the tempo for ‘Charlotte.’ ”

So I did. He listened to me for a second, kinda looking up into the corner of his eye and bopping his head along, then he nodded. “That’s perfect.” He checked it with the metronome. “About one-fifty.” Then he checked the list. It said 142. We quickly went through a bunch of other songs. Some of them were close to what the list said, but at least half of them varied, by up to a dozen BPM in some cases. God, no wonder it felt like the band kept wanting to push or pull.…

“So …?” I asked when we were done.

“Did you ever ask him where he got his starting tempos for this list?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, “I’d guess he either took them from the original songs, or he just sat down and went with whatever felt good to him at the moment. But neither of those is necessarily the way we play them onstage.”

“So how does
that
help me?” I was more frustrated than ever.
“I mean, forget the theory—I’ve got to get up there and
play
in a few minutes, and I’m dreading it.”

“Man, I’m really sorry about this bullshit … I guess I haven’t been paying much attention lately. My bad. But this actually told us everything we need to know.”

“Which is …?”

“Which is that you and I agree about the correct tempo in every case. And if you called Danny over here, I promise he’d agree, too. In other words, you’re fine. Hell, you’re way beyond fine—you always were. Just trust yourself.”

“Yeah, well … thanks. But none of that solves
this
.” I held up the metronome.

He took it from me. “Oh, that’s just a simple adjustment.” He set it on the ground. “We just need to tweak this control right here”—he put the heel of his boot on it and applied pressure—“until we get the right setting”—something went
crack
—“and voilà, it’s perfect!” He handed it back and checked his watch, then gave me a poker face. “What do you know—time’s up.”

We went back onstage and I tried to play without worrying so much. And for the first time all week I actually had a good time onstage. The other guys seemed to be feeling it, too—Danny had his happy face on again, and the floor was full most of the night with people dancing and getting into it.

Once or twice Brad tried to question the tempo. The first time he suggested I was off, I just shrugged and said, “It seemed okay to me.”

Then later on during the third set he turned and looked back at me after we’d finished “Holographic Train,” by Refuge.
“Hey, man, are you positive that was where it was supposed to be? I sure thought it dragged.…”

Oh God, not again
. “Nope, it was fine.”

“Did you check tempo?”

“I think I know how the song goes.”

“Hey, I told you I wanted you to check each song! And now you’re telling me—”

I stood up and threw him the metronome. “I’m telling you that song was right on the freakin’ money, dude!”

He caught it and looked at it. “What happened to—”

Glenn walked over to him. “I turned it off.…”

“What the hell?”

Glenn moved closer to him, and even though he kept his voice low, I could still hear. He was seriously angry, big-time. “What’s
your
problem, man? His playing is fine.”

“Of course you’re gonna say that,” Brad shot back. “He was your choice. I think he’s getting lazy and sloppy, and he needs to pay more attention. Nate never played like that.”

“You’re right—Nate was never this solid.”

“You’re full of shit. This kid’s all over the map, time-wise.…”

I’d had enough. I looked over at Danny, who’d missed this little exchange because he’d been getting a water bottle from the side of the stage.
“Hey, Danny!”
I yelled. The other guys stopped their argument and looked over.

Danny turned. “Yo, what’s up?”

“How’d that last song feel to you?”

He looked around, clearly surprised by the question, and shrugged. “It felt good.”

“How was
my
playing? You know … tempo, volume, timing, whatever …?”

“Perfect, bro—you’re nailing it big-time.” He grinned. “I’ve had a big ol’ groove-woody all night.”

I turned back to Brad and held my hands out wide like,
Pretty hard to argue with that
. Then I just stared at him for a minute. Not full-on mad-dogging it, but I’m sure he caught my vibe. I noticed people in the crowd looking at us, too.

“Let’s play.…” I sat back down.

The rest of the gig I just ignored Brad and locked in with Danny and Glenn and Jamie and grooved as hard as I could, slammin’ away but keeping things in the pocket.

Brad took off right after we were done, so I tried to get some answers from Glenn. “What the hell’s going on?” I asked. “Everything seemed fine for the past month, and now he isn’t happy with my playing?”

“I’m pretty sure—” He stopped himself. I waited.
Nada
.

“Finish your thought, man.”

“I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with your playing.”

“Can I get an honest answer about something?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Those are mighty hard to come by around here these days.”

Hmm …

We were hanging in the club after the gig. It was sort of
like after the final gig in Butte, but there were still people in the place, there was music playing, and we were drinking cokes instead of coffee … laced or otherwise.

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s up with Brad,” I said. “He’s getting more and more critical of my playing.”

“Have you asked him?”

I almost laughed, but I stopped myself. “Yeah, I tried. But he just gives me some story about trying to help me be a better musician.”

“Is there any chance that maybe that’s it?”

“Well, you tell me—is there something wrong with my playing?”

She held her hands up. “You know, I really don’t want to get in the middle of all this.…”

“I think you pretty much already are.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Brad hasn’t told me anything other than what he’s told you. Personally, I just think he has a lot going on.…” She took a drink from her coke. “He feels a lot of responsibility for the band … for keeping us booked up and working and so on. He takes it pretty seriously.”

“And the rest of us don’t?”

She sighed. “Like I said, I really don’t want to get into this. I’ve got enough to deal with right now.” She got up to go, then sat back down. “I’m sorry. Look, if it matters, I think your playing’s fine. Okay?” She stood. “I have to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay, thanks.” Not exactly what I was looking for, if you know what I mean …

I got a refill on my coke and just sat there, lost in thought.

“Hey, man, you did a real good job up there tonight.”

“Huh?” I glanced over at the guy a couple of stools down the bar. He looked like some old hippie. Receding hairline, graying hair, ponytail. There seemed to be a few of those types around here. I nodded at him. “Thanks.”

He moved over to the empty stool next to me. “No, I mean it,” he said. “You were really good.”

Great. Some old guy wanted to yak at me. Probably drunk, too. “Hey, thanks,” I said again, then kinda turned away, hoping he’d go bug someone else.

Instead, he got up and went behind the bar. The staff didn’t say a word. “Hey, Scotty,” he called out. “You mind if I play something for the youngster here?”

“No problem, Gare. Go for it.”

He pulled down the background music playing over the bar system and dug a CD out of the stack next to the register.
How the West Was Won
. I’d heard of it but had never actually heard it—it was some long-lost Zeppelin live stuff that was found and remastered.

He turned to me. “Listen to this. Especially Bonzo.” Then he pressed
play
and cranked it up. There was no mistaking the voice of Robert Plant wailing the opening lines of “Black Dog.” No one else sounded like that.

Then that famous off-kilter guitar part came in, with the band pumping behind it. The impressive thing was, the tune had extra beats added and removed throughout, but John
Bonham totally
ruled
that song, playing this syncopated stuff with reckless abandon. It was powerful, it was live—not some studio wizardry—and it was absolutely fearless.

When it was over, the guy pulled the CD and put the house music back on, then he walked over until he was standing behind the bar, directly in front of me, with his hands resting on the counter. His forearms were really ripped for a skinny old guy—like a long-haired version of Popeye.

“Did you get it?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but I’d certainly gotten
some
thing from it, so I nodded.