Baby, we’re in this together.
I run a microfiber cloth over my instrument for the third time. It’s funny, the cloth never seems to really lift smudges. It only smudges them, sort of smears them around my guitar’s finish like paint on an artist’s palette. I finally give up and begin fiddling with amp knobs, trying to figure out the whereabouts of that perfect mix, the one that’s been eluding me all these years. I settle with something only acceptable, then raise my eyebrows and sigh when I notice my wife sitting on the end of the fifth row. It’s all ruined.
Turning my attention back to the stage, I motion for Smiley to give us a sound check on the drums. He pounds out the same test beat he’s been using for thirty-seven years, this time mixing it up by using one hand to devour a ham sandwich at least as old as the beat.
One more time, baby, one more time.
I forgot the string oil, but my sweaty palms probably won’t need anything else. Besides, it’s not a paying gig. Charitable concerts don’t need to be perfect, right? A string squeak here or there won’t make a difference as long as the man gets a fat wallet out of the deal.
Bruno steps off the stage for a second and gets a good luck kiss from his wife. I suddenly find something very interesting about my mike stand, so I stare at the floor and make my phantom adjustment. Things should get more comfortable as more of the alumni filter in. Although nearly ten years younger than me, my wife would look right at home in East Sacramento High’s Class of 1971.
The principal comes up on stage and asks us if we’re about ready to begin. The whole benefit concert for the new school expansion was that slimy prick’s idea. As if I would sacrifice for a school that screwed me over forty years ago. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re ready.” Just like I said at my engagement.
Things are rough from the beginning. The crowd is small and dead. And old. Our opening act is three songs: an old original we played at 1970 homecoming and two classic covers which Jerry’s voice simply slaughters. Scattered applause leaves me a little cynical as we enter the next set.
My Strat growls on “Layla,” then weeps a little for “Cold Shot.” We’re just getting started, and I can see the crowd beginning to warm up to us. At the end of the second set, I’m pouring sweat, Jerry’s voice is starting to crack more than usual, and I wonder if Smiley’s ham sandwich might cause him to pull a John Bonham in the middle of our show. And I’m sure dead drummers can’t keep tempo.
About thirty minutes into the show, I glance at my wife. She isn’t looking at me, and she seems to be enjoying herself. I wonder why she came?
A glaringly off-key note brings my senses back to the song, but I can’t get her face out of my head.
A second note slips from my fingers that makes Jerry frown at me. I just shrug and keep playing. Then a third. When a whole string of rusty notes blare from my amp, I stop, stunned. What’s wrong?
I start up again at the chorus, but my guitar doesn’t respond until a full two measures after I strum it. I frown at my delay pedal and kick it sharply. It’s not even on, but I knock the looping chord out of its jack anyway and route my sound straight from guitar to amp. It’s doesn’t make a difference.
The music is simply a mess. The drums, bass, and vocals are all playing perfectly four seconds ahead of my guitar. People in the crowd start fidgeting as the air turns muddy. I stop for the verse again. When I know I need to hit a harmonic in about two measures, I anticipate the move. Close, but no cigar. But now I have a goal, something to work toward. If I can see the music before it hits me, just know it before I hear it, then maybe we can still save this thing.
I know this song. I’ve known it for decades. In my head I begin making wild calculations, speeding and varying the tempo to try to anticipate the rhythm. I get a couple of chords nearly on beat. Now Smiley’s a little confused, but he makes an unconscious adjustment and falls into beat with my guitar.
Come on, baby, let’s take this show home.
Jerry and Bruno catch on, and after a few bars we’re back in business. My eyes are closed, my fingers flying silently, whispering into the future. I don’t even hear what the guys are playing. I hear only what’s in my head, and it pours into the fretboard of my Strat.
I begin ripping out the wildest solo of the night while everyone else is still outroing the second verse. It falls right into the music, but I ignore how beautiful it is and focus on how beautiful it will be. The improv slides by seamlessly, except for a few odd looks from the audience, probably other guitarists who are sure that what I’m playing isn’t what they’re hearing. I’ll have to convince them later that it wasn’t a canned solo.
You just need to know what you’re playing.
You need to know the song so well that when it leaves you, your fingers still hash out the movements in your sleep. And it takes work.
My eyes fly open and meet my wife’s. I think I finally know what I’m playing.
