All Tomorrow's Parties/Reunion

THE PARTY/All Tomorrow’s Parties

It was held at his friend’s house.  A perfect place, just cozy enough.

She walked in and looked around.  The place was lovely, a farmhouse, sitting proudly on lots of land.  Surrounded by trees that guarded it well, including a weeping willow in the front yard by a natural small pond.

Inside, the rooms looked well worn.  Furniture from different eras gathered like old friends.  Bookcases, overflowing.  None of her friends’ IKEA bullshit about minimal design.  The living room was layered with books, then knicknacks, art upon art. Paintings of a small blonde boy, probably Him or his brothers.

The fireplace mantel held a child’s sports award, not his Grammy.  Probably another sign of his prevailing domesticity these days.  He had a girlfriend (fiancee?) and was again head over heels.  The kid was hers, or so it was assumed.  There was again that question in her mind; who did he love more, the mother or the idea of being a father?

There was a chair setup for a film interview, well lit and surrounded in a surreal way by lights and flag diffusers, as if it were meant for a space alien.  Someone had replaced one of the photography flags with one of his stained glass experiments, so that instead of a gentle colored gel illuminating the subject’s face, it would add a psychedelic effect on the interviewee.  She wasn’t sure if the display was permanent, but it was his 50th birthday year and all bets were off.

He was suddenly famous again.

She wondered if he’d remember her name.  She kept wandering around the house, free in the way when you are a stranger at a party, in the way that you’d never dare when you are invited as a friend.  She was not the only one, and ran into another (NEW) groupie who was buzzing with excitement.  That was her several years ago, when being in the same room with him set her body off with excitement.  She felt a little sad for not being the girl she used to be.  She missed the buzz, but couldn’t remember what it felt like.  Some piece of her had died along the way.  Her life was drained of color and she had the sense of suddenly seeing it that way, in all its dull reality.

She felt out of place all of a sudden.  Not part of his current life, a piece of his history.  Maybe her invitation came in the tradition of “This is Your Life”.  And here is that sweet young thing from the Radio Station!!

Peeking into the kitchen, she saw him talking excitedly in the corner.  Like a magnet, his eyes were drawn to hers and he stopped talking midsentence. He smiled grandly, put down his (non alcoholic) drink and rushed to her.

She thought it was going to be a Hollywood embrace, she’s cry, he’d kiss her and everyone else would disappear.  The thought of it made her cringe a little, she both wanted it and didn’t.  But in the moment before they talked and caught up, he held her with his eyes, and then gave her a full body hug.

Shit!  It’s still there,  she thought.

It wasn’t the star quality she missed, it was the part of the “hidden” him she remembered.  The innermost peanut in the Russian Doll of his personalities.  The piece that only she knew.

He held her so long that she felt embarrassed.  Yet she recognized that place inside his embrace, not realizing how much she missed it.  And him.

They held each other for far too long as the party swirled around them. Everyone tried to keep talking as if it were all normal, but eventually people ran out of ways to pretend.

They broke apart slowly, still smiling deeply into each others’ faces. Tears rolled down her cheeks without her actually crying.

“How ya doing, kid?” He asked,wanting to soak up all the years she had been away from him. He wanted it all back.

“Great, kid.  How are you?” It was something to be able to give it all right back to him.  The nickname she deserved and he didn’t.  Nobody else gets to call him kid, not since he’s become the eldest person in the room on a regular basis.

The next voice she heard was the girlfriend.  Who didn’t even sound jealous.  That was exactly the type of woman he needed.  Someone who would accept everything from his past and understand that his present would also contain multitudes.

To everyone’s surprise, including hers, she looked over her shoulder at the man of similar disposition and introduced him.

“This is my fiance.  We’re getting married next year,”

Without a blink, PT transferred his gaze and shook his hand. Then grabbed his arm, then slapped him into an embrace of his own.  

“Take care of this one, she’s a treasure,”

He remembered.

==

Several hours later, the conversations turned to music, then instruments, then songs, as his parties always did.

Everyone drifted into a circle, children and dogs in the center, where the campfire would be. He led the group in some songs, and sang some by himself.  When he started one of THEIR songs, she joined in without realizing it.  Her voice was thin and breathy, but had the pleasant undercurrent he loved.  

“I forgot how much i missed your voice,” he said in front of the crowd when it was over.

“Me too,” she thought.  It had been a few years since the last time she sang properly.  She couldn’t even remember.  Even her fiance was surprised.  She had tried to sing to him a few times as they fell asleep, but he never seemed to notice, one way or another.

“I used to call her my little frog.  Like the one in the Warner Brothers cartoons.  The one who could sing so beautifully, but everytime Bugs put it in front of an audience, the frog wouldn’t sing. Everytime she got in front of a microphone, she’d freeze,”

And he made a face, crossing his eyes and turning his head.  Poking at her gently.

She wasn’t sure why he was telling this story, but smiled to remember those days.  It was all true, but she seemed to remember him getting more angry about it at the time.  

He offered her the floor, “You must have a few new songs in you?” but she didn’t.  He bugged her and so did the audience, until he got her to sit next to him as they went through a few more of their old songs.  It seemed like they had forgotten more than they remembered. It was all a great laugh.

As it got later and later, he refused to let her go.  He invited them both to stay over in one of his many extra bedrooms upstairs.  She relented and felt the jealousy turn palpable among the other attendees, especially the new groupie.  It was impossible to describe the connection they had, deeper than the time together, than the songs, than the comfort of being next to each other, but everybody wanted it.  Even the Girlfriend knew she wasn’t in that Pocket, and it made her keep one bag packed and kept her paying rent in her studio in the city.  Even if she managed to get him to marry her, she’d never have all of him.

==

Sat aft, 6:40pm, Fornatele’s Mixed Bag

Chaim Tannenbaum//McGarrigal Sisters, Young Love

Someday Soon-Judy Collins

The horse Rider-lessly passes

John Prine

==

They ended up being the last few people still awake a few hours later. Her boyfriend had gone up to bed before midnight and here the sun was just about to come up.  He alluded to his new tour a few times throughout the night. When she pressed him further, it turned out that it was only a couple dates, up and down the East Coast.  But he had gotten together a new band, 3 guys who were excited to play with him, enough to agree to the dates at least.  What he really needed was someone to help organize.  Her old job.

She was slightly disappointed and relieved that she wasn’t asking her to sing with him.  He could PAY her this time, so at least there was that kind of respect.  And she knew he’d want her to introduce him, he liked that. He hated introducing himself, just like back in the coffeehouse days. She wanted to agree just for that part. To be a part of him, of his machine.  To be stuck with him in the car, like in the good old days.

Her own life was fine, if boring.  She was doing a bunch of temp gigs, alongside some recently soured graduate classes.  She had jumped in with both feet into a degree program in something that now seemed to be closer to torture and mental masturbation than a career. She needed a break.  Her fiance still had another year or two of work, until his PhD would be granted.  They had met in the hallways and elevators, different departments and different worlds.  He was showing signs of stress and other personality changes that made her reconsider a lot of her life choices.  It meant being away, which could be deadly or exactly what they needed, she was too sleepy to understand which.

“What else can you offer?”

“You can drive,” he said with a wink, both of them knowing it meant she would sing him through multiple states.  

She looked at him and in her sleepy haze, it seemed like it would all work.  They would drive forever, stop at greasy spoons, he’d complain, she’d kiss him, they’d sing, they’d argue, they’d love it.  And it would break their hearts all over again.

“Let me think about it,” she said as she dragged herself up to bed.  

==

https://www.bestworstthingmovie.com/

Merrily we Roll Along

==

They talked about it a little in bed in the morning.  Her personal giant wanted to be back on the road before noon and the deadline kept getting closer.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.  He’s completely safe,” she told him.  Although she wasn’t sure if either statement would be true. There was a sense of jealousy she had about her fiance’s relationship with his degree.  He was headed to a clear end, and she was certain that if she stopped showing up, her program wouldn’t miss her in the least.  In the past few weeks, she had started to skip classes and had felt free for the first time in ages.  And couldn’t tell her beloved giant.

He looked at her like a puppy, his long blonde bangs falling over his eyes, reminding her of the posters she had put up in her bedroom as a teenager.  He looked just like HIM 30 years earlier, but she hoped that nobody would notice the resemblance. Especially since HER MAN was 6’4” and closer to a Greek statue of Adonis with glasses.  As with every gorgeous man that gave her attention, he had a crucial flaw.  He was Bipolar.  He needed his sleep and routine and a focus.  She had seen him fall out of line, and wanted to take care of him.  But being together for 2 years, she was starting to test the waters of escape, to see what was healthy for her within the bounds of his requirements. Skipping classes led her to think maybe she should go back into theater or art.  Maybe a tourguide, maybe admin work for a museum. She didn’t want to tell him she was ready to leave school, that she didn’t want a PhD, not in this discipline, not at this school.  She was lost and hated being his port in the storm.  This was an opportunity to shake things up, which she liked.  Which he didn’t.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wildfire_(Michael_Martin_Murphey_song)

“We’ll leave Sodbusting Behind”

When they wandered back down to the kitchen, coffee made just for them by the Girlfriend, she knew she was still being courted.  He had been on a strange macrobiotic diet for most of his life which generally made him cranky about all kinds of foods.  Caffeine was something he refused.  Alcohol, before he had gone straight, didn’t seem to enter into the health equation.  He had been a full fledged alcoholic, but apparently had met this Girlfriend at an AA meeting.  Another reason to love her, for him and for all who wished him well.  Maybe this woman could take care of him in a way that she never could.  Maybe this tour could be everything she had wanted from the last time.  They could do it right this time.

“He’s out in the barn,” The Girlfriend said over her coffee.  When he was out of sight, she enjoyed caffeine, sugar, cream and what was worse, she did the NY Times Crossword in ink.  This woman had spunk, SHE was afraid that she might start falling in love with her too.

The three of them walked out to the barn in back. Out of the corner of her eye, the weeping willow by the pond made a perfect countrytime postcard.

The Girlfriend pulled the door open in a dramatic fashion, the dust clouding in the sunlight.

She revealed him standing in the middle of a giant pile of junk, which ran to the edges of the barn.  Just like his car in the old days.  He was a sentimentalist, and from the date of the rust from the junk, he came from a family of packrats.

“I can give you the barn!” He said, as if he were giving her the keys to his vintage 1964 MBGHT car.

“For what?”

“For your art!  You can use it as a studio! Whenever you want. I’ll clear it out-no really.  All this junk belonged to my father and I don’t even want it!”

She looked at him dubiously.

He saw her reaction and got down on one knee.

“No really, I want you on this tour with me.  I need your organizational skills.  You can be the Tour Manager!! The Company Manager!  Whatever suits your resume!!”

“What’s the difference?” her Giant asked.

She looked up and shrugged.

“Either way, I’ll be the one to blame for getting lost and the one who still has to run out and get coffee,”

They all laughed except her.

“I didn’t know you did art,”

“I showed you, the paintings that I have in my apartment,” she said without accusing, holding her disappointment gently, like broken glass.

PT POV:

PT caught the reference that this Beloved Giant, this fiance, didn’t know her as well as she claimed.  He wondered why her voice sounded so out of shape. She has grown into a lovely young woman, but her life practice was different from the road he thought he had set her on a decade before.  She was fundamentally scared, he knew it.  She made the safe choices, even though it was clear to everyone that she wasn’t happy.

“Well, just the dates in the summer, in between semesters. The dates seem to work out,”

The Giant cleared his throat.

“No, really, I think it can work.  If something better comes along, I’ll still have my weeks.  This is mostly a weekend thing, anyway.”

She heard herself negotiating with his ideals, and all the expectations she had of herself from before.  The more words tumbled out, the clearer her future became, this was a step backwards, to her other life. A chance to start again, go back to jail, collect $200 and to even pass go. //Start again at square one.

End: Thank god you agreed. My Girlfriend refuses to take care of the band!!

You’re enough trouble!!

They all laughed, as if this were just another joke from the party.

As if it wasn’t the joining of these two forces, back in league with each other.

The hinge of their lives.

If she had just said no, they could have parted and would have had happy enough lives.

But she had a feeling he wouldn’t have stopped.

The Song Is Love

The Song is Love

She heard the tail end of it on the radio in the car as they drove to meet M at his house.

He was driving.  He HATED going to M’s house.  Hated how proud he was of all the awards.  How everything was framed and staged for maximum impression.  They were both 2nd rate, or even third rate stars, and sometimes M thought he was Sinatra.  Maybe he could’ve passed for the bad years.

There was going to be a crew and an interview.  Cameras and recording equipment, much more expensive for a 2 hour shoot than everything he had rented for his last album.

She felt she still hadn’t broken the ice with M.  He hoped she never would.  M was a notorious charmer and womanizer.  Even married, M had more women than P had in his entire active time in the 60’s.  Maybe.  Well, close, anyways.

She looked it up on her phone and made him listen to it again in full.  It was a syrupy-sweet generic love song by another famous 60’s group.  One which had led marches, stayed together, and kept their branding solid for the next few decades.  He was deeply jealous everytime he heard one of their songs.  He was only slightly reassured to know that their songs followed the Pete Seeger model of being more popular in classrooms than on the radio.  (Although he winced slightly when he heard the first few bars of any of The Boys songs.  Syrupy-sweet music that put another nickel into Green Hat’s bank account. Not his.)

“Do you know this song?”

“Of course.  I even see them on tour sometimes,”

“No, I mean, could you play this song . . .  if I asked you very nicely?”

Simple chord structure, he could do it in his sleep.  She began singing along very softly.  He hadn’t heard her sing in over 2 years, and even her voice, out of shape, had an endearing quality.  He liked hearing it again.  In fact, he loved it.  Her voice was this miraculously beautiful thing in his life and for reason he could not explain or identify, he wanted more but couldn’t open his mouth to ask. But as with many things which he loved enough to break his heart over, he couldn’t ask her to sing louder or encourage her.  The thought of her voice and the days when they sang together nearly brought tears to his eyes/broke his heart.  He stretched his jaw and widened his eyes to avoid crying.

“If you ask very nicely.”

She was humming it in the car, playing it on repeat, trying not to fry his nerves.  

===

They arrived, and as usual, M wanted to show them around.  The latest thing he was working on.  As if he had been trained from an early age to mention the last award and the next project.  All his conversations were like that.  

The crew was still loading in, there were giant black cables all over the living room floor, indistinguishable from the expensive oriental rug design.  Good thing he hadn’t had a drink today.

She was hanging back in a corner of the kitchen, holding the speaker to her ear at a funny angle, trying to find the best acoustics while trying not to sing out fully.

Never one to be upstaged or miss out on anything, M dropped the conversation and was drawn to the tinny noise.  M came up behind her and P could tell that she jumped when she felt his hand on her back.  That’s a good sign, P thought.  

“What’re you singin’, kid?”

She looked scared, but quickly brought the cut back to the beginning with a swipe of her finger.  The guitar was so low that you could barely hear it. The first verse was so tentative that she whisper-sang it wide eyed. You couldn’t tell if she was talking to him or performing, but she had a giant smile on her face and used the 2nd person lyric to full effect.  Suddenly, it was HE that she was singing to. And his hand was on her arm. P stepped immediately into her line of sight.

M knew the chorus (and so did P) and both joined in right on cue as if this had been one of their very own songs. Her voice rose up in harmony and sounded perfect in the glass atrium of his kitchen, clear as a bell and hitting her berry notes as if she was a reincarnation of the original blonde singer.

She turned to P for the 2nd verse, her outstretched hand finding his and suddenly all was right with the world again.  Everything clicked into place, or maybe everything else had fallen away.  They were immediately in the pocket, modest though it was.  The men found their old harmony and everyone stayed in key.  It’s always easier singing along to a well known recording.  Everything about her was sparkling and she had created something infectious between them.  She brought them back to the music.  When the song was over, they all immediately wanted to do it again.  They did. And again.  Better than sex, better than applause, they were each amazed at the way they sounded and how good it all sounded together.  Probably just a trick of the acoustics, or maybe the song itself opened up more sentimentality than they wanted to express. Unbeknownst to them, the enterprising cameraman captured the moment, sparkle and all.  It could have gone sour very quickly, the chemistry among them turned to scandal, but the clip that was shown on national tv a few nights later only prompted positive feedback. And WHO WAS THAT GIRL?  ARE THEY GOING ON TOUR?  WHAT ARE THEY WORKING ON?

After a few more run throughs, they were all smiles.  In fact, they had to stop when she began tearing up.  As if she had begun listening to her own magic and had gotten carried away with the show.  M knew there was some kind of magic passing among them all, and that he was probably just getting the extra sexual energy coming off the couple.  He had always tried to ask if she was a girlfriend or lover, but P had growled at him too many times. There was something in the song that brought up something beautiful, something from her childhood, a thankfulness and a sense of responsibility.  It was not unlike what M/he had heard being expressed by the fans.  It could easily be that.  This would make a great recording for the next album; she could be the proxy.  

M suggested taking it to the living room, but his piano was encumbered by gear.  And the crew suddenly decided there was a schedule to stick to, so all new spontaneous moments were off.  She was relieved, knowing that the next steps would suddenly expose her weaknesses.   She could sing with P in the car, and sometimes on stage, but when she had to adjust herself to trained expectations, her voice faltered like the singing frog from Bugs Bunny.  She couldn’t keep count, she couldn’t stay on key.  The voice that was strong alongside a recording, somehow lost its footing//her gears came off the tracks, a dancer without grace.

What do you see when you turn out the light?

What do you see at the moment of orgasm?

What?

They were driving at night and all was quiet. 

I was trying to think of the most intimate question ever.

You should think about writing lyrics.

She grunted.  We've already talked to death about sex.

Is there a way to be bored by sex? Can it ever really get boring as a topic?

The silence that followed in the car answered that question.

I have this image of a field near my house, where I grew up. It's slightly random. I wonder if it means something. Like maybe I'll get into an accident nearby and its me looking into my last moment.  Or maybe not.

She let her voice trail off into the night.

Hmm. He grunted. I'll have to think about that, he said out loud, 10 miles later.

He knew exactly his answer to the question. But he didn't know how to say it out loud to her.

I get by with a little help from my friends 

Joe Cocker,Woodstock 

Lovecats

He never smiled on his own when she chose the music.

He had a need to control everything about music, he wanted to have one area of life where he felt like a complete authority. Unfortunately, music was a notoriously fickle medium.

She liked Punk music (something he knew nothing about and hated even more than disco).

The first time she began hissing at him, he didn't get the joke.  The second time, he began hissing at her, and she didn't think it was funny.

Slowly, they began to hiss and laugh at each other everytime the song came on.  It was a matter of being silly. There were few moments of silliness.  After a while, it was the quickest way to a smile.

And he didn't even like punk music!

Hitchhike, Baby

Every moment with him was a miracle, but sometimes it was a miracle if she remembered that.

Like when the car broke down. Every time it broke down.

He wasn't good about making sure everything was working all the time, he didn't have the money to get things fixed. Or the time, or interest.  At some point, after his 60th birthday, it was physically impossible for him to even offer rides in his everyday car, it was so filled with newspapers, CDs, clothes and trash that it was an archeological dig to find the seat.

The first time she rode with him, her first instinct was to cheerfully disregard everything, in the same way it would have been rude to point out that some days he smelled. Of liquor or not bathing, or both. "Don't tell me of my failures, I have not forgotten them"

One day, riding along I 90, he told her the story of how he and his first wife had hitchiked across the country as their honeymoon.  When he first told her, it had sounded romantic and totally in keeping with the 60's spirit.  When it happened to her, however, it felt very much like the sixties had never happened. She felt closer to the Joads in Grapes of  Rath, begging for a ride. All these people in perfectly working caress, and them needing to get to the next town.  He hated to cancel a gig, even when there wasn't a big crowd, it was the only timing that kept him going.

There was that giant storm along the Canadian border, we shouldve stopped.

There was that giant highway in front of them and behind them.

Damn, she should have set the odometer,

I Can't Get No

"Satis------"

The concierge took her by surprise from behind, when he suddenly began singing. They had been distracted by the level of opulence in the hotel lobby. Even the unused ashtrays were made out of 18 carat gold.

They were escorted up a fire stairway, "Forgive the back entrance. It's the only way to deal with fans and PAP-parazzi, you see," The penguin in the monkey suit addressed them like foreign dignitaries, as they passed obscene graffiti on the walls. 

They exchanged looks at every opportunity.

"I'm taking this as a giant metaphor for exactly how we're going to fucked if we accept" he whispered into her ear.

They were being asked to "donate" a song to a charity album.

Although they were pretty sure the charity to benefit was the Rough Group.

They had made their initial impact on the 60's scene as the Tougher, Rougher version of everyone. More working class, quicker to seduce & sail (wham, bam, no thank you ma'am). Generally punk before it was a thing, capitalizing on the Angry Young Man thing. The Most Successful Group Ever were the cute ones, targeted at fresh faced young women, ages 4-49. These were targeting the divorcees, the seamy side of men.  They were the Angry White Men of Power, who had the Blues.

Surprisingly enough, the hotel room itself was simple and sparse, more like an office with a bedroom than an opulent hotel room. A simple folding table, a big comfy chair behind it (which MJ never sat in) and 2 standard issue iron folding chairs for them.

"Less shit to trash."

They don't trash things anymore, do they?

Not them, the guests, the friends of friends, I wouldn't be surprised if... Yep, that other room has no furniture at all!!"

And less shit to steal.

Let me do all the talking

(Of course, MJ only spoke to her. And ignored everything P had to say)

The ironic thing of the day was that MJ was a boring businessman. Dressed in sweats with holes. Talking percentages, they swapped numbers and P brought up something dull, which was treated like a delicious piece of gossip. (Golfing, hobby? A girl they both had slept with??) 

It was a flirtation, yes, but a business flirtation. She gave as good as she got, all talk, no touching. She was sharp about that & he respected her. But somehow they were consumed & eaten in the end. 

"Welcome to the MAW, you think those lips are just a trademark icon? Symbol for the monster that eats you. It looks like a kiss and next thing you know, you are bitten in half. Or your face is half bitten off. 

How can you get fucked & eaten at the same time? 

Don't answer that.

I don't know about this

It's the nature of this monster.

Bedfellows Strange

She had sworn up and down that she would never perform.

Looking at her, the shy kid, hiding behind glassless glasses, you'd agree.  Even in the world of Folk Music, the DIY, consciously casual (except for the hippies, who honestly thought "come as you are" was a way of life), she fit in only on the Backstage spectrum. 

Mostly, she looked scared. Of everything.

He wouldn't understand this fully, until he met her mother. 

She had whispered something to someone at the station. An open mic, a mysterious stage name.  Something was going on there tonight and he wanted to find out. 

He brought a friend of his (someone she was impressed with the first few times, and then grew to see as a disciple, a lackey, someone lower and more in love with him than she was.)

He watched her in the dark.

Awkward intro, a few strums in tune (thank god), she began singing a few words, vague, directionless, evaporating in the air as she released them.  No meaning to anchor them to anything.

"Tonight, found I, in a strange bed"

Onstage, she was suddenly earnest. A true folkie. A voice, yes, prettier than she would let on. It came through in phrasing. 

The song itself was joyless, the frustration of a 22 year old, the fear of selling out. Some whining. 

"You don't need the fat of The Man"

When she said those words, it seemed she was looking right at him. And damn it, if his brain didn't hear The Bell. When a piece of art HITS YOU. 

He suddenly saw that he'd never be able to make her happy, all his money, his fame, his talent, it was all FAT. She could leave him at any moment. For him, that was the most terrifying thought of all. 

His life was built on a loose webbing of connections.  People who loved him, unconditionally, even when drunk. He had money, when that failed, he had fame, when that failed, he had talent. He used to have charm too, but he gave that up. Too hard to maintain.

He watched her in the dark.

The song didn't do her any favors, weighed down by monotonous, vague lyrics, it conveyed its message. Not pleasant to hear or a new way of saying it. 

When she was done, the audience politely clapped. He gave her a slow standing ovation, so she would be sure to see him.

She did.

And they didn't speak for a few days in the office.

It didn't come up again, until months later. When he asked her to introduce him.

"Not like I'm asking you to sing," he teased.

And then, he brought her up for backup. 

Gradually, it happened.

When I turned my back on the devil

He was old & on his way out. She was younger, not young, but enough to catch his eye.

And his heart.

And his cock.

Everything in him stood at attention when she walked into the room.

She was the kind of person who threw all the rules out the window. And then had you questioning gravity.

He loved not just her body, but also her presence. 

The first day, he noted her body filing up the space in the room (so sweet-but not yet)

Then, he began getting to know her as a role among the players in the room.

It wasn't until he felt the stirrings, until he began to laugh, that he began to see her open like a flower. 

And then, he felt consumed by the need to be in her presence, in her spirit, needing to have her eyes on him, her voice her mind, directed at him. 

Once he was there, he couldn't imagine anything else.

Until later, when his life was marked only by her absence.

I turned my back on the Angel too.

You want it darker (album)

Leonard Cohen

The Birds Sing Like They Know The Score

(Sometimes I forget about these characters, and they return to me when I'm driving, or when I hear a very good lyric.  These people have embodied music for me.  Joyous music and traveling.

Like the boy I saw playing the HANG instrument in Hoboken Station.  And then the girl and the guitar.
And then there was the CRASH.  And I did not go back to Hoboken or the ferry.  Which made me sad.)

Take off your porcupines

Everytime after that first time, they would sleep in the same bed. 

And they wouldn't discuss it or stress over it; no matter who they were with at the time, the warmth of each other's bodies was deeply reassuring.

All except that last time.  There wasn't room in the hospital bed in the dining room. 

Even when she was dating and then engaged to Prince Charming, there was something familiar existing between the two of them.

She looked at the stash of his pills on the tray next to him. So easy to end his suffering, just dissolve in water & stir. A kind and gentle overdose. Take him out of his suffering.  For all she knew, he had been planning something similar already. She didn't want it to turn into a comedic case of double overdose.  And wanted to give him the room to make his own choices, no matter what they were.

She had been with him, already and easily betraying Prince Charming, as if that other life was all imaginary and This Life on the Road was the reality.  She got a call that he was having an episode.  He was visiting family, and surely he would be safe. She got the call, she got the call, she got the call. Each was worse and worse and worse.

She should have expected it. Found hanging, throat & wrists and pills and a gun. Prince Charming had been armed to slay the dragon. And it was himself.

There was gentleness that night. The idea of loving someone who destroys themselves is a blow, the carpet pulled out from under.

Funny how that memory came to both of them, that final afternoon in his house.  They both knew he couldn't live in that hospital bed, and wouldn't allow her to take care of him. Even though she was prepared to give up her outside life and summon up every joke she had ever heard for his final weeks. Or months. Or....

Crazy little thing called love

By John Hiatt

We Haven't Met Since Then/Gee

He came to hear her sing for her 40th/50th bday

A dive cabaret in the city. But by definition classier than most places they had played together.

We did a few tracks in the studio, but we just weren't feeling it. (Actually, her voice sounded dead without him. It worked nicely on Not Exactly Paris, but cs depressing otherwise)

Besides, he wanted me to tour to support the album. And I didn't want to tour without you. And you were on that other tour....

I hate to tell you, but your fiancée is gay.

I hate to tell you, we're not getting married. You just surprised me, that's all.

I love that your kneejerk response is slapstick. I love Lucy 

She's good at dealing with the groupies. And taking care of me.

That's good. You need a lot of taking care of.

I was gonna ask----

She covers his mouth quickly

O my god!! Don't you dare!! Don't you dare say you were gonna propose to me.  I don't think I could take it. (She wanted it badly)

I was gonna ask if you wanted a ride home, or to go out somewhere. She wants to get to know you.

No. No. I'm fine. And I'm sure she's great. Maybe someday, some other day when you and I are both happy. I'd love to be friends with her. But not just now, okay?

He goes to leave.

I was the biggest chickens hit for not begging you to stay from thatcvery first day.  You were always too good for me. The more I wanted you, the more I knew I was ruining you. Be glad you can still escape while you can.

They sing something sweet and silly and brief

O Sylvia!

Yes, Micky?

Hey Paul 

Planning a life 4 2

That was the last time before the last time.

If you believe in the power of magic

"if you believe in the power of magic/it's all a fantasy/
but if you need to believe in someone/just pretend it's me"
Don't Answer Me
Alan Parsons Project

This chapter looks like a graphic novel.
Like the video from 1984, a femme fatal and him a detective.  Or maybe they were a series of those famous paintings come to life, by Roy Lichenstein.  Stills by Cindy Sherman, untitled.

He believes in the power of magic, that's the funny thing.
And he knows it's all a fantasy.
He's the magician/musician.

And he also knows the most magic moments between them are the times when there is no audience.  When they are both caught up in the music.
When they dance around like Fred Astaire & Ginger in those smelly bars after hours or before the shows start.
She's taught him how not to be afraid, of himself of the people, of the EVERYTHING.

And still, he's stupid enough not to trust her and the magic.

Because he's used to the temporary magic.  And he knows that they would kill each other if they ever tried to domesticate each other.

He ran out one night to buy more water(cds??? BW STORY IN.Girls) because the joint ran out, left her onstage to work through her 3 solid songs, then her awkward 3, and then just a few long monologues, until he shows up, casually.

They had a giant fight in the car.  She threatens to quit (again). He was slightly stoned and not interested in her being a drag.  She sent him a long letter, which he threw in the trash before reading.

2 weeks later, she calls him about a friend of hers. She had to call 911.  Her new boyfriend is fine, she says, but she's not.

Years later, he comforts her when the guy(L) finally offs himself successfully.  She's in shock.  The one noble gesture he had was to wish the guy had gotten better on his own.  But he also knew what that was like, being the one on the edge, and surviving.  And being one of the survivors.  His other noble moment was vowing to himself never to come close again, not for her sake.  Not when he saw what this was doing to her.

That was one of their many goodbyes.  In the rain. He drops her off and they don't see each other for a year.

But he comes back, he calls her up, he gets her on a tour, one of his tiny tours.  Never let the girls think they control you.  And the great wave of something easy, something exciting, he looked forward to seeing her.  To being stuck in a car with her.  Even in traffic.

==
PLAY SCENE: CAR: BRUSHING TEETH
Einstein's theory of relativity.
Sitting on a hot stove can seem like an hour and sitting with a beautiful girl for an hour can seem like seconds.  Sitting in traffic with each other was a dubious honor, you never knew when they'd get in a huge fight.

The time they shared a soda. He found it in the back and it wasn't too hot.  She accepted it even after he had drunk from it. As if the spittle wasn't anything big.

Then he started brushing his teeth.  In the middle of a busy intersection in Brooklyn.

And she started laughing-what?? He was genuinely surprised. (leftover from his alcoholic days)

And then there was the accident.  He took off the right hand side rear view mirror.  Which he wasn't planning to fix. And there was no insurance.

What if the cops stop you?  And you don't have insurance?  What about the DOG? They'll arrest you and take the dog to the pound! And I won't bail you out!

Look, mister, I think you are terrific.  Not the STAR you seem to think you are, I like the crazy guy who brushes his teeth and plays to 3 people in deadbeat bars in New Jersey!  But I can't love you if you don't even love yourself.  I can accept things if you don't love me, but I can't scrounge up enough love to keep you alive.  You have to respect your life and yourself enough.

Come back when I'm not the only one who loves you. (She slams the door & leaves him alone in the car)
On the Air (end, HERE!!!)
On the Road
On the Record

Hottest Group in Jazz

The three of them had clowned around in Robert's loft at a party.

Her karaoke chops were beginning to pay off. (Her range exceeded her grasp.)

They had been slightly obsessed with an album, and in the car, he could get away with sounding terrible or creating a guitar or piano arrangement for her.

But M had shown up, like he always did. That brother who was more charming, a better singer, and wanting whatever P had.

The song changed from a car song to a stage song when they were fooling around with the records at the party. P struggled to keep up, vocally, even at the party. She wore a wig and they wore funny hats.  It wasn't a costume party, but there were costumes around, or maybe they had raided the guest bedroom with the pile of coats and hats for the party. 

She did a fierce DWWashburn, and even M swore he could never do the song again. He was impressed. And as usual, if you can't beat em, join em. M quickly tried to recruit her, but she had her own loyalties, and grabbed P by the arm for the trios.

It might have even been her idea.  It worked for a while, and they all had fun. The song changed from something they sang into the sunsets on the road into something covered in glitter, champagne, cheap tinsel and sequins. 

And then into the sparkling lights of the city at night. They were asked to do a benefit at JALC, then it was a few nights. 

It didn't hit him (P) until he saw them across the room. M was making her laugh.

The hovering voice in his head (P), turned into the theme from a horror movie.

The ring case was in his pocket, he had been going to ask her. A few weeks now, waiting for the right moment. (Turns out the right moment was when she was still laughing AT M, not with him) It was always too late with him.

The only place he had ever felt like he properly belonged was with her, and even then, only on stage. He wanted to believe it was everywhere, but looking at them he feared his connection to her was so thin. 

His Buddhist & AA self calmed him down. It was his wanting something in the world that was impossible. He needed to stop caring.  Or he would be spending his nights "singing the blues". Which he would anyway.

He was used to feeling out of place. M made sure to let him know he was the least talented, he was only hired for being pretty and having good teeth. And now, even those were gone. 

She came to him that night, all sunny and sparkling, her voice sounding so beatifully heartbreaking. She told him about M's agent, and how they were working on recording a song or two, and then an album.

He buried the ring case in the bottom of his suitcase.  

What were all these love songs about anyway?  Why do people drive themselves crazy over someone? Trying to convince them to want to impose your will in someone else. A little band of gold that she'd never say yes to. Not now, probably not before.

He looked out the window and planned his escape for early the next morning.

They were miles away from that lovely fall day in Lexington. When they were lost. And she told him she'd be happy to be lost with him forever.

Creature Comforts

Somedays, you are glad to have a painless job.

You swear you can close your eyes and just allow your life to roll out.

Like when you were a child, understanding that you were sentenced to a decade of school-jail.  The years ahead looming in front of you.

You could just put your mind into autopilot, and the deeper part of your soul goes to sleep.  Until you can wake up to something real in your life, and you decide that now, THIS time, you are a grownup and you can cancel the meetings.

And just not go.

And take care of one of the most important people in your life, who is on the verge of dying.

And shouldn't have to die alone.  Because you needed to talk to the Client.

Prince's Tracy "Only Cry for Love, Never Cry for Pain"

Overwhelmed by another death of another beloved singer, too early.

As angry as I get, about the lost promises of peace.
And all the other injustices I rail at.
Another one is gone, and I want SO MUCH to keep these men ALIVE & talking & to capture it all while they are ALIVE & talking.

Mah NaNa; The Farming DJ

She was wearing a white faux fox coat and smoking in the cold.

She had lots of makeup and I was surprised to hear her speaking with a strange accent.

I stood close to her in the gang outside the stage door and pretended to smoke with the other roadies, just to hear her story.  I always feel odd asking a stranger directly, as if their life story should be something they only give you at gunpoint.  Mostly people give it away, like bad sex, and its like looking into the sun and trying not to blink.

It turned out, she was going to be our host for the night.  We lugged our stuff inside and honestly, I couldn't tell when we were in the house proper.  I took her living room for a mud room.  Because it was covered with mud and dirt, the floor-mostly, but even the furniture seemed covered in dirt.

She was a farmer during the day, when she wasn't wearing mini skirts and high heels.  She had come from an enemy formerly known as Russia, or Georgia, and/or she had moved around a lot in her life.  There was one story of fleeing from one wartorn country to find that her new country was also suddenly at war.  And then she came to the Georgia in America, where people carried guns in the back of their trucks. She generally preferred not to talk to people.

But she LOVED music.

Her shelves were full of cds and records.  Even the record player was covered with dirt and when we heard her at work in the morning, it was as if she considered herself a DJ for each of her crops. The corn liked Heavy Metal but the flowers preferred Punk.  Unfortunately for us, she started work at 5am, when we were just winding down.  We covered our heads with the compost covered sheets and pillows stuffed with corn husks and tried to muffle the sound of her giant speakers feeding music to the fields just outside our window.


The Lumineers, Cleopatra

Some Kind of Really Good Trouble and Tracy Grammer

https://soundcloud.com/womr-podcasts/tracy

Excellent interview with Tracy Grammer about Dave Carter (his transitioning to F and dying)

Scenes for the play

Act 1
Opens with her discovering him on his deathbed, front of curtain

Chronological to the time they met
She's trying to seduce him after a concert & she runs out
Then he's her boss at the radio station (JOKE!)
Then she helps him put on shows, she's does sound
THEN SHE SINGS//SOUNDCHECK

ACT 2

They do their ACT

(Maybe break up scenes with them telling the stories in between songs??)

Tell the rest of it onstage??

He DOESN”T propose,

she gets a record deal, doesn’t make the record, gets an MBA

he goes on tour with The Band, hates them again

(Master of Disaster AGAIN)

His deathbed scene at the end

They sing together, ONE LAST TIME??

This Affair Never Could Go So Swell

HIM GETTING OUT OF HIS CONTRACT

He opened up his most expensive bottle of liquor.  Aged, 80 year old scotch. Owned by the movie star who owned the house 80 years ago. The bottle cost more than his parents had paid for their house.

If he couldn’t pack up the house & the pool, he’d take it all with him.

His 25 year old self looked out at his pool. The house was quiet for once.  He would enjoy every last second of his lease. 10 more days and he’d be free of California.

No more naked pool parties.  Maybe he could get back that $100k he loaned to that guy to buy the sailboat.  His band was doing pretty well now.  Maybe there would be a favor in it for him if he didn’t ask.  Maybe that $100k would get him into a recording studio, maybe they’d even do one of his songs.

Who was he fooling? They didn’t like the song he wrote for the movie.  And his ugly twin never got over recommending the audition.

“You should try it.  They didn’t like my teeth and my bald spot.  They wanted someone just like me, but prettier.  They wanted someone with my kind of talent, but you’re the only one who looks like me//you were all I could find” (Stills)

It started as a joke, but the years revealed the truth.  He tried to throw money at Steve, he showed up to his gigs and brought his “people”. The sailboat.

He felt like he had packed 30 years of living into the past 5.

When he first signed the contract, there were so many possible endings to this story.

He had never imagined handing back a check for such a big amount.  Anything to get OUT.

His brother had told him how miserable he sounded.  It started maybe a year ago, when the movie came out.  Awful.  He didn’t have answers for anyone, in fact, that’s when it first started.  People turned away at the parties.  The Popular Kids.

But since the TV show, the awful one with the ape costumes and the sound problems. They aired it against the Oscars, no better way to bury it.  And that’s what he had to look forward to.

He would miss the neighborhood.  Driving by and waving at Joni, Jimi, Janis.  Picnics and parties.  He was suddenly the most popular guy at parties.  Was. That’s his life now.  WAS>

He missed being accepted into the world of the rising stars, of being asked to sing at every party. Of being respected as a fellow artist-or if not respected, then admired for how he tricked The Man into giving him so much money.

He had eaten, fucked, snorted, smoked and PLAYED for the past 5 years.  GOD!!

He had access to a fucking fully equipped music studio at his beck & call!!  He had gone on tour and played all the big stadiums.  Kids cheering so loud, they couldn’t even hear him sing & play. His grandmother was the president of his fan club, for chrissakes. How was he gonna tell his grandma?

His face was everywhere in LA. HIs shining happy face.  Billboards, magazines, cardboard cutouts at record stores, along with the other guys.  Back when they believed in the hype themselves.

He looked so much younger.

They took away his dream.

Now he was just some cynic, sitting by a pool, ready to begin his slow descent into nothingdom.

The lights of LA spread out before him like sparkles in a pool of champagne.

Maybe he should have the pool water replaced with champagne.  Now THAT would be a way to go out!!

Maybe he’ll wake up dead, floating in the pool, stoned out of his mind.

Like that guy in Sunset Boulevard. Wasn’t that how everyone ended up here?

Either metaphorically or literally.

But his brother was right.  It was a bubble.  A fun period of time that would never last.  Like with girls, enjoy it while it lasts and sneak out before things get bad.  Or the crying begins.

Too late.

Don’t get up, he thought, you’ll be dragged to the edge of the water.  Like gravity.  

Don’t die.  Not here, not like the rest of them.  They’ll know you are just a wanna be.  

A wanna be music martyr.  Like that drummer, if that guy wasn’t pushed in. (Brian Jones)

Don’t drown, he thought.  Just don’t drown.


I've Got You Under My Skin
Louis Prima & Keely Smith

The Thrill that comes with Spring, When Anything can Happen

(It only happens when I dance with you)

Some days she sounded so beautiful.  Even she was amazed.

The Xmas was unusually warm, the flowers started blooming out of season.

But there were days when he imagined that she could sing anything into existence.

He imagined that she would be a perfect ingenue (she had that in her voice) and that she probably was miscast when she was on the stage with him.  Any guy 30-15 younger than he was would have been acceptably matched with her.

He kept himself up nights, worried, jealous, doubting why she would even care about staying with him.  Touring, let alone sharing his bed.

One night he had a dream, it was something familiar. It was him looking into her eyes.  And he knew that it was him being the leading man.  He saw himself as the leading man in her life.  It all worked.