“Can you sightread?” he asked, his tone cold and professional.
“Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to add an “of course.”
“I have a new song here, guys,” he said next. “I just finished it this morning, which is why I was late. I thought we could go through it.”
There was a rumble of agreement, and one of the sheets was passed to me. Once we all had our own copies, Derek counted us in cold, and it was as if magic happened.
With no prior experience playing in a group or having seen the song before, I played. I followed what was written to a tee, blending beautifully with the rest of the band as they gave it their all.
The result was hauntingly beautiful, and I felt really lucky that it had worked out like that. I didn’t want to admit it out loud, but much of our great harmony was due to Derek’s song-writing.
“Good,” Derek said, when we came to a halt.
“Good? It was perfect! Give credit where it’s due, dude,” Thom objected.
Derek shot the drummer a look, like he was trying to turn him into a pillar of salt. Thom remained resolutely human, looking right back at his bandmate, undaunted.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s do ‘Black Friday’ next.”
“Is there music?” I asked.
“Sure, you can have mine,” Hank said, giving me his. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“Thanks.”
It was the same home printing job— probably from a notation program, making it clear that Derek couldn’t read music. I had my doubts about Hank and Jim as well. Which just left Thom and Adam as possible candidates.
Right then, my money was on Adam. He went far beyond the root notes most bassists seemed prisoner to, making sounds with scales and single notes that were more akin to guitar riffs.
We played through more of their tracks, one or another member volunteering their copy for me to work from. All except for Derek, who seemed to be getting a rather large vein throbbing in his neck.
“Right,” Derek said, taking off his guitar. “Who wants to go to the pub?”
In silent consensus, most everyone else packed up their equipment and then followed him through the door.
“Are you coming?” Thom asked, detuning his drums.
“I’m not really much of a drinker,” I said, speaking on instinct.
“Neither are we.”
I couldn’t imagine why anyone who didn’t drink would go to a pub, but I didn’t remember any alcohol during my first meeting with Thom, either.
Shrugging, I said, “Sure, I’ll come.”
Back on the road, I did my best to follow.
At least the rain had stopped.
When we arrived at the Brass Beagle for the second time that day, there was a definite feeling of déjà vu.
Due to an increase of clientele, tables were much more difficult to come by. Adam lucked out and we pounced, filling up the six-seater before anyone else could clock it.
“What can I get you?” a perky server inquired.
Like clockwork the orders came, each a non-alcoholic variation on classic libations. The most creative, at least to my mind, was when Adam ordered a Virgin White Russian, which was basically a fancy way of saying milk.
I tried to think of something fun and exciting to order that didn’t have any alcohol in it, but I found my creativity wanting. One of the pitfalls of the classical tradition was that it was difficult to think for yourself.
“Cranberry juice, please,” I finally requested.
My face burned as Adam and Derek turned to look at me.
Adam’s facial expression was amused but Derek’s was harder to read than Finnegan’s Wake.
“Good choice,” Thom said.
It had only been a couple of hours and I could already tell the dynamics. Adam was the quiet, talented one, like George Harrison. Jim and Hank were the showboats, McCartney all over.
Thom was the amiable drummer everyone liked, not dissimilar to Ringo.
Derek was tougher to get a handle on but struck me as a repressed egomaniac with delusions of grandeur who fancied himself a benign dictator. Closer to Putin really, but I’d have to go with John Lennon in the musical sense.
I hadn’t decided if I was going to join Dante Street Massacre, even if they wanted me, but if I did, I already knew who to avoid.
Sure, Derek was the hottest out of the all the very handsome men in the band.
But he was also so cocky and full of himself that he was already driving me crazy.
Chapter Five – Derek
The dragon of anger had awoken, like a cold, slithering darkness coiling around my heart. By telling myself that the mind is stronger than the body, I was able to hold it together and acted mostly professionally despite the screaming rage spiraling inside. It was enough to distract me into doing something stupid, like wrecking the car on my way home, if I wasn’t careful.
I couldn’t believe the band had started without me.