Chapter 8 #3
Leann returned to Steve’s earlier comment. “You said Marjorie is the closest thing you’d ever had to a mom. You don’t see her actually as your mom?”
“At a certain age, you give up on that,” Tal said. “You’re too broken. You’re never going to trust it enough to call her that. Her saying it’s okay, or her deserving it, doesn’t change that.”
The band members exchanged glances. Lonnie slipped her hand into Steve’s, her fingers stroking his. DJ gave Leann a nod. He wasn’t disagreeing. “It wasn’t her failing,” he said. “Some things stay broken.”
When Leann had enough material for her interview, they were thirty minutes from the rendezvous point with her ride back to the city. Pete brought her and the photographer a beer and pointed a finger at DJ. “Play That Tune.”
DJ groaned, but Steve fist pumped and Tal did a drum roll on the bus ceiling.
“We give DJ something outside his wheelhouse to sing, and mock him if he sounds like shit. It’s how we keep him humble.” Pete winked at Leann. “
“Give it a try,” Steve told her. “Suggest any song you think he can’t do.”
“‘Call Me Maybe,’” Tal hollered.
“Can’t do well,” Pete amended. “A toddler can sing anything. Doesn’t mean he should. If you ever hear DJ rap, you’ll never get it out of your head. It’s like fungus stuck in the brain.”
“Can I record this?” Leann asked.
“Oh, hell no.” DJ grabbed her recorder and tossed it to Lonnie for safe keeping, while shooting an accusing look at his jeering bandmates. “I can trust her not to slip it back to Leann.”
Leann held up both hands. “Okay, okay. But I would like to hear it.”
It was impossible to overlook how easy it would be for DJ to talk the divorced mom into bed with him. A pleasant interlude, no strings attached. Hell, her photographer was straight, and even he was crushing on the lanky, relaxed kid with piercing eyes.
Roy wasn’t jealous. It just gave him some interesting feelings, noticing how DJ wasn’t angling for the low hanging fruit. Instead, his gaze kept moving to find Roy, as if making sure he was still there, working on his laptop and phone, and enjoying the visual confirmation that he was.
Roy frowned as he read the latest report from his best investigator. He hadn’t made any more progress on the stalker than law enforcement had. The asshole knew how to cover his bases.
His attention returned to the bus as DJ sang “Call Me Maybe,” while he played the basic chords for the song on his guitar. Roy had expected him to do an exaggerated version, to spoof the teen favorite. Instead he straddled the line between pop and heavy metal, offering a damn good cover.
When he reached the end of the first chorus, he paused and cocked his head. “Score?” He got tens from Leann and her photographer, a fair-to-middling hand gesture from Steve and Pete, and a boo from Tal. Lonnie smiled at DJ, the recorder securely cradled in both hands.
“Tal and sour Simon from American Idol are brothers from a different mother,” Pete told Leann.
“Next?” DJ asked.
Zed, their bus driver, asked for “Big River” by Johnny Cash. DJ brought his voice down an octave or two, stepping onto the Grand Old Opry stage without missing a beat. The song got everyone on the bus stomping, clapping and singing along.
“Keith Richard said rock’s just the marriage between country and blues,” DJ told the surprised reporter as he finished.
“Plus we played everything for everyone in the early days. We had to have gas to reach the next gig, and repair or buy better equipment.” He cocked his head toward his band mates.
“What were we playing when Moss discovered us?”
“That 80s theme wedding party?” Steve said.
Pete shook his head. “No, remember that’s where Tobias saw us. He was buddies with Moss, and talked him into catching our act at The Clock Garage later that week.”
“Which is good, because DJ’s rendition of Culture Club is for shit,” Steve noted. “Our career could have dead-ended right there.
“There’s only one Boy George.” DJ placed his hand over his heart in homage.
“Hey, Roy.” Steve called out to the back. “Want to give our boy a challenge?”
“How about ‘The Sound of Silence?’”
Steve threw a stuffed animal at Roy, and the jeers turned to oohs as Roy caught it one-handed without even looking up.
“He’s a ninja when he’s not watching my ass,” DJ told an impressed-looking Leann.
Roy looked at the tabby cat with gold eyes. It meowed when squeezed, a vaguely alarming sound.
“DJ bought a trio of those for us on one of our early tours,” Pete revealed. “Said it was the only road pussy we could have until one of our songs broke a top ten list.”
Steve made a cutthroat shut it motion. Lonnie rolled her head back on his shoulder. “Like I don’t know what the girls offer you guys?” She batted her eyes and brushed her mouth over his, then tucked the recorder under her thigh when he tried to swipe it.
“That was all before we met,” he assured her.
“Better be.”
Pete dipped his head toward Leann and enhanced his Southern accent. “Sorry for the language ma’am, but that’s a direct quote.”
“They took it as a challenge.” DJ rolled his eyes. When Leann raised a quizzical brow, Tal filled in the rest.
“For how much pussy we could fit in before we broke a top ten. His first lesson in how not the boss of us he was.”
“At least for sex,” Pete said. “We listen to him about music.”
“You have a music degree, don’t you, DJ?” Leann asked.
“Yes.” DJ fingered the strings, finding a pleasant sound with the strummed notes.
“I’m mostly self-taught, which is good for not knowing what you ‘can’t’ do, but a music degree expanded my knowledge so I could go take it even further.
I also took piano. If you can play that, you can play anything.
But with a guitar, you can get between the piano notes, do even more. ”
“He was just worried if he stuck with vocals only, he’d be the butt of all the lead singer jokes,” Pete said. “Like ‘What do you call a guy who hangs out with musicians?’”
“A singer,” everyone shouted. DJ gave Leann a resigned look.
“I like playing bass and keys both, for similar reasons,” Pete told her.
“With the software, there’s a lot you can do now.
DJ’s great at hearing music in the craziest stuff.
Someone’s footsteps, Lonnie’s laugh. The notes for that are in ‘Wild Days,’ so I play that one on keyboard, live.
We folded the bass into the keyboard part as well so we can keep Steve on guitar for that dueling solo. ”
“You and Tal figured out a groove on that song that really kills it,” DJ noted, playing a lick from it.
Lonnie beamed at him.
“Roy?” Steve waved in his direction, bringing them back to the topic. “Choose a song, man.”
“I thought I said ‘The Sound of Silence?’” While they were talking, Roy had pulled out a grape Tootsie Pop and unwrapped it.
As he put it in his mouth, he noticed Tal staring at it with a hopeful air.
With a sigh, he pulled the package from his go-bag and tossed it to land near Lonnie.
“You’re such children. Ladies get their choice first, then pass it around. ”
“What’s the most important thing a bodyguard for a rock band has to know?” Leann asked, deciding to pull Roy in.
“A protection detail is like being a dog trainer. Your biggest challenge comes from the owner, not the dog. The clients, not the threat.”
A chorus of dog noises and cat calls erupted. Roy returned his attention to his laptop, a pointed discouragement to Leann to include him further. He noticed DJ took a raspberry Tootsie Pop, but set it aside.
“Sugar doesn’t help the singing voice,” DJ explained, noticing his attention. “Tends to gum up the works.”
“He has a whole list right before a show,” Pete said. “No caffeine. It dehydrates the vocal cords. And do not light a cigarette around him. He will lose his shit.”
“Good thing I quit,” Roy noted.
“You used to smoke?” DJ raised a surprised brow.
“Fifteen years ago. When I was in the service.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Tal said, drawing their attention. “The greatest legends in the rock world were heavy smokers and drug users. Nobody said a damn thing about them having a hard time singing the way they were meant to sing.”
“No entirely true,” Steve pointed out. “The biographies that have come out on some of them have revealed just how much a problem it was for them professionally.”
“That was about showing up for gigs and shit. Not for how they performed when they got on stage. It’s what you put into the music, into the song; that’s what the audience wants.
Soon as someone says there’s a rule that applies to success, someone comes along and breaks it.
At the end of the day, the listeners decide.
Not the executives, critics, therapists, or any other damn know-it-alls who never hit the top of the heap like we did.
We’re the real experts. Us and our fans. ”
Leann scribbled the quote down on a notepad. “I really need my recorder back,” she complained.
“Tal will get me to sing K-Pop, you’ll record it, and my career will be ruined,” DJ told her, straight-faced. “No dice.”
He turned an expectant look toward Roy. “Song request. Serious. A personal favorite.”
“How’s your Joan Baez?” Roy asked with an impassive expression.
The gauntlet sent a new wave of ominous “oohs,” through the bus.
“Guess my favorite,” he added.
His bandmates called out suggestions, like “Diamonds and Rust” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” The photographer surprisingly offered “Virgin Mary Had One Son.”
DJ lowered his head. Roy enjoyed the deep thought pose, curls partially hiding his eyes, the slight twitch of DJ’s fingers on the strings, a single tap of his forefinger against them as he considered his options.
Then that heartbreaking smile crossed his face, and DJ dipped his head toward his bandmates. “I’ll need some help. The chorus works better with multiple vocals. Tal, get your drum pad, and Pete, you’ll need your acoustic bass and Schroeder board. Let’s do it right.”
Pete grabbed his composition keyboard, self-dubbed the Schroeder board because its compact size was comparable to the one used in the Peanuts Christmas special.
When DJ started strumming the easy rocking rhythm, Roy suppressed a satisfied and pleased expression. DJ had guessed right.
“Solid choice.” Steve had reached for another acoustic for sound depth.
Tal picked up the quiet background drumbeat, and Pete delivered the laid-back bassline.
Then DJ dove into the vocals for Joan’s “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” He found a light vocal register and added a touch of vibrato that paid tribute to the sound Joan brought to the song.
It wasn’t long before even Zed was joining in on the chorus, with enthusiastic “la la la la la las.”
When they finished, Roy gave him two thumbs up that resulted in applause and DJ’s smile.
The kid did like praise. The thought tightened Roy’s groin.
Fortunately, he had his ankle on his opposite knee, so the cargo pants exerted a quelling pressure.
For tour bus travel, he’d chosen them and a heavyweight black T-shirt with his security firm logo.
“How’d you guess?” Pete asked DJ.
DJ shrugged. “Roy doesn’t have a heavy drawl, but he can’t hide the deep South roots. Plus he broadcasts rural childhood.”
“My mom was raised in Louisiana,” Roy relented. “And she’s a Joan Baez fan.”
“Ironically, Joan was born on Staten Island. And Robbie Robertson from The Band, who wrote the song, was Canadian,” Steve added. “Joan took their country soul sound and gave it a pop makeover.”
“Levon, their drummer, was from Arkansas,” DJ explained to an attentive Leann. “Robbie wrote the song after visiting Levon’s home and parents. He said he felt like the South ‘had rhythm in the air.’ He also said ‘No wonder they invented rock ‘n’ roll here. Everything sounds like music.’”
“Roy, you have a mother?” Tal’s tone dripped with incredulity. “I thought you were made in a bioweapons lab.”
“I notice you saved the snark until after you got a Tootsie Pop,” Roy responded.
That only invited another wave of snark.
A few minutes later, the bus pulled into the diner where Leann’s ride was picking her up.
Roy had her wait until he and his team surveilled the parking lot, then he let her and the photographer disembark.
She made her departure, after getting a warm hug from DJ that left those pretty cheeks pink again.
The bandmates kept jamming on cover requests.
DJ took with good grace the ones that didn’t work well with his vocal talents, laughing at himself.
Eventually, they abandoned the game and instead played whatever suited their mood.
DJ did a hell of a job with Matchbox Twenty’s “If You're Gone,” and “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.
The band rocked out “Odds Are" by Bare Naked Ladies.
It couldn’t help but affect Roy. DJ had been right. He was as relaxed as he ever got on a job, the ride allowing him the rare indulgence to watch, listen and learn about DJ’s needs and wants, likes and dislikes.
Like raspberry Tootsie Pops.