Chapter 3
As fall begins, so does Gene’s first year at Kendall School of Design.
He’s going for an associate’s in fine arts, as even though his primary interest has always been music, he’s never been sure if he could really make a living from it.
But that’s not to say music has been his only interest throughout his life anyway.
Growing up, he found enjoyment out of drawing and painting, letting his brush strokes tell a story from his imagination.
What would be ideal would be to combine the two—to design posters for his new band, to paint pictures for their album art. Now that would be the dream, wouldn’t it?
The Dusty Brooms have been doing well practicing so far, mainly playing covers but also introducing a couple of Gene and Ray’s original songs into their lineup.
Even though Gene has always been musical, he’d never actually tried composing his own material until he teamed up with Ray.
Something mystical took over, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Once they’d written ‘Fly High’, more songs kept coming—a seed had been planted, watered, and nourished.
Gene had discovered this gift of songwriting he had no idea existed, and it was all thanks to Ray.
When all the three of them are playing together, they end up moving rehearsals into Ray’s parents’ basement, seeing that’s where Mick keeps his drum kit.
Gene plays lead guitar and crushes all his twangy solos with ease, while Ray occasionally does rhythm with an acoustic guitar of his own.
Yet more often than not, Gene is the sole guitarist, with Ray picking up the harmonica or adding some fullness to their sound with maracas.
Well, as full as they can be with a folky vibe at the moment, with no electric instruments yet, and no bass.
But Gene knows the importance of getting good on acoustics first, as a basis for all other things to come.
Gene’s parents have been supportive of their little group and certainly want their son to chase his dreams—as long as he still is going to college, too.
But they don’t want to seem dismissive, so recently they presented Gene with a gift: a Telecaster electric guitar and a small amp to go along with it.
Gene’s been ecstatic; this is another crucial step into making the Brooms feel like the real deal—a real rock band.
His first few days at art school are a breeze, mainly looking over syllabuses and everyone introducing themselves to the class.
He’s hoping he can make some more friends here, seeing as everyone from high school has basically abandoned him.
Sure, he’s got Ray, but he doesn’t want to seem like a burden to him by being his only friend, or to appear too clingy.
Some more friends would definitely do Gene good—to find more like-minded individuals with an interest in music just like himself.
Surely, at a creative place like art school, he’ll be able to find someone.
During the second week of classes, a tall Hispanic young man strikes up a conversation with him, stepping away from his seat during a down period and looking at Gene’s sketch on the easel.
“Wow, man, that’s amazing,” the young man says, comparing the drawing with the still life at the front of the classroom. “It looks just like it, but better. Do you even need this class?”
Gene chuckles. “It’s a required class, so yeah, I need it.” He stands up from his stool. “I’m sure yours is just as good.”
“Nah, man. I need all the help I can get.”
“Which one’s yours?”
“This one.” He points to the easel next to Gene’s, and—Gene’s jaw drops.
“What the hell are you talking about? Yours is better than mine!” Gene exclaims.
“Nah, you don’t understand. I’ve got technical skills, sure, but mine doesn’t flow like yours does.”
“I think you just don’t see it the same because you drew it yourself. It’s great.”
The young man itches the back of his head, messing up his curly mop of black hair. “If you say so. Thanks, man. What’s your name, again?”
“Gene. And yours?”
“Santiago. But you can call me Santi, for short. Nice to meet you, Gene.”
“Same to you, Santi.” He reaches out and gives Santiago’s hand a quick shake.
Over the next week, the two young men choose their seats in class next to each other and chit-chat as much as possible during their down times.
Santiago shares some of his painting and drawing classes with Gene, giving him a person he can recognize and stick to so he doesn’t feel all alone, along with someone he can discuss his classwork with.
And not just classwork, Gene finds out, as he pops a question to his new, quickly-bonding friend.
“What sort of music do you like, Santi?” he asks during painting class, with a half-finished sketch on his watercolor paper. ‘Touch Me in the Morning’ by Diana Ross plays quietly from a small transistor radio sitting on the professor’s desk.
“I like all sorts of stuff. But my favorite genres are blues-rock, rock-’n’-roll, prog rock, all sorts of rock really,” Santiago says, standing next to Gene who’s sitting.
“Ah, groovy, me too!” He grins up at his friend. “Any particular bands?”
“Well, obviously, I can’t say I like rock-’n’-roll without mentioning the Stones.” That automatically puts Santiago in his good book. “But I also dig the Kinks, King Crimson, the Stooges, the MC5, I could go on, man! Also, wait, have you heard of Question Mark and the Mysterians?”
“Yeah, those cats had that song a while back—wasn’t it ‘96 Tears’?”
“Yup, that was them.” He twirls his pencil in his hand.
“Did you know they were from Michigan, too? And they’re all Chicanos like me!
They didn’t stay around very long but man, I look up to them.
They were like, number two in the charts or something at the time.
I always thought if they could do it, so could I.
Except, well, I’d have better bandmates I’d get along with, better recording contracts, I could figure it out, y’know… ”
One thing Gene has quickly learned about Santiago is that he’s like an excited puppy dog, always talking fast and rambling when something piques his interest. But wait—did he say bandmates? “Hang on, are you in a band, yourself?”
“Me?” Santiago blinks. “Nah, but it’d be cool if I were. I’ve always wanted to be, but never knew anyone aside from my family who plays instruments, and they’d never wanna do something like play in a band—”
Gene’s heart races—can this really be?—and his smile widens. “Do you know how to play bass?”
“I know how to play all sorts of shit, man. Bass, guitar, a bit of piano but I could definitely learn keyboards, I even could learn percussion too if you need it…”
Wow, talk about a multi-instrumentalist. From how enthusiastic he sounds, how he’s listing off so many, it’s like he’s offering everything he can in case Gene wants to bring him into his band. Which is exactly what Gene plans to do.
“I actually have a small band that I have with a friend and his brother,” Gene says. “We don’t have anyone who can play bass at the moment, but maybe you’d like to—”
“Would I?!” Santiago’s face shines bright like the sun. “Oh my god, I can totally play bass! I’d love to join your band!” He sticks his pencil behind his ear and grabs Gene’s hand, giving it a rather rigorous two-handed shake. Gene can’t help but laugh.
“Awesome! I’ll have to let the other guys know. We play the same sort of stuff you said you like, blues-rock and whatnot. I’ve even written a few original songs with my friend, Ray. He’s the lead singer.” He twitches his arm slightly, giving the cue for Santiago to finally let go of his hand.
“Hell yeah, man. Just say the word and I’ll show up.
I’ve got a car of my own, so no worrying about picking me up for rehearsals.
Oh, I should probably give you my number.
” Santiago steps over towards his seat and reaches into his art bag, pulling out a scrap paper.
He grabs the pencil from behind his ear. “Here…”
Santiago jots down his phone number, and exchanges it with Gene.
He knows the other two should have no problem with Santi—once they meet him, they’ll be sure to like him right away.
They’ve all discussed how they felt they needed another member anyway, needing a fuller sound before they start trying to book shows.
“Thanks, Santi,” Gene says as he pockets the scrap paper, and proceeds to write his own number on another piece. Once done, he hands it to his new friend.
“No, thank you, Gene. You’re helping me achieve my dreams, man.”
“Same goes from you to me.” He smiles wide. “Welcome to the Dusty Brooms.”
November, 1973
Ray wrings his hands out as he tries to muster up some courage.
He’s standing in the back room of a dive bar with his fellow bandmates—the same bar he and Gene saw that other band play at earlier in the year—only now, it’s their turn.
It’s the Dusty Brooms’ first official gig at a venue, and it’s a bit of an understatement to say Ray is nervous.
He shouldn’t be—he’s been looking forward to this moment—but that’s easier said than done.
Gene throws the strap of his Telecaster around his neck, then sets a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “We’ve got this, Ray. We’ve all got this, right guys?” He looks to the other two, huddled closely next to them in the small space.
“Yeah, this is gonna be awesome!” Mick cheers; a glare from the dim overhead light shines on his glasses.
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for a chance like this, man,” Santiago says, plucking a random string on his bass not hooked to the amp yet.