CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 46
The first two songs, Ian thought the group played almost mechanically. Which was hardly a surprise. None of them had ever performed before an audience of this size. The concert hall was jammed. He thought he saw people standing behind the back row. Certainly the balcony’s upper tiers held more people than they should. It was a well-heeled older crowd, which, given their music, was to be expected. But the audience responded warmly to both songs, applauding far longer than was simply polite. People whistling. People shouting and calling between the songs. People with them.
On the third song, Winwood’s “Higher Love,” the band started to fire in sync.
On the fourth song, it all came together. The night, the band, the music, the audience.
Their rendition started with Ian playing by himself. Which was Danny’s idea. The lighting was dimmed to where there was one single spot tight upon his guitar’s heart. He found himself thinking about Kari’s painting as he played. He could see nothing of the audience at this point, which helped him fly. He thought back to other concerts. The heady electric rush of performing live, the sense that here was the point where his life came together. He had not felt that way in over a year.
Now he tasted something new. The old flame was dampened, but quietly potent just the same. He played and felt his music becoming a tapestry. Drawing the band together. Lifting them all up. Giving them the chance to become something more than they ever would be alone.
He had no idea how long he played, riffing on one concept after another. But they all seemed to sense when it was time. Which was the only sign he needed to know the others felt it, as well.
Leo brushed the snare, a quick rush of intro, and then Larry came in on the alto sax. A drifting hint of melody, a silken cord tying Ian’s riffs together. Getting them ready for when Connor began singing . . .
Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel . . .
“The Windmills of Your Mind” was originally written by French composer Michel Legrand. The English translation was introduced in the original version of the film The Thomas Crown Affair, which won the Academy Award for best original song. It was revised and sung by many others, including Andy Williams, Jose Feliciano, Dusty Springfield, and Sting.
Slowly, slowly, the single spot expanded to include a second light on Connor, another on Larry, and then . . .
Connor began playing, alternating with Ian, a dance almost classical in its alternating melody.
The ladies took up the lyrics then. Three voices almost weeping with the labor of sharing the song’s message. Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream.
Connor joined in, for two lines only. Then they began alternating. One line by each singer. On and on, building in power and volume until . . .
The lights cut off entirely. Then four spots. Four faces. Singing together, repeating those first amazing lines.
Back to the single spot on Ian’s guitar. A quick riff, a melodic farewell.
The applause was thunderous.
From that point on, they remained a single tight unit. Bonded at the level of heart and bone and sinew. Communicating with each breath. A single glance, a lifting of his guitar, a subtle shift in Connor’s voice. They all heard and understood and responded.
What was more, the audience was with them, as well. Their response to each song became increasingly potent, a rising crescendo of applause and cheers.
They finished the set, returned, played their encore. Stepped to stage right. Stood as a unit. Accepted towels from the stage attendants. Wiped the sweat. Listened to the audience. No smiles. Not a single word between them. It was too intense a moment for words.
Connor and Ian walked back onstage to rapturous applause. They took their places and waited until the crowd went quiet. Connor ran through a bluesy riff. A quick punctuation, no real suggestion of where they might wind up. Only while he was still playing, Ian repeated it back to him. Connor launched into another, different riff while Ian was still playing. Ian shot it back. Connor picked up the pace and gave him another. Ian met him stride for stride. On and on they went, pushing each other to furious levels. Fire and tempo, but controlled.
To the audience, it probably looked like Ian simply lifted his guitar in punctuation to another riff. But the band was ready and walked onstage and took up positions and waited while the audience roared their version of a “Welcome back.”
When the hall went quiet, the women sang a soft dirge. Slow and full of knowing remorse.
Feelin’ better now that we’re through, feelin’ better ’cause I’m over you.
“You’re No Good” was written by Clint Ballard Jr. and first recorded by Dee Dee Warwick in 1963. In the early seventies, Linda Ronstadt began performing the song live while she was the opening act for Neil Young. Then in 1974 Ronstadt was working on tunes that eventually became her Heart Like a Wheel album, and at the last minute they decided to record a studio version of “You’re No Good.” It was a throwaway song, a last-minute choice meant to complete the album, just fill an empty space. Seven months after the album’s release, the song hit number one on the Billboard charts. It remained there so long, Rolling Stone magazine complained it had been nailed in place.
The ladies completed their mournful first stanza, and Connor took up the vocals. Ian and the sax and the brushes on the drums were soft little punctuations to his almost conversational rendition of that amazing verse.
I learned my lesson, it left a scar, now I see how you really are . . .
When they arrived at the chorus, they went from soft and slow and melodic to . . .
Fire.
What attracted Ian most to Ronstadt’s version of the song was how the lady could go from sweetly gentle and intensely feminine to full-on rage. And all without losing control of her vocals.
In his late-night reflection, it had struck Ian that Connor had the same ability. If only they could find a song that released his full potential.
Baby, you’re no good.
Connor did not sing the words. He roared. The force of his accusation literally propelled him from the piano stool.
The audience did what they had all hoped. The aisles and the open space surrounding the stage became filled with people, most of whom had probably not danced at a live performance in years. Decades even. Ian and Vanessa exchanged a goofy smile, watching the spectacle of blue-haired aristos on their feet and shrieking the next refrain back at them. You’re no good.
The next verse was remarkable in terms of how Connor resumed his conversational tone, which was necessary, because he confessed that he himself had dumped a good and gentle woman. So he could take up with the bad lady. And he himself was no good. And maybe he deserved what he had been given. Only now the three ladies were shrieking with the audience. Pointing at Connor and singing their accusations at full volume, musically beside themselves with rage over his behavior. You’re no good.
Then they were sharing the blame. Four voices that alternated here, joined there, all of them filled with remorse over all the terrible mistakes that had brought them to this point. Where they could arrive at the last refrain. The instruments silent except for Ian’s furious final solo, while the four singers pointed at each other. All of them guilty of the worst crime of all. Breaking a good person’s heart. You’re no good.
They hit the final note. The lights came on full.
Bedlam.
They stepped around the instruments. Walked to the front of the stage and linked arms together. The audience was all around them here. The applause a human thunderstorm.
Ian looked up, found Kari standing by the balcony’s railing. And suddenly it was just them. The two of them joined by something more powerful than the finale. A moment that was uniquely theirs. A promise that did not need to be spoken, because they both knew it was there and true. A tomorrow defined by what they now shared.