the Stones. ‘Brown Sugar’ is the result of putting the cultures in a bottle and shaking it up.”
“I liked your performance of ’Crystal Ship’. But it’s not exactly a toe tapper.”
“No. Not a toe tapper. It’s hypnotic, not barn burning. People don’t have to be jumping and shaking to be thinking about sex. They were swaying with their eyes closed.”
“I’m starting to get the picture. Tell me your influences?”
“Doors. Stones. Of course, you can’t be from around here and not like Stevie.”
“Goes without saying.”
“I never mention my favorite music because other people wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me.”
Gray smirked like he already knew Lyric had failed his test. “Quicksilver Messenger Service. Happy Trails. ‘Who Do You Love’ took an entire front side of the album.”
Lyric’s mouth spread into a knowing smile. “Recorded live at the Fillmore in New York in two performances.”
Gray’s eyes widened. “Fuck me. That’s like… never happened.”
“What?”
“That somebody else knows that music. I mean somebody besides me and my neighbor. She’s the one who turned me on to it.”
“So happens I agree with you. Quicksilver was a flare in the night.”
“I know!” There was newfound enthusiasm in the kid’s tone. “If you say ‘Who Do You Love’ to most people who think they’re, like, aficionados or whatever, they’ll start goin’ on about that George Thorogood single.” It was evident that Gray was making an effort to keep from screwing up his face to convey his disdain for the Thorogood version. Lyric wondered if the grandmother’s manners training had included refraining from dissing artists. “If they really were aficionados they’d mention Bo Diddley. Ya know? After all, he wrote the original.”
Lyric nodded. “Diddley was the man.”
A young woman in jeans, tank top, and long white apron delivered a heavy tray laden with an abbondanza dinner for one. Gray nodded to her politely. “Hey Karen.”
“Hey Gray. You sounded good. ‘Course you always do.”
“Thanks.” He turned toward the food in a move that had all the earmarks of a dismissal. Karen looked like she’d hoped for a little encouragement to linger, but to her credit, when she didn’t get any, she left.
The demon’s dinner guest shoved an onion ring in his mouth, groaned out loud, then dug into the steak with unabashed earnestness. As he was chewing, he looked over at Lyric. “Good,” was all he said.
“Have you ever been in a band? I mean as a regular member.”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Financial concerns. Creative differences. Only twenty-four hours in a day. Stuff like that.”
“Financial concerns meaning not enough money to pursue music?”
“Right. Exactly.”
“What do you mean by creative differences?”
“Everybody who wants to play this kind of music wants to cover, not create. It’s not that I don’t get that. I mean, who’s gonna buy new Classic Rock.” He chuckled. “There it is again. Oxymoron.”
Lyric nodded. “Yeah. I see that. You got some songs?”
The kid looked suddenly shy, but responded with a charming lopsided grin. “Yeah. I got songs. Nobody to play ‘em with though.”
“They good songs?”
Gray made a face. “I think so.”
“Well, that’s a start. If you don’t think so, who will?”
“Right.”
“So what’s your favorite?”
Gray hesitated. “My favorite…”
“Song that you’ve written, but not performed publicly.”
The kid was sitting up a little straighter seeing that somebody appeared to have a genuine interest in his music. “It’s called ‘Shelter in Place’. You’re not gonna ask me to sing it, are you?”
The demon chuckled. “That’s exactly what I was going to do. Come on. Quick before the band comes back on.”
Gray wasn’t sure why he was surrendering so easily, but he put his fork down and launched into a quiet acapella version of a ballad that could even pull at a demon’s heartstrings.
The kid had something to say. And Lyric found himself wanting Gray to have the microphone to say it. After a near-eternity as a music demon, Lyric still had no idea where talent came from, much less inspiration. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered how someone so young could have taken on so much ‘soul’. It would make him a believer in reincarnation if he cared about such things.
When Gray finished, he picked up his knife and fork and started eating again.
“I don’t remember you mentioning Dylan when you named references.”
“Goes without sayin’. We’re all influenced by Dylan. It’s implied.”
“Well. True enough.” For a full minute Lyric carried on an internal argument weighing the pros and cons of acting on impulse. In the end, impulse won out. “So let’s say you found yourself in 1967. Where would you want to be? Geographically, that is.”