stopped chewing for a second, mulling that over. “Well. It would either be San Francisco or L.A.”
“Not London?”
Gray shook his head and laughed silently. “Not London. No.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never been outta Texas. California’s far enough. It might was well the far side of the moon.” He finished chewing the last bite of steak. “San Francisco I guess. I’ve been listening to Cass talk about it all my life. She thinks Bay Area music was the shit because of the San Francisco ‘sound’.”
“What’s the San Francisco sound?” Of course, Lyric knew the answer to the question, but he was interviewing the kid for a potential mindbender.
“You know. The albums were recorded live, which, she says, is the way music ought to be heard. London. L.A. Great studios, but the product was over polished, over produced, over packaged, and totally not replicable live.”
Lyric grinned. “Just like Quicksilver.”
Gray returned the grin. “Yeah. Just like Quicksilver. Can you imagine what it would have been like? To be there? When they recorded that album live?”
It was fairly easy for Lyric to ‘imagine’ that because he had, in fact, been at the Fillmore for the live recorded performances. He found himself wishing he could tell Gray all about it. He mused that maybe even demons are subject to waves of nostalgia. He decided to change the subject before he said something that gave his advanced age away.
“Your neighbor? Why’d she end up in Wimberley?”
“Don’t know.” Gray shrugged. “Never asked.” He looked at his phone. “I gotta take off. Thanks for dinner and the chat.”
When Gray started to rise, Lyric reached into his pocket and produced a business card that was thick, black and glossy with gold engraving. It was elegant in material, script, and in its abject simplicity.
It read:
Lyric
talent scout, producer, promoter, muse
PRIVATE NUMBER 666
Gray took it and turned it over. “What’s Lyric?”
“My name.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s not a phone number, Lyric.”
The demon blinked so slowly it was almost hypnotic. “And yet, if you call it, I will come.” It was the Lyric’s own private joke.
“Because you’re going to transport me back in time?” Gray laughed.
“What if I knew a person who could make magic happen on a fine night such as this?”
There was something in Lyric’s tone that made Gray stop smiling and look up into the demon’s face. After staring for longer than would normally be polite, he decided to play along and hear the madman out, he said, “And would you happen to know such a person? Who makes magic happen on fine nights like this?”
“I might. If you find there is some appeal to the idea of being twenty-three in San Francisco in 1967, call me and we’ll talk further. If not, just toss the card up into the air and it will disappear.”
Gray barked out a laugh then tossed the card up into the air. When it disappeared with a tiny pfffft, he jumped like he’d been shocked, scrambled to his feet quickly and stood gaping at Lyric.
“You’re welcome for dinner,” Lyric said, swinging his leg over the bench to rise. “See ya around.”
Gray put his hands out and said, “Wait!”
With his back turned to the kid, Lyric smiled at the mesquite trees on the edge of the parking lot before looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
Gray swallowed, sat down hurriedly before he lost his sense of balance in every way possible. “Look, man. I, ah…” He glanced around nervously. “What are you?”
“That’s a conversation for another time and person who appreciates the gift of my card.”
“Your card! Can I get another one?” The silence of the pause was clearly stress-inducing. “Please!”
“If I give you another card, are you going to call me?”
Gray was already nodding before Lyric reached the end of that question. “Absolutely.”
Lyric produced another card, literally, and handed it over. This time Gray grabbed for it like it was the winning lottery ticket in a billion-dollar tri-state Powerball.
“Don’t wait too long,” Lyric said over his shoulder as he was walking away.
The music demon sat on a bar stool in a Greenwich Village bar and listened to an old black woman sing Billie Holiday songs. The rich, sultry timbre of her voice had him closing his eyes with pleasure. When he listened to Billie Holiday, he was sure there was nothing better than blues done well. When he listened to Wagner he thought nothing was better than opera done well. When he listened to Led Zeppelin, he thought nothing was better than orgasmic rock. At its best.