I mean… not us. Obviously. But if you’re the real thing and not a puffer, then yeah. There’ll always be opportunities for guys with the magic.”
As they started walking again, Doo said, “Give me a hint where to find people like that. I’ll not only be eternally grateful. But I’ll write a hit song for you.”
Slick barked out a laugh. “There’s a difference between talking and doing. You got the goods?”
Doo didn’t want to sound bigheaded, but he didn’t want to lose an opportunity because of humble pretense either. He pulled himself up a little straighter. “I do. Given enough time, I might give y’all a run for it.”
“Man.” The other man chuckled. “You got the ego part down. Come on.” He made a directional motion with his head. “We’re gonna pass this place on my way. If the timing’s right and you’re lucky, you’ll meet this chick who’s kind of like a band matchmaker. Can’t promise she’ll be there right now. She crashes there, but she drifts in and out. If you hang out often enough, you’ll run into her. If she likes you, she might help you find the right situation.”
Doo simply could not believe his good fortune.
“Gotta tell you, though,” Slick said. “The challenge is finding bandmates who get you musically and won’t drive you fucking nuts. Bands like that? I can think of two. Exactly two.”
“Is Airplane one of those two?”
Slick smiled but didn’t answer.
For the next two blocks they chatted with the familiarity of guys who’d been neighbors for years. Doo traded questions. He asked Slick what it’s like to make musical magic. Slick asked Doo about his musical experience and where he’d come from. Doo was careful with his answers, conscious of refraining from the mention of any music made before that moment in time.
“What are y’all workin’ on now?”
“Believe it or not we’re arguing about the name of the album. Surrealistic Pillow.” He shook his head. “I know we’re all trying to one up each other with obtuse shit, but is that a stupid name or what? Might as well just say it’s the drugs talking.” Glancing over at Doo, he said, “What do you think of it?”
“The name?”
“Yeah. The name.”
“I think your fans don’t give a shit what you call it. You could call it Record. People who buy the album just want the music. The rest is corporate masturbation.”
Slick came to a full stop and turned to face Doo. “Yeah. I can dig that. It’s the deepest thing I’ve heard this week. How’d you get so smart?” Doo shrugged. “Think I’ll call you Socrates.” Doo kept his face carefully blank, not wanting Slick to know how he really felt about that nickname.
Slick pointed behind Doo. “Down that way. Look for the red door on the left. Just go on in. You won’t need an engraved invitation.” He started to turn away, but stopped. “But if anybody asks why you’re there, tell ‘em I sent ya. Times. They are a’changin’.”
“Look, man, I really appreciate this. Don’t know how to thank you.”
“You promised to write me a song. That’s good enough.”
Doo started to reply, but Slick had already moved on.
The house was midway down the block. He almost passed it, looking for a red door, because the door was standing open with a few people spilling out in the front. He drew a couple of curious looks as he made his way up the steps, but nobody asked who he was or tried to stop him.
He could have kicked himself in the shins when he realized he hadn’t asked for the name of the ‘matchmaker’. He couldn’t very well go about asking for the musical matchmaker.
Making his way to the kitchen, past people sleeping, smoking, making out, arguing, and one guy playing Peter, Paul, and Mary folk songs, he decided to just tell the truth. Guided by the unerring instinct that always leads people to the kitchen when they balogna find themselves in uncertain social situations, he found a guy making a sandwich. When Doo approached, the man glanced over and smiled, “Want one?”
“Ah. No thanks. What I really wanna know is who to talk to about bands formin’?”
“Got chops?” The guy looked Doo over. “For real. Not wannabe.”
Doo gave the sandwich maker a level look. “For. Real.”
The dude turned back to sandwich making, something which he took seriously by all appearances. “Groovy. There’s a redhead out there.” He waved toward the back door. “You can’t miss her ‘cause she’s fine. She’ll know