He moved on out into the street, feeling optimistic about what the day might bring. He couldn’t lose. He’d either find people to make music with or he’d be in the middle of a historic event unlike any other. Either way, life was good.
He’d spent days asking around about bands forming and heard more live music in less than a week than in his whole life put together. Some songs that were so awful they should’ve never been sung. Some that fit the moment, but would rightfully fade into obscurity. But now and then there was a kernel of greatness released as a sound wave that flew through the air to his ears and made him so glad he was a musician. In 1967.
Strangely, he was not discouraged by the fact that he wasn’t invited to auditions right and left. His needs were met by a benefactor’s bank account. All he had to do was learn everything there was to know about living in a time when social upheaval was both a crisis and a joy. He’d keep looking tirelessly until he found the ultimate prize. Collaborative travelers bent on a musical journey that would change the way an entire generation thought, and felt, and behaved. Whether or not it would change music forever was another story that was not his and he didn’t concern himself with that. His job was to live in the moment and make the most of his thirty-year maximum expiration date.
He didn’t dwell on the fact that there was a part of him that hoped to make Lyric proud. He brushed that thought away with a huff and an admonishment. The idea of filling the vacuum left by the absence of a male role model with a demon was ludicrous. An internal scoffing accompanied that idea.
Still, he knew that a fraction of his motive had something to do with how it might feel when he’d be able to tell Lyric about progress toward being part of a musical unit with mutual tastes and mutual goals.
He stopped and pulled the envelope free from an embroidered vest pocket, opened it, and barely stopped himself from whooping and leaping in the air.
Someone who could only be the demon, Lyric, had left two front row tickets to see Quicksilver play the Fillmore. He was going to get to see his all-time favorite music, recorded thirty years before he was born, performed live. He couldn’t believe the good fortune he’d stumbled into when he’d agreed to play a couple of songs with some aging rockers at a local Hill Country ice house.
The only way life could be better was if there was someone he could tell. Part of getting something so good you’d never have dreamed it is having somebody to tell about it.
Oh well, he thought. First things first.
It was nice out. Low sixties mid-morning when the sun had burned off the fog. He was leaning against a building, finishing a BLT, when he noticed Jerry Slick across the street in friendly conversation with a couple of guys. He looked around for a trash receptacle and remembered that, at the time, people had to make some effort to dispose of packaging in some way other than throwing it on the ground. Ducking back into the café where he’d bought the sandwich, he caught a waiter’s eye.
“Trash can?” He held up the sandwich wrapper.
The server gave him a funny look, but motioned to a nearby table. “Just leave it there. Bussing’ll pick it up.”
He rushed back out, hoping he hadn’t missed an opportunity to speak to a walking legend-to-be. As luck would have it, Jerry was winding up his conversation and starting away.
Doo hurried to catch up. “Jerry?”
“Yeah?” Slick kept walking, but gave Doo a quick once over. “I know you?”
“No, but I’m a fan.”
Jerry chuckled. “Well. That doesn’t happen every day.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not the face. Or even one of the faces. I’m the drummer. I sit behind the action and never look anybody in the eye.”
“Don’t worry,” Doo said. “Lots of people are gonna know who you are.”
“Nice of you to say.”
“I was wondering…”
“Here we go.”
Doo laughed. “It’s not money. I was hoping you’ve heard about a band looking for, ah, somebody like me.”
“That doesn’t give me much to go on. What do you play?”
“Lead guitar. But I write and I’ve got vocals if, ah, needed.” He trailed off.
Jerry stopped and turned to look at Doo. “Man. Everybody’s looking for that.