just short of bein’ a museum.” He offered a lopsided grin. “We get artist-types here, ya know. Anyway, she’s always playin’ that music. Not just ‘best of’ and greatest hits like musical muggles. Deep cuts, too.”
Musical muggles. Lyric felt amusement rise and demand a smile.
“Started spendin’ more time at her place than at home. She didn’t have anything to do but talk about music and…” He blushed a little. “Bake me cookies. I know that sounds cheesy, but I loved the stories and tunes. I’d sit on her living room floor where the A/C window unit could blow right on me, pretend I was living somewhere cold even though it was a hundred degrees outside, and read all the album covers.
“One day I noticed her name on one. She got a writing credit for two songs. Asked if that was her. She took the album, looked at the back and got this far off look on her face. I mean, I was a little kid and not into reading people, but even I could see she was remembering. She said she wrote a few songs back in the day.
“Turned out that was what you’d call an understatement. She wrote a lotta songs. Later on, I figured that’s likely how she’s gettin’ by. She never worked, never married. At least not that I know of. No family.” He paused. “That I know of. Just lives the nostalgia. It’s cool in a way, but also sad in a way. You know?”
“She’s your mentor,” Lyric offered.
“Sure. You could say that. She must’ve negotiated some kinda slick deal to get money from the machine. Lots of songwriters get super ripped off and never get a dime for music that makes millions.”
“Did you ever ask her about that?”
“Nah. My grandmother would say that’d be rude. Don’t ever ask a rancher how many cattle he has. Don’t ever ask somebody how much their new sofa cost. We weren’t high up in Wimberley society, but we have manners.”
Lyric didn’t smile outwardly, but found it charming that the kid thought the little town of Wimberley, population three thousand, had a social caste that could be called ‘society’.
“What’s her name?”
“Cassidy Power. She goes by Cass.”
“Nice name.”
Gray nodded and stopped for a swig of beer. “I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t like the sounds better than what came after. Commercial music is just glorified karaoke.”
Lyric cocked his head and nodded thoughtfully. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“Same thing. Cass gave me one of her guitars and showed me a few chords when I was nine. She’s not Santana, you know? But she knew enough to get me started. Picked up the rest from YouTube.”
“You learned to play by video?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It’s free.”
“Have you ever thought about being a fulltime performer?”
Gray laughed. “Yeah. About a thousand times a day. But how’d that work? Anybody interested in my music is dead or dying. Unless you know a way to put me near a startup band in the sixties, I’m destined to be a goin’-nowhere-novelty.”
“You have some originals?”
“Yeah. Not that anybody’s ever gonna hear ‘em. Even playin’ out like this.” He gestured toward the gathering with his chin. “They just want to hear music they already know. Over and over.”
“What if there was a way to put you near a startup band in the sixties? What year would you want to be twenty-three?”
“1967”
“Why?”
A half laugh, half huff erupted from Gray. “Why? You don’t know much about music, do you?”
Lyric took that in stride and gave nothing away. “Maybe I want to see how much you know.”
“Okay. I’ll play. The Doors. The Who. Jefferson Airplane. The Animals. Jimi Hendrix. Rolling Stones.”
“What about the Beatles?” Gray answered with a derisive snort. “Pink Floyd? The Moody Blues?” Gray shook his head. “Monkees?” That earned Lyric a truly dirty look. “You know experts say Classic Rock began with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
“Experts? What exactly is a music expert? It’s like… What do you call it?” He snapped his fingers. “An oxymoron. Right? Look. Here’s the deal. If the listener never once thinks about sex… At all. In any way. It’s not rock.
“The Brits have a gift for poetry and musical innovation. Great music. If you ask me, Days of Future Passed and Tommy were groundbreaking. More than Sgt. Pepper. But if it doesn’t have an underlying foundation of African beat, it’s not rock and roll. The Brits weren’t steeped in soul. So most didn’t get that. Some did. Nobody understands better than