Chapter 11

Time came for the showcase. The jam shuffled to a funny, uneven ending. The many in the audience dancing ended their dance clumsily and laughed. "Lights," I said. The ballroom darkened and the stage became the central focus.

"Pretty much everyone here knows me," I began. "Lead singer and lead ego of Sin Drone." Applause interrupted. Vigorous applause. "Uhm, thanks. I'm going to ask you to do something probably impossible with me standing here with a mic. I want you to forget all that. Forget Sin Drone. As far as tonight goes, Sin Drone doesn't exist. I mean, you're going to hear hints of it because the next band listened to that shit a lot and got some hints, but believe me, they took it where I never dreamed it could get took. I'm the newest member, just a guy putting fills in on keyboards and guitar. If there's any fuckups, look at me. There's really two bands here, both of which I'm in as a musician and not the lead. They're really quite different even though they're the same members. Confused? Just stick around for both. I certainly will. I give you Rum."

After the lengthy warm up improv, all butterflies had vanished, and we played better than we ever had. (Since I never saw Rum play live, the band let me know it had been far better than they ever had done.) The adrenalin rush adds energy to a band, but being comfortable and playing perfectly because of it sure has its advantages.

Loud and fast, those that preferred it softer and slower retreated. But the cleverness of the lyrics and the song structures kept them involved if a bit far from the front of the stage. Others pogoed and bounced about, lost in the beats.

Lee watched Randy the whole time. When Randy sang, it affected Lee the way crooners or rock stars effect girl fans. He practically swooned. And Randy never looked happier or cuter or sillier. He was having a ball.

Mindy too had her enamored fan. Clair looked enthralled. Mindy sang to her half the time just like Randy sang to Lee. Melinda and I sang back up to each other.

Respectful applause, appreciative but not ecstatic, greeted Rum's end. "You ain't heard nothing yet," I thought to myself.

"Give us twenty minutes to transform. And whoever's playing the music, no Sin Drone please," I announced.

After a Descendents cut and half way through a Minor Threat song, I excused myself from the congratulations and the inquiries and threaded through the crowd to the man in charge of music, the CEO's son Alex, also a fan of mine. "Hey Alex."

"Sorry about..."

"That's understandable. What you're playing is fine for after Rum, but you need to switch to older stuff: Blues, Old Country, Reggae, Jazz. Could you?"

"Sure."

First Lady Day, then Ray Charles singing country and ending with Mose Allison. I liked his taste. It would lead in well.

Reattaching to Melinda's side, she watched me schmooze and slowly emerged from shyness to reveal her charming, sassy self. I gave her a big kiss just before we returned to the stage. "You did good, my love."

"I'm learning from a master. I'm glad we did that bit of improv before."

"Me too." I kissed her again.

"I'm horny," she whispered over the noise.

"Me too."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I announced when we returned to the stage. "The Mellifluous Melinda and Merj." Simple. Nothing else needed to be said. Melinda took over and blew everyone away. A cappella, she sang a note. Sweet and soaring, it lowered into the guttural and the show began. We vamped while she growled and roared and squealed and scarified, singing her pain and her triumph, her anger and her pride, her anguish and her ecstasy. We rolled while she steered. We held her up while she enthralled. We built while she towered. Everybody loved her but I loved her first and best. And she loved me.

The crowd went nuts. I thought we had no encore. Melinda whispered to Mindy and to Randy. Each nodded, put away their stuff and exited the stage. Melinda looked at me and smiled brilliantly. She looked out into the audience and waved down the applause. "Thank you so much for letting us play for you. I've never had so much fun, and I hope you got some of that. I'm going to get private now. You can stay if you want, but I'm just singing this for the love of my life, the man I met not so long ago, but intend to keep for the rest of my life. The man who I will marry and who will father my children and who will love us and cherish us and keep us protected and always loved. Joe..." She faced me and sang a cappella.

"I Want You," by Bob Dylan. Dylan tends to be sung by others like he sings it, nasally and without flourish. But she made it her own: the simple melody a perfect platform for her expressive intensity. It was utterly unique. And funny. And sweet.

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries
The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn
But it's not that way
I wasn't born to lose you

I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you

And so on.

And then, to my embarrassment because my tears flowed like rain down a gutter, she sang "I Thought I Was a Child." Fuck! Magnificent and heart rending. And absolutely brilliant. And all for me. Fuck!

She put down the mic, took my hand and whispered. "Let's find a room in this monstrosity and fuck until we can't move and fuck some more."

"Excuse us," she said many times as we flowed through the crowd. I said nothing, lost and in love and horny as all get out. My pecker must have been obvious, but who cares?