Circles Collide

Chapter 10: Tsunami

September 27, 1996

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers as Jake walked out onto the stage, guitar in hand. The applause and screams washed over him, the loudest he had ever heard in his career as a performing musician, not because of the enthusiasm of the crowd—though they were quite enthusiastic—but because of the sheer number of people. Ninety-five thousand voices screaming in unison is up there with standing near a jet engine on the decibel meter. The sun had set more than an hour before and the stage lights were shining brightly as he walked to the microphone, waving his right hand to the crowd the whole time. He could not see them—not beyond the first few rows of the special VIP section and the stagefront seats situated to either side of it anyway—since he was in brightness and they were in darkness, but he certainly could feel them.

He stepped up to his microphone stand and grabbed his guitar cord, which had been hung at the junction where the talk box tube was taped. He plugged it in and pulled a guitar pick from the holder on the other side of the stand. There were nineteen picks stored there, all of them navy blue (Jake’s favorite color) and each one stenciled with the words: JAKE KINGSLEY, Tsunami Sound Festival, 1996 in white. Lenny’s guitar picks were stenciled as well, although with his name and his picks were red. Ted’s drumsticks were also stenciled.

With a swipe of his middle finger, Jake turned the volume on the guitar all the way up. He was now live. He turned back to his band, who, by now, had all taken their positions. He looked at each one of them individually to make sure they were ready to start, doing it quickly, less than a half second per member. First Lenny, then Ben, then Ted, then Phil, then Pauline gave him a nod, indicating all systems go (though Pauline’s nod was markedly hesitant and unsure). He then looked back at Ted again and gave him a thumb’s up. Ted nodded once more and gave a four count by tapping his drum sticks together. On the count of four, they launched into their opening number: Can’t Keep Me Down, the hard driver from Jake’s first solo album.

The roar of the crowd picked up in enthusiasm and decibel level when they heard the distinctive intro chords being hammered out by Lenny and supported by strong strikes on the toms from Ted. They played the intro out to completion and then let the last note fade almost to silence before Jake jumped in with his part, strumming out the primary melody with mild distortion that was just a few steps above clean. They played this out through three repetitions, all of them moving with the beat and getting their groove going. The tune used the varying tempo technique that Jake employed so often on his material. After the third rep of the primary melody, they shifted to a slower tempo, but a more powerful melody and rhythm and Jake began to belt out the lyrics that declared he could be abused, could be knocked down and dragged out, but he would always get back up again and emerge stronger from the experience. The lyrics came out of his mouth naturally, with perfect timing and in key to the music, just as if he had practiced a thousand times over the past few months—which he had. He felt his stage fright slipping away as the dopamine and endorphin release that came from performing well began to surge through his body. In the stagefront seats that he could see, he saw nearly everyone singing along with him. His eye caught a particularly buxom and attractive young women who was probably not even old enough to legally buy beer. She gave him a smile and pulled her shirt up, revealing two gloriously bare breasts capped with huge nipples. He smiled as he saw this, thinking it’s been way too long since I’ve done this last.

They reached the first chorus and the tempo switched back up. Jake sang out the words:

You can’t keep me down, no matter how you try

I will stand back up, I will stand back in.

No, you can’t keep me down, you can’t take me out

I may lose a battle, but the war will still be mine

As he sang the chorus lines, Phil and Pauline joined him, giving him soprano and baritone support. Jake smiled again as he heard his sister’s voice mixing with his. She performed her part perfectly, just as she had on the original recording of the tune and just as she had during their rehearsals. Though she had never had any vocal training other than what Jake and Celia had given her, she sounded like a professional.

After the chorus, they switched tempo again for the second verse. Jake continued to play out his parts on his guitar, the fingers of his right hand strumming, the fingers of his left hand fretting automatically, without conscious thought, while he sang into the microphone. He expounded upon his theme of self-liberation and then they ran through the chorus once more. After the second chorus, they played out the bridge, Jake hammering out short, poetic diatribes about those who would try to keep him down while Phil and Pauline hummed angrily in key behind him. After this, there was a final verse, another tempo change, and then three repetitions of the chorus. After the third rep, the outro guitar solo began. On the studio recording, Jake had played the solo (Celia had actually played the guitar parts he was playing now) but had not taken credit for it. Lenny played it now, stepping forward to the edge of the stage and perfectly imitating Jake’s notes with just a little personal phrasing of his own. The crowd cheered for him as he played, most of them nodding their heads in time to the beat.

In the studio version of Down, the outro had faded out. That was obviously not an option when performing live so they had rehearsed up a new ending to put the tune to rest. They played it out now, Jake and Lenny both stepping up, shoulder to shoulder, and hammering out a blistering finale that was accompanied by the pounding of Ted on the drums before cutting off abruptly and letting Lenny’s final note fade out.

The roar of the crowd washed over them once again, the loudest they had heard so far. Jake and Lenny both flipped their guitar picks into the crowd, creating minor scuffles for possession of them where they landed. They walked back to their stations and pulled new picks for the next number, which would be Hit the Highway, Jake’s song about his breakup with Helen, another of his top hits. G came trotting out and sat down in front of his keyboard set, hat and sunglasses firmly in place. Since the cheers remained at the same level, it seemed reasonable to believe that no one had recognized him. If they noticed anything at all, it was just that—as G himself put it—some anonymous brother had come out to play a little keyboards for Jake.

Celia and Obie sat together in folding chairs in the third row of the special VIP section just in front of the stage. Both were drinking draft beer from large plastic cups and having quite a good time so far. The SVIP could accommodate about two hundred people and was pretty much full to capacity. All of the musicians and their special guests for the entire festival had access to it. Most of the other people in the section, Celia did not know. A few she had only met today. There was Jessie, Lenny’s girlfriend, sitting a few seats over. There were the two men that Phil had invited (she had already forgotten their names). There was Mark, Natalie’s husband, and their copilot on the first Celia Valdez Tour. He was sitting on Celia’s left. Suzie had been invited but had been unable to make it (which was a bummer because Celia was approaching the line again with her horniness). A few of Ted’s paramedic friends were sitting just in front of them and had been in those seats all day (and were quite intoxicated). Ben Ping’s wife was sitting just to the right of Obie (and seemed very awed to be in his presence) and, interestingly enough, Rabbi Levenstein, who had married the Nerdlys in Heritage and presided over Kelvin Archer’s circumcision, and his wife were present as well, sitting next to Ben’s wife, both of them dressed in ratty jeans and Intemperance concert t-shirts.

Celia was genuinely enjoying the show so far. She had, after all, played a major part in the production of all of Jake’s music, had played the rhythm guitar on the opening song in the studio when it had been recorded. She had sung along with the lyrics and swayed to the rhythm all throughout Can’t Keep Me Down. And now, as they launched into Hit the Highway, she smiled and began to sing along with that as well. Jake had played both rhythm and lead on the recording of the song, but she had played the lead parts throughout their initial workups of the tune and she knew every note intimately. She played air guitar as she sang along, her fingers fretting imaginary strings in perfect synchronicity with Lenny.

Obie was also enjoying himself. He was dressed in jeans and a tank top that showed off his upper arm tattoos. He had his signature cowboy hat upon his head and his full beard was neatly trimmed for the occasion. He sang along as well. Though his love was primarily country music, classic country in particular, he had a strong affection for any music that was well done and well-engineered. And Jake’s tunes most definitely fell into that category. He even liked the stuff that Jake had done with Intemperance, though only Jake’s tunes, not Matt’s. And, as he sang along and considered the huge crowd of the TSF and the amount of money that Music Alive was making for this shindig, the business part of his mind began to ponder if maybe a country music version of the show could be arranged and if maybe he had the balls to pull it off.

As Jake and the band finished up Hit the Highway and the crowd cheered and whistled and overwhelmed everyone’s eardrums once again, Obie took a little look around, trying to gauge just how the engineering of such a festival might be improved upon. It was then that he spotted a familiar figure standing by the small opening that led from the roped off access area into the SVIP section. He thought he was imagining things at first, but then realized that what his eyes were seeing was accurate.

He pulled on Celia’s shirt to get her attention. She looked at him to see what he wanted. It was far too loud at the moment for verbal communication, so he simply pointed. She squinted in the direction he was indicating for a moment, not understanding what he was trying to show her, and then he saw the figure as well.

It was Matt Tisdale. He was standing there and watching Jake’s performance.

While the crowd cheered the ending of Highway, Natalie made her first appearance on the stage, trotting out and taking her position just in front of the drum set. One of the crew came out and plugged her output cable into the box strapped to her waist. The box picked up the output from the microphone on the bridge of her violin. Meanwhile, another crew member came out to Jake’s position, carrying his Fender acoustic-electric in his hands. Jake turned the volume button on the Les Paul all the way down to nothing, unplugged the guitar cord, and unslung the instrument from around his shoulder. He handed the Les Paul to the crew member and took the Fender in its place. He slung the new guitar over his shoulder and plugged into it before twisting its volume button all the way up. As the crew member retreated backstage, Jake stepped forward to his microphone.

“How’s everyone doing out there in the desert tonight?” he asked the crowd. They roared back at him in a manner that suggested they were doing pretty good. “God damn, there’s a lot of you out there! I hope those of you in the back can see the show. Anyway, we’re really happy to be up here in front of you all to play our set. I hope you’re enjoying it so far.” Another roar of approval indicated they were, in fact, enjoying it so far. “We’re going to do a song now from my second solo CD, a little more mellow of a piece, called The Life I Lead.”

The crowd roared again—the song was the biggest hit from the second CD—and Jake began to play out the melody on the acoustic, strumming in the key of G major while Natalie provided backing melody with the violin and G added some gentle fills with the piano. It was a song about traveling through life, dealing with the bad times and enjoying the good times, about navigating around pitfalls when you could and driving straight through them when you couldn’t. Like Down, it was a piece that changed tempo throughout, slower on the verses, faster and with more distorted electric guitar during the choruses and the bridge. There was no solo of any kind in the song, just a brief instrumental portion between the bridge and the final chorus. They played it almost exactly like the studio version, only extending the outro for another twenty seconds or so and then transitioning that into a finale that ended with an drawn out note of the violin being allowed to finally fade.

The applause washed over them once again. Jake thanked the crowd for it, flipped his guitar pick into the seats, and then resettled his guitar and pulled out another pick while everyone except Natalie, Phil, Pauline, and himself left the stage. Jake was feeling very good, very confident now, knowing that he was doing his job and entertaining people. He could feel the energy and love from the audience surging through his soul. It was a very good feeling, right up there, as he had told Pauline earlier, with sex (but not quite better). He strummed a few open chords on the guitar and then grabbed a G chord and began to play the primary melody for Insignificance, his biggest hit as a solo artist. The crowd erupted once again as they heard it. They then settled in to watch, listen, and sing along as Jake waxed musical poetry about the essential meaninglessness of life. The song featured only the guitar and the violin for instruments. Natalie stood next to him as he played, her bow moving up and down and creating the sweet, melancholy accompaniment to the guitar melody. Phil and Pauline added their voices to the choruses, just as they had in the original studio version.

When they got to the violin solo, Natalie stepped forward to the edge of the stage and Jake stepped back, giving her the spotlight. The solo had been originally composed by Mary Kingsley, Jake’s mother (the first solo she had ever composed), and Natalie did it justice, reproducing it perfectly with only minor variations that could be attributed to individual phrasing. The crowd cheered her as the solo wrapped up and the two of them had to go through one full rep of the primary melody before Jake could start singing the final verse or they would not have been able to hear him. He sang out the verse and the final chorus and then he and Natalie played out the outro together, ending the song after Jake gave her his cue by adding a small flourish as he approached the end of the final repetition.

“Thank you!” Jake said. “We got Natalie Popanova on the violin! Let’s hear it for her!”

Another enthusiastic cheer erupted. Natalie smiled at the crowd and gave a nod of acknowledgment before stepping backwards and resuming her normal positioning. Once she was there, G, Ben, Ted, and Lenny all came back out, Lenny now holding his drop-D tuned Brogan. The crew member in charge of Jake’s guitars came out as well, letting Jake switch from the acoustic-electric to the sunburst Les Paul, which was also in drop-D tuning.

“How about we ramp things back up a bit?” Jake asked the crowd. “Does that sound good to you?”

It sounded just fine to them. Ted gave a four count and they launched into the extended intro for Put Me Out There, Jake’s second hit from his last CD, a hard-driving, complex, and somewhat cynical tune about how music was delivered to the masses by the sale of advertising to radio stations. In the original recording, Jake had played the lead guitar and the solo while Celia had backed him up with her drop-D tuned Stratocaster. Here, Lenny played lead and Jake played rhythm while Ted pounded out the complex beat, Natalie added fills and backing melody with the violin, and G kept up a steady secondary rhythm with the synthesizer. The crowd loved it, many of them standing up and waving their arms as he sang it out.

They love us, Jake thought warmly as more positive energy came flowing in. They fucking love us. We really do belong up here.

Forty-five feet away, Matt Tisdale was having much the same thought. He had come out to the special VIP section for one reason: because he thought that Jake was going to fail, was going to be booed off the stage for daring to play his mellow, alternative rock and easy-listening crap at what was primarily a heavy metal music festival. Matt wanted to see that happen, had been eagerly anticipating it, but he now realized that quite the opposite was actually occurring here.

They fucking love his shit, he thought in wonder. Not just like, not just ‘can get into it’, but fucking love! People were standing and dancing and waving their hands around. They were singing along with his tunes. Matt had even seen a couple of bitches crying when Jake had sung Insignificance. Fucking crying!

Matt could not help but acknowledge and respect how Jake had played the crowd and hooked them. He had opened the set with one of his hardest-driving tunes and one of his most powerful backbeats, thus giving the fans out there what they had primarily come to see—hard rock—before gradually transitioning down into the more mellow shit. And then, after hitting the very top of the mellow meter with Insignificance, just when it seemed like things might start getting cumbersome, he had kicked right back in with another hard-rocking number to reengage them. And, though Matt had not seen them, he smelled the Nerdlys in the background. No one else could have tuned in sound in a venue like this to such perfection. All of the instruments and mikes and the drum set itself were almost exactly in balance and adjusted so that every individual instrument could be heard, every word of Jake’s lyrics could be understood. Even the backup singers—who the fuck brings dedicated backup singers to a goddamn heavy metal festival?—could be perfectly heard and understood. And it was quite obvious that Jake and his band had rehearsed extensively for this performance. He could quite plainly feel the teamwork and camaraderie they shared as they meshed like a well-oiled machine.

Where did he even get these musicians? Matt wondered bitterly. He recognized Pauline as one of the backup singers, but he had no idea whatsoever who everyone else was. But goddamn if they couldn’t play. The dude on the lead guitar—Jake was apparently too pussy to play out his own solos and riffs—was talented, laying down the licks with mechanical precision and artistry. The bass player was solid as well, keeping the rhythm perfectly and transitioning seamlessly through the tempo changes. And the fat guy on the drums! He was pounding out some complex shit up there. Where the fuck had he been when Matt was looking for a percussionist? Who were these people and where had Jake found them?

Put Me Out There ended in a finale of distorted guitar riffs by Jake, a wind-down solo by the lead guitarist, and a flurry of pounding beats by the drummer. The crowd cheered again, the sound of it a physical thing that Matt could feel in his chest. When it began to die down a bit, Jake stoked it by stepping to his microphone and introducing the lead guitarist.

“Lenny Harris on the Telecaster!” Jake shouted. “Lenny Harris. Give it up for him!”

They gave it up. Matt still had no idea who the guitarist was. The name Lenny Harris meant absolutely nothing to him.

A stagehand that Matt now recognized from the last Intemperance tour trotted out on the stage and gave Jake back his black and white Les Paul in exchange for the drop-D tuned sunburst. The drummer gave another four-count and they launched into The Easy Way, which was the very first song that Jake had released and promoted in his solo career; the song with the heavy synthesizer melody, the one Matt had not thought much of upon first hearing it but that had grown on him considerably since (much to his chagrin). It still received fairly frequent airplay on the rock and pop stations, usually in the afternoons, early evenings, and early morning hours. They played through the slow intro part and then went up-tempo after the first verse, adding in the distorted drop-D guitar atop the synthesizer and Jake’s three-chord melody. But mostly what carried the tune was Jake’s most valuable weapon: his voice and the range he was capable of reaching with it. It was arguably the best voice currently singing in rock and roll and Jake knew how to use it. The crowd once again began to dance and sing along with the tune. To his surprise and near-horror, Matt actually found himself swaying his shoulders and singing along with the first chorus. He snapped his mouth shut when he realized what he was doing.

What the fuck is the matter with me? he thought, shaking his head at himself. I need to get the fuck out of here and start prepping for my own show. But he did not move from his spot. And, a few minutes later, during the bridge to final chorus transition, his shoulders started swaying once again and he began singing along with the lyrics, not even realizing he was doing it.

After Easy, Jake and his band raised the mellow meter once again, performing Nothing is Different Now, which used the piano for the primary melody and Jake’s Les Paul in the clean configuration for the rhythm guitar. The lead guitarist played only fills on the in-betweens and the drumming was a soft, repetitive beat that one barely noticed—a stark contrast to the earlier drumbeats. Still, the song was one of Jake’s more popular ones and the crowd enjoyed it. Matt spent the whole tune trying to figure out just who Jake was singing about. Was it Helen? Or that Mindy Snow bitch? Probably Mindy Snow, he figured. Jake always did have this weird habit of getting too emotionally involved with the bitches he fucked. The dumb shit had actually even married one of them. Fucking married! Matt certainly did not understand that.

Different ended and they dialed things up again. They played the song Domain of Eminence, from the latest CD, a tune that was just starting to get airplay across the nation. It seemed to be about greedy real estate developers using their shady connections on municipal councils to forcibly take land from people who had held it for generations just so they could slap down more tract homes, roads, and strip malls. The song hit a little bit home for Matt as he was someone who had recently lost one of his homes to The Man, not by eminent domain, but by tax arrears. Still, he could appreciate the emotion that Jake sung about in the verses and chorus.

When the applause from that song died down, the stagehand reappeared and Jake changed out his Les Paul for the Fender acoustic-electric again. The violinist and the lead guitarist left the stage. Jake walked up to his microphone and began to speak to the crowd again.

“Do you all mind if I introduce you to someone very special to me?” he asked them.

They cheered out their approval of this plan.

“All right,” Jake said, nodding. “I’d like to introduce my wife, Laura Kingsley. Come on out here, Laura!”

Another round of applause, louder this time, erupted as Jake’s bitch emerged from the backstage area, a straight soprano sax in her hands. Matt looked her up and down appreciatively. Yeah, her tits were kind of small, but she really was a hot piece of ass, all considered. He could see why Jake liked fucking her. She had a sweet, innocent face and a petite, rocking body. She was what was known in male circles as a spinner. He wondered if there was any truth to those entertainment rag stories about how she dyked out with female groupies out on tour. After a moment’s thought, however, he decided there probably wasn’t. A bitch that cute and innocent looking probably did not munch muff. And she certainly wouldn’t take it up the ass. Would she even slurp schlong? His instinct said no, but he had to figure that Jake wouldn’t marry any bitch unless she would suck cock and suck it well.

The ginger bitch came and stood next to Jake, a shy, nervous smile on her face. Jake used his right arm to give her a hug. She returned it and then they broke apart. Jake returned to the microphone. Laura continued to stand next to him, looking out over the crowd.

“Some of you may know this,” Jake told them, “and some of you may not, but Laura is a saxophonist. She plays on Celia Valdez’s first and third releases and has just come off a long tour playing for her in North America and Europe. In fact, she flew in from Poland just last night so she could be here to help me out with this next tune.”

Another round of cheers. Matt pondered this information. Yes, he knew that Kingsley’s bitch was that Mexican bitch’s sax player and had been touring with her. After all, the tabloid rags and the entertainment shows had been going on about the whole Celia Valdez and Laura Kingsley lesbian sex scandals for the past few months (Matt could kind of picture Celia Valdez sticking her face in some muff—and the mental picture was not unpleasant at all). But had he just said that she had flown in from Poland? And that she was going to perform with him right now? How the fuck was that possible? That would mean that they had had no rehearsal time for the tune they were about to play (it had to be South Island Blur, Matt realized. That was the only Jake Kingsley tune that had any sax in it at all. And it was soprano sax, the same instrument his bitch was now holding in her hands). Was the moment of Kingsley’s downfall now here? They seriously could not think that they could just step up and pull off a tune like that without prior rehearsal, did they? Even if they were already intimately familiar with the piece, shit like that just could not be done—not outside of a cheesy Hollywood movie or TV show anyway.

“Laura and I met each other,” Jake continued, “back when she first signed on to play the sax for Celia Valdez. You see, Celia and I have known each other for years and we were both rehearsing our first solo CDs in the same building and we both recorded those CDs in the same recording studio up in Oregon. Laura and I did not think too much of each other at first, did we, hon?”

She did not speak into the mic, but she did give a sideways smile and an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders, indicating he was correct. The crowd laughed at this revelation.

“But ... well ... as we got to know each other better, we realized we did have something fundamental in common: our love of making music and playing in front of people. We bonded over that, and that bond gradually became attraction and, eventually, love. And it was during this period, somewhere between bonding and love, that I realized one of the tunes I was working on was missing something, something I could not quite put my finger on. And then I realized what it was. I needed to throw in a little soprano sax to nail down the melody and the rhythm. And I just happened to know a badass sax player. I asked her to work with me on the tune and she agreed. It was during the composition and recording of this tune that we fell in love. The rest is history.”

The crowd cheered loudly again, obviously appreciative of the story, though Matt still did not understand the whole marriage thing. Why did he need to get married to keep boning the bitch? I’ve been boning Kim for almost ten years now and we’ve never even considered getting married, let alone actually gone and done it. What rationale, besides love, which Jake kept going on about (and that Matt did not think could possibly be the actual reason, even if it really did exist), could he possibly have? Was he just deranged? And, of course, he could not possibly be only boning her and no one else, right? No fucking way. Not Jake Kingsley.

“So, we’re going to play that tune for you here tonight,” Jake said. “It’s a tune that I wrote about one of the worst times of my life and I’m now going to play it for you here during one of the best times of my life. Life really is a wheel, people. Here we go now. Let’s do a little South Island Blur.”

A tremendous roar erupted as he said the name of the tune. Though Insignificance was Jake’s best charting tune, Blur was by far his most popular, crossing into nearly all demographics, enjoyed by millions of people who would not be caught dead listening to anything else that Jake or Intemperance had done. The song was regularly covered by bands playing at parties and weddings, was played over boomboxes on booze cruises and tropical pool parties. KVA received twenty to thirty requests a week for permission to perform the tune in live venues (they generally granted such requests for a nominal fee). And this heavy metal oriented crowd was quite eager to see it performed now.

They ran through it, playing it pretty much exactly the same as the studio version. Matt kept expecting Jake’s bitch to fuck up her parts, but she did not make so much as a single error. She played out her part of the melody exactly in key and with perfect timing and phrasing. Though Matt knew this was impossible if Jake had been telling the truth about her just flying in from Poland, she came across as if she had been rehearsing her part in the piece right along with the rest of them. And not only that, she had some pretty impressive showmanship as well—obviously gained by all of her time playing for the Mexican bitch. She stayed close to Jake’s side during the verses, moving her shoulders to the rhythm, her feet dancing a little as she played. And then, when it was time for the sax solo before the final verse, she stepped up to the front of the stage and played it out with style, her fingers moving confidently over her keys, her cheeks puffing in and out as she blew into the mouthpiece, occasionally swaying and turning at the waist. And again, she did not miss a single note, did not have a single moment of mistiming.

Matt felt disappointed that she did not fuck up, but he could not help but feel a strong measure of respect for Jake’s bitch. She really was a professional musician with talent and not some hacker that Jake let play for him because she was a hot ginger spinner and he was boning her.

They wrapped up Blur, ending it just like the studio version: with an abrupt finish and a final drawn-out saxophone note. The crowd cheered loudly, with more than a few wolf whistles directed at Kingsley’s bitch, who acknowledged with a little wave and that shy smile on her face.

“Laura Kingsley on the soprano sax!” Jake yelled into the microphone. “Do I know how to pick ‘em, or what?”

While the crowd continued to cheer for her, Jake gave her another hug and kissed her on the lips. She then trotted off stage, waving to the crowd and holding her sax high. The stagehand came back out and Jake switched out the acoustic-electric for the black and white Les Paul once again. The lead guitarist remained offstage, and the keyboard player and the backup singers trotted off as well. Jake stepped forward to the microphone once again and made a few adjustments to his effects pedals.

“And this next number is a song I wrote about my relationship with Laura,” he told the crowd. “It’s from the last CD. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called Teach Me.”

Another loud cheer. The crowd had certainly heard Teach Me, which had been the most popular cut on Jake’s latest CD, having spent twelve weeks in the top 5 on the charts. Matt had heard it as well, though he had never bothered analyzing the lyrics to any degree. He watched now as Jake began to play it out, finger-picking out the melody on the Les Paul all by himself, playing with light distortion that allowed the individual strings to be heard as they were played, and then strumming out the choruses. It was masterful guitar work, but then Jake always had been the best at acoustic-oriented playing. Once again, Matt found himself nodding to the rhythm of the tune and even singing along a bit. And now that he knew what the song was about, the lyrics actually took on some meaning for him and he began to feel appreciation for the message Jake was conveying—even if he still did not understand why someone would want to marry a bitch when she was giving up the gash for free.

After the applause following Teach Me, the keyboard player returned to the stage. The backup singers and the lead guitarist did not return, leaving just Jake, the keyboardist, and the rhythm section to play what came next. Matt glanced at his watch, seeing that Jake had about fourteen more minutes in his set.

I really do need to get back to the trailer and start getting dressed, he thought. He would, after all, be taking to his own stage thirty minutes after Jake finished. But he did not leave. And, though he told himself he was still hoping that Jake or one of his musicians would fuck up, deep inside he knew this was not true. He was staying because he was enjoying the show. He would never admit that to anyone, anywhere, even under torture, but he was genuinely enjoying the performance and wanted to see more.

Jake did not announce the name of the tune they were now playing, they just launched into it after a four count. It was played out with a moderately distorted three-chord riff that repeated over and over and was backed by the drums and bass, with a little piano secondary melody. Matt had heard the tune before—he had listened to all of Jake’s CDs a few times—and he recognized it was something off the first CD, but it was not one of the tunes they played on the radio with any frequency, so he had a hard time pinning down just what it was. The crowd also seemed to be not as familiar with the piece, as their cheers when it started to play were a little bit muted. It was only when Jake started to sing out the first verse that Matt finally remembered.

Oh yeah, he thought, nodding. It’s the tune about getting stoned but that he’s pretending is about flying his fucking airplane. It was a decent enough tune, with clever lyrics, but Matt thought it odd that he was playing it at the festival. His time was now running short, and he was performing one of his deep cuts instead of one of his popular pieces? What was up with that? Was he in the process of fucking things up after all? And where was the lead guitarist? Was Jake going to actually play his own lead on this one?

It turned out that Jake was playing his own lead. He drove through the first two verses, grinding out the riff and singing simultaneously with no problem whatsoever. It sounded like he had dialed up the intensity of the piece from the studio version, in fact, making the guitar parts louder and more authoritative. And then, when it came time for the solo, he launched right into it, his fingers moving up and down the fretboard, squeezing and releasing, sending rapid-fire notes out of the speakers and causing the audience to start cheering loudly as they were shown that Jake really could play lead and could play it well.

That’s why he put this song in here, Matt realized. So he could show off his lead guitar skills. And he was doing a pretty good job of doing it. Not as good as Matt could have done, of course, but still, it was a damn good shred.

But Matt hadn’t seen anything yet. Nor had the crowd. After winding up the guitar solo, Jake and the rhythm section transitioned back to a muted version of the primary melody, playing it over and over again while the black dude on the keyboards put out a lengthy and impressive piano solo that lasted more than two minutes. The audience began to clap along with the beat and were now fully into the number. Matt, in fact, had to resist the urge to clap along himself.

The piano solo wrapped up with a final flurry of notes. Jake stepped forward to the microphone once again and spoke into it: “Gordon Paladay on the keyboards! Gordon Paladay!”

Another cheer erupted forth, this one a bit more extensive and extended.

Gordon Paladay? Matt thought. Isn’t that the real name of that rapper that Jake hangs out with? The one he did those songs with? He was pretty sure it was. He peered closely at the black man in the hat and sunglasses and was finally able to resolve the facial features enough. It was Bigg G! Jake had a fucking rapper up there playing keyboards for him and nailing it! And he had not even mentioned who the man was! At least not until now. And who in this crowd was even going to know that Gordon Paladay and Bigg G were one and the same?

Jake sang out the final chorus of the tune and then transitioned into what seemed like it was to be an outro. He belted out the hook line for the tune over and over, changing up the wording and parts he sang as he did so.

“I am high ... I am high ... I am high up in the skyyyyyyyy. Yes, I’m high, yessss I’m high-yiiiiii, I am high up in the skyyyyyyyy!”

But it turned out, this was not an outro. After letting the last syllable fade out, the rhythm section and the keyboardist transitioned back into a repetitive playing of the main melody. Jake, meanwhile, had stepped up to his microphone and stepped on one of his effects pedals. He then reached forward and pulled on something, extending a tube out alongside his actual microphone, so it was sticking out about three inches beyond the head.

What the fuck? Matt wondered. That almost looks like ... no, it couldn’t be. Nobody does that anymore.

But somebody did. Jake did. He put the end of the tube in his mouth and began to pick out small isolated solo notes on his guitar. The sound of a talk box played out over the crowd and they cheered loudly and enthusiastically when they heard it.

Motherfucker, Matt thought in amazement. Can he really pull this shit off?

Jake’s solo fragments became louder, longer, more shaped by his mouth, and the sound was impressive. The crowd was clapping to the beat again, obviously enjoying Jake’s efforts. He picked up the pace and complexity of his playing, going into an extended and quite complex solo that he shaped with the talk box into something unique sounding, something with power. Soon, his fingers were blurring up and down the fretboard again while he picked rapidly with his right fingers and moved his mouth and lips. The cheering grew even louder, starting to compete with the speakers for dominance.

He wound down the tempo of the solo until he was once again just belting out brief successive notes while the band just kept putting down the repetitive rhythm in the background. He then began to make the guitar talk by playing out single G-chord strings and shaping the output as if he were talking. The words he was forming were quite plainly the hook line of the song once again: “Flying high, flying highhhh, flying high up in the sky.”

With each repetition of the phrase, the crowd cheered even more. He kept it up for a little more than a minute and then transitioned back to the short series notes once again. He went through this as the band gradually began increasing the tempo and the power of the rhythm behind him. He followed along with the tempo increase, making his own vocalizations louder until they reached an apparently agreed upon point (Matt had been unable to pick up if there had been a cue given, if there was, it had been very professionally subtle) and Jake removed his mouth from the tube, stomped down on the effects pedal (that Matt now knew was the talk box) and began to rip out a closing conventional solo while the drums and pass pounded behind him and Bigg G hammered along on the piano keys.

The ending solo was completely original for this performance and Jake played it masterfully, with careful use of the whammy bar and multiple trips up and down the fretboard while finger-tapping the strings with his right fingers. The performance did exactly what Jake had undoubtedly intended: it showed that not only could he sing and play rhythm, he could shred lead and solos with the best of them. True, he was not as good at it as Matt Tisdale, but he was not really even trying to be. He was up there with the best of the best and he had his own unique style and sound that could not be accused of Tisdale imitation.

When the solo and the song finally ended in a flurry of drum and piano and guitar, the roar from the crowd was deafening, clearly the loudest heard tonight. The crowd stood as one, offering a standing ovation for the performance they had just witnessed. Jake accepted their accolades humbly, simply standing at the front of the stage, nodding and waving.

“Thank you,” he said into the microphone. “I hope you enjoyed that.”

And, as the cheering continued, the rest of the band came back out onto the stage—all except Kingsley’s bitch. They took their positions and launched into what Matt had to assume was the closing number of the set since they only had three minutes left in their allotment.

Jake closed out the set as he had opened it: with one of his hard-driving tunes: Ocean View, which featured two dueling distorted electric guitars gradually increasing in intensity and power as the tune progressed. Matt actually smiled as he heard the tune and did not bother trying to keep himself from tapping to the beat and singing along. Ocean View was actually what he considered to be the best of Jake’s solo tunes and, though he would never tell anyone and would never do it if anyone else was nearby, he often turned up the volume when he heard the song on the radio.

They played the song out well—the lead guitarist playing the solo for this one—and then finished up with a final flurry of guitar and drums that lasted nearly thirty seconds. Once the last note faded out, the crowd once again gave a standing O after Jake thanked them and told them good night. The entire band put down their instruments and stepped to the front of the stage. Kingsley’s bitch trotted out from backstage to join them. They linked arms and took a few bows before heading off the stage. The crowd called for an encore, but that was not to be. The show was on a timeline and Matt, as the headliner, was the only one who was allowed to give an encore.

Matt waited until the applause and cheers died down—it took nearly three minutes—and then turned and walked into the narrow corridor that led back to guarded access gate for the SVIP section. The guards looked at the all-access pass around his neck, gave him a nod, and he started walking back to the trailer he and his band had been assigned to. He was troubled as he made the journey.

That asshole just put on one fuck of a show, he kept thinking. Did I really think he was going to step up there and bomb? Yes, he really had. How painfully naïve that thought seemed now. This was Jake Kingsley, after all. Jake always had been the master of planning out performances, had been the driving force behind what had made Intemperance’s live shows so appealing to crowds with his witchlike sense of how to play to their emotions and psychology. He had been doing it ever since their days playing the clubs in Heritage, had perfected the art once the band had been given back control of their sets after the renegotiation of their contract granted them the power to use him in that role once again. How in the hell did I forget that? Did I think he just lost that when Intemperance broke up?

The most unsettling thought, however, was: How can I compete with what he just did? Me, with my standard set we’ve been playing all along, a set we haven’t played or rehearsed in more than three weeks now, and with a sound team that aren’t worthy to suck Nerdly’s dick?

The answer to that, he feared, was that he could not.

He entered the trailer to find his band extremely anxious and agitated.

“Jesus Christ, Matt!” Austin said. “Where the fuck have you been? We have to report to the stage in ten fucking minutes!”

“And you’re not even dressed yet!” added Corban.

Matt simply shrugged. “I was just out wandering around and checking out the gash,” he said.

“Checking out the gash?” Austin cried. “Now?”

“Yep,” Matt said simply. “I’m gonna get changed. Should only take me a few minutes.”

Corban was looking at him with concern. “Are you okay, Matt?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” Matt said with a nod. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jake’s band was elated and enthusiastic as they made their way back to their trailer after the show. They had nailed their performance and they knew it. High fives were exchanged spontaneously. G taught a few elaborate handshakes. With the exception of Laura, they were all drenched in sweat and parched, drinking from bottles of Gatorade to rehydrate as they made the walk.

“Did you hear that fucking crowd cheering us?” asked Ted, a huge smile on his face.

“I heard them,” Jake said, feeling quite fine himself. They had exceeded even his most optimistic expectations and this knowledge was giving him a dopamine rush that not even the finest cocaine, the most pungent greenbud could hope to compete with. After all the rehearsals and planning, after all the agonizing over the set list and what musicians he would end up with, they had pulled off their first show with style, absolutely wowing the crowd of ninety-five thousand at a festival they were said not to belong in.

“That was hell to the badass!” Ted said. “They gave us a standing O! Twice!”

“You absolutely nailed your solos in High, Jake,” Lenny said. “I am in fucking awe of you! I mean, I already was before we even started playing together, but that was ... that was ... I can’t even describe it.”

“That’s what lots of rehearsal and a badass sound team gets you,” Jake told him.

“Sure, that’s a big part of it,” Lenny said. “But rehearsal and a good sound team don’t mean shit if you don’t have the talent to take advantage of it. And you do. You shined out there, Jake. Absolutely fucking shined. I am so incredibly stoked that I was able to be a part of it.”

“You were pretty badass yourself,” Jake told him. “All of you were. That wasn’t just me up there, it was us, and we carried this off to perfection.”

“Beyond perfection, I think,” G said. “That was sublime, homies. Fucking sublime!”

Another round of high-fives and elaborate G handshakes were exchanged. This carried them all the way to their trailer, where the door was open and the party had already begun, partially spilling out into chairs that had been set up on the desert floor. Obie and Celia were there with Ben’s wife, Ted’s paramedic friends, Mark the pilot, the Rabbi Levenstein and his wife, and all the other specially invited friends and family. Beer, wine, and mixed drinks were flowing freely. Everyone greeted Jake and the band enthusiastically as they made their way into the circle, shaking hands and giving more high-fives and telling everyone how fucking badass that show had been. Nobody seemed to be faking or even exaggerating their enthusiasm. It all seemed quite sincere.

Jake was still feeling a little dehydrated, so he grabbed another quart bottle of Gatorade—the green kind was his favorite—and opened it up. He sat down on the couch and took a few healthy slugs of it, soothing his tired throat. Celia came and sat next to him. She had a glass of red wine in her hands.

“That was an amazing performance, Jake,” she told him. “I have never seen anything like that before.”

“Thanks,” he said, feeling another burst of pride at her praise. Celia, after all, was a professional performer who put on a damn good show herself. Her approval stood a few steps above pretty much anyone else’s. “We put a lot of work into that and there was some definite chemistry between us. Everything just clicked up there tonight. Hopefully, we can do it again tomorrow.”

“I have no doubt that you will,” she said. She raised her glass to him. “To chemistry. It can be a good thing.”

“Chemistry,” he repeated, tapping his Gatorade against her glass. They drank.

“And guess who was hanging out in the SVIP with us, watching your show?” Celia said slyly.

“Who?”

“Matt Tisdale,” she said with a smile.

“Matt was there?” he asked, quite surprised. “No shit?”

“No shit,” she said. “Obie and I both saw him. He stayed for the entire performance.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that,” she said. “Not only did he stay for the whole thing, but I saw him actually enjoying it. He was tapping his feet, nodding his head, and sometimes even singing along.”

Jake had a hard time believing this. “Are you sure it was Matt?” he asked.

“I am absolutely positive,” she said. “I once called Matt a cabron. If I call someone that, I will remember their face forever. It was Matt Tisdale, and he was getting down with your show.”

“Wow,” Jake said. “I wonder what brought that on?”

“Musical respect would be my guess,” she said. “He may not like you personally, but he has to respect you as a musician and a performer, right?”

“I suppose,” Jake said doubtfully.

“Anyway, I thought you would want to know that.”

“Yeah ... thanks, I guess,” Jake said.

Ted called first dibs on the shower. No one disputed this. After all, as the drummer, he was the one who had expended the most energy during the show (Ted had, in fact, lost fifteen pounds since they had started rehearsals just from the sheer aerobic exercise of daily drumming and was now in the best shape he had been in since his early twenties) and the one who had produced the most perspiration.

“Make it quick though,” Pauline told him. “We all need to be showered and ready for the limo to pick us up in ninety minutes. If we don’t leave before the end of Matt’s show, we’ll be stuck here until the crowd completely disperses. With ninety-five thousand people out there, that will literally take hours.”

“Understood,” Ted promised. He then squeezed himself into the tiny bathroom and closed the door.

“All right,” Pauline said, now in manager mode. “Who is going next? You, Jake?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I’ll go next.”

“Okay,” she said. “Get your clothes and stand by. The moment Ted gets out, you get in and make it quick.”

“Yes, boss,” he told her, giving a little salute.

He went and gathered the faded jeans and t-shirt he had been wearing prior to changing into his stage clothes. He also had a pair of clean underwear, clean socks, and a travel-sized container of Old Spice deodorant. Pauline handed him a laundry bag to put the stage clothes in. When Ted emerged from the bathroom five minutes later, Jake stepped in, wincing a little as his nose picked up the evidence that Ted had moved his bowels in the poorly ventilated room before stepping into his shower.

He turned on the tap, not bothering with the hot water at all, and quickly stripped naked, putting everything into the laundry bag and sealing it shut. He got into the small stall and felt the blessed coolness of the water rinsing the sweat and grime from his skin. He quickly soaped up with a bottle of body wash, rinsed off, and then washed his hair with a small bottle of shampoo. Once that was rinsed free, he resisted the urge to just keep standing under the refreshing spray a little longer and turned off the tap. He quickly dried off using a towel from a large stack sitting on a shelf. Once dry, he slathered deodorant into his armpits and then quickly got dressed.

“All right, Ben, go,” Pauline told the bassist as soon as Jake stepped out of the room.

“Going,” Ben said, stepping inside for his own shower.

Jake dropped his laundry bag on the floor in a spot Pauline had designated. It would stay there until the day after the festival ended, at which point they would collect it before heading home. Laura was sitting in one of the chairs, talking to Celia. She waved him over.

“What’s up?” he asked.

She hooked her finger, indicating he should lean down close to her face. He thought she wanted a kiss but that was not what she wanted. Instead of putting her lips to his face, she moved them near his ear.

“Tomorrow, after the show,” she whispered, “I want you to take me somewhere and fuck me before you take your shower.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, intrigued.

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes shining lustfully.

He kissed her lightly on her nose. “We’ll make that happen,” he promised.

“What are you two whispering about?” Celia asked with a smile.

“Oh, just household things,” Laura said, blushing a little.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “She wanted to know if we should move the entertainment room sectional over to the south part of the room to avoid the afternoon sun glare.”

“Of course,” Celia said, shaking her head. “That is certainly something to whisper about.”

“Hey,” Jake said seriously, “a couple’s sectional orientation is not something that should be discussed in polite company.”

Celia laughed and shook her head a little more.

“Anyway,” Jake said, sitting down to put on his shoes, “I’m going to take a little walk.”

“A walk?” Laura asked. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d stroll back to the SVIP and catch the first part of Matt’s show.”

Both ladies gave him a strange look. “Why would you want to do that?” Celia asked.

Jake shrugged. “He watched my show,” he said. “The least I can do is go take a look at his.”

“Well ... okay,” Laura said. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“You haven’t taken your shower yet,” he said.

“I don’t really need a shower,” she said. “I was only up on the stage for five minutes and twelve seconds. That wasn’t enough time to get all sweaty and gross.”

“Oh ... yeah, I guess not,” he said. “But do you really want to see Matt’s show?”

‘No,” she said simply. “Not at all.”

“Then stay here,” he told her. “I just want to check out his first few numbers and I’ll be back long before it’s limo time.”

“Please do,” Celia said. “I do not want to be stuck here until two in the morning.”

“I promise,” he said.

He left the trailer and made the walk back to the SVIP. On the way, he heard one of Matt’s roadies blasting out a few chords as he checked the volume on one of the guitars. The crowd gave its requisite cheer as they heard it. Jake noted that the volume was markedly higher than what he and his band had just performed with, but not nearly as loud as what Pantera had used.

The SVIP section was still quite crowded, though the crowd was a bit different now than it had been when Jake had been up. There was a small kiosk where complimentary beer and wine could be obtained. Jake headed over and got a thirty-two-ounce plastic cup full of icy cold Fosters on tap and then he wandered over and parked himself in pretty much the same place that Matt had parked himself during Jake’s show (though Jake did not know this). Many people in the SVIP, if not all, recognized Jake but no one came up to talk to him. It was an unwritten but well-understood rule that you did not talk to or even approach any famous person in the SVIP unless they spoke to you first.

The roadies finished up their final volume checks and retreated from the stage. The stage lighting was turned off and the house lights, which were mounted on poles around the perimeter of the audience section of the amphitheater, were turned on, which meant only the vague outlines of the drum set and the microphone stands was visible. The clock continued to click onward. The crowd began to get louder and more enthusiastic as showtime grew nearer and nearer. Finally, the house lights slowly dimmed down and faded away, leaving the entire venue in near darkness. Overhead, the stars and a few blinking aircraft lights were plainly visible. The crowd began to cheer louder.

A single spotlight came on, illuminating the front and center microphone stand. One of the MCs stood there.

“Are you ready to hear our headliner for the first night of the Tsunami Sound Festival?” he asked the crowd.

The crowd roared out their approval, that high decibel, ear-splitting wave of applause and cheers.

“I can’t hear you!” the MC told them. “I said, are you ready to hear our headliner for the night?”

Another roar, louder this time.

“That’s better,” the MC told them. “Since you all seem to be ready, let me introduce him. I give you the one and only Matt fucking Tisdale!”

While the crowd roared even more, the spotlight went out, returning darkness to the stage. Jake could see the dim outline of the MC retreating, could see the even dimmer outline of four other figures moving into position. Once they were there, there was a long pause while the crowd continued to cheer. And then suddenly the stage lights clicked on, revealing Matt standing at the center microphone stand, his iconic black Stratocaster in his hands, his right foot making adjustments to a long chain of effects pedals at the base of the stand. A secondary guitarist stood on his left. A bass player stood on his right. The drummer sat behind a ridiculously large set just behind them all. An uncomfortable amount of time passed as Matt continued to stomp on pedals to get the sound he wanted while the others just stood there in silence. Jake was close enough to see an expression of clear annoyance on Matt’s face. Someone had not waited for their cue and turned on the lights too soon, before the band was entirely ready.

No rehearsal time, Jake thought, not without a certain amount of sympathy. And Matt probably doesn’t trust his crew to configure his guitar correctly. A minor flub, true, but glaring enough that the audience surely noticed. It’s the little things that will get you.

Matt finally got the configuration he wanted and fired out an open chord on the low E and A strings—a common show-opener he had used ever since their first performance in Heritage all those years ago. He let that blast out and then fade almost all the way to silence before launching into a brief solo that he then transitioned into a complex power riff. Jake, as well as most of the audience, recognized the riff instantly. It was from Early Grave, Matt’s biggest hit from his latest CD. After a few reps of the primary, the drums, bass, and secondary guitar kicked in. They went through a few more reps together and then switched over to a faster tempo, with the backup guitarist playing out a more simple four-chord progression while Matt laid out a melodic solo. From there, the two of them switched to playing in unison while the drummer pounded out a complex beat. They then switched to yet another tempo, this one slow, but slowly building in intensity.

It was nearly three minutes into the tune before Matt actually started singing. This was common in Matt Tisdale solo efforts, which focused primarily on the guitar and not the vocalization. Still, his voice was solid and he knew how to use it. His range was limited to a narrow field at the high end of baritone, but he kept in time and in key and he was not unpleasant to listen to. And the lyrics of the tune were somewhat poignant and thought-provoking. True, it was a variation on the old Matt Tisdale Intemperance formula of writing about living fast and hard, but it was more dark and complex than what he had penned in the Intemperance days.

Jake nodded his head to the beat and was man enough to admit that he was enjoying the performance so far. Matt truly was a master with his guitar—particularly during solos, which he could lay down with a speed and complexity that Jake could only dream of—and watching him play was impressive. Always had been.

At the same time, however, Jake could not help but notice the flaws he was seeing. Chief among them was the sound output. It was not terrible by any means but for someone who was used to having the perfectionist Nerdlys dial him in, it grated on him a bit. The low end and the midrange were simply too loud, the high end too low. This meant that everything was overwhelmed by Matt’s guitar and the bass and that the vocals were distorted to the point that if you did not already know what the lyrics of the tune were, you would not be able to understand most of what he was singing. It also made it difficult to differentiate the distinction between the lead and rhythm guitars.

Matt, of all people, should know the value of getting the best sound people to set up your performances, Jake thought.

Another thing that was obvious to Jake was that lack of rehearsal time. They were just a little bit off up there, not quite in perfect synchronicity. That came primarily from being out of practice. True, they had been touring for months together and he could sense their camaraderie and familiarity with each other, but it did not take much of a break for all of that to start to deteriorate. Jake’s understanding was that Matt and his band had been in Rio since their last European show more than three weeks ago. It was obvious they had not found a way to do a couple of dress rehearsals before taking the stage. And, on that same note, everyone except Matt was probably using unfamiliar equipment since their primary equipment had to be in a shipping container out on the ocean currently.

He set himself up for a mediocre performance, Jake thought, part of him sad about this, but part of him actually gleeful as well.

Jake’s mental criticisms turned back to awe again, however, when Matt played out the primary solo for the piece. It was a blistering shred that lasted well over two minutes and went through three separate tempo changes and two changes of distortion level brought about by manipulation of the effects pedals.

Goddamn, Jake thought, impressed. He has done nothing but gotten better since we parted ways. His fucking fingers are moving so fast I can’t even see them.

The solo wound down to a climax in which all of the other instruments stopped playing, letting Matt finish it out as a true solo. The last note faded nearly to nothing and then the drums kicked back in, pounding out the authoritative beat of the song. The bass kicked back in and then Matt began to hammer out the primary riff once more. After a few reps of this, the secondary guitar kicked back in and took over the primary riff, allowing Matt to play out some fills while he sang out the last verse and chorus combo.

How easily he can play solo notes while singing at the same time, Jake thought. He was doing what Jake had avoided through most of his show and doing it well.

The song came to an end and the crowd cheered loudly and enthusiastically. Jake could not help but notice, however, that it was not quite as loud and enthusiastic as they had been at the end of his first number.

This gave him a certain amount of satisfaction, made him feel like he had won.

The limousine sent by Music Alive arrived just as Matt reached the halfway point in his set. Jake had stayed in the SVIP long enough to watch three numbers and drink two thirty-two-ounce beers. Now, he and the members of his band, plus Obie, Celia, and the Nerdlys, climbed in the back for the trip back to Caesars in Las Vegas. Their special guests, none of whom were interested in seeing Matt’s show, had already left to avoid the rush.

Laura was cuddled up against Jake’s right side, her eyes now red and half-lidded, a faint odor of Humboldt County skunk bud radiating off of her. She, Nerdly, Pauline and the Levensteins had shared a fatty while Jake had been watching Matt’s performance.

“I never got high with a rabbi before,” Laura said with a giggle. “Kind of a strange experience.”

“He assured me that he does not imbibe regularly,” Nerdly said. “In fact, he says tonight was the first night he has smoked cannabis since he was in college.”

“Why did he decide to fire up tonight?” Jake asked.

“I think it was kind of a when-in-Rome thing,” Pauline said.

“He was very impressed with the horticultural advances made in cannabis production since the last time he smoked some,” Nerdly said.

“He was talking some cool metaphysical shit after we burned,” Pauline said. “I think everyone should get high with a man of God at least once in their life.”

“I’m going to add that to my list,” Jake said, sorry now that he had missed out on the experience.

“How was Matt’s show?” Celia asked.

“They were a little rusty,” Jake replied. “They had a miscue at the opening and their timing was just a bit off at first. They seemed to get their shit together by the time they started the third number though.”

“His sound was atrocious,” Nerdly said righteously. “Not as bad as Pantera’s, of course, but he truly needs to provide more training to his sound engineer.”

“I agree,” Jake said. “Not everybody can have the Nerdlys though.”

“Perhaps I’ll offer to set up his sound for him tomorrow,” Nerdly suggested.

“I’m not sure that’s a real good idea, Bill,” Pauline warned.

“The worst thing that can happen is that he says no,” Nerdly said.

“No, the worst thing that could happen is that he beats your face in,” Jake said.

“I don’t think Matt would do that,” Nerdly said. “Not after I informed him of the existence of internet pornography. I am going to make the offer. My mind is made up.”

“All right,” Jake said doubtfully. “Just be sure you finish our sound check before you ask him so if he puts you in the hospital, we’ll already be dialed in.”

“Will do,” Nerdly said, in all seriousness.

“What about Pantera’s sound guy?” asked Obie. “Were you able to hunt him down and give him a piece of your mind?”

“I tried,” Nerdly said with a sigh. “The band and their crew had already left the venue by the time I was able to go look for him.”

“That’s too bad,” Obie said with a chuckle.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Nerdly said. “I will seek him out just before they perform what passes as their sound check and explain to him that proper balance of volume and ranges does not mean you simply turn all the knobs, switches, and levers to ten.”

“I’m guessing that will be news to him,” Jake said, making a mental note to accompany Nerdly on that particular mission in case of violence.

They arrived back at the hotel/casino at 11:30 PM. The casino floor was still crowded with gamblers and the cafes were still open. No one wanted to eat or gamble though. They had eaten catered food before leaving Indian Springs and they all had to get up at 6:30 for the next full day of waiting around and then performing.

They said their good nights to each other and headed upstairs to their rooms.

There was another show to do tomorrow.