Read Online How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets by Garth Stein - Free Book Online
Authors: Garth Stein
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guess they all figure if Tom Waits shows, Jim Jarmusch might show because he’s shooting a film in Portland, and they figure if Jim Jarmusch shows, Johnny Depp can’t be too far behind. So, therefore, you get all these loser artfags going to a see a band they’ve never heard of before tonight.”
“Oh, that makes sense.”
“So what do you want to do? I mean, I can go inside with him—what was your name again?”
“Dean.”
“I can go inside with Dean and you can try to worm your way past the bouncer, I guess. Because you know I’m not giving up my ticket and I know you don’t want Dean standing out here alone all night. If you don’t make it in, I’ll just take him to your place after the show, right?”
“Right, ” Evan sighs.
“See you, sucker, ” Lars chuckles.“Come on, Dean.”
Evan watches them walk away together.
“What happened?” he hears Lars ask Dean as they head toward the entrance.“Your old lady get sick of you and tell you to go stay with Dad for a while?”
“No, my old lady got killed in a head-on collision with someone driving the wrong way on the freeway.”
Lars doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That fucking sucks, man.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck that.”
And then they are too far away for Evan to hear.
NO ONE IS scalping on the street, and the doorman won’t budge. It’s nine forty-five, almost fifteen minutes past the scheduled start time, and, though he doesn’t hear any music from inside, he knows it’s too late for him. He’s about to pack it in when he hears a familiar voice:“Yo, Evbee!”
Evbee? Evan turns around quickly to see who it is. Walking toward him is a stocky black man with close-cropped hair and a broad face, wearing black leather pants and a black leather motorcycle jacket.
“Yo, Evbee. Wassup?”
It’s Billy Marx, one of the founding partners of The Sound Factory, the hottest recording studio on the West Coast.
“Hey, Billy.”
Billy strides up to Evan and shakes his hand in the cool hip-hop way, a handshake with which Evan was never quite comfortable but always felt he could bluff his way through: slap hands, slide into a thumb-wrestling grip, then, palms together, lean in and give a poundy with the left hand—a quick thump to the hollow of the back of your co-greeter with the flat of your fist.
“What’s happening, brother? You here for the gig?”
Evan nods.
“Yeah, but it’s sold out. I can’t get in.”
“There’s always room for one more, ” Billy says.“Come on, I got a table.”
Evan follows him to the door and they walk right past the doorman without a pause or word of explanation. The same doorman who had so rudely rejected Evan minutes earlier. Evan smiles. Billy Marx is the one guy Evan knows who actually has enough juice to walk past any bouncer in Seattle.
While Billy and Evan aren’t exactly close friends, they see each other around occasionally, and they’re always friendly, since they have a mutual bond that goes way back. Billy was the drummer in Evan’s first real band, Free Radicals, a band that was full of good musicians, but was ultimately doomed because they were too diverse in styles and interests to really click. After the band broke up, Evan asked Billy what was next.
“Start a rehearsal studio, make a paycheck, ” Billy said.
“Sounds boring, ” Evan said.
“You know how much money is in drumming?” Billy asked in response. “Ten bucks a gig. I’m serious. You either write the songs or you produce them. That’s the money. Good studio musicians get by all right, if they live in L. A. But a mediocre drummer in a rock and roll band? Screw that. I got a kid, man. I need health insurance.”
The prophecy. And now he has health insurance and more. A dental plan, even.
Inside Jefferson Bank is a long, dark bar that is separated from the rest of the large room by a four-foot-high wooden divider. The main area is filled with small tables, all of which are
“Oh, that makes sense.”
“So what do you want to do? I mean, I can go inside with him—what was your name again?”
“Dean.”
“I can go inside with Dean and you can try to worm your way past the bouncer, I guess. Because you know I’m not giving up my ticket and I know you don’t want Dean standing out here alone all night. If you don’t make it in, I’ll just take him to your place after the show, right?”
“Right, ” Evan sighs.
“See you, sucker, ” Lars chuckles.“Come on, Dean.”
Evan watches them walk away together.
“What happened?” he hears Lars ask Dean as they head toward the entrance.“Your old lady get sick of you and tell you to go stay with Dad for a while?”
“No, my old lady got killed in a head-on collision with someone driving the wrong way on the freeway.”
Lars doesn’t respond for a moment. Then, “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That fucking sucks, man.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck that.”
And then they are too far away for Evan to hear.
NO ONE IS scalping on the street, and the doorman won’t budge. It’s nine forty-five, almost fifteen minutes past the scheduled start time, and, though he doesn’t hear any music from inside, he knows it’s too late for him. He’s about to pack it in when he hears a familiar voice:“Yo, Evbee!”
Evbee? Evan turns around quickly to see who it is. Walking toward him is a stocky black man with close-cropped hair and a broad face, wearing black leather pants and a black leather motorcycle jacket.
“Yo, Evbee. Wassup?”
It’s Billy Marx, one of the founding partners of The Sound Factory, the hottest recording studio on the West Coast.
“Hey, Billy.”
Billy strides up to Evan and shakes his hand in the cool hip-hop way, a handshake with which Evan was never quite comfortable but always felt he could bluff his way through: slap hands, slide into a thumb-wrestling grip, then, palms together, lean in and give a poundy with the left hand—a quick thump to the hollow of the back of your co-greeter with the flat of your fist.
“What’s happening, brother? You here for the gig?”
Evan nods.
“Yeah, but it’s sold out. I can’t get in.”
“There’s always room for one more, ” Billy says.“Come on, I got a table.”
Evan follows him to the door and they walk right past the doorman without a pause or word of explanation. The same doorman who had so rudely rejected Evan minutes earlier. Evan smiles. Billy Marx is the one guy Evan knows who actually has enough juice to walk past any bouncer in Seattle.
While Billy and Evan aren’t exactly close friends, they see each other around occasionally, and they’re always friendly, since they have a mutual bond that goes way back. Billy was the drummer in Evan’s first real band, Free Radicals, a band that was full of good musicians, but was ultimately doomed because they were too diverse in styles and interests to really click. After the band broke up, Evan asked Billy what was next.
“Start a rehearsal studio, make a paycheck, ” Billy said.
“Sounds boring, ” Evan said.
“You know how much money is in drumming?” Billy asked in response. “Ten bucks a gig. I’m serious. You either write the songs or you produce them. That’s the money. Good studio musicians get by all right, if they live in L. A. But a mediocre drummer in a rock and roll band? Screw that. I got a kid, man. I need health insurance.”
The prophecy. And now he has health insurance and more. A dental plan, even.
Inside Jefferson Bank is a long, dark bar that is separated from the rest of the large room by a four-foot-high wooden divider. The main area is filled with small tables, all of which are
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