Richard's Band: Who Says it's Too Late to Start a Rock Band?

By John Leslie Green

Everybody has a dream. Few people ever get to live it. Richard was one of the few.
Try John Leslie Green's latest novel, 'Richard's Band,' the exploits of a bunch of folks that ask, "Who says it's too late to start a rock band?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483525402

Book preview

9781483525402

CHAPTER ONE

2006

They were forcing Richard out of the band. It had come to that, a power struggle over whose band it really was. At stake were the millions in royalties from their first CD.

He thought, How could this happen? I put together the best ever old guy rock n roll band and that’s the thanks I get.

Things weren’t always this way.

***

Time had been kind to Richard, or perhaps Richard had been kind enough to himself that the aging process had not claimed him a victim, not yet, not at his sixtieth birthday. The man looked to be somewhere in his early forties, with few wrinkles on his face and just a tiny bald spot at the back of his head. Richard’s face had a wondrous symmetry; his eyes were a warm light blue, and his perfect nose and sturdy jaw had made women give him a second look every time. Richard’s younger brother had always been a little pissed at him for making off with all of the good looks in the family.

Life had landed Richard in La Grange Park, Illinois, population 13,300, a suburb of Chicago, eight convenient miles from O’Hare International Airport, close enough to the big city yet suburban in that curiously bland Midwestern way. There was the standard Starbuck’s near the train station, and a block further was a Trader Joe’s to buy your foreign cheese, and next to that was the all-important Pier One Imports for all of those last-minute gifts. The village police blotter told a boring story: one breaking and entering this week in which the DVD recorder was stolen but not the TV, probably because the 48-inch screen was too large for one man to carry; and there was an arrest for disturbing the peace when a loud guy violated a restraining order and stood under his ex-wife’s window plaintively sobbing, Why, Romaine? Oh, why?

Folks were throwing a little party for Richard at work. The large office had been a prototype of cubicle maze that had been developed some twenty years before, but now the place spoke of obsolescence, of poorly-defined spaces, of tired office chairs and ill-placed desktop computers with cables floating toward the ceiling as though they were wired to God. In the center of the maze was a small folding table, and on it was a sheet cake inscribed ‘Happy Retirement Rich.’ Whoever made up the cake didn’t know Richard, because nobody ever called him Rich, or Rick, or Dick, or any variation thereof. He’d been a formal Richard for a lifetime.

Uncomfortable in his only suit, Richard stood next to the cake and in front of everybody. They all listened to his supervisor, a slick young hack bound for better things, droning on about Richard’s accomplishments. ...Served on the Betterment in Business Committee for seventeen years straight. Was rated ‘Outstanding’ for ten years in a row. Perfect attendance several times. Thirty-five years’ service. The younger man turned to Richard and tried to sound sincere. We always knew that we could count on you. Congratulations on your retirement. The manager stuck out a meaty hand and the new retiree shook it.

Richard wanted to tell him, Screw you for all of the petty things you’ve made me do, for the countless times you made me work late, for your constant interruptions, your manufactured deadlines that have nothing to do with the real world. For these things I say for all mankind, fuck you. Thank you very much. But he didn’t say any of it.

The company photographer shot a quick picture of them both, and then with the retirement citation in between them, and then one more in case the first two were screwed up. Then the office folks passed by Richard on their way to the cake.

Tubby Greta, a sly look on her face: You don’t look old enough to retire. When ja start here, when you were twelve?

Twelve, yeah, thanks, Richard answered. He’d tried to like Greta, but he just couldn’t pull it off.

Bob the office racist passed by and shook his hand. So, uh, whatcha gonna do now?

I’m starting a rock n roll band, Richard said.

***

Richard had been golden in a world wracked with credit card debt and unfulfilled promise. Much against his will he’d become a solid citizen. For thirty-five years his need for a regular paycheck had outweighed the desire to express himself artistically. Richard had married his sweetheart Barbara in the late sixties, and the usual home and a mortgage and a kid ensued, causing him to work his ass off for all of his adult life.

On the soft underbelly of his character, Richard subscribed to a rock trinity composed of Elvis, the Beatles and ZZ Top. The man played guitar, had an axe to grind. In his basement, with the amp turned down to about two or three he let it rip, ground out ‘Smoke on the Water’ for his own gratification, slow and dirty, Bum Ba BAH, Bum Ba BAH DAH, singing in an artful baritone voice, Smoke on da wa-da, much to the mortification of his daughter Elizabeth, who’d seldom had visitors at the house for that very reason.

Ma, can you make him stop? young Lizzie had pleaded, years before when she had been a teenager.

Barbara, sometimes a woman of reason, said, Your father doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t eat to excess.

Yeah, Ma. Lizzie had heard this litany before.

He doesn’t take drugs, doesn’t beat on me, doesn’t beat on you, doesn’t beat on Patches. He doesn’t gamble, and comes home every night after work. He can play guitar in the basement. Things could be a hell of a lot worse. What was unsaid was that the guitar would never make it out of the basement if Barbara could help it.

Aw jeez, Ma! And that was that. There was a delayed reaction a few years later, when Lizzie moved out at the exact moment when she had become a young adult pain in the ass, much to the relief of Richard and Barbara. All parents should take note of this phenomenon: do something more embarrassing than what your kids do, and they’ll leave when they’re supposed to leave.

***

Richard needed a lead singer, a front man. He drove a mile or so down the road to EZ Duzzit, two storefronts combined in one of those quick malls, peanut shells on the floor, BUDWEISER windows. It was karaoke night.

Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law, a tall thin guy groaned into the microphone. The man had a great stage presence and a terrific voice, and at one point screamed in high C for about fifteen seconds straight, and Richard knew then that this guy could be it. The man was shirtless on stage, and Richard observed a Dennis Rodman assortment of tattoos, required of all lead singers in metal bands. Yeah, breakin the law, the thin man growled, a jerky sway in those hips, and Richard was seeing a cross between Mick Jagger and Axl Rose up there. Nasty. He seemed perfect for the job. Could Richard play next to this guy? Could Eddie Van Halen play next to David Lee Roth?

As the singer climbed off the stage Richard said, I need to talk to you about a band. Buy ya a beer?

The thin man looked at Richard in dim light, seeing a straight arrow in Levi’s and a black Motley Crue t-shirt. Yeah. Okay. The man waved at the bartender, then thumbed toward Richard, Draft. On him.

Name’s Richard.

John Remington, he said with a raspy voice, as though he’d been screaming into microphones for forty years. Remmy to my friends. There was a vague British accent behind the rasp.

Yeah, hey. You ever been in a band?

On and off. Not lately. It would take a great group. He sucked on the fresh mug, savoring it.

How about one where everybody is over sixty?

Ha! Remmy laughed at the thought. Then, Stones are over sixty.

Yeah, they are, aren’t they? Shit, I thought I had a good idea.

It’s still a good idea, it’s just not a particularly original one. What’s in it for you?

Been playing guitar in my basement for thirty, forty years. Worked for a living instead. Time to bring it out of the basement.

Ever been on stage?

On stage? Not since, oh, about 1969. Instantly Richard was lost in a flashback: a swirl of pot in the air, the Chambers Brothers’ psychedelic ‘Time Has Come Today’ reverberating through body and brain cavities, fingers dancing on his Fender Mustang, spotlight hot on his face. God, it was almost as good as sex. Oh, Man. Richard felt the hair stand on his arms just thinking about it.

Yeah. Nothin’ like the stage. It’s finding that balance of just enough booze to get you out there but not so much that you fall down.

Didn’t drink that much back then, Richard said. Almost nothing now.

Yeah. Well, ya live longer, Remmy said. Me, sometimes I like a little Jack Daniel’s.

Drugs?

A little coke from time to time. Nothing serious. Remmy thought about that for a second. Nothing serious these days. He swiftly changed the subject. Who else you got for this band?

Uh, nobody. Just been carrying the idea around with me for a few years. You play anything?

Naaah, I just sing. A little tambourine to keep my hands busy, that’s it. Whattya think? How big a band are you talking?

I could go for a five man, Richard said. Real basic. Drums. Bass. Two guitars, lead and rhythm. Front man. No funky instruments, no flutes or oboes. Or horns, either. And no goddamn synthesizers.

You got some serious prejudices there, Bud. But I pretty much agree.

It’s rock n roll, ya know? Future? How do you see the future of this?

Put a band together, Remmy said, see how we play, have some fun, ya know, just fart around with it for a while. Then maybe get some gigs, take it for a ride if we sound good.

How would you get a booking?

"Get an agent, or get online and do it ourselves. Hey, you can do anything online."

Online, or go right to a club and talk to them, Richard said. Yeah. I like the way you think.

Name? Of the band.

There’s no hurry to pick a name.

’No Hurry’ sounds good for a name.

So they started out calling themselves ‘No Hurry.’ Somehow it fit.

The two sat there at EZ Duzzit for another hour or two, talking metal philosophy. What would we play? Richard asked. "What do you like? What do you need?"

Led Zep, Remmy offered.

The absolute best. A bow on a guitar, who’d a thought? And Black Sabbath.

The Oz. No doubt about it. Man, I love Ozzy.

Pink Floyd. David Gilmour riffs.

Definitely Pink Floyd. And Blue Oyster Cult.

And some Punk’s fun from time to time. No Thrash, though.

No Glam, either.

The two men were in harmony.

***

John Remington was thin from alternating bouts with drugs and good health: twice in rehab, three times a marathoner. Without looking into his eyes one really couldn’t tell where he was in this schizophrenic cycle. By day Remmy had been an accountant, most recently a lesser CPA in the firm that had cooked Environ’s books. Remmy had retired early about a year before, and it wasn’t exactly clear to the outside world if the action had been voluntary. At age 62 it was time for him to be in a band.

It was almost love for Remmy. Fortunata was her name. She was loud and had synthetically red hair, but she was an animal in bed, which was definitely a plus as he saw it. But Fortunata had tried to make Remmy forsake all but her. My name, she said seductively as they lay in bed at her place. When are you putting my name on your arm?

This was old news to Remmy; they all wanted their names on his arm. I don’t do that anymore, he said. Starting at the top of his left shoulder was the name Donna, with a line tattooed through it. Half an inch lower was Patty, also with a line tattooed across it. Lower were the Js, Joanie, Jenny, Jeannie, all partially obliterated. There were remembrances all the way down to his elbow, when he stopped putting the names of his loves in 1985, because he’d run out of room.

Yeah, well if you really cared, you’d add me to your list, Fortunata said. Maybe you’d do something about getting rid of the list, huh? Get all those old names taken off your arm. Do you really care? About me?

Uh-oh. Yeah, I really care. I really care about the fantastic knobbys you give me, that’s what I care about. Remmy climbed out of bed. Gotta go, he said.

***

This was the second house that Richard and Barbara had lived in, a large split-level with a big back yard and a garden for her and a garage for him. The first house had been a starter bungalow; there had not been much room in it but that was what they could afford in the early seventies. The second house was in a more suitable neighborhood with good schools. There was a thirty-year mortgage and ping pong in the basement and space for him to play guitar. There was room for the two or three kids that they were sure to have. Was it Barbara who decided that one kid was enough? Who exactly decided that? One was all that they had, anyway. Richard reflected, I don’t recall deciding that, or having much say in the house, or how it was decorated, or...

No matter. That’s how it had played out.

***

It had been a long night for Remmy. Fortunata was history as far as he could see. The minute that they started on the tattoo thing was about the time to go. That was too bad. She was hot.

Auditions, Remmy thought. Shit!

That was next. Richard and Remmy would hold auditions for the bass player and a drummer, maybe a second axe, dual dueling guitars, Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Eagles and everybody did it.

It’d been years since Remmy had taken part in anything like an audition. How do we find these people? The Entertainer magazine? Naaah, they’re too pro, whoever we pick will take over the band in nothing flat. Personals in the paper? TV? Radio?

None of that. Supermarket, the Jewel. Yeah.

Remmy got on his computer and printed out:

Tryouts for a rock n roll band

Must be over sixty

Bass Guitarists

Rhythm axe

Drummers

Must be damn good and Love the Oz

Call number below

The fringe-cut bottom of the flyer had many copies of the phone number, Call 708-555-2345 or 708-555-7762.

Remmy had put Richard’s number first. Hey, he wants to be the boss.

***

The phone started ringing at about two in the afternoon. Richard picked it up. Yeah.

Deep male voice: You got a band?

A special band, Richard said. Are you over sixty?

Yeah, sure.

Love the Oz?

"Uh, who’s the Oz?

Dismayed, You don’t know who Ozzy Osbourne is?

Sure I do.

Richard thought about that. Maybe he does, maybe not. Okay, I’ll take a chance. He gave the caller a time and an address.

Two minutes later, another call. Band?

Yeah. And the info.

And another call.

And another.

Jeez, Jerry Lewis didn’t do this good.

***

Richard needed to tell his wife, break it to her, keep that Significant Other apprised, or he knew it would come back and bite him on the ass. All married men know this. Tell her in the evening, when her stomach was full. Maybe after she’d had a glass of wine.

Two days after he and Remmy had reached an accord, Richard caught his wife in the bedroom as she was changing for bed. Barbara, Honey, I’m starting a band.

Richard, you’re sixty years old.

Yes I am. Time for a band.

What, a garage band?

Yeah. For starters. Who knows, maybe might be good enough for some gigs. Local clubs.

Baby, you’ve been in bed at ten o’clock for the last five years. They don’t even start playing at ten.

I’ll adjust. Jeez, always with the negative.

And your ears. What about your ears?

He’d been experiencing diminished hearing and soon he must take some action, get a hearing aid or something. Hey, we’ll be so loud it won’t be a problem.

Just so’s I don’t have to be your little groupie, okay? I’ll come watch sometimes. She thought about it for a moment. And don’t get any funny ideas about groupies.

Richard hadn’t considered that. Hmmm, he thought.

CHAPTER TWO

It’s not like Richard had never been in a band before. He’d been part of five different groups, all before he was married. The Sky Pilots had been the best he’d done, Two years as rhythm guitar, doing a lot of British Invasion stuff, gigs on Friday and Saturday nights, the band occasionally opening for a hot group on the way up. It was a great way to make some money to help pay for college. Even his parents had approved when they saw the money. Then Richard had fallen in love or lust or whatever, and there went the Sky Pilots for a much more regular paycheck.

Richard was convinced that he felt music more deeply than most people. No, he felt it deeper than anybody, deeper than the late Janis Joplin, deeper than the late dark Jim Morrison, deeper even than the late Jimi Hendrix. So how could a person that feels that way about music put it on the side? There were two possibilities. The first was that true love had won out. Richard had met Barbara, and beyond the quick passion and bountiful sex he loved her enough to get the day job that killed the night club thing. He was available less and less, and it was inevitable that the Sky Pilots would move ahead without him. The trouble with this theory was that the Sky Pilots simply blew up one day, disintegrated like a poorly made pizza, and this had left him band-less those many years ago.

The second possibility was that in his early twenties, Richard had not been particularly creative. He could copy other guitarists, reproduce their riffs; he imitated the greats flawlessly and with a serious amount of passion. That was perfect for bands doing covers of other people’s music, but occasionally the question was asked, where was his riff? Given the opportunity to show something new, the young man’s brain had been empty, his fingers frozen against unfeeling frets, and after a moment of awkward silence he found himself falling back on that glorious break from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Free Bird.’ Had the Sky Pilots not blown up, had they advanced to the next level and recorded something new and original, Richard may have been replaced anyway.

Where was the originality, the creative thrust that separates great guitarists like Eric Clapton and Yngwie Malmsteen from Richard of the Sky Pilots? Here we have the flaw that defines a truly tragic character. The question was, in the intervening thirty-five years, had Richard arrived at a riff or two of his own?

***

Richard and Remmy held auditions on a summer Sunday afternoon at Richard’s large house, the well-kept split-level with so much fine yard space, and Barbara’s garden in the back by the garage.

How many people are coming? Barbara asked.

Six, I think, was Richard’s best guess. He’d gotten more than a dozen calls, but he just knew half of them wouldn’t show up. Maybe seven.

Can you get them to wipe their feet?

Oh. The clean house bit again, the reason why he seldom had anybody over. We’re doing it in the garage.

The woman had been obsessive about her immaculate house for all the time he’d known her; she had never taken on more than a part-time