I raised my beer can in her direction.
Our drinks arrived, then more drinks. People shuffled seats and added more chairs until we were pressed shoulder to shoulder. When I looked around, I could see how it could work, bringing other artists to McPhee’s, especially bands having a harder time getting booked: Bee-Ann Rhymes and queer country singers, Charmaine and musicians of color and different cultures. Older musicians, still figuring it all out, just wanting to make some noise. What would that look like? Was anyone in Chicago already doing it?
Oh, man. I got really excited there for a second.
But then I spotted a guy in the same sort of short-brimmed hat Joey had worn to shows.
Bern leaned toward me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s been a… a demoralizing week.”
“Since Wednesday? Three days?”
“You have no idea,” I said.
He swirled his drink, waiting.
“My boyfriend died.”
“Did you kill him?” Bern said. “No? That’s a shame. Guaranteed gold with a well-timed confession.”
Someone had approached the table. I looked up, up, up to find the drummer from tonight’s band standing there. I assumed he’d come to chat up Bern, but he was angled at me. “Hey, Doll.”
“Um,” I said.
“Matt Kelley,” he said.
“Right, Matt, hi. Nice to see you again.”
“I haven’t run into Suzy much these days,” he said. “You guys still ruling over at McPhee’s?”
The way only a house band could. A hothouse flower, incapable of growing beyond prescribed limits.
“They sure are,” Bern jumped in. “Caught their show this week, and it was a hell of a ride.”
Matt’s mouth twisted into a shape that told me he was impressed. “You up for a song or two, Doll?”
“You mean now? With you guys?”
“We’d be able to back up any Patsy Cline you could think of,” he said. “Or that ‘Bang Bang’ song you do? That’s a jam. Was that… Who sang that?”
“Janis Martin.” I was both flattered and insulted, and I couldn’t quite figure out how that could be, when only flattery was called for. Some of the other musicians at the table had started paying attention, and I knew every single one of them would jump at the chance to take the stage. I turned my gin and tonic in circles on the table. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
But I couldn’t manage the upbeat Janis Martin, even though I was sure Matt was keen to take on the gunshot “bangity-bang” of that song’s drum line. We renegotiated to a little Latin-beat Cline oddity called “Strange” that the mandolin player could pick out. When I couldn’t think of anything else I felt like singing, Matt suggested an old-time folk ballad that had long ago become part of the public domain. I thought I knew it well enough, from the Carter Family’s version. He went off happily to tell the guys and work out the arrangements.
Bern checked his watch. “You didn’t have to agree to that,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Although there were more than a few reasons, including what the girls would say when they found out I’d missed our session to front another group.
“I thought you were prioritizing originals,” he said.
“This wasn’tmyplan,” I said. “It’s just for fun. Can you look up the lyrics to that thing I just agreed to sing?”
“One of the things we’ll want to talk about,” he said, drawing outhis cell phone, unlocking it, and handing it over, “is yourbrand. You’re all over the place. Rock and rockabilly, torch and ballad, Americana all the way down to shit stompers.”
“Downto bluegrass?” I looked up from scrolling for a lyrics site I could trust. “Is that what you really think of country?”
“I don’t mind mountain music, Doll,” Bern said. “But if you’re on a mountain, why not climb it?” He waved his hands in a flourish. “Toward transcendence.”
