“No worries,”Vick said. “Play the Strat for now, and when Jerry from Centaur Guitars getshere, we’ll get you set up with whatever you need.”
Just then, RodArcher, Melody’s drummer, walked through the door dressed to the nines. He worea slim fit tailored suit and what looked to me like very expensive shoes andsunglasses.
“What the fuckare you all dressed up for? The show doesn’t start for hours. Or doesn’t yourfancy watch keep good time?” Vick asked.
“Don’t you daretalk about the anniversary present your mother got me,” Rod fired back.
“Oh, wait.” Vickwaved his finger toward him. “You’re a drummer in a suit. That can only meanyou just got back from your appointed court date.”
“First of all,fuck you. I look damn good, and you know it. And if you must know, I camestraight here from a photo shoot,” Rod fired back.
“Thank you,”Vick said. “You just reminded me that it’s time to renew my subscription toShithead’s Digest. Good for you for landing the cover this time.”
“It was forModern Drummer magazine,” Rod said. “I’ll get you a copy. You should like it.It has lots of pictures.”
“ModernDrummer? Do they know how old you are?”
“You know, Vick.I’ve been playing with you for a while now and I still can’t tell which is worse.Your pathetic attempts at humor or your playing.”
“Don’t get angrywith me because your suit only comes in boys’ sizes.”
“You hang arounda lot in the children’s clothing section, do you?” Rod asked. “You do, don’tyou? You sick little fuck.”
From bikerclubhouses to band rehearsal spaces. The ancient art of busting balls was aliveand well. Kinda like counting rings to find a tree’s age. A person could tellhow many miles two guys had logged by the amount of shit they were willing todish out and take from each other.
“Rod, this isTrain,” Vick said, motioning to me.
“You better notlet Melody see that white guitar,” was all he said before taking his seatbehind the drums. Before I could say a word, he began whacking away on thesnare drum, stopping briefly to make tuning adjustments.
Andy Schultzcame in next, and unlike Rod, greeted me warmly. We chatted about gear and theother usual bullshit guitarists talk about when getting to know one another.Andy’s role in the band was what we call a utility player. His job was to floatfrom instrument to instrument, depending on the requirements of each song. Thatmeant sometimes we’d be playing guitar together, and sometimes I’d be on my ownwhile he played keyboards, percussion, or whatever else he may be called uponto play.
Last, butcertainly not least to show up, was Edgar ‘Puddin’’ Daily, and he came in hot.
“I was told to losemy third stack of bass cabinets and one road case to make space for essentialgear, and one of you fookin’ twats is hauling a bloody motorcycle?”
“Heya Pud’,”Andy called out, seemingly unfazed by the bassist’s outburst.
“Whose is it,then?” Puddin’ continued. “It’s yours, innit, Rod?”
Without saying aword, Rod pointed a drumstick in my direction.
“Who da fook’sdat?” Puddin’ demanded.
“New guy,” Rodsaid, in a tone one notch above total disgust.
“Ahh, right. Ratbastard Gill’s replacement,” he growled. “Tell me somethin’ new guy. Why the fookdo I gotta leave my shit on the curb while your bloody bike rides first class,eh?”
I couldn’tbelieve what was happening. Puddin’ along with his band, Orange Salad were ahuge inspiration to me when I was fourteen years old. Christ, I had a poster ofhim on my wall as a kid. Now he was two feet away from me, reading me the riotact.
“Sorry aboutthat,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause any issues. I was told—”
“I don’t give aflyin’ fook what you was told, mate. I’m tellin’ ya to go and get your soddingbike off my truck.”
“Hey, Puddin’,”Vick said, trying to intervene.
“Stay the helloutta this, Vick. This is between me and easy fookin’ rider here,” he shotback.
The man was ahero of mine, but I wasn’t in the habit of taking shit from anyone, so I set myguitar on its stand, faced him, and crossed my arms.
