Henry didn’t speak. He knew better than anyone how to keep a silence. But the reassuring weight of his hand came again, this time resting on my shoulder. I exhaled long and slow, like I’d been holding my breath all night.
Angela’s band fell into a low, grinding rhythm—drop-D tuning giving the guitar a forceful plod that could crack your dental fillings. Beautiful. She had a gift.
“Did you know,” Henry finally said, “that the Who wasn’t the first band Keith Moon drummed for?”
Henry loved the Who, claimed he’d been the first one to book them, right here at the Iron Horse. Same as Zeppelin.
“And did you also know,” he went on, “that over its long history, the Iron Horse has always played host to somethingmusic-related—everything from Duke Ellington’s residency to a luthier shop to medieval liturgical choirs.”
“That right?” The familiar back-and-forth helped, and Henry knew I was a history buff.
“The point, Jack, is that we all go through changes, but we all come around to where we’re supposed to be.”
“And my music?”
“Oh, your music is far from finished, my boy. You’ve a gift to look inside a thing, find the songs no one else can see, and give them a voice.” He squeezed my shoulder. “But music is meant to be shared, isn’t it? Just like the Iron Horse itself.”
Henry looked down at the floor. I followed his gaze to the Hounds patch lying near our feet and picked it up. “I’ll sew it back on,” I said. “And I’ll find another band.”
Henry clapped my back. “Damn straight.”
After Angela had finished her set, Henry and I wandered into the pub. Conversation stopped as friends and regulars turned my way. Word
spreads fast in the metal community. And everyone here knew what the Hounds meant to me.
In the relative quiet, Henry, voice rough with age, started to sing the chorus to “They Always Go Away.”
“Henry, don’t.” He kept on.
Chuey turned to us and shouted, “Hells yeah, brother. This ain’t no pity party. Westmont strong.” Then he stood up, all wiry five feet nine of him, onto the bench of our booth—symphonic metal—ran a hand over his buzz cut, and with his terrible voice, joined Henry.
A moment later, one of the Iron Horse regulars, Church, a heavyset chap who usually sat at the classic-metal table, tamped the floor with the cane he didn’t need, pulled the stogie henever lit from his mouth—Winston Churchill–like affectations that had earned him his nickname—and joined them in a rich baritone.
Then, another regular, Mary Rose, whom everyone called Lady for reasons I’d never learned, swiveled around on a barstool reserved for Queen fans. Auburn hair and green eyes made her freckles all the darker. Setting aside her leather corset—onto which she was sewing a band patch—she raised her needle to toast my fortunes and came in with a dusky alto.
From a step stool, Jimmy Bates, the Iron Horse janitor, threw in, too. Jimmy didn’t need a nickname. He was built like Jimmy Stewart, and had a bit of a stutter like him, too. Jimmy had been hanging boots like ornaments from the overhead water pipes. Sixty years old with perfect pitch—something I discovered teaching him guitar a few times a week—Jimmy liked old-school punk.
Then the entire thrash-metal table—Westy, Ella, the Parley twins—put their endless “talent versus training” debate on hold and picked up the song midbeat: “I will be one who stays!”
Soon, everyone in the bar was shouting out the words. It wasn’t the first time the Iron Horse had sung together. But it was the first time they’d done a song of mine. Hell of a feeling.
Chuey waved me in like a conductor, and I belted out the last refrain. It got righteously loud and terribly out of key, but for the moment, at least, I was able to forget the Hounds, forget my unfinished verse, and enjoy the music with friends. When we reached the end, everyone cheered and settled back into the familiar rhythms of the Iron Horse. Even me, for the most part, and I slid into the classic-metal booth next to Church. Lady stood up from her barstool, and Chuey jumped down from his bench. They navigated over to Church’s table to join us. Henry grabbed two chairs and set them out for him and Jimmy at theends of the table. “Bunch of poncy fools, giving you the sack,” Church began, waving his cigar.
Lady tapped her temple with the eye of her needle and smiled. “Hounds have dropped a stitch or two, if you ask me.”
Chuey grinned and knocked the table with approval.
“M-maybe Church can help,” Jimmy said. “Submit f-formal copyright claims on all your songs. Keep them away from these f-fellas. He does all your business papers, doesn’t he, Henry?”
“I stole Church away from Parliament,” Henry said with a grin. “Saved him from the purgatory of policymakers so he could do tax filings for Iron Horse Luddites like me.”
Everyone laughed.
“Might not matter, though,” Chuey said. “The Hounds are entitled to performance rights as long as the venue pays the royalty.”
Church reached beneath the table and brought up his leather satchel. He pulled out the day’s issue of theDaily Telegraph. Church only took his news in hard copy. He opened to the business section and tapped the page.
“The Banner Music Streaming Service,” said Church, “is lobbying policymakers to grant them rights to any publicly performed song that hasn’t yet been registered.”
