had broken to them, how stupid he is, how incapable of recognizing real talent. I was a little offended, but I already knew they felt this way, so I went along, complaining that it’s like Fred is schizophrenic, going back and forth about everything. Carl frowned and said, “What do you have to worry about?” and the rest of the guys just stared. So I shut up and made a point of ignoring them for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, the point was lost on them; they were too busy ignoring me.
It got worse after that. Irene said it was Fred’s studio comment that really got to them—and Fred’s response when Jonathan called him a few days later to ask if he still planned to record the quartet and send out demos, like he promised, and if so, when. Fred hemmed and hawed but the upshot was he wanted Jonathan to write some new songs first. They could be jazz, fine, but they had to have crossover potential. Most important, they had to have lyrics. They had to be written and arranged specifically for me.
When Irene confided this, she was very upset for Harry, for all of them. I mouthed the appropriate response, something about Fred being a big liar, but it wasn’t easy. It had never occurred to me that Jonathan would write a piece I could sing, and I loved the idea. It would be beautiful, unusual; maybe it would get picked up by some record company; maybe it would make us all stars. At least maybe we’d see some real money for a change. I’d finally be able to open a savings account.
Of course Jonathan had no intention of doing this. In fact, he was threatening to quit again. All week, the guys spent every afternoon in Carl and Dennis’s room with the door shut, discussing their options. Irene told me Jonathan felt like Fred had no commitment to them or their music, and they were wasting their time working for him. But the rest of the guys felt like the opportunity to play at good clubs like Peterson’s made up for it. And what about the concert they were doing this Sunday? It was more exposure than they could hope to get on their own, playing at dinky, no-name colleges.
“And she won’t be there,” Dennis reminded Jonathan. “It’ll be the real shit, us and the music. She’s a meal ticket for now. That’s the way we have to look at it.”
Irene didn’t tell me this part. I overheard it when Willie ran over and opened the door and I went in to bring him back out and apologize.
I didn’t apologize, but I didn’t confront them. I was as worried as anybody that Jonathan would quit this time. The meal ticket business was depressing but better than the alternative.
The week was hard on Willie too—that’s what I’m thinking as I watch him waving good-bye to the guys. “They’re talking grown-up stuff, buddy,” I had to keep telling him, as an explanation for why they were all closed up in the room. And even after he understood that you don’t open a door without knocking, I had to tell him he shouldn’t knock, it would just bother them. He was so proud, holding his little fist in the air, showing me he’d remembered the rule. It broke my heart to say no.
Today I’m taking him swimming. There’s a public pool on the way to the club and it’s a hot August afternoon; it’ll be good for him to get outside. I asked Irene if I could borrow her Honda but she said she’d go with us, she needs the exercise.
The wading pool is packed with other kids, and Willie’s so happy he can’t quit smiling. He loves other kids, especially the bigger ones, the four-and five-year-olds who include him in their pretend games. They boss him around, tell him he’s a dragon, not a dinosaur, tell him to sit there, don’t move, okay now move, now attack, but he doesn’t mind at all. He even lets them splash him in the face, and when I ask him, “Are you okay, buddy?” he’s giggling so hard he can’t answer. I think for the hundredth time that he’d love preschool. He needs more children in his life, not to mention
It got worse after that. Irene said it was Fred’s studio comment that really got to them—and Fred’s response when Jonathan called him a few days later to ask if he still planned to record the quartet and send out demos, like he promised, and if so, when. Fred hemmed and hawed but the upshot was he wanted Jonathan to write some new songs first. They could be jazz, fine, but they had to have crossover potential. Most important, they had to have lyrics. They had to be written and arranged specifically for me.
When Irene confided this, she was very upset for Harry, for all of them. I mouthed the appropriate response, something about Fred being a big liar, but it wasn’t easy. It had never occurred to me that Jonathan would write a piece I could sing, and I loved the idea. It would be beautiful, unusual; maybe it would get picked up by some record company; maybe it would make us all stars. At least maybe we’d see some real money for a change. I’d finally be able to open a savings account.
Of course Jonathan had no intention of doing this. In fact, he was threatening to quit again. All week, the guys spent every afternoon in Carl and Dennis’s room with the door shut, discussing their options. Irene told me Jonathan felt like Fred had no commitment to them or their music, and they were wasting their time working for him. But the rest of the guys felt like the opportunity to play at good clubs like Peterson’s made up for it. And what about the concert they were doing this Sunday? It was more exposure than they could hope to get on their own, playing at dinky, no-name colleges.
“And she won’t be there,” Dennis reminded Jonathan. “It’ll be the real shit, us and the music. She’s a meal ticket for now. That’s the way we have to look at it.”
Irene didn’t tell me this part. I overheard it when Willie ran over and opened the door and I went in to bring him back out and apologize.
I didn’t apologize, but I didn’t confront them. I was as worried as anybody that Jonathan would quit this time. The meal ticket business was depressing but better than the alternative.
The week was hard on Willie too—that’s what I’m thinking as I watch him waving good-bye to the guys. “They’re talking grown-up stuff, buddy,” I had to keep telling him, as an explanation for why they were all closed up in the room. And even after he understood that you don’t open a door without knocking, I had to tell him he shouldn’t knock, it would just bother them. He was so proud, holding his little fist in the air, showing me he’d remembered the rule. It broke my heart to say no.
Today I’m taking him swimming. There’s a public pool on the way to the club and it’s a hot August afternoon; it’ll be good for him to get outside. I asked Irene if I could borrow her Honda but she said she’d go with us, she needs the exercise.
The wading pool is packed with other kids, and Willie’s so happy he can’t quit smiling. He loves other kids, especially the bigger ones, the four-and five-year-olds who include him in their pretend games. They boss him around, tell him he’s a dragon, not a dinosaur, tell him to sit there, don’t move, okay now move, now attack, but he doesn’t mind at all. He even lets them splash him in the face, and when I ask him, “Are you okay, buddy?” he’s giggling so hard he can’t answer. I think for the hundredth time that he’d love preschool. He needs more children in his life, not to mention
Similar Books
