said, “Ed, go on and I’ll meet you at Urth.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at me.
“Nice to meet you,” he said and went out.
“What’s that accent of his? He sounds like the movie
Fargo.
”
“He’s from the Midwest. Blanche, really, did I raise you to be rude or is this something you picked up on your own?”
“I thought brutal honesty was the policy of the program.”
“You’re not in the program. You’re a teenager who’s expected to be courteous to people in our house.”
“He’s a guitar salesman. Ed the Guitar Guy.”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s a little far to fall, Mom. Rock star to guitar salesman.”
She stared hard at me and I wasn’t at all sure what she was going to do because I couldn’t remember ever having talked to her that way. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it now.
“Your father,” she said, “is not here. You may have noticed.”
“So that’s Ed’s big selling point? He’s here?”
She ran her fingers through her hair and took a breath and stared at the wall. I could imagine she was following some AA rhyming rule like “When in doubt, leave it out.”
She said, “Ed and I are going to Urth. I want you to apologize the next time you see him.”
“Fine,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore because something on my computer screen had caught my eye.
His name had jumped up in my in-box.
She went out and I waited until I heard the front door close and then I clicked on my dad’s screen name: Ineffablel. The title box said “Keep Me Informed.”
I read the e-mail over and over:
Hello Lovely One. Interesting news about the band. If I were a responsible father I’d say, don’t do it. But you’re going to follow your own path. If music is calling you, resistance is futile. Just know that it will lead you places you never counted on going. But you will go wherever you are going to go. Just don’t make music your partner. It is unreliable and will betray you at every turn. Still, you can’t help loving it if you do.
My advice about playing at the Whisky or anywhere is to be nice to the sound guy. Also, when playing live, think about something to make your sound dynamic. I recommend a tempo change. Right in the middle. When the timing of the music suddenly changes, and everybody goes with it, it looks like faith. But it’s really practice.
I read the e-mail over and over until I memorized it.
Then I got out his cracked guitar and started putting some chords together for a song I would later call “Looks Like Faith.”
The next day I told the band about Ed the Guitar Guy. I told them about “Keep Me Informed.” I found I was telling them everything. I had to because everything that happened to me now had a place to land. Every funny story, strangecharacter or strong emotion worked its way toward a song that I had a reason to write.
It was a little uncomfortable, letting people into my life that way. I hadn’t told anyone that I still talked to my father because I was afraid he’d stop contacting me. I kept my promise about not telling anyone where he was, but for a long time, I never breathed a word about even knowing he was alive.
The great thing about Gigi and Viv and Ella was that other than a rudimentary understanding of their instruments, they didn’t know the first thing about music so they didn’t care about my father. Other than he was my father.
Viv said it was strange, she couldn’t imagine her father the physicist doing anything cool. He was one step away from taping his glasses together. Her mother had to lay his clothes out for him because his head was always so preoccupied he couldn’t bother to tell what matched.
Ella said her father owned a trucking company and all he did was work and when he came home from work he drank beer. Her mother kept herself busy scrapbooking and driving her five brothers around. Ella was the youngest and a mistake. Her mother was so worn out by then that she
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she said, looking at me.
“Nice to meet you,” he said and went out.
“What’s that accent of his? He sounds like the movie
Fargo.
”
“He’s from the Midwest. Blanche, really, did I raise you to be rude or is this something you picked up on your own?”
“I thought brutal honesty was the policy of the program.”
“You’re not in the program. You’re a teenager who’s expected to be courteous to people in our house.”
“He’s a guitar salesman. Ed the Guitar Guy.”
“What’s your point?”
“It’s a little far to fall, Mom. Rock star to guitar salesman.”
She stared hard at me and I wasn’t at all sure what she was going to do because I couldn’t remember ever having talked to her that way. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it now.
“Your father,” she said, “is not here. You may have noticed.”
“So that’s Ed’s big selling point? He’s here?”
She ran her fingers through her hair and took a breath and stared at the wall. I could imagine she was following some AA rhyming rule like “When in doubt, leave it out.”
She said, “Ed and I are going to Urth. I want you to apologize the next time you see him.”
“Fine,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore because something on my computer screen had caught my eye.
His name had jumped up in my in-box.
She went out and I waited until I heard the front door close and then I clicked on my dad’s screen name: Ineffablel. The title box said “Keep Me Informed.”
I read the e-mail over and over:
Hello Lovely One. Interesting news about the band. If I were a responsible father I’d say, don’t do it. But you’re going to follow your own path. If music is calling you, resistance is futile. Just know that it will lead you places you never counted on going. But you will go wherever you are going to go. Just don’t make music your partner. It is unreliable and will betray you at every turn. Still, you can’t help loving it if you do.
My advice about playing at the Whisky or anywhere is to be nice to the sound guy. Also, when playing live, think about something to make your sound dynamic. I recommend a tempo change. Right in the middle. When the timing of the music suddenly changes, and everybody goes with it, it looks like faith. But it’s really practice.
I read the e-mail over and over until I memorized it.
Then I got out his cracked guitar and started putting some chords together for a song I would later call “Looks Like Faith.”
The next day I told the band about Ed the Guitar Guy. I told them about “Keep Me Informed.” I found I was telling them everything. I had to because everything that happened to me now had a place to land. Every funny story, strangecharacter or strong emotion worked its way toward a song that I had a reason to write.
It was a little uncomfortable, letting people into my life that way. I hadn’t told anyone that I still talked to my father because I was afraid he’d stop contacting me. I kept my promise about not telling anyone where he was, but for a long time, I never breathed a word about even knowing he was alive.
The great thing about Gigi and Viv and Ella was that other than a rudimentary understanding of their instruments, they didn’t know the first thing about music so they didn’t care about my father. Other than he was my father.
Viv said it was strange, she couldn’t imagine her father the physicist doing anything cool. He was one step away from taping his glasses together. Her mother had to lay his clothes out for him because his head was always so preoccupied he couldn’t bother to tell what matched.
Ella said her father owned a trucking company and all he did was work and when he came home from work he drank beer. Her mother kept herself busy scrapbooking and driving her five brothers around. Ella was the youngest and a mistake. Her mother was so worn out by then that she
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