sound she’s getting out of those paint cans!”
“Those are actually paint buckets , Zahler.”
“What’s the diff?”
I sighed. Painting had been one of my shorter-lived jobs, because they just gave you the colors to use, instead of letting you decide. “Paint cans are the metal containers that paint comes in. Paint buckets are the plastic tubs you mix it up in. Neither of them are drums.”
“But listen , Moz. Her sound is huge!”
My brain was already listening—my mouth was just giving Zahler a hard time out of habit and general annoyance—and the woman really did have a monster sound. Around her was arrayed every size of paint bucket you could buy, some stacked, some upside down, a few on their sides, making a sort of giant plastic xylophone.
It took me a minute to figure out how a bunch of paint buckets could have so much power. She’d set up on a subway grate, suspending herself over a vast concrete echo chamber. Her tempo matched the timing of the echoes rumbling up from below, as if a ghost drummer were down there following her, exactly one beat behind. As my head tilted, I heard other ghosts: quicker echoes from the walls around us and from the concrete awning overhead.
It was like an invisible drum chorus, led effortlessly from its center, her sticks flashing gracefully across battered white plastic, long black dreadlocks flying, eyes shut tight.
“She’s pretty fool, Zahler,” I admitted.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Especially if we could rebuild this chunk of Times Square every place we played.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “What, the echoes? You never heard of digital delay?”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the same. Wouldn’t be as big.”
“Doesn’t have to be as big, Moz. We don’t want her playing a gigantic drum solo like this; we want her smaller, fitting in with the rest of the band. Didn’t you learn anything yesterday?”
I glared at him, the anger spilling out from the place I thought I’d had it tucked away, rippling through me again. “Yeah, I did: that you’re a total sucker for every chick who comes along with an instrument. Even if it’s a bunch of paint buckets !”
His jaw dropped. “Dude! That is totally unfool! You just said she was great. And you know Pearl’s fexcellent too. Now you’re going to get all boys-only on me?”
I turned away, thoughts echoing in my brain, like my skull was suddenly empty and lined with concrete. Between the Stratocaster that wasn’t mine, the other guitars I couldn’t afford, Pearl’s demolition of the Big Riff, and now the thought of paint buckets , it’d been too many adjustments to make in forty-eight hours.
I almost wished it was just Zahler and me again. We’d been like a team that was a hundred points behind—we weren’t going to win anything, so we could just play and have fun. But Pearl had changed that. Everything was up in the air, and how it all came down mattered now.
Part of me hated her for that and hated Zahler for going along so easily.
He kept quiet, wrangling the dogs while I calmed myself down.
“All right,” I finally said. “Let’s talk to her. What have we got to lose?”
We waited till she was packing up, stacking the buckets into one big tower. Her muscles glowed with sweat, and a few splinters from a stick she’d broken rolled in the breeze from a subway passing underneath.
She glanced at us and our seven dogs.
“You’re pretty good,” I said.
She jutted her chin toward a paint bucket that was right side up and half full of change and singles, then went back to stacking.
“Actually, we were wondering if you wanted to play with us sometime.”
She shook her head, one of her eyes blinking rapidly. “This corner is mine. Had it for a year.”
“Hey, we’re not moving in on you,” Zahler spoke up, waving his free hand. “We’re talking about you playing in our band. Rehearsing and recording and stuff. Getting famous.”
I cringed.
“Those are actually paint buckets , Zahler.”
“What’s the diff?”
I sighed. Painting had been one of my shorter-lived jobs, because they just gave you the colors to use, instead of letting you decide. “Paint cans are the metal containers that paint comes in. Paint buckets are the plastic tubs you mix it up in. Neither of them are drums.”
“But listen , Moz. Her sound is huge!”
My brain was already listening—my mouth was just giving Zahler a hard time out of habit and general annoyance—and the woman really did have a monster sound. Around her was arrayed every size of paint bucket you could buy, some stacked, some upside down, a few on their sides, making a sort of giant plastic xylophone.
It took me a minute to figure out how a bunch of paint buckets could have so much power. She’d set up on a subway grate, suspending herself over a vast concrete echo chamber. Her tempo matched the timing of the echoes rumbling up from below, as if a ghost drummer were down there following her, exactly one beat behind. As my head tilted, I heard other ghosts: quicker echoes from the walls around us and from the concrete awning overhead.
It was like an invisible drum chorus, led effortlessly from its center, her sticks flashing gracefully across battered white plastic, long black dreadlocks flying, eyes shut tight.
“She’s pretty fool, Zahler,” I admitted.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Especially if we could rebuild this chunk of Times Square every place we played.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “What, the echoes? You never heard of digital delay?”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the same. Wouldn’t be as big.”
“Doesn’t have to be as big, Moz. We don’t want her playing a gigantic drum solo like this; we want her smaller, fitting in with the rest of the band. Didn’t you learn anything yesterday?”
I glared at him, the anger spilling out from the place I thought I’d had it tucked away, rippling through me again. “Yeah, I did: that you’re a total sucker for every chick who comes along with an instrument. Even if it’s a bunch of paint buckets !”
His jaw dropped. “Dude! That is totally unfool! You just said she was great. And you know Pearl’s fexcellent too. Now you’re going to get all boys-only on me?”
I turned away, thoughts echoing in my brain, like my skull was suddenly empty and lined with concrete. Between the Stratocaster that wasn’t mine, the other guitars I couldn’t afford, Pearl’s demolition of the Big Riff, and now the thought of paint buckets , it’d been too many adjustments to make in forty-eight hours.
I almost wished it was just Zahler and me again. We’d been like a team that was a hundred points behind—we weren’t going to win anything, so we could just play and have fun. But Pearl had changed that. Everything was up in the air, and how it all came down mattered now.
Part of me hated her for that and hated Zahler for going along so easily.
He kept quiet, wrangling the dogs while I calmed myself down.
“All right,” I finally said. “Let’s talk to her. What have we got to lose?”
We waited till she was packing up, stacking the buckets into one big tower. Her muscles glowed with sweat, and a few splinters from a stick she’d broken rolled in the breeze from a subway passing underneath.
She glanced at us and our seven dogs.
“You’re pretty good,” I said.
She jutted her chin toward a paint bucket that was right side up and half full of change and singles, then went back to stacking.
“Actually, we were wondering if you wanted to play with us sometime.”
She shook her head, one of her eyes blinking rapidly. “This corner is mine. Had it for a year.”
“Hey, we’re not moving in on you,” Zahler spoke up, waving his free hand. “We’re talking about you playing in our band. Rehearsing and recording and stuff. Getting famous.”
I cringed.
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