A Song to Die For (23 page)

 

21

CHAPTER

Creed felt the good, solid weight of the Stratocaster on his right shoulder as he looked out through the cigarette smoke at the reckless mix of humanity in Bud's Place.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lindsay said, even before Creed was ready to start the show. “I would like to introduce the opening act.”

The crowd groaned in disapproval.

“Don't worry,” the pedal steel player continued, “we're only going to play one song before the great Luster Burnett takes the stage.” She gestured to her right, her silver finger picks shooting sparks Creed's way … “This is Creed Mason, formerly of the band Dixie Creed, here to play the smash hit song that he wrote, called ‘Written in the Dust'!”

Creed switched to autopilot and cranked out the familiar guitar riff that he himself had invented to kick off the song. Not just any song, but a by-God, top-ten, country charter that
everybody
in the place had heard on the radio.

Before he knew it, the band was into the groove, though Metro was rushing a bit, and Tump was hollering directions to him. Now Creed looked out at the crowd, and even as he sang the lyrics he had written years before, the wave of panic struck him …

“There were eighteen dirt road miles or more;

Between your place and my front door;

And when the weather got dry, that dust would cover my beat-up Ford…”

For now he looked at Lindsay, realizing too late that she was about to sing the part Dixie used to sing … Lindsay … whose skin was darker than Creed's—or Dixie's—was about to answer his opening to a crowd that was about fifty percent redneck …

The crowd at Bud's Place—not the fake urban-cowboy wannabes, but the real snuff-dippin', tobacco-chewin', cedar-choppin', cow-punchin', shit-kickin', beer-guzzlin', goat-ropin', pistol-packin', truck-drivin', cousin-courtin' white-trash yahoos from the sticks out west of town.

This in itself was not a problem.

But, Creed realized, Lindsay was about to sing Dixie's part. Oh, shit … Why hadn't he thought of this on the bus? He rolled his eyes toward Lindsay, and found her smiling fearlessly, holding a chord on the steel with her left hand as she adjusted the mic with her right.

“I remember so well, that first sweet night,”
she began, lending her sweet, mellow vocals to the part Dixie used to growl out to the audience's delight,
“I said please stay and you said all right…”

The redneck element of this crowd didn't seem delighted, though the rest of the audience, made up of country music fans from Austin, was whole-hog enraptured by the surprise opener. Lindsay plowed through the tune with undaunted professionalism and the band ended to a rousing round of whistles, hoots, and applause.

As Creed tuned his guitar, he saw one particularly burly, pig-eyed redneck push his way to the stage. Through the applause, and appreciative hollers of the crowd, Creed heard very clearly what the hateful son-of-a-bitch said:

“Hey, boy, you some kind of nigger-lover?”

Creed felt the ire boil up from his guts as he reached for the strap to undo it from the Strat. He had piled off more than one stage to whip some ass, usually when some drunk got too fresh with Dixie, back in the old days. But before he could get the strap undone, he heard Lindsay's unflappable voice:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage, our host, Mr. Bud Frazier!”

Bud, no small man himself, stepped between Creed and the big redneck. “Take it easy, Creed. I'll handle it.”

Creed, still seething with anger, grabbed Bud's hand and pulled him up onto the stage.

“Folks, look at this band!” Bud said. “It's America, ain't it? And now, let me introduce to you a fine American. The man you've all come here to see. The great, the legendary, the one and only … Luster Burnett!” Bud stepped off the stage and dragged the offensive redneck away with him.

As Lindsay kicked the first song on the set list, she smiled at Creed and said, “Don't let them get to you, Creed, honey.”

Creed nodded as Luster stepped onto the stage. The band had to repeat the intro three times as the legend strapped on his guitar, shook hands, and waved. Finally, his overpowering, dulcet voice rang out, stunning the crowd almost instantly into awed silence, filling every cobwebbed corner of the room. That voice somehow rattled windowpanes and settled nerves; eased tension and tingled spines, pierced eardrums and erased pain. Even Creed felt his anger slipping away, and it wasn't easy to let it go, after it had gotten a good hold on him.

Yes, Luster was living up to his legend, but the band seemed scattered. Tump and Metro felt out of sync, the two of them constantly speeding up and slowing down, trying unsuccessfully to lock in together. Trusty Joe's bow was scratchy and reticent. Even Lindsay got lost in the nebulous shapelessness of what was supposed to be a song, so unsure of the tempo that she began fading her volume pedal out in the vicinity of the down beat so that she didn't have to commit to it.

The crowd couldn't have cared less about the band. They were in the presence of greatness, in the form of Luster Burnett.

After the first song, Trusty Joe made the mistake of hollering “I need more monitor!” to Tony, the soundman.

Creed cringed. As he suspected might happen, Tony turned the wrong knob and cranked up Luster's monitor, instead of Trusty's. Luster didn't even like monitors, preferring to hear his voice in the main speakers, bouncing off the walls, as opposed to the speakers pointing back at the band. He had such confidence in his voice that he had no need for the reassurance of the monitor at his feet, blaring back at him.

But Tony had already cranked the wrong monitor up, causing Luster's microphone to feed back if he got too close to it. But Luster was a pro. Though he must have been frustrated, he just backed away from the mic and compensated with sheer vocal power. He could almost outblare the guitar amps with that amazing vocal instrument of his.

“Turn down!” Creed said to Tump and Trusty. Lindsay had already assessed the problem and backed off with her volume pedal. “Metro, back off!”

After the tune, Luster turned to Creed, an almost evil grin on his face.

“The soundman keeps screwin' with the PA,” Creed said apologetically.

“That's the reason I don't carry a gun onstage with me, because I'd shoot the sons-of-bitches if I did. Just point your guitar strings at the audience, Hoss, and smile. I'll handle the soundman.”

Creed nodded, as Luster turned back to the still-applauding crowd. “Folks, how about a big round of applause for our soundman, Tony!” he said, gesturing toward the mixer board. “Tony's been working his ass off for us tonight. Let's see that ass, Tony! See! Damn near worked off! Tony, step over to the bar because I want to buy you a drink. Bud, for God's sake, come over here to the mixer board and spell poor Tony. Give him a break, you slave-driver!”

Bud took the hint, assuming control of the mixing console. As the band kicked off the next song, Creed tried to make himself relax. He looked at the crowd and faked a smile, as Luster had requested. He noticed some guy wearing a sling on his arm, glaring at him. The guy wouldn't stop staring, and he looked pissed off. Creed's mind whirred as he played. He thought about the guy he had shot at the poker game a week ago—the guy wearing the flack jacket. He thought about the forty-five, just out of reach in his guitar case. The guy in the sling had two buddies with him. All of them looked pissed. He was pretty sure they were the robbers from the poker game.

Aw, shit,
Creed thought. Well, this wasn't such a bad way to go. Shot while giggin' with a legend. He glared back at the guy, his fake smile turning to something of a leer. He wasn't going to be intimidated at his own gig
:
not by some punk, wannabe gangster.

A couple of songs later, the band still locked out of anything akin to a vibe, Creed noticed another familiar face in the crowd. It was the I.R.S. agent, Sid Larue. He was pushing his way through to the stage, causing the hardscrabble rednecks to spill their beers, oblivious to the fact that they needed little more of an excuse to give him a good thrashing.

“Play ‘Chuck Will's Widow,'” Larue demanded.

“Already played that one, Sid,” Luster said, off-mic.

“Then play that one about the pawnshop.”

“We will. We're saving that one for later.”

Sid looked at his watch. “I don't have all night. Got an early morning.”

Luster sighed. “Sid, what are you drinking?”

“I'm not. I told you, I have an early morning.”

“Sid, you're in a shit-kickin' honky-tonk. You have to drink to get the whole experience. Go over to the bar and order something. I'm buying.” Before Sid could complain, Luster put the mic back to his lips. “Folks big round of applause for a fellow country music picker, Sid Larue, down here from Missouri. Sid, let me buy you a beer. Bud, take Sid to the bar, will you? Give him the V.I.P. treatment.”

Luster looked at Creed, as if imparting wisdom. “There's power in a microphone. Use it! Let's play ‘Dear John Note
.'
Kick it.”

The lack of groove in the band continued to hurt. To make matters worse, Creed noticed that a TV cameraman and a reporter had slipped into Bud's Place to record some of the show. They didn't stay long. He figured they were trying to get back to the station to air their scoop on the ten o'clock news.

Eventually, Creed decided to take Luster's advice to heart. He looked at the audience, and smiled. He avoided looking at Sid Larue, and at the three thugs who were still glaring at him. Instead, he found a girl in the crowd upon whom to focus his attention.

She was dancing like a hippy chick, eyes closed, swaying, arms waving above her head. She was dressed in a business suit, as if she had come straight here from some office job. She looked like a very sexy librarian. Maybe she was a lawyer or something, he thought. Anyway, she was really groovin' on this song, and that bolstered Creed's confidence. When the song was over, her eyes opened as she applauded, hopping up and down like an excited little cheerleader. She happened to lock eyes with Creed for a moment, and she smiled at him. But then her eyes were back on Luster, who was working the crowd with the power of his mic.

Creed kept his eyes on the sexy librarian the rest of the night, and things went better, but far from good. The only real bright spot was Luster, himself, whose jokes and stories never failed to entertain. And, of course, the voice … It was as if he had actually gotten better since he quit, all those years ago. Yes, Creed thought. His voice actually sounded
better
than the old records. More maturity. Deeper lows, stronger highs. And … yes, more soul. The recorded vocals had always had a real country heart to them. But now they somehow possessed an abiding sense of loss and gratitude, all rolled together. He sang with a need to impart something even beyond his brilliantly simple lyrics and the word images that had become part of American culture.

Luster was not remotely intimidated by his own legend. He
knew
he was better now, and he wasn't afraid to flaunt that fact.

 

22

CHAPTER

Finally, the last encore behind them, Luster bid farewell to his fans and began shaking hands with drunks. Creed racked his guitar and slipped his forty-five into the front of his pants. He looked for the three thugs, but couldn't find them, which made him nervous. He looked for the sexy librarian, too. She was waiting to meet Luster, but not having much luck getting close to him through the crowd.

Luster continued to talk to fans while the band tore down and packed up. Creed kept one hand on his amp and one on the grip of his pistol as he took his first load to the bus, slipping his gear into the baggage compartment. He almost expected to encounter the poker game robbers, but they failed to materialize.

Later, the stage cleared, he saw Luster finally turn away from the remaining fans to face the band members, who were standing around on the stage. He noticed the sexy librarian lawyer had failed to work her way up to Luster, and looked disappointed. He thought he might go talk to her, arrange an introduction to the legend. Luster changed that plan.

He turned around and scowled at the band. “I want everybody on the bus.
Now!
”

“Uh-oh,” Tump said.

“Uh-huh,” Lindsay agreed.

On the bus, Luster guzzled a beer to calm himself. Then he began:

“The only reason they didn't hate this band,” he said, pausing to swig the last of the beer, “is because they
loved
me. Y'all played like hammered shit!” He collected himself again, grabbed another beer.

“Now, you're all good pickers, but you didn't live up to your potential. You forgot that you were a band. Metro, you rushed all night long. Tump, you had that damn electric bass turned up to
stun
. Lindsay, no matter how bad the band is playing, you've got to commit! Trusty, you don't need more monitor, you need to play fewer notes. Creed, you didn't miss a lick, but you didn't put out ten percent of the soul I know you've got!”

“I didn't rush,” Metro said, followed by a grunt brought forth by Tump's elbow.

Luster continued his rant: “You all played fine at the auction on the ranch. But throw a few distractions at you, and you fall to pieces! What do you think it's gonna be like out there on the road? Shits and giggles? When we play a venue, we've got to storm it and take it by force, if necessary. It starts with you two,” he said, turning his attention to Tump and Metro. “If you two can't lock in together, the rest of the band is lost in the dark. We need a foundation. You two need to go get drunk together, or something.”