Killer Riff (8 page)

“C’mon, Olivia can be difficult, but work? Give the kid a break.” He propelled us to a door with a printed sign that read J
ORDAN
C
ROWLEY. AS
he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open and a striking but very unhappy man strode out. Tall and thin, with exquisitely sharp cheekbones and thick, shoulder-length black hair shot through with silver. My breath caught in my throat and stayed there—fortunately, because it kept me from shrieking his name or babbling about how huge a crush I’d had on him when I was a teenager.

Dancing awkwardly around us, he forced a polite smile. “Excuse me.”

“Gray, you leaving?” Adam asked.

Gray Benedek’s hazel eyes went cold, even though his smile never faltered. “Buddy, I don’t even know why I came.”

“Let me talk to her,” Adam began.

“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” Gray tipped his head in acknowledgment of my stammering, starry-eyed presence and hurried down the hall.

It wasn’t until he was out of my line of sight that I could breathe again. As impressed as I was to be standing next to Adam Crowley, he wasn’t a superstar idol from my formative years, when I’d all but glue on headphones and listen to one album over and over again while gazing at the band’s picture and memorizing every word, every bit of phrasing, on every song. “Was that Gray Benedek?” I asked, trying to force the squeak out of my voice.

“Yeah. Sorry, I should’ve introduced you,” Adam said, looking back over his shoulder to spot Gray.

“Some other time,” I assured him. Sometime when I was prepared not to drool. I needed to be professional now. As my mother had told me when I got invited to an embassy formal while in college, “Pretend you do this all the time.”

Once Adam knocked successfully, the door opened, revealing Claire Crowley, dazzling in a swirling vintage Indian cotton dress, something she might have worn when Micah was starting out. And looked just as good in it now as then. She smiled at her son, but he didn’t return it. “What’s wrong with Gray?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Claire said, “he just had to go.” She turned to me quickly, giving me the same smile. “Molly, thank you for joining us.”

“My pleasure,” I said as she drew Adam and me into the room. It was a classic dressing room, with several lighted mirrors and stools at the left wall. The rest of the space was dominated by two large and slightly bedraggled sofas and a big circular table loaded with iced beverages ranging from water to wine, fruit platters and baskets, and a huge tray of sandwiches and baked goods.

Scanning the faces of the people in the room, I spotted Olivia in the corner of the far sofa, arms folded over her chest as though she’d just finished arguing with someone. Her face brightened when she saw me, and she stood. “This is the reporter I was telling you about,” she told the room in general.

Adam let go of my elbow. “Reporter?” he repeated with mock distaste. At least I hoped it was mock.

Olivia tapped the shoulder of the man sitting on a stool with his back to everyone else, hunched over a guitar. He eased the stool around but didn’t straighten up. Even from the odd angle, I was struck by the similarities between Jordan and Adam Crowley. Both looked more and more like their father as they got older, especially the penetrating eyes and sharp cheekbones. Their mothers looked so different, I would have expected Micah’s features to be altered, softened in each of them, but there was little disparity and no question that they were brothers.

Jordan’s hair was longer, a mass of curls that dropped to near his shoulders. Maybe a shade or two lighter than his half-brother’s, but not much. The same mesmerizing green eyes, the full lips in the fine-boned face. I thought of the old Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg album
Twin Sons of Different Mothers.
Here it was in the flesh. The most notable difference between the two was the bearing; even as Jordan uncurled from his guitar and stood, there was a slight hunch to his posture, a diffidence in his smile that seemed out of keeping with his rock star status. He waved to me in greeting, even though I was only six feet away, as Olivia explained who I was.

“Hope you like the show,” he said, grabbing a water bottle off the makeup counter.

“Of course she will,” said a slight woman in an impressively tight pair of 7 for All Mankind boot-cut jeans and red Anne Klein platform pumps as she stepped forward to shake my hand. “I’m Bonnie, Jordan’s mom.”

After the entrancing similarities between the two sons, the differences between the two mothers were startling. Bonnie was more petite than I had realized from pictures, her hand seeming fragile in mine, her brown eyes huge in her delicate face. The skintight mesh pullover showed there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her frame. Her hair was chopped close to her head and streaked with even amounts of red and blond so I couldn’t quite detect the original color, and she’d spiked it lightly. She and Claire were about the same age, but Claire appeared to be accepting the fact a little more gracefully than Bonnie was.

“It’s great you’re doing an article on Ollie,” Jordan said, throwing his arm around Olivia’s neck. “She’s the best. Like the sister we don’t think we ever had, right, dude?”

A look of pain snapped between Adam and Olivia, then Adam nodded tightly. “You got it, bro.”

“And we all miss Russell like hell, y’know,” Jordan continued to me. “Just not the same. I’m gonna dedicate a song to him tonight.” He moved away from Olivia, shaking the water bottle as if it were a percussion instrument and humming, too low for me to pick out what the song was.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Claire asked coolly.

“It’s brilliant,” he responded with a grin.

Olivia glanced uncomfortably at Claire before speaking. “Please, Jordan, it’ll make people sad.”

Jordan shook his head, still keeping time. “It shouldn’t, it should make them angry. Pissed that a great guy like that would think that his life had no meaning anymore, that he had no option but to—”

A sob escaped Olivia. Jordan stopped, pulling her to him awkwardly. Everyone else looked somewhere else, and I got the distinct impression that tact was not Jordan’s strong suit.

The stage manager knocked as he opened the door to let Mr. Crowley know that he’d be going on in fifteen minutes. Adam said, “He’s still warming up,” and eased the stage manager back out of the room, leaning against the door so no one else could come in.

“Blood pumping now, Jordan?” Adam asked bitterly.

“Adam,” Bonnie said in a tone that would have been more appropriate had she been his mother.

Adam’s mother said nothing, just walked over to disengage Olivia from Jordan’s embrace. She took Olivia over to Adam as Jordan leaned back against the mirror, drumming his fingers on the water bottle and glaring at the ceiling. Bonnie went to him, stroking his arm, but he didn’t react at all. The stage manager didn’t belong out front, he belonged back here directing the emotional traffic.

Claire gave me a stern smile. “Why don’t the three of you go take your seats while Jordan finishes preparing.” It was a command, not a suggestion, and I followed Olivia and Adam out into the hall, wishing I could be a fly on the wall as the remaining three continued their argument or circled the cauldron or whatever they were going to do.

Whatever they did do, it worked. Fifteen minutes later, when Jordan hit the stage, Olivia was still sniffling, but Jordan was on fire. He played with power and passion and sang the same way. His voice, like Adam’s, was reminiscent of Micah’s, but his had a melancholy tone that deepened occasionally into something anguished. I’d liked his album very much (me and half a million other people), but I never would have guessed how much more compelling he would be live. We were at a reserved table, front and center, and more than once, I felt as though Jordan could see beyond the stage lights and was looking right at us. It was thrilling.

I was so enthralled, I didn’t realize Adam had leaned toward me until his lips were against my ear. He explained that the drummer, bass player, and keyboardist were “friends from other bands,” bands I didn’t know very well. I nodded, but Adam didn’t sit back, his lips still at my ear. I waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, I turned to look at him. He didn’t move, so we were suddenly nose to nose. Amused that I was startled, he smiled and sat back. I wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but I could tell I was going to have to watch him.

Moments later, I turned away and was lost in the music again. The other musicians kept up with Jordan but never tried to claim the stage from him. It was his show, and he was masterful. So much so that it took over an hour for me to realize he hadn’t played a single new song. Songs from his album, a handful of interesting covers, and even an old Subject to Change song, but nothing new. Under cover of a guitar solo, I leaned over to whisper to Adam, purposely pressing my lips against his ear, “I thought he was getting ready to do a new album.”

Adam grinned, but his eyes stayed on his half-brother. “Yeah, he is.”

“Why isn’t he playing anything from it?”

Adam’s grin took a sour turn. “Maybe it sucks.”

On his other side, Olivia lightly slapped Adam on the arm. “Stop it,” she hissed, looking around nervously as though anyone could hear our hushed conversation over the wailing of Jordan’s guitar.

Adam shrugged. “Yeah, he’s only six months late, I’m sure it’s all gold.”

I sat back as Olivia smacked Adam once again. The sibling dynamic between the two of them fascinated me, especially in light of Claire’s comments about Olivia’s feelings for both being far from sisterly. I could imagine emotions ebbing and flowing as they’d grown up, close quarters in an already rarefied environment. Adam’s and Jordan’s feelings for each other must have fluctuated over the years, too, especially as they were competing for Micah’s attention and then for his crown.

Had Russell ever favored one over the other? Adam had been pushed out into the spotlight early—raw in emotion and experience—and not gained the traction people had expected. Had Russell expected more? Too much? And then moved on to Jordan, whose initial impression was that he could be every bit as big as his father, maybe even more so—as long as his second album followed up well? If Jordan was petering out, too, had the pressure of creating the next Micah overwhelmed Russell? Was this a case not of murder, but of artistic despair? But how did that jibe with Russell telling Olivia that his work was being used against him?

As the applause for the last song died down, Jordan stepped forward on the stage. “These guys are great,” he said, sweeping his arm at the band, “but I’d like to have someone really special come up and join me now. My brother, Adam.”

Shouts and whoops rang out over the thunderous applause, and people craned in their seats or stood to see where Jordan was pointing. Adam sat stock-still in his seat, looking less than pleased. Olivia nudged him, whispering, “Go,” urgently. After a long moment, Adam rose and walked to the stage stairs, the applause swelling as people spotted him.

Jordan bumped the microphone stand with his hip, leaning into it as he watched Adam approach. “He didn’t know I was going to do this, but I knew I could count on him to be a good sport and play along.”

The diehard fans screamed, knowing where Jordan was headed even before he played the opening riff. “Play Along” was the monster hit off Subject to Change’s final album, released after Micah’s death, an anthemic rock song about trying desperately to keep a relationship together even when you know it’s over.

Adam stood onstage a moment, hands on hips, looking at Jordan with an unreadable expression. Jordan grinned and played the riff again. I actually thought Adam might turn around and leave the stage, but he smiled, not without effort, and took the seat in front of the grand piano that the keyboard player had graciously vacated.

The brothers locked eyes and tore into the song. Within three bars, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering and, when the lyrics began, joining in: “Been at this game so long, I can play it in my sleep, / But how to beat a score I don’t even want to keep …” Jordan worked his way over to the piano so he and Adam were within arm’s length as they played, challenging each other, goading each other, driving the song as if it were a physical object to be pushed from one point to another. It was electrifying.

When the song ended, Jordan embraced Adam, practically pulling him off the bench, as the crowd managed to scream and clap even louder. Adam returned the embrace, and Olivia burst into happy tears beside me. “They haven’t played together for such a long time,” she shouted over the din. “This is so wonderful.”

Jordan let go of Adam and turned to the crowd, still on its feet. The cheering gave no indication of dissipating, so he pitched his voice to cut through the noise. Adam sat back down at the piano. “We’re missing a couple of really important people tonight, people who should still be here.” Beside me, Olivia caught her breath. Onstage, Adam tensed, too, as Jordan continued, “This next song is for the two men who raised us—as long as they could.”

Jordan played the opening riff, and Olivia’s wailing “No” sailed above the crowd noise like a descant. Some people cheered, but others caught themselves as they identified the song. Adam sat frozen at the piano as Jordan sang, “Valium and Jack, / Nothing back, / Nothing to hold on to, / To break my fall …” He looked to Adam, surprised he wasn’t playing.