So, I stuck with the program.
These cal s were intermingled with cal s from reporters and friends; both wanting to know what was going on.
Since I wasn’t al owed to talk to reporters and since I didn’t real y know what was going on, these cal s were short and annoying.
So I decided to quit answering the phone and Juno and I cleaned my house, top to bottom. Wel , Juno didn’t clean.
Juno watched me clean part of the time and snoozed the other part.
Then I worked on the set list. This took awhile considering it might be the last gig I’d ever play. I told myself I wasn’t being morbid, just prepared, but I knew whatever it was, it had to be special.
What I didn’t do was nap, play my guitar to soothe my troubled soul or come to any conclusions about my effed up life.
I should have done al of those or at least some of them or at the very least the last one. But I didn’t have it in me.
*
I harbored hope that people would stay away from the show considering the cover was doubled, the security was fierce and bul ets were flying. This hope was dashed.
By the time Vance took me to The Pal adium, the doors were closed because the club was already at maximum capacity. I could see there was stil a line straggling al the way down the sidewalk (half a block!) and curling around the corner. Al of this and the show didn’t start for thirty minutes (or, as it turned out, fifty, as the band gave me trouble because they always gave me trouble).
Crazy Rock ‘n’ Rol Denverites.
The good news was there were also a couple of squad cars and uniforms out front, providing what Vance cal ed “presence” which did double duty of helping to control the crowd and making bad guys think twice.
My being “adopted” by the Denver Police Department definitely had its perks.
*
The other good news was that, once we starting playing, the band was hot. We were on fire the night before but we were an inferno tonight. We’d never played this good.
Never.
*
I got to the side of the stage and Mace shoved a Fat Tire in my hand. “Tomorrow, we’l talk about your set list,” he growled.
I looked at him, noticed right off he was ticked and had an instant buzz kil .
I’d been creative with the set list. We were playing songs we’d rehearsed for the hel of it but rarely, if ever, played.
These included Son House’s “Death Letter”, Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, Bil y Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young”, Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot”, AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”, and Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money”.
Furthermore, we played two songs that we’d never played at a show and no one had ever heard outside of rehearsal.
The songs were written by Buzz and Leo. I wasn’t a songwriter but they were and they were pretty good at it.
We’d never played them, not because I didn’t let us but because Buzz and Leo weren’t comfortable with it.
I decided that, seeing as al of our asses were on the line, it was now or never.
Buzz and Leo disagreed.
Floyd, Hugo and Pong thought it was a great idea.
The band fought.
My side won but this meant we were twenty minutes late taking the stage.
And so it goes with rock ‘n’ rol .
The crowd loved the new songs. They loved al of it. They were fucking eating it up.
Mace, however, clearly did not appreciate the irony.
“It’s my band,” I told Mace. “I write the set lists and I don’t take any lip.”
This was a lie. I took lip al the time.
Mace glared at me and he was so good at it I felt it prudent to snap my mouth shut. So I did.
As with each break, Mace put a hand in my back and steered me backstage.
They were taking no chances tonight; al the Hot Bunch, Tex and Duke were there again. The same dril as the night before. The difference was, while the boys of the band worked the groupies or the bar, I spent my breaks sequestered in the dressing room with the Rock Chicks.
“Holy crap! That was great!” Indy shouted when I entered the room.
I saw that this time around, Vance was playing bodyguard. Last break, it was Luke.
Vance gave Mace a nod, Mace accepted it with a return chin lift, glared at me one last time and shut the door behind him as he left.
“I loved your version of ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. That was fantastic!” Roxie yel ed, not holding any grudges from our earlier throw down.
I smiled, took a pul from my beer and threw myself on the ratty couch Monk should have replaced twelve years ago.
“They ain’t wrong. You are hot to- night,” Shirleen hooted.
“Shirleen likes her some hip-hop and every once in awhile, the blues, but the way you play it, girl, I’m thinkin’ of claimin’
back rock ‘n’ rol .”
“You can’t have it, Shirleen.” I smiled at her. “Tonight, I think it’s mine.”