Polyphony, in terms of music, is two or more independent melodic tones sounding simultaneously. This is in direct contrast to monophony, or music featuring a single tone, and also homophony, in which one dominant melodic "voice" is accompanied by chords.
Counterpoint, in its broadest sense, deals with the act of successfully combining individual lines of music (independent in movement, pitch, etc.), that, when played simultaneously, form a "meaningful or harmonious relationship."
In essence, counterpoint is what makes polyphony possible. It walks the walk.
Quoted song lyrics come from Spoon's "Before Destruction," and Prince's "Darling Nikki," respectively. I think it's pretty obvious which is which, and I own the rights to neither song.
Disclaimer: Four Brothers and certain characters belong to Paramount Pictures, Di Bonaventura Pictures, et al., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
"I try to 'believe' in as little as possible. It's reality I'm interested in. I want the truth as we know it, not a guess someone thinks I can handle. I personally don't like being lied to." ~ Jack Mercer
No more smoking for Jackie. Doctor says his lungs can't take it, that he'll get sick more often, too, is at high risk now or something for pneumonia when it gets cold. Then Doc asks what Jack does for work, and the kid won't answer, doesn't say nothin'. So Bobby speaks up.
No more smoking, and, reading between the lines, not much singing anymore either. Jackie's lungs are for shit now, and as much as it's like a sucker punch to the gut to think that maybe the kid's career up there in New York is toast. . . Bobby's just damn glad the lungs are the worst of it. Kid can walk and talk and think; that's more than enough, as far as Bobby's concerned. Hell, he would've been perfectly happy with just the first and the last. Kid's got a mouth on him; Bobby might coulda reconciled himself to no more smartass comments from Cracker Jack.
Honestly, though, nowadays he wonders. Jack's normally pretty quiet, always has been, but for awhile now he's been. . . silent, communicating only through gestures and caveman grunts. Bobby knows he's pretty loud himself, and he and Angel are usually the ones filling in any gaps in a conversation, but Jack always offers up stupid shit, too. He used to, at least. Now, the kid is worse than Mr. Disapproval Jerry, and Bobby can't help thinking it has something to do with the guitar picking up dust in the corner. Can Jack not play the thing, anymore? Is that why he's so fucking quiet? Is it the voice thing? Fuck if Bobby knows, and fuck if he's going to ask, either. That isn't how things get done, not in the real world. Life isn't a movie, where people always talk shit out and make up by the end credits. Jackie isn't real good with the sharing, and neither is Bobby, but eventually, the kid'll just give it away, accidentally. He always does, with some casual comment or complaint. Bobby just has to play it cool, and fuck if he doesn't know how to do that.
Eventually, things will get back to normal, only different now cos Ma isn't here. But Angel and Jackie both are, even if it's a just temporary leave in one case, and indefinite recuperation period in the other. That's just fuckin' fine. Things change, and most of the time Bobby's more than glad for that. He damn well never wants to relive his childhood, for instance, and Christ knows the other shits don't either. Well, maybe Jerry, but only cos the son-of-a-bitch is backwards like that, and he'd gotten here with Ma the youngest of any of 'em. Jerry doesn't remember his bad times like the rest of them do.
Honestly, most of the time Bobby knew he was too old to still be doing this shit, but hell if Evelyn wasn't the smoothest talker who ever lived. She could convince anyone to do the right thing, even and especially when there was no reward in doing so - not beyond just smug satisfaction and being on the other end of one of her smiles. Lesser men had caved before Evelyn Mercer, so Bobby didn't feel too ashamed to now essentially be doing her bidding like a bitch.
Besides, he wouldn't really trust anyone else with this job, not even Jerry, to tell the truth.
Bobby had this one covered. He knew what was up, and he was determined to set things right, or at least go about trying to sort of. . . make it up to the little guy. It was a bum deal this kid had gotten, and a worse rep, and it made Bobby kind of sick to know that other people - six different homes full of 'em, for Christ's sake - had just. . . overlooked everything.
There was a whole lot there to overlook.
So, that's how Bobby came to be at the Belle Isle Aquarium on his day off from work when he could've been down playin' hockey at the rink with the guys. And that's also how he came to be holding the hand of a seven year old, who apparently was fascinated by snakes.
Well, at least little Jackie wasn't a pussy, aside from the whole hand-holding thing.
"Hey, dude," Bobby squatted down to say, "the turtles over there aren't being blocked anymore. Wanna go check those out?"
The kid was staring at a python, an intense frown taking up his entire small face, but when Bobby finished asking, the little guy froze up, went still. Then, without looking over, Jackie nodded a couple times.
His hand in Bobby's had gone cold, and Bobby figured he had about two options right now. He could either ask what the deal was and try to reassure Jackie he. . . meant no harm whatsoever, or he could play it off and be the overbearing obnoxious older brother the kid so obviously needed.
He figured they would both be more comfortable with option number two. Jackie had Evelyn for the deep talks.
"Well, let's go then, short stuff," Bobby said, standing up and gently tugging Jackie along behind him. "Them turtles might get away if we don't hurry."
By that point, they were standing in front of the tank with the sea turtles, and when Bobby glanced at Jackie using the glass' reflection, he saw a small smile had replaced the frown.
Bobby: 1. World: 0.
By the time they'd made the rounds of the aquarium, including doubling back for another look at the big snakes, it was around eleven o'clock so Bobby decided lunch was next on the agenda. And then he had an idea.
They were outside, and maybe it should've been weird to be checking Jackie over to make sure he was all bundled up in hat, gloves, and zipped-up puff coat that made the kid look like a red marshmallow, but Bobby didn't feel weird doing it. He tugged the funny knit hat farther down over Jackie's head, pleased when it covered the kid's eyes and he got another smile out of it.
"What would you say to going to check on Evelyn, huh? See if maybe she might wanna eat with us?"
Jack pushed the hat back, and then met Bobby's eyes for the first time that day. And then before the kid had even said a word, Bobby knew why Evelyn was so gung-ho about him hanging out with Jackie, spending time with him, and taking him places away from the neighborhood. And he knew why he wanted to do all that, and would like to think he would've anyway, even had she not talked to him about it.
"Okay," Jack agreed softly, staring back at Bobby with that. . . familiar look on his face.
"Okay," Bobby echoed, standing up. Then he held his hand out, and Jack slowly reached up with his own gloved one and took it. And that probably should've been feeling weird again, to hold some little kid's hand tight, some strange kid he'd only known for a month, but it didn't.
Bobby led the way back to his car, and then after making sure Jackie was buckled up, drove them all the way up to where Evelyn had just last week started work at the Children's Aid Society. It was about a half hour drive, and so Bobby made Jack choose a radio station to listen to. Kid picked classic Motown, and Bobby had a good feeling that the rest of the day would turn out well.
Traffic was a bitch, but Bobby wasn't one to be scared off. A couple times, he was forced to roll down his window and shout at some jag-off to put it in gear or, once, lay on the horn so a station wagon the size of Brazil would choose a lane and fucking stick with it instead of hogging two and preventing anyone behind from making a right turn. Right after he'd screamed out a heartfelt "Fuck you!" it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't have said that with the kid in the car riding shotgun. Bobby shot a quick glance over at Jackie, but instead of finding him with that kicked puppy or shell-shocked look, Bobby was met with a little smirk.
Kid had dimples, how cute, but there was also some kind of gleam in those eyes of his that took Bobby by surprise. 'Troublemaker' that gleam said, and together with the smirk, Bobby found himself somewhat at a loss. Huh. So there was more underneath there. Good to know.
Eventually, he found a parking space only two blocks down from the CAS building, and then he and Jack hoofed it the rest of the way. When they got inside the building, Jackie didn't pull his hand back or move away from him like Bobby had kind of been expecting. Instead, he actually got closer, and at one point Bobby nearly tripped over the little guy.
Even that whole deal was pretty weird, when he thought about it, but Bobby really didn't mind. It was kinda cute, and a whole lot sad, and if Jackie needed to squeeze the hell out of Bobby's hand and basically try to hide behind him as they set about hunting down Evelyn's desk, then that's what he'd get. Besides, it was understandable. Last time the kid would've been in a place like this was only a month back, when he'd just been dumped off by his last set of foster parents. Not too good a memory, that, certainly not with what the complaint about the little guy had been.
Which, thinking about it, simply made Bobby pissed off again. Evelyn had told him some of what was in Jack's files, specifically after the incident where Bobby had come home from work early and found the kid naked in the closet repeatedly beating his head against the wall. Didn't take a genius to figure out there had to have been other crap like that before, at the other foster homes.
The Wendells had been Jack's last home, and they'd brought him in last month and refused to take him back because every time Mr. Wendell went to help Jack get ready for bed the kid had lashed out, scratching, hitting, and once even biting him. The final straw had evidently been when Mr. Wendell, the fucktard without a clue, had gone into the bathroom to drop off some clean pajamas for the kid while Jack was actually taking a bath in the tub.
"Ripped the shower curtain down," Evelyn had told him quietly. "Wound up kneeing the guy in the face - broke his nose. The wife threw a fit, called Jack a monster - right there in the office, right in front of him. Shouted it." All of this came out only after about four shots of whisky and seven or eight really deep sighs.
"I've never wanted to slap someone in the face so much," Evelyn had confessed, grinning sadly, and Bobby had nodded and tried to school his expression into something a little less freaked out. He wanted to go back and slap that stupid bitch too, because, seriously? Those weren't warning signs that maybe something was up. Those were fucking brick walls that these people just barreled on past. Assholes.
Finally, Bobby spotted what had to be Evelyn's desk. There was a familiar coat draped over the back of a rolling chair, and quite a few photos placed around the area. Evelyn wasn't actually physically present, though, so Bobby turned and gestured for Jack to hop up on the empty chair, and then the two of them waited for a bit. There was a half-full mug of coffee sitting by the typewriter, which made Bobby grin cos Evelyn always left those around the house, too. He kept one eye on Jack, who was fidgeting with his knit gloves, but took the time to peruse the photos tacked up on the flimsy cubicle walls. There were a lot of them showing kids he didn't recognize. Those were all put up farthest from the desk, at the doorway. The closer he moved, though, the more those little faces started registering. A few were from the neighborhood. Bobby recognized the two Jaffrey brothers from down the block, and the little girl, Elyse? She lived only three houses away on the opposite side of the street. Eventually, Bobby had followed the pictures around the wall until he was back sort of hovering over Jackie trying to look at them. Jack craned his head back and kind of raised his eyebrows up, and that had Bobby snorting because it made the kid look a lot like Evelyn. He leaned forward to brace himself on the desk, and finally got up close to the last few pictures.
Jerry and Bobby, a lot of them, but Angel was in quite a few, and several showed a 30-something guy with longish hair wearing ridiculous clothing that had gone out of style 20 years ago or more. In all the pictures of him, he was smiling, grinning really, and in three he had his arm around a thin young thing with blonde hair, who it took almost 30 seconds of hardcore staring for Bobby to figure out was Evelyn. The guy with her looked nice.
Bobby bit his lip, and turned away. When his eyes fell on Jack, still looking up at him, Bobby smiled and slowly reached down to spin the chair around and around. In between spins, he caught Jack smiling, and even that got all the way up to a grin. Bobby figured another two or three whirls and he might actually get a laugh out of the kid.
"Knew that ol' thing was good for something," came a voice suddenly from behind him, and Bobby glanced back over his shoulder. He spun Jackie around one more time, and then stopped him gently so he was facing the cubicle doorway.
"So what are my boys up to today?" Evelyn asked quietly, smiling at Jackie but coming up to set a hand on Bobby's shoulder. He leaned over and gave her hug, and when they pulled apart she gave his arm a big squeeze.
Jack was all big eyes and fidgeting hands, and when both Bobby and Evelyn were just standing there looking at him, the kid got nervous and all of a sudden scrambled out of the chair.
"Sor- sorry," Jackie stuttered out in a hurry, but Evelyn just bent down to his eyelevel and smiled that same kind smile of hers.
"Don't you worry, hon," she whispered loudly. "What's mine is yours." Then she reached out to rub Jack's arm, before adding, "And besides, even an old lady like me enjoys a good spin once in awhile. That's what those chairs are for."
And Bobby smiled, and Evelyn was smiling, and even Jackie - even Jackie smiled that day.
"Jack!" he shouts again, "where the fuck are you, ya pansy ass? Time to dope up again! Come and get it, Sweetheart!" Bobby makes sure to sigh extra loudly, hoping it'll get the little shit to come out and roll his eyes at him, but it's a no-go. Thirty minutes, and Jack has managed to fuckin' disappear inside a house the size of a nickel. Freak.
"Fine!" Bobby shouts, moving to the foot of the stairs and throwing his voice up, "you don't want the goods, I know a few knuckleheads down the block who do! Get a pretty penny for this shit, street-side! Make me some dough, get the fuck outta here and away from your scrawny, fairy princess ass!" He waits a beat or two, then calls out, "No? Jesus fuck, Jack." Bobby huffs, giving in and climbing up the stairs. "At least give a response. 'S fuckin' rude, is what it is. Here I am, slaving away in a hot kitchen all day long, and cleaning up shit, and you can't even toss me a 'Hey, I'm up here. Fuck off, Bobby!' What kinda boy did I raise?"
When he reaches the top of the staircase, Bobby does a brief scan of Angel's room, and finding it dead-empty, turns left towards Jack's and Ma's rooms. "Pansy-ass, hippie boy," he taunts as he goes, "with his girly hair and sissy clothi- Hey, you little shit," he says quietly, when he finds him. Kid's all hunched over by the desk in his room, and so Bobby leans against the doorframe. "Didn't ya hear me callin'? Time for the vittles, Little Brother."
Jack turns his head to look at him, and Bobby grins at the glare on the kid's face. But then Jack just goes right back to staring at the little laptop he's got rigged up on the desk, doesn't snap out a comeback or even roll his eyes. Bobby swallows and sniffs, and then finally he stands up straight and walks into the room.
"What's so interesting, then?" he asks, peering over Jack's shoulder at the screen. It's some kind of video, the sound of it through the small speakers all tinny and thin. Some band playing, he guesses, with crappy video quality. Picture's shaking, like the person recording it was either dancing or having some kind of fuckin' seizure - or both. "Who's this?" Bobby asks, and his voice is quieter than he'd intended. "They sound all right. Shitty quality, though."
"'We Spares,'" Jack says, his voice even thinner and scratchier than the music being piped out. "Someone uploaded some videos of the last gig. They're all like this."
"Makin' me fuckin' dizzy, but at least they don't totally suck." Bobby leans closer, setting one hand on the back of Jack's chair and the other down right next to the laptop keyboard. "So you know these guys? Up in the big city?"
Jack makes a sound, something like a sigh but not quite, and says real quiet, "Yeah, I knew 'em." Then he breathes out heavily, and Bobby moves back to get a better look at him. The music stops suddenly, the end of the video probably, but Jack isn't even watching anymore. His head is down, eyes on his hands as he fidgets in his lap.
"Hey, Kid," Bobby says, and he sets his hand on Jackie's shoulder real lightly, "come on. Time for meds. You'll feel better in half an hour, when you're flying higher 'n a kite. Tell ya what: I'll even lug this thing downstairs for ya, so you can soar with this hippie band you're crushing on."
Another sigh, but not so deep this time, and then Jack starts to get up. Bobby grabs under the kid's elbow and together they get him standing. As they hobble Jackie through the doorway and down the hall to the stairs, the kid says, "Dibs on the sofa."
And Bobby nearly stops dead in his tracks, managing to play it off at the last second as him just clearing a stack of magazines out of their path. "I tell ya once, I tell ya a thousand times: you gotta be in eyeshot of something before you call it, shithead. Them's the rules. And, besides," he adds, taking most of Jack's weight as they start going down the stairs, one step at a time, "I'm the oldest and so now technically that fuckin' sofa is all mine. I always have dibs on it."
"Yeah," Jack huffs out, already winded when they aren't even halfway down yet, "but I'm an invalid." They drop down another step. "And invalid always trumps- " And then they're down another step. " -seniority," Jackie finishes.
Bobby can see sweat on Jack's face, feel him shaking where he's holding onto him. "You calling me a senior citizen, you little shit?" he whispers, and they get down one more step, with only two left to go.
" -did see some. . . " and Jack clutches at Bobby, signaling him to hold up, "gray in your hair. The other day." Jack takes a few deep breaths before turning his head to look Bobby right in the eye. Then he smiles. "You are the oldest, Grandpa."
Bobby glares at the little prick, tightening his hold on him. And Jack nods in response. They go down another stair, and then just before the last one, Bobby says, "See if I drag that computer down here for you now, you ungrateful princess. All this verbal abuse- I feel unappreciated."
Jack's breathing heavily, panting, and the sweat's rolling down his face, and he's trembling something fierce as they stand there, but he's also pretty much smiling.
Bobby counts it as a win.
He gently tugs on Jack's arm, and they slowly start moving towards the living room and the couch.
"Like the laptop even weighs 5 lbs, you pussy," Jack says a few steps later.
And Bobby smiles.
"We Weren't Spared"
Discussing the Media Rumor Mill, the Definition of Morbidity, and the Meaning in Music with this year's hottest act. Plus, a Sneak Peek at the Band's Future?
By Michael Frerichs
In the months preceding the release of their greatest hits collection, We Spares' record sales soared. Big Ones, the band's recent compilation album, amassed such a huge amount of pre-release buzz among vocal fans online and even more vocal critics that sales of the band's previous three albums in turn reached record highs. The band's most recent two full-length albums even achieved platinum status, just in the last month alone.
We Spares' recent, record-breaking success isn't entirely out of left field, however. Prior to the release of Big Ones, the band's previous full-length album, the self-titled We Spares, held the top spot as both their best debut and best-selling record to date. We Spares was also a massive critical success, hailed as the quartet's finest outing yet, and garnering three Grammy nominations last year. So it is that this month, amidst still skyrocketing sales of their Big Ones, and with notables in the music community having recently "out-ed" themselves as We Spares fans in the now infamous viral video campaign by Virgin records, this interviewer sat down with three of the four men behind the now wildly popular, and wildly respected, music.
Q. So my first question is probably the most obvious: where's Mitch Mooney?
[Laughter]
Jack Mercer: [To Randy Jinds] Told you.
Randy Jinds: He's got a DJ-ing gig up in the city tonight. Busy, busy, so we told him to just skip this [interview].
Q. Does that happen a lot?
JM: Mitch is pretty high in demand right now, so unless we're in the studio or, you know, getting ready to do some shows, we don't see much of him.
Kevin Izer-Donaldson: F**ker's the Invisible Man.
[Laughter]
Q. Is that a permanent sort of understanding? There have been a number of rumors floating around that he's on his way out of the band.
JM: Was that last one a question?
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh, but Mercer just smiles.]
Q. Okay, question: Are any of the rumors that Mooney's at odds with certain members of the band true?
RJ: Nope, not at all.
KI-D: Media just stirring sh** up again, is what it sounds like.
Q. Jack, is that your opinion, too? You and Mooney often express differing opinions in interviews.
JM: I've got no problems whatsoever with Mitch, never have. He's a huge part of this band. We fight and bicker, but, sh**, that's just how we f**king interact. There's no big rift or whatever.
Q. With the greatest hits album, you also released a re-mastered copy of one of the band's earliest songs [the album's first track, "Cigarette Case"]. It features a recording of Jack singing. Can you explain the process that went into creating that song?
RJ: Like, the technical aspects?
Q. Yes, things like: Where did the audio copy of the vocals come from? How long did it take to perfect the song? But also, what was the emotional impact of working on it? Did hearing it bring back any memories? Anything you'd be willing to share.
RJ: [Turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson] Well, don't know about you guys, but I nearly had a stroke when I first heard it again.
JM: [To me] One of Kevin's old girlfriends had the original.
RJ: Oh, yeah! Good ol' Micki.
KI-D: Yeah, she'd taped some stuff for us way back when, and then she moved, and wanted to get rid of them, so she called me up, asked if I wanted them or what.
Q. Did you all listen to the recordings together, or how did the idea strike to re-do "Cigarette Case"?
KI-D: Well, I listened to them first - well, the first few - but then I brought them over. [He turns to Mercer and Izer-Donaldson.] We ate take-out and, like, chilled, didn't we?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah, made a night out of it. [Looks to Mercer] Think you were high.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh. Mercer nods.]
JM: Probably.
Q. So working with those copies of old songs - what was that like?
JM: It was like bringing the dead back to life again.
RJ: [To Mercer] Wow, that's not morbid at all.
JM: Well, it's true. [He pauses.] Besides, I'm not dead, so does that still count as morbid?
RJ: You're the one who said "dead," dude.
JM: I was going more for "ironic," I think. [To me] "Cigarette Case" didn't used to have anything like the meaning it does now. . personally, I mean. Now, though, it's like the figurehead for everything back then.
RJ: The, uh, culmination.
JM: Yeah, yeah, exactly. In retrospect, that song's amazing, like a Van Gogh or something. Back then, though, I don't think anyone listening really cared about it. I mean, it meant a lot to me, and maybe Rands [Jinds] and the guys by extension, you know, but not- not just the casual listener. 'Course, we played only f**king clubs and bars back then, nothing like the stuff we do now, so the audience has changed a lot, too.
RJ: No nice studios, either. No stadiums.
KI-D: No groupies.
[Laughter]
Q. Jack, you're on record as saying you can't sing anymore. How has that changed the direction of the band over the years? How does that affect you personally?
JM: The guys are my voice now, my singing voice, anyway. The guitar's always gonna be, like, the direct line. It was before, even, more so than me singing the words ever was. But now I mostly write for their [the band's] strengths, for each [guy]'s, you know, specific sound or what they're most comfortable with. Or- or sometimes, I'll just f**k with them too, make them work at it, challenge them. Cos I can't. . . because I can't stretch that way myself, not anymore really. Someone has to. And, I mean, I do a song or two every once in awhile, something specific that I know I can do. There've been at least a couple [songs] on, like, the last, what? [Mercer turns to Jinds and Izer-Donaldson.] Two albums?
RJ: [Nodding] Yeah. Yeah, it was two, because on [Fading] Light, remember we were going to- there were those lyrics for "Dead Doctors Don't Lie" [the instrumental ninth track on that album] that you were going to do, but it didn't-
JM: [Interrupting RJ] Yeah, yeah, I couldn't do it. And it sucks. It- it really f**king sucks, but that's- that's just the way it is now. So, you know, I can write like that, for myself, sometimes. And those songs. . . they turned out all right. I worked it, I think, but that's a different kind of challenge. [Mercer shakes his head.] It's a stupid thing, honestly, but I still f**king do it. It's like, every time in the studio, I get that itch to switch booths or whatever, you know, to put on that singing cap. And when it gets to the point where I just- that's when I bring in a song and tell the guys that-
RJ: [Interrupting Mercer] He'll come in with, like, his head down, and just hold out sheets with all this music on it, and then point to a section and ask, 'What do you think?'
KI-D: I always say it's dumb.
[Laughter]
JM: Yeah, Kev [Izer-Donaldson] always tries to f**king axe it right off the bat, but Randy plays along.
RJ: [Shrugging] It's worth a shot, right? What do you always say? [He turns to Mercer.] 'This is our work. Music's supposed to be hard. It's supposed to hurt.'
Q. Is that true? Do you believe that?
JM: You know, I do. Music's supposed to be a process and all that, but it's also something you should look forward to and- and constantly be thinking about. It's not just. . . procedure, like the law or surgery. Art's like that, too, I think, and writing, and dancing, but only in certain, uh, disciplines or styles, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that when making music, the real creating side of it, when that starts to really turn into, I don't know, just a habit or whatever, then that's a sign that something needs to change. I have to challenge myself. I need that. I think that's how we find the best- in everything, in all ways. If you work for something, you're always going to appreciate it more. And if you appreciate something so much, if you love it. . . if it's really a part of you, an extension, you know, then that's going to come through to people. Because music without anything behind it, without, you know, soul or heart or f**king emotion, that's just trash. It's meaningless trash, and people hearing it can always tell. Well, most of the time they can tell. [Here Mercer smiles, and then clears his throat.] Obviously, not everyone agrees with me, which is why the market's filled with sh** all about banging, but that's- to me, that's not real music. What we [the band] do means something, means a lot to all of us, and most of us can't do anything else. This is it.
Q. What about you? Could you do something else?
JM: [Smiling] You mean like a 9 to 5 at the Post Office? Oh, I tried that. I did do sh** like that for awhile. We all did. But it was always just about scraping by. I mean, I graduated from high school and everything, but there was never even the thought of going to college. [Mercer laughs, and then coughs.] So, uh, yeah. But, you know, I probably could have done the office thing if I'd wanted to, or, like, stuck with it. I'm good with people, I guess. Or at least people think I'm good with people. [Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh.] I mean, I'd be bored as f**k, but I could have done it. Not now, though, or anything. This [the band] has ruined me for anything like that now. There's no going back. I'm house broken. [Mercer smiles again.]
RJ: Personally, I know I'm sh** at everything else. I tried some, too, I guess, but it wasn't like I'd ever have a career. This is the only thing I've ever felt that I'm, like, any good at.
KI-D: Yeah, what they said.
[Laughter, with Mercer again coughing heavily]
Q. I can't help but notice your coughing. Is your health still a serious issue?
JM: [Shaking his head] No, well, I guess it sort of is. [He clears his throat.] I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life, so that's pretty serious, right? [He pauses.] But it's not, like, going to kill me or anything. If I suffocate or something, which isn't a real, uh, concern, then, yeah, it'd be serious, but-
RJ: [Cutting JM off] It's just the amount of air, or lack of it. That's why he can't sing.
JM: [Nods] Yeah, what he said.
[Jinds and Izer-Donaldson laugh again, but Mercer only smiles. His face is still red from coughing.]
Q. Not to sound like a broken record here, guys, but-
RJ: [Laughing] Ha! Good one, man!
Q. Right. There's also been some speculation recently that the re-worked version of "Cigarette Case" is actually just the first of many old We Spares' songs to get a "make-over." Is there any truth to this? Can fans look forward to more re-mastered songs?
[Mercer clears his throat.]
RJ: Well. . .
[There's a long silence.]
Q. Anything at all, just to set the record straight one way or the other.
KI-D: Well, yeah, I guess. [He looks to Mercer specifically.] That's what I recorded the other day, wasn't it? Stuff for "Got Nuffin"?
RJ: [To me] Uh, yeah, we're in the process of sort of. . . fiddling with things. I don't know about the release of them, or anything like that, but I'd love to just hammer those [songs] out. They deserve it.
JM: We're working on it.
Q. Just out of curiosity, how many songs are we talking here? A few?
[Izer-Donaldson starts laughing, and Jinds hits him on the arm.]
JM: More. There're a few different sets Micki got. Some of the quality's crap, but most of it's workable.
RJ: I think there's, like, 15 songs. [Turns to Mercer] Right?
JM: [To me] 18, total. But we'll see how many we put out. It's not- they're not really the, uh, most fun things to work on, if you know what I mean.
Q. Certainly understandable. And, on a personal note, as a fan let me just say: any music from you guys is appreciated, old, new, borrowed or blue. It's been a real honor, guys.
RJ: Hey, same here. You know you've hit the big time when you guys come calling.
KI-D: Yeah, thanks, man. It wasn't painful at all.
[Laughter]
[At this point, Jinds and Izer-Donaldson stand and each shakes my hand. Only when both have started to leave the room does Mercer also stand up. He too shakes my hand, and then smiles.]
Q. Thank you for sitting down with me.
JM: Oh, the sitting was real fun. It was the talking I wasn't too fond of.
[Mercer then pats me on the arm and walks to the door, nodding back at me before leaving.]
When Jackie spaces out on the couch and eventually dozes off cos of the medications, Bobby sneaks over and cleans up around him. He takes the half-full plate of food and glass of orange juice the kid didn't finish into the kitchen, and then he starts untangling the laptop from the nest Jackie makes of the couch every day. The power cord's wrapped around the kid's ankle and Bobby has to bite his lip to keep from snorting out loud at the sight. Kid isn't really a light sleeper during the day, so it's unlikely he'll wake up, no matter how much noise Bobby makes near him. But then, Jack never really sleeps a full night through, either, so the kid still definitely needs any rest he can get.
So Bobby holds his breath and gently lifts up the kid's leg to unwind the laptop's power cord. Once, twice, three to the right, and the cord's free. Bobby pulls it back and drops it carefully to the floor. Then, he straightens out the leg of Jackie's sweats and sets his leg back down on the couch. Restless sleeper, that's what Ma called Jackie, and it's a fact. Kid always rolls and turns and tosses until he's one big cocoon of blankets and bedding. Bobby straightens the blanket and gently puts Jackie's arms back up on his chest now, but in 20 minutes or less the kid's gonna be all turned around again. Most times, Kid only seems to wake up cos he's in danger of fuckin' suffocation, having flailed his way under and around so many times while conked out. Bobby's fuckin' shocked the kid even manages to get any sleep at all, the amount of moving he does every time.
First time he sees it, he's puking his guts up into a well-placed trashcan. He'd been mid-stagger on his way home to his apartment after a night out with some of the guys on his demo crew, when the liquor started staging a revolt against his stomach. Next, he's bent double and trying not to throw up anymore because sticking his head over that trashcan to throw up is even worse than the throwing up itself. By the stench coming off that trashcan, Bobby's not the first guy tonight to lose his dinner in there.
So, when he's stabilized a bit, hopefully enough to get home to his shitty one-bedroom, but also thankfully one-bathroom apartment, Bobby unbends himself, wobbles a bit before getting his equilibrium back, and then for some reason looks around. Going by the nearby street sign, he's only three blocks away from his $500 shit heap, and he's standing right in front of a pawn shop window. Compasses are displayed on little risers, and some boots, shoes, a few purses, and coats - no weapons of any kind, of course - and then hanging from the sides, strung up, is quite the assortment of used musical instruments.
Bobby runs his eyes over the last group, stopping on the third instrument from the left. "Huh," he huffs to himself, finding that interesting and important for some reason. He files that away for later, though, and taking a slow, deep breath, recommences staggering home.
Two months later, he goes home to Ma's for what he was told was a "special dinner, Bobby" and what in fact turns out to be Jerry and his witchy girlfriend Camille dropping the bomb that they're engaged and planning on getting married in the summer. Everything goes silent for a full five seconds, and then Ma's saying, "Congratulations!" and Angel and Bobby are fucking laughing hysterically, and Jack's just staring at them all like they're strangers and he's not sure if whatever the hell they're infected with is contagious or not.
"Don't you have anything to say to your brother?" Ma lightly bites out in that voice of hers that means she knows he was already past hammered before he even got here and she's going to have a word with him about it very, very soon.
"Yeah, Jer," Bobby says, holding up his beer in a mock toast. Angel hoists up his glass, too, biting his lip cos he knows as well as everyone does that Bobby's got something planned. So, he goes for it. "Congratulations!" he cries out, cheerfully adding with a grin, "It's your funeral, you poor fucking bastard!"
In the heavy silence that follows, the only sounds are Bobby leaning over and clinking his beer against Angel's glass of water, and someone sighing.
Camille ends up storming out in a fit of rage not five minutes later, Jerry hot on her trail with apology after apology tripping from his mouth. He still manages to spare a few seconds on his way out, though, in an attempt to glare Bobby to death. Angel, meanwhile, wastes no time begging off to go hang out with his "friends," the majority of whom are really nothing but hoodlums with the long records to prove it. Angel's heading down a path Bobby knows only too well leads nowhere good, but damn if anything he's said has made a bit of difference. Hard for him to lead by example when his own life is rapidly sliding into the gutter.
That leaves Ma, Bobby, and Jack. Eventually, Jackie quietly gets up from the table and spends some time stacking and gathering all the dirty dishes together. Kid then slinks off into the kitchen with them and starts washing up. Bobby finishes his beer, and when he's done he reaches over and snags Jerry's barely touched one. Ma's just sitting there, staring at him, and he's somehow simultaneously calmer than he's ever been and about one hair away from ripping into her and just laying it all bare.
It takes Bobby four swallows to empty Jerry's beer, and just as he's set the bottle down on the table, Ma says real quietly, "I don't know why you're doing what you're doing, Bobby, but you need to put an end to it right now."
He looks over at her, and she's - Ma's pissed. He'd been expecting disappointment, but her cheeks are red and her mouth's just a compressed straight line cutting across her face. And now Bobby's not calm or angry.
He's just back to floundering.
He turns his head away from her, and then they just sit there for a long time. Over the sound of water running in the kitchen, he can hear Jack humming and sometimes singing a word or two.
As though she knows what his focus is on, Ma suddenly says, "It's his birthday in a few weeks." It's too loud somehow. He's startled into looking over at her again.
"Huh?" he asks, frowning.
"Your brother," she snaps out, still really angry at Bobby apparently. "Jack. His birthday is in less than three weeks and we're going to have a little party for him. And you are going to be here."
Bobby scoffs. "Yeah, if I don't have to work- "
"It'll be at night, Bobby, and don't you take that tone with me, kid. I say there's a party, and Jackie's brothers are damn well going to be there, you hear me?" She eyes him for a moment, and Bobby's pissed and drunk and fucking screwing up every little thing in his life, but he's not stupid. He keeps his mouth shut and drops his eyes to the table and just focuses on breathing in and out.
Then one of Ma's hands comes into view and she's grabbing his right hand in hers and squeezing it - hard. He obligingly looks up, and it's to the sight of her with tears in her eyes.
"A present," she whispers abruptly, her mouth snapping shut over the 't' like it's hinged too tight and can't stay open long. Bobby doesn't even know what he's feeling, and he can't say what she is, either, but just going by looks alone. . . yeah, that's it right there.
Now you fucking get it, he thinks. Now you get what I'm dealing with on a daily basis here.
But Bobby just nods, and Evelyn squeezes his hand again, and then they're both quiet once more. The whole house would be quiet if it weren't for Jack. He's singing something about wishing it would rain, and suddenly Bobby knows just the thing, remembers it.
The next day, after work and before the bars, Bobby walks down three blocks and goes into that pawn shop on the corner. He walks up to the guy at the counter, and when he's acknowledged with a suspicious frown and a quick nod, Bobby points up to the front of the store, at the window, third from the left.
"How much for that guitar?" he asks, pointing with one hand and pulling out his wallet with the other.
Tuesday, just after Bobby finishes cleaning the plates from breakfast and is about to start in on the glasses, the phone rings. Then it rings again, and he has to make the snap decision of whether or not to answer the damn thing. As he's wiping his hands off on his jeans and reaching for the phone itself, he kinda mentally prepares himself for that lawyer Mom was "seeing," or some stupid domestic thing Jerry wants him to help with, or someone from the hospital needing to discuss payment plans on Jackie's hospital bills.
"Mercers," Bobby grumps out.
"Uh, yeah. . . " a quiet voice says, and Bobby frowns. It's a guy on the other end - young, too, it sounds like.
"Who is this?" Bobby demands. "Spit it out, or I'm hanging up right now." He resists adding on any curses just in case it turns out to be someone calling for Mom again - as three days ago that was the fucking case, and had led to what would go down in his book as one of the most awkward conversations of his life - but he is so not in the fucking mood for any more jackass, gangster wannabes today.
"Uh, is- I'm calling for Jack?" the guy stutters out. Sounds nervous, and while any call for Jack from some young-sounding dick pings on Bobby's radar, he takes some joy in the fact that he's already cowed said dick.
"Who is this?" Bobby repeats slowly and carefully, only now wondering, like a moron, if this isn't one of Sweet's goons calling to stir shit back up again.
"Randy!" the guy says quickly. "It's Randy, from the band? I'm in the band with Jack," he adds, still with that nervousness all through his voice. But then it's like that broke the dam, and suddenly the guy just starts rattling all this stuff off. "I don't know if you know that. I mean, I assume you're one of his, uh, brothers? Is he there? Cos I can just, like, leave a message or something, if he's not. It's- it's not urgent. I'm just trying to see if he's, you know, okay or whatever. I mean, not okay, you know, cos his mom just- uh, but just. . . cos I haven't heard anything from him in awhile and the other guys are getting kind of- but that's, you know, understandable and all."
Bobby catches himself snorting aloud when the guy finally screeches to a verbal halt. "Yeah, Randy, was it?" he asks, knowing full well he's right, but cheerfully giving in to the urge to just fuck with this guy a little more. Dude made it too easy, already flaking out before Bobby'd even really started yanking his chain.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's Randy. Randy Jinds?"
"Well, Randy, Jackie can't in fact come to the phone right now, but he is here." Bobby hesitates for a few seconds, but then decides it can't really hurt anything if he asks. "You his friend then, too, or just some asshole riding his coattails?"
"Wha?" the guy squawks in reply, and Bobby smiles. "No, man," Randy says, and some of that pansy-ass tone has left his voice, "it's not even like that. Jack and me, we've been around for years now. Since Chicago. He's my best friend in the world. I'm not. . . riding his coattails. We're like partners!"
Now, at this moment, Bobby's seriously torn between laughing and making another crack about Jackie and his boyfriend, or cutting the dude a break and backing off. A little. Fact is, Jack's just in the other room, zoning out on morning shows as his good stuff starts kicking in. Then it occurs to Bobby that maybe a good way to solve this is to just take the ancient cordless into the living room and stick it in Jackie's doped up face, watch the kid slur his words and confusedly try to figure out what's going on. That'd be the real test of whether or not this Randy is telling the truth. Jack can't lie for shit most of the time, and Bobby'd found out the other day that him stoned out of his mind dropped those odds down to impossible. Bobby'd caught him trying to light up on the porch, and shithead had seriously tried to play it off as him just "getting some fresh air". . . while he'd still been retardedly flicking the fucking lighter and with the cigarette literally hanging out of his mouth. Yeah, Jackie's a real brain trust these days.
"Well, that's a fucking relief," Bobby finally says sarcastically. He gets up from where he'd been leaning against the wall and turns around to head into the living room. "Tell you what, lemme just go in and see how Princess is doing. If he's awake, then I'll let you talk to him. How's that sound, Randall?"
"Uh- uh, that sounds fine."
"Peachy," Bobby says, stopping when he gets to the couch and Jack. Shaking his head, Bobby snaps his fingers in front of the kid's face a couple times to get his attention. It works, but takes three seconds too long. Jackie slowly lifts his head up from where it's been resting on his hand, and then his eyes follow a moment later. Bobby grins.
"Huh?" Jack asks, his eyes fucking glazed as shit.
"Phone for you, Princess," Bobby tells him, shoving the receiver into his face. "It's the President."
Jack frowns, but when he makes no move to take the phone, Bobby sighs and literally bends down to mold the kid's hand around it and then drags it up to his ear.
"Fuck you, Bobby," Kid mutters, as Bobby arranges his hand on the receiver. ". . . 're so full of shit."
"Christ, your mouth is foul when you're high," he says, stepping back to see if Jackie'll still hang onto the phone if Bobby isn't hanging onto it right along with him. "That any way to talk to your sweet nurse?"
Jack's got the phone right next to his mouth, and it looks like it might stay put for awhile. He's still frowning at Bobby, but it's pretty dazed and probably more from confusion than any anger or whatever.
"Crap. . . fuckin' deal," Jackie slurs out, his voice still rough in a way Bobby's starting to think is gonna be permanent. " . . . not even nice to me. Ass."
Bobby laughs, then points to the phone. "Says he's in your band. Randy? That sound familiar?"
The frown of confusion slowly changes into something else, some expression Bobby doesn't know the right name for. He looks. . . not happy, not scared, but something. Nervous? Bobby studies Jackie a little.
Yeah, that's him nervous. Huh. Good thing to know, he figures. Although, that isn't really boding too well for fuckin' Randy in Bobby's book.
"Randy?" Jackie whispers, and if it isn't exactly said into the phone, it's at least close enough to count.
Bobby can't hear what the guy says in response, and much as he wants to listen in, he doesn't. At first. No, Bobby unbends himself from leaning over Jack and goes back into the kitchen. There, he leans against the counter for a moment, then cranes back to look into the living room again, before finally just going back to cleaning the dishes. Jack's voice is either real quiet and being drowned out by the running water, or else he isn't saying anything, cos Bobby can't hear a word.
Dishes done, Bobby turns off the tap. Then he goes over to the fridge and, at barely past ten in the morning, grabs himself a beer. Twisting the cap off, he slowly makes his way over to the doorway, looking in on Jackie again.
Bobby's not too proud to admit he's trying to eavesdrop. Sometimes it's the only way to get the truth, especially in this family.
" . . .don't know," Jack's saying. "Gonna. . . gonna stay here. For awhile." Then he's quiet for a bit, and Bobby figures that means Randy's talking over the line. "Yeah," Jack whispers a moment later, "whatever. Whatever you gotta d- " He stops suddenly, like Randy interrupted him. Bobby frowns, taking another swallow of the beer and looking closely at how Jackie's acting.
Sad, now. He isn't crying or anything like that, but Bobby knows Jackie. That's the kid's fucking depressed face, different from his crying face altogether. This one is. . . more like Jack's trying not to care, when it just makes it that much more obvious that he cares a whole helluva lot. It's the same one Jackie'd always used to have, back when Bobby would catch the little bastards around the neighborhood messing with him and saying shit things about him within earshot, or like when he had come up to see Bobby that one time in the joint, or at the lawyer's downtown fucking last week when he'd been looking at those adoption papers Mom had kept.
Bobby wonders if that shitty poker face of Jackie's fooled anybody up in New York. He wonders as he swallows down some more beer if fuckin' Randy would've seen through Jack's act if he'd been here, and not just talking to the kid on the phone.
Jack's name is flashing on the caller ID, and without a second thought Bobby's dropping his bag right by the front door so he can get the cell open that much faster with both hands.
"Hey," the kid says, and it's not as worn down sounding as it usually is, "you home yet?"
"Just barely," Bobby answers, turning on the porch and dropping down into one of the chairs by the windows. "How 'bout you, shithead? What's going on out there in La-La Land? Bang any hot metrosexuals lately?"
He's met with silence, and Bobby starts to wonder if maybe he fucked up and cracked that joke at a really bad time or something, and then suddenly the line's full of the sound of Jack's rough laughter, which of course quickly takes a turn for coughing after only a few seconds.
"Jack?" Bobby asks, and then he repeats it, shouting, "Jack! What the fuck?"
More hacking but it grows distant, like the kid's moving away from the phone. And then, Bobby catches a familiar voice asking at first in the background, but by the last word, right up next to the speaker, "What's so goddamn funny? Jack, wha- why are you giving this to me?"
"Randall, what the fuck is going on?" Bobby asks in his coldest voice, partly cos he is a little worried about Jackie - always is with that awful coughing he does now almost constantly - but mostly because he just likes messing with Randy. It's even more fun than ragging on Jackie, as far as that goes.
"Uh, Bobby?" the guy eventually asks. Jack can still be heard in the background, but the coughing doesn't sound quite as bad as it did a few seconds ago. "What'd you say to him?"
"Nothing!" Bobby instantly snaps. "Just the usual shit. I made a crack about him getting some male-tail and then suddenly he's literally coughing up a lun- what are you laughing at?"
But Randy, the fucker, just keeps on laughing from when he'd started halfway through Bobby's response, and eventually Bobby simply hangs up on the retards.
A few months later, when Bobby's farther out west with the team and can make a pit-stop to see his brother in L.A. after the game, he finds out why the two of them had been laughing.
Randy even summons up the stones to say to Bobby deadpan, "FYI, we prefer 'dandy' over metrosexual." And then Bobby's suddenly sitting front row center for the Jack&Randy Tongue Festival.
He doesn't return to L.A. for three years - excluding his two-day stint when Jack insists he show up for his big 30th birthday party - cos at least when Jackie and Wonder Boy are forced to come to Detroit to see him they keep the making out in front of everyone to a minimum.
Detroit's finally good for something.