The Price of Interference - Chapter 3
Monday nights are Open Jam Session Night at "Joe's". It's my favorite night of the week. You never know who might show up to join in. It might be a local girl trying out some blues riffs for her garage band, or a headliner from Vegas returning to his roots. That's the beauty of standards – they let you make music with perfect strangers.
The audience was small, but friendly, forgiving, open-minded, and fanatically loyal. They were up for anything, from swing to aharmonic free form jazz solos. There were regulars that had never missed a Monday Jam Session since "Joe's" opened. One woman had flown back halfway through her honeymoon in Hawaii, new husband in tow, so as not to miss it. Never heard so many love songs as got played that night. Tonight we've got the house band plus "Walrus" Santiago on trumpet. Walrus was driving from San Diego up to a gig in Victoria, but had planned his trip so he could be in Seacouver for the Jam Session.
I can't help but glance over at MacLeod's table. It's empty again. It used to be, whenever the two of us were in town, Mac would sit at that table. Of course, whenever he wasn't in town, I'd be out of town Watching him, whether it was Paris or that trip to Scotland. The regulars made a few jokes about it, but they always left that table open. They knew if I was playing, Mac would be in at some point to listen.
Until six weeks ago, when my friend Cord killed our friend Charlie, and Mac stopped coming in on Monday nights. The regulars asked after him. The band asked after him. I can't even remember what I told them, but no one asked after that night. Six weeks, and all the regulars still leave that table open for him, just in case. It's starting to get a little morbid. But tonight, MacLeod is gonna be here with Jean-Pierre. It's okay if it takes a crisis to get him here; that's what his life is like. I just want to see my friend sitting at that table again.
MacLeod arrives during one of Walrus's solos. I keep a steady rhythm going and watch the reactions as Mac strides in with Grace on his arm, Jean-Pierre trailing after them. I'm still not sure if MacLeod is just modest, or if he really is oblivious to the effect he has on people. My regulars murmur greetings as he passed. A few of the single women who had been maneuvering around him inspect Grace. Mac is more his usual dapper self, pulling out the chair for her while watching Walrus do his thing.
Jean-Pierre looks … better. Still under-fed, but he doesn't have that "deer in the headlights" look from a few days ago. He's wearing some of Richie's clothes; the dressy slacks and cobalt blue shirt that Richie only wears when Mac drags him somewhere fancy. Jean-Pierre sits at the table folding in on himself. I've been reading Jean-Pierre's Chronicles, trying to figure out how I can help. Getting him up on stage in front of an audience is the best thing I can do for the kid. That's real life for him, before all this craziness started. And no real bluesman can resist a jam.
Walrus is winding up his solo, and I snap my attention back to the stage. A jam isn't planned out in advance, so you have to keep your eyes open for band members signaling chord changes, solos, and stops. I throw myself into the next few verses. As the last chords of "Playin' with my Friends" fade out, I decide it's time to test out my theory.
"We're gonna take a 15 minute breather, be back soon for the last half of the jam."
I check in with the rest of the band. My guys are fine with anybody hopping on stage, but out-of-town pro's sometimes get cranky about letting amateurs play with them.
"Walrus, the kid over there's got a great set of pipes, mind if I invite him up?"
Walrus shrugs. "Fine with me, it's an open jam, right? Just so long as I've got time for a smoke." He bolts for the door. "Joe's" is smoke-free, and it's tough on some of the nicotine addicts.
I lay my Gibson down gently in its stand, pick up my cane and head for MacLeod's table, greeting my regulars on the way. Mac gestures me to the open seat.
"MacLeod, Isabelle, glad you could make it!"
Grace glances side-ways at MacLeod, and then extends her hand. "My friends call me Grace, Joe."
"Grace, then, it's a pleasure to see you in here again. A beautiful woman always adds a touch of class to the place."
I resist a sudden, bizarre urge to kiss her hand, shaking it firmly instead. Must be those drawings of her wearing bonnets in Mac's chronicles. I settle into the remaining chair with a sigh and wait for MacLeod to formally introduce me to the kid.
"Jean-Pierre, this is Joe Dawson. You've been listening to his CD all weekend."
Jean-Pierre is staring at me without saying a word. Anybody in there?
"Welcome to "Joe's", Jean-Pierre, good to meet you. Been enjoying the music?"
Jean-Pierre nods. "Yes. Yes, it brings back some good memories." The faint Creole accent I noticed the other day is gone. I wonder if he only has it in French, or maybe it only comes out when he's emotional, like MacLeod's brogue.
"I hear you're pretty good blues singer yourself. Want to sit in with us after the break? It's an open jam session, everyone's welcome." Jean-Pierre looks around at the audience, clearly uncertain, hugging himself as if he's cold.
"Hey, don't worry. You will never find a friendlier audience than this. You could go up there and sing, "Happy Birthday." If it had a decent bass line, these folks would try dancing to it."
Mac looked ready to protest, but sits back in his chair at a pointed glance from Grace.
"Come on, it'll be fun," I urge, reminded of my childhood in Chicago, coaxing a friend out to play in the snow.
Jean-Pierre takes a deep breath and lets it out, relaxing his shoulders. "I would like that," he replies.
"Terrific! How do you want me to introduce you?" No knowing what alias the kid was using. And stop thinking of him as a kid, Joseph. He's 175 years old, for Pete's sake.
"Jean-Pierre is fine, thank you for asking, Joe."
"Right, I'm gonna head to the john. Meet you on stage in 5. I already told the rest of the band you might be joining us." Come on, Jean-Pierre, you've done this plenty of times before, just fall into that old groove.
By the time I get back on stage, Jean-Pierre has set-up his mike and is chatting with the band. "… in church of course, a few parties, but mostly just playing around with friends and some jamming. We moved around a lot, so I never really had a chance to get in a steady group."
I settle down into my chair and pick up the Gibson. "Picked out a first song?"
Jean-Pierre nods. "I'd like to try 'A Better World Out There Somewhere'. Everybody know that one? Joe, you start us off. Be ready to push the tempo."
"Sounds good," I confirm. "Everybody ready?" Hearing no protests from my boys or Walrus, I turn on my mike. "We've got something new for you folks. He's a fresh young face with some old-school blues in his soul. Please welcome Jean-Pierre!"
The audience breaks out in good-natured cheers and whistles. I dive in, electric guitar carrying the melancholy melody. Jean-Pierre is swaying to it, eyes closed. When he picks up the vocals, it's almost too quiet to hear.
"Sometimes I wonder, just what I'm fighting for,"
His tear-filled eyes snap open. Jean-Pierre leans towards the audience and wails:
"I win some battles, but I always lose the war,"
Damn, so that's what it sounds like when you've been singing the blues for a century. Jean-Pierre just bundled up all of the pain he was feeling, pushed it into his voice, and anointed the audience with it.
Jean-Pierre's vocals pull us faster and faster. The song isn't melancholy anymore; it is a desperate, pleading prayer. Jean-Pierre rails against our world's cruelty and hopes for better in the hereafter, all the way to the end. There is a respectful silence, followed by some raucous cheering and applause from the audience. I wonder, not for the first time, if anything is left of an Immortal after their Quickening is taken. Most of them don't seem to think so, but Jean-Pierre might be an exception.
Jean-Pierre leads us through "Sinner's Prayer" and "Wander this World". Each song of loneliness and woe seems to bleed off some of his tension. His body loosens up as the sweat stain creeps down the back of his shirt. Jean-Pierre starts to move around the stage, working the crowd. By "I Pity the Fool" he has the audience singing along with the chorus, everyone in the band getting a solo. Walrus calls for "Born Under a Bad Sign", and then I take lead vocals with Jean-Pierre backing me in "Mustang Sally." That really gets the room hopping. It's late, but the audience wants an encore. They aren't ready to go home quite yet.
"All right guys, what do you think? We need something special here for a finale."
Six panting, beaming musicians stare back at me. Jean-Pierre grins mischievously.
"Fever. Just like Peggy Lee. Joe, can you sing Romeo?"
"Never tried it, but I think I remember that part of the lyrics."
"Great. I'll start. Bass and percussion join me on the 4th beat. The rest of you jump in at the 2nd verse." Everybody's willing.
Jean-Pierre moves to the center of the stage and faces away from the audience, posing like a gypsy dancer with arms arced gracefully above his head. The crowd takes notice and quiets. Jean-Pierre snaps his fingers to set the beat. 1,2,3,4. When the bass starts he spins around and slinks sensuously to the mike. When he opens his mouth, a breathy torch song emerges.
When it's my turn to break in as Romeo to his Juliet, Jean-Pierre pulls out all the stops. He shimmies, poses, flutters his lashes, and gyrates his way around me like some kind of harem girl. I sneak a look at the Immortals in the room. Grace is giggling; peeking out from between the hands she's holding over her own eyes. MacLeod's mouth is open, and he seems to have forgotten how to breathe. When my verse is done, Jean-Pierre has to sing the last part a capella. The whole band is laughing too hard to play their instruments. The applause is like a tidal wave.
Jean-Pierre bows extravagantly to the audience, and then leans on my shoulders from behind, yelling next to my ear to be heard. "Thanks Joe, that was fun."
I turn my head and yell back. "I'll say. Where the hell did you learn that?"
Jean-Pierre winks, grins, and replies, "Paris drag club." He coyly lays his head down on his arms, mouth right next to my ear, and adds; "You should see it with me in an evening gown and wig." He pauses there for a moment until a drop of sweat drips off his nose onto my ear, and then springs away.
I have to blink to clear the image out of my head. Was Jean-Pierre flirting with me? Probably just fooling around. I stand up in time to catch a glimpse of Maria, Grace's Watcher, heading out the door. That should make tomorrow's meeting with her interesting.
Every member of the audience seems determined to congratulate me, and talk about Jean-Pierre. "Thank you." "Thanks." "Yeah, I'll be sure to ask him back." "No, I don't think Jean-Pierre sings with any local bands." "Yes, he does seem to have an old soul." "No, I'm not his agent." "Thanks Josie, that means a lot, coming from you."
"Mac, you and Grace can take off. Jean-Pierre can crash at my place after we've had some time to talk. Pick him up tomorrow morning around 11?"
I wonder if the two of them will take advantage of having the loft to themselves tonight. There's some history between them, but Grace doesn't seem to take things casually, and I'm not sure Mac's looking for a commitment with another Immortal. Well, Mac can take care of his own love life. Tonight I'm going to have my hands full looking after Jean-Pierre.