Chapter One – Mostly concerning Deacon
A/N Show or fan fic, Rayna is not a guitar player, so how might it turn out if she had been? Any resemblance to Deacon's career path here and the break-up of The Eagles is entirely… obvious. Story title song is by Nanci Griffith & Tom Russell and a hit for Suzy Bogguss. Thanks for clicking through.
A Filipino woman, dressed in black slacks, white blouse and a maroon, cooperate waistcoat, cleared away detritus from high tables near the almost deserted arena bar area. Now would be a great time for anyone wanting a beer to get one, she thought to herself. Avoid all the crush, push, scramble, pickpockets, arguments and spilt plastic cups of sticky Bud'; that she and her co-workers would soon be cleaning off the floor. This was also a perfect opportunity to use the washrooms. For as the woman knew from experience, ball games and rock concerts were about the only occasions when men found themselves in the humiliating circumstances of needing to queue for such necessities. Well if they were too stupid to take this advantage, they only had themselves to blame. The reason why the crowds were keeping away from these distractions was as she well understood music, loud and enticing. The muffled echo of it hit her ears, escaping out of the arena, and the raw power of its base line, amplified by stomping fans, throbbed into the balls of her tired feet. Nearby girls with dirty blonde ponytails waited listlessly in the merchandise booths; their breasts tight against black and gold skinny T-shirts; emblazoned with either the logo of the Revel Kings 2004 Tour, or 3 words of diagonal Gothic Sans - "Freakin' Deacon Claybourne." The woman casually wondered if she would be able to pick out tune to "Tall Manhattan" when it was played, she liked that one.
Madison Square Gardens was jumping. Heat, sweat, testosterone, bravado and the stale smell of narcotics of all legalities filled the air. The audience was 80% male, but punctuated, if you knew where to look, by groups of rock-chics, all fragrant musk and silver jewellery; Deacon Claybourne always knew where to look. Pushing his Ray Bans down his nose, then swooping up the microphone with his left hand, the right clenched around its stand; he locked onto the pretty young things in the mosh, and lasered them with his blue eyes while he belted out another throaty chorus. Star factor in spades and Deacon owned it. Pulling back from outstretched grasping arms, he flinched as the guitarist behind him hit a bum note, again. Something seriously was not right with Cy tonight, but the audience was too hyped to notice or care. Deacon glared at his guitarist who mouthed back an obscenity and above the synthetic odour of dry ice, Deacon picked up the unmistakable whiff of Bourbon.
A lightbulb flashed on in Deacon's head. Cy's mood swings, bouts of aloofness, mysterious disappearing acts, now it all made sense. The tour had been long and hard; and as it ground eternally onwards, the most insignificant things could set Cy off. Deacon had originally put this behavior down to road pain, not now. The smell of liquor was palpable and he wondered if he had been shutting out signals for the last few weeks. At the end of the song he stomped over to the guitarist who was swigging from a bottle of 'coke'.
"You're drunk man."
"Oh get off. It's the last night, who fucking cares!"
"5 songs , then we'll have this out."
Cy put has arms around Deacon's neck, to the audience it looked like an act of bonding. "I told you, get the… out of my face."
Deacon was always a performer first, and so he returned to his spotlight position. He'd formed The Revel Kings with Cy at a time when everyone was looking for the next Springsteen. With his voice and Cy's guttural guitar they had struck gold; quickly signing up to a major, and shifting units. When their co-write, "Tall Manhattan" got picked up for the soundtrack to a Brad Pitt movie Deacon's pension pot was guaranteed. If subsequent albums sold slightly less well and, if he were being brutally honest, contained material of sometimes freewheeling quality, what did Deacon care? Life was good and secure, the band's fan-base loyal. Sure he and Cy fought. They argued over lyrics, girls, or Yankees verses Red Socks; but it never once crossed the line onto the stage. Deacon Claybourne simply would not allow that. Yet here at MSG, for all his careful image making, Deacon felt as if his career was about to implode in 5 tunes.
For the next number Cy's solo wobbled alarmingly, the one after he didn't switch over from his Fender to Les Paul, so was in the wrong key, the one after that he didn't even bother, The 'Kings keyboard player vamping a substitute. "Lights Out" was next, deliberately the last song of the main set. The solo hurt Deacon's ears for all the wrong reasons. Cy weaved to the front of the stage, put one boot on his monitor and stared glassy eyed over the crowed. His plectrum fell from his grasp mid riff and after scrabbling with his fingers Cy pulled his instrument over his neck, swayed, nearly keeled over and kicked the guitar towards his Marshalls, squawking feedback. Then he left the stage. The audience, thinking this was all part of the performance roared.
When the stage lights came back on, Josh, the bass player had grabbed an acoustic and was center stage with Deacon, Ronson to his Bowie.
"Thank you all for coming," Deacon cried out, "this is the last night of the tour and we have one more song for you people." Josh struck up a choppy rhythm.
I was nearly too far gone in an old bar room
She was pretty and so hot that she was cool
When she stretched to make the seat, I swear the juke box skipped a beat
As she crossed her long legs on that leather stool
She motioned for a light, her green eyes burning bright
"Was that all she wanted?" I asked her with a wink
She said "Well if you're off'ring , I'll have a Tall Manhattan
[Pause]
And then maybe after, I'll let you buy me a drink
By the time Deacon finally made it backstage there was a note pushed under his dressing-room door, black biro, 10th grade scrawl. 'Yeah I'm fired, I get it. See you in Court Buddy."
Many of Rayna Jaymes' evenings in her Nashville home-town involved her being part of a circle. Her favourites were the writer's rounds, especially at The Bluebird, a chance to get the music she carried with her out of her head and into other peoples' souls, or so she hoped. The vibes there were easy and trusting, fine songs flowed between the performers; and no smart ass yelled out for "Buttercup Popcorn," well not twice anyway. The Bluebird rocked, gently. Tonight however was the other sort of circle. The orange plastic chair she sat on numbed, and the room's lack of ventilation left her sweaty. She was also certain the guy next to her was trying to surreptitiously look down her top. Eventually it came around to her turn. She cleared her parched throat with a nervous cough. "Hey Y'all, my name's Rayna; and I am an alcoholic."