Ghost Tour (ch.5)
September 10, 1998
WILLIAMSBURG, BROOKLYN
Corey Reichert sat in the window of the L Cafe, dumping raw sugar onto his cappuccino’s cloverleaf. The barista was busy, she didn’t do that for just anybody.
He was taking a crumbly bite from an oversized muffin when a passing friend knocked on the window. Corey waved him in.
“Heard you were heading out on tour?” the friend said, another musician named Dario, shoulder bag full of xeroxed posters he was fly-posting along Bedford Street.
“Next week,” Corey said, swallowing muffin, wiping his face.
He motioned to the empty chair across from him. Dario sat tentatively with his hands still in his pockets, looking briefly toward the harried barista and the long line at the counter he would not be joining.
“What band?” Dario asked.
“X-13?”
“Oh yeah, they’ve got that one song, sounds like that other band.”
Ambiguity aside, there was an indisputable ring of approval from a musician still hustling at street level.
“That’s the one,” Corey said. He knew exactly what Dario was talking about, until two months ago he might’ve said the same thing.
“Nice gig,” Dario said, eyeing a streetlamp outside the window he hadn’t postered yet. He got ready to bolt.
“It’ll work,” Corey said, “for now.”
# # #
BURLINGTON, VT
The Wool Factory had been a working mill on the Winooski until the company moved south. Abandoned for decades, it was a venue now, capacity 449, with a sometimes problematic sound system.
Kevin “Subs” McPherson was not planning on setting foot in The Wool Factory once this week, not even for a beer. He was giving his ears a break, as it were, before heading out on tour. His old pals X-13 were stepping up, and he was about to step up with them.
Sitting on his front porch, he heard the phone ring but let the machine get it. It was Mike at the club, sounding desperate.
“Subs, I can’t get rid of this hum, you gotta help me.”
Mike was barely legal. Subs supposed the kid was doing him a solid, filling in for the next two months. He went inside and picked up.
“Hang on, be right over.”
It was only a few blocks walk. It wasn’t even soundcheck time, how early did this kid think you needed to start?
The room was dark and quiet when Subs walked in. He found Mike staring at the sound board’s twenty-two channels like nothing short of brain surgery would help.
Mike stepped back so Subs could have a look. With his thumb, Subs inched up the mains, heard the hum right away, pulled them back down.
“Grounding.”
Mike looked nervously to the bar, making sure his boss wasn’t already here, watching.
Subs motioned for Mike to follow. They traced the snake along the floor to the stage where Subs immediately noted the AC cable taking an unauthorized side trip.
“Who plugged this in over here?”
“I dunno, there was a big band last night, they were moving stuff around, messing with everything.”
“Was it humming then?”
“Maybe?”
Subs pulled the AC cable from the lighting outlet, replugged it where it was meant to be.
“The mixer and amp need the same power source,” he said, matter-of-factly.
They walked back to the board. Subs pulled up the mains. No hum.
“Man, can’t thank you enough. How’m I gonna manage?”
“You’ll manage.”
The kid was going to have to figure things out as they came up, the list of unknown knowns was just way too long to impart. Good luck when those bottom speakers start crackling. If it was a mild autumn, maybe Subs would be back before the mice moved into the cabinets for the winter.
# # #
WICKER PARK, CHICAGO
Pre-tour wiggle room in Ron Wozniak’s Day Planner was at thirty percent, but it looked like he’d be spending most of it in the cellphone store on Western Ave.
He plunked his brand new flip phone on the glass counter.
“I drove to Champaign last weekend,” he said, “the battery kept draining, like, every forty minutes.”
The salesman picked up the flip phone, turned it over once, as if regarding it from the outside could tell him anything. He placed it back down on the counter.
“Probably you have on roam,” the salesman said in what sounded like a Polish accent.
“Yes, I need to roam, I’m heading out on tour next week.”
“Roam is no problem. Weak signal is problem.”
“So what do I do about weak signal?”
“You stay in Chicago,” the salesman said.
Wozniak gave him a look. This was the same guy who convinced him to trade in his old phone last week. That last one was a brick, but at least it worked.
“I’m kidding you. Look,” the salesman said, flipping open the phone, “you turn off auto selection, you pick network manually. You are one hundred percent fine.”
“What if I’m not one hundred percent fine?”
“You come back next week, I switch SIM card to new phone, no problem.”
“I told you, I can’t come back next week,” Wozniak said. “I’m a tour manager, I’ll be out of state for two months.”
The salesman took an adapter from the rotating display stand and slapped it on the counter.
“Go where you like. Plug into cigarette lighter. Charge anywhere.”
Wozniak picked up the adapter and stared at it like the success or failure of the entire tour was dangling from his hand.
“Is usually fifteen,” the salesman said. “For you is ten.”
# # #
CLINTON, NY
Murphy’s apartment was over an insurance agency downtown, he and Reid had rented it together when they first got to Clinton. When Kristina moved from Burlington, Reid moved out and got a house with her. Not a hardship. Murphy liked the apartment okay and it wasn’t expensive. So long as the money kept coming in.
The phone didn’t ring a lot, but when it did, Murphy answered quickly.
“Ben Murphy?” the caller doublechecked.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Andy Koslow with Ambush Records in Minneapolis?”
“Oh, hey Andy, thanks for calling.”
Keeping the phone receiver cradled on his shoulder, Murphy reached for a manilla folder and rifled through his notes. He’d sent out a lot of demos, he needed to keep his facts straight.
“I’ve got your demo here, gave it a good listen.”
“That’s great,” Murphy said. He put a star next to Andy Koslow on a list of names otherwise X’d out. “What’d you think?”
“There’s a lot to like here, I really enjoyed it.”
“Well thanks, Andy.”
“Thing is, as a label? we’re kind of moving away from the heavy drum sound at the moment… don’t get me wrong, I love it personally. It’s just not something we feel we can give the push it deserves.”
Murphy nodded quietly to himself.
“Good to know,” he said.
Ironically, he wished he could channel Jordan at the moment. The guy could redirect a conversation ten different ways in his favor.
“But I love the X-13 connection,” Andy continued, not quite leaning all the way back in. “Any chance you’ve got anything else we can listen to more in that direction?”
“That’s sorta what I got at the moment.”
That was all Murphy could think to say. He wasn’t Jordan.
“Well, like I said, it’s great stuff, Ben. I’m sure you’ll find a home for it.”
“Appreciate the call.”
Click.
Murphy pushed his hair back and rubbed his forehead. He squinted at the clock across the room. It was early, according what he’d come to think of as his schedule, he probably shouldn’t start yet.
Fuck it anyway.
On his walk to Bridge Street Fine Liquors, he passed the same sad little storefront, the one with the neon pyramid in the window. Madame Nicola, Psychic Readings. The place had lottery losers written all over it, but on impulse he pushed inside, brushing past the fake velvet curtains while the bells on the door were still jingling.
Madame Nicola clicked off her soap opera and rose quickly from the purple divan with a sharp-eyed smile.
“I see you are very determined see your future.”
Murphy slapped his cash on the card table.
“Lady, I know my future. I’m here to put a curse on somebody.”
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NY, VT, IL – you're building a nice neon triangle here. I like the thickening.