GTH recorded four songs in five days under the watchful eye of Derek Chandler, whom Charles had hired the Englishman to engineer the band’s EP at Electric Ladyland’s studio B to lay down five tracks for the EP. The band members were put on per diem salary and they ceded their lives over to the organist. CBGBs and Max’s pleaded for them to schedule a gig before Christmas. The Bottom Line offered them a spot at their New Year’s Eve celebration. Nick Arcc and Charles had weighed the options and decided on a Christmas showcase at the loft for the record company executives and media reps.
Contracts were drawn up. Lawyers contacted. The recording sessions accelerated even faster, as tracks were registered simultaneously in various studios. Johnny would lay a desperate guitar track and Frankie would rap several bars of frenetic drums atop Charles’ B-3 keyboard track and the thundering bottom of the new bass. The studio musician had appeared in several bands Tammi considered stadium trash. She sang in the studio alone to a master track and after each cut the producer imported from England would say, “Cheers, Tammi.”
She refused to buy the lie and drenched each song with disdain. Max Levy loved it and Nick Arcc thought they were great, because they had heard the finished re-mix by Derek Chandler. It would be a hit in Europe. Huge in America, but they never played the final take for any band members, because it wasn’t rock and roll.
Electric Ladyland Studio was not the loft.
The bass player wasn’t Sean.
None of it mattered to the record producers who understood selling a band better than any band could. It was a product. A product needed to reach the masses. Not the other way around and when they finished cutting the last track of MAYBE TOMORROW, they sat the band in the soundboard room. The five songs sounded good, but not great. The raw power was missing, but none of them were willing to say that in front of Tammi, although every time she passed Sean’s motorcycle on East 57th Street, Tammi understood his bass flubs had given GTH a vital crudeness.
And now no one else mentioned Sean’s name or West 45th Street, even though the double murder of the two Mafia men had been splashed across the Tri-State newspapers. The police blamed a gang called the Westies. Charles had seen three men and Tammi had done the math without saying a word to Bobby. The entire kidnapping was best left in the past, although Tammi feared Sean might be a John Doe victim in the morgue.
She hadn’t buried him, despite the millionaire’s paying her to quit the Dollhouse. He purchased her outfits from Pat Fields, spiked heels from Manic Panic, a dog collar and studded wristlets at the Pleasure Chest, and a total makeover at the best hair salon on the Lower East Side. She had dined at the 21 and Serendipity III. They had kissed on the sofa and slept together, but seldom did more than hold hands and she wondered how the Kittery slut had become a reborn virgin. With Sean she had been comfortable being something more in between. Charles intoned he was patient, yet no amount of hours or days had purged her need for Sean and the tightness in her voice showed on the rock takes of their five songs.
“So what you think?” Nick Arcc asked in Electric Ladyland.
“It’s close.” Matt Levy pushed the levels to 10.
“Close to what?” Johnny was unhappy with the entire experience, but once more he had to bow to Charles and Tammi. GTH was their band now. He was only along for the ride.
“With a little tweaking I could make MAYBE TOMORROW a hit.” The English engineer suggested and earned the harsh regard of Matt Levy. The band didn’t need to know anything ahead of time. “We have a show tonight. We can give it a rest. What if I treat everyone to a dinner? Anyplace you want.”
The band showed their independence by rejecting Trax’s in favor of a dinner at the Ocean Club. The food was mediocre and the spare decor reminded Charles of a construction site, but a score of Soho artists stopped by the table and asked to be put on the guest list for the show. Their success worried Johnny, whose control had slipped through his fingers like a greasy rope attached to a free-falling piano. Sean was out and Frankie was next, if he continued bingeing on dope. As Charles signaled the waitress for the bill, Johnny nudged Frankie, who mumbled, “Are we on yet.”
“Soon, real soon.” Johnny Darling wished tonight was over.
While Dove's make-up job and the news clothes from Trash and Vaudeville masked his sickness, nothing could camouflage his weight loss and Tammi said, "You should see a doctor."
"Punks don’t go to hospitals, only morgues." Johnny was a little thinner than normal and after tonight he was scheduling a break from GTH and Sgt. Weinstein’s afternoon grillings. He might even go home for Christmas.
“My father left a good-looking corpse. It wasn’t pretty.”
“This is rock and roll, pop or disco." He caressed Tammi’s arm. “People die.”
"Yes, the magic of rock and roll." In her chiffon wrap Tammi resembled a fairy princess, although no spell could dissipate her dismal premonition about the recording session. Nick Arcc misjudged her statement and rose from the table with a glass in his hand. "I propose a toast to GTH. The Jefferson Airplane of Punk. May your songs OD a million junkie."
The word 'junkie' snapped Frankie from his nod. "Who me?"
The new producer, Max Levy, Charles Ames III, and Nick Arcc exchanged a secretive glance. Johnny Darling deciphered the silent agreement to ax the drummer. He was probably next in this Khmer Rouge purge of GTH's original members and leaned over to Nick. "When are we seeing a contract for the rights to the songs?"
"Lawyers are drawing up the preliminary documents." The other guests had left the table and were standing at the bar. Nick signaled they would join them in a second.
“Sean wrote the words to three of these songs.” Johnny showed him the demo cassette.
"The music business isn’t a charity.” Nick Arcc had been around this scene since the beginning. A little push in the wrong direction and bands self-destructed with the grace of a kamikaze pilot crashing into a ship. Charles and Max were interested in Tammi. Not in Johnny or royalties to an AWOL songwriter. “I’d hate for you to blow your big break with a false loyalty to a talentless barbarian, who already cut his deal.”
“You don’t know that. GTH is a band.” Johnny wasn’t conceding his dream of pure rock and roll for the temporary lure of money, which was the antithesis of everything he had ever espoused in Times Square. “Tammi, Charles, Frankie, and Sean.”
Aligning himself with the old bassist signed Johnny’s death warrant. “Go slow on the dope. At least around the record people. They hate that shit.”
“I’m straight.” He wouldn’t feel this bad, if he was on drugs.
“As a mountain road in Bolivia.” The bearded A&R man joined the engineer, Max Levy, and Charles at the door of the Ocean Club. Johnny hated them for believing music was strictly business. Records and singers churning out profit. Anyone gets in the way. They’re out and Johnny trailed Tammi to tell her that GTH didn’t belong to the powers deciding what the music radio stations foisted on America, but before he reached the redhead, he staggered against the wall and might have hit the floor, if Sean’s replacement hadn’t caught him. “Are you okay?”
“Take me outside.” The cold air on Chambers Street barely cooled his fevered flesh and the bassist tottered to the limo.
"Looks like Johnny’s having a party,” Max Levy said to Nick Arcc. Charles overheard the comment Charles glared at the producer, “He’ll be fine.”
The record producer beamed a lying smile.
"I hope so because tonight it’s all about rock and roll.”
“You know nothing about rock and roll, you fucking dinosaur." Johnny swore.
They were ruining his beautiful idea and he wanted out of the band. Out of New York. Head for California or anyplace warm, if Sgt. Weinstein’s black Valiant wasn’t idling on the street. He slipped inside the Lincoln to lean on Tammi. She stroked his head same as his mother had as a child. “Tammi, they’re fucking with our music.”
“Johnny, the record isn’t the music.” She rightly suspected Max Levy was altering the tracks to suit his commercial market. “We are the music. Every time we get on stage. Every time we play together. The record is for them. Not us.”
“You’re right and tonight we’ll be a punk band. No studio. No retakes. Just straight raw power.”
“GTH,” Johnny whispered to the singer.
“Going to Hell. And you and I know all about the fire.”
“And the sin.”
Tammi had never been so beautiful and he laid his head on her shoulder for the short ride over to the loft. Johnny dreamily listened to Frankie chatter away about becoming the new Tito Puente to his reflection in the window, while Max Levy rattled on about release dates to Nick Arcc and Charles. Fast. Everything was going fast and he couldn’t stop it spinning out of control.
“Holy shit.” Nick Arcc exclaimed and Johnny opened his eyes.
The crowd was bustling before the loft building on Chrystie Street. Taxis crowded the curb. The news of GTH's showcase had emptied the Lower East Side and Matt Levy turned to Tammi. “I guess no one’s home for Christmas.”
“Why should they, if they were invited to a free feed?” Tammi joked and Charles misunderstood her meaning. "These people are all sponges."
The passengers and driver in the car fell into the chasm between Charles' class and their own. Only Tammi had the courage to say, "I'm one of those people."
"And I'm willing to switch sides for you and GTH. Death to the Capitalist."
"Nothing more heartening to the cause than a class traitor." Johnny smiled, for there was a slight chance Charles was one of them.
“Especially if they are willing to spread the wealth.” Tammi kissed Charles’ cheek
"Malcolm McClaren had New York Dolls wave the red flag and they died under the banner of BETTER RED THAN DEAD.” Max Levy had been an assistant promo man at RCA during the recording of AFTER BATHING AT BAXTER’s. The Airplane had blown their career with non-commercialism. “No one buys Commie Rock. Name me one great band from Russia."
“BACK IN THE USSR.” The English sound engineer interjected and was instantly rebuked by Tammi. "None of us will play bubblegum music.”
"No one trying to mold you into a hard-rock version of the Beatles." Nick Arcc had been fighting with Max Levy about the direction of the band. He hated the disco re-mixes of MAYBE TOMORROW, but recognized its immense commercial potential and wouldn’t mind being on the winning side of a pop sensation for once. “If the PR people, the radio DJs, and record company execs love you and believe me, we'll make them love you, they'll spread the message of punk to white bread America. MAYBE TOMORROW will be their anthem. GTH will head for the stars.”
“Stars burned out,” Tammi replied and under her breath swore she wasn’t anyone’s bottle of soda pop and neither was GTH. Johnny heard her and said, “You can’t steal what we are. Only what you think we are.”
“Only we can take us higher.”
“You can’t make it on your own.” Max Levy had told the VP of sales MAYBE TOMORROW was next summer’s BENNY AND THE JETS. They had drooled at the prospects of a multi-million 45-rpm bullet.
“If I can make it here, then I can make it anywhere. Isn’t that how the song goes.” Tammi sang, as Bobby opened the rear door. “Listen.”
People called her name. Their hands clutched at her. She picked out friends and stars of the scene from the crowd. A few asked for autographs. The excitement blinded her to their expectations and she said to Johnny, "This is incredible."
"They’re here to see you."
"You mean us." Tammi protested and he lifted his hands. "There are a million all-guy bands and a handful with a female front. Tonight New York. Tomorrow the world.”
The teenager fantasized the boys back home at the Hampton Casino and her stepmother welcoming her with tears in her eyes. It was a small town dream and Tammi grabbed Johnny’s hand. "Let's rock and roll."
Johnny held her tight. Tonight it was them against the system. The radio could go to hell. Records were garbage from oil. TV propaganda for the masses. Dick Clark old and Barry Manilow #1 helped the Republicans and Democrats kill the spirit of rebellion.
“Tammi, this is it.”
“No more running, no more hiding.” Less than a month ago she had hit the street. She hadn’t sold-out, except to dirty old men for a cheap grope and high school boys too stupid to recognize a good thing.
Tonight was their night and she pushed her way through the crowd.
They pushed back, as Nick Arcc scherried them to the building. He pointed to a dozen luminaries of the scene for the bikers to admit. "Go up on your own. I’ll sort this mess before we have a mini-Altamount on our hands."
A rotund outlaw named Tiny took offense to the remark and an argument ensued about the blame for the deaths at that legendary Rolling Stones concert. The band entered the hallway and three of the four original members stopped dead. Not a single feather was on the floor, the scabrous walls had been painted a glowing pink, and the stench of dead chickens had been replaced by the bouquet of flowers. Charles lifted his cane and said, "Thought the place could use a face-lift ___"
"Thank you." Tammi kissed him again.
“I could get used to that.” The millionaire blushed and the band filed into the elevator. It was adorned with flowers. A small speaker played Love’s STEPHANIE KNOWS. Bobby was glad nothing had happened to any of them during the kidnapping and wished he could tell them he was sorry, but he’d have to save his apology for another day, because tonight was all about playing rock and roll.
T
he car shuddered to a halt and the doors parted in the penthouse. The floors had been scrubbed clean and the walls painted black as CBGB's to blend seamlessly with the night beyond the bright lights of the city. The newly cleaned windows offered a stunning panorama of Lower Manhattan, partially blocked by the billboard on the next roof.
Two bars were located in the corners, a sound booth against the rear wall, and new instruments were decorously assembled on the impromptu stage. Frankie jumped behind a new Ludwig drum kit and rattled the drumsticks off the skins and metal rims. “Are these mine?”
"Merry Christmas."
“Thank you.” No one had given him a Christmas present in years and tears swarmed his eyes.
Johnny stepped onto the stage. A see-through guitar was cradled on a rack. It was plugged into a huge virgin Marshall Amp. Such gift-giving was suspicious, however he strummed a chord. The sound mellowed through the loft and a warm glow emanated from inside him, which might have been cured, except the dark cloud on the horizon was that no one spent this kind of money on equipment without expecting more in return. “This
is too much.”
“No, it’s just about right.” Charles turned to Johnny. "Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"
Johnny walked Charles onto the rooftop.
He suppressed a deeply-rooted cough and took cover from the wind.
Charles turned up the collar of his leather coat. “Johnny, you think I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Not me. Tammi.”
“If it wasn't for you, I might be still trapped in the Lincoln."
"It was nothing. You were ready to leave one way or the other." The disc jockey cued The Standells' DIRTY WATER and Johnny half-expected Sean to join Frankie on stage, instead the new bass plugged in his Gibson.
Sean had not returned to the Terminal Hotel. No one had seen him at Max’s or CBGBs. Any further deliberation about this mystery was cut short, as Charles said, “For a little while I felt that I belonged to a special band. The kidnapping taught me no one belongs to anything. Everyone is out for themselves. I figure you weren’t involved in the beginning and didn’t tell me anything afterwards, because Bobby had bought you silence.”
“That’s fairly accurate.” He would never admit it in a court.
“And he bought you with money.”
“$10,000 to be exact.”
“And you act, as if there's nothing wrong with it."
"Bobby only rented me.”
"The $100,000 I paid in ransom doesn't mean I own Tammi either. She can decide to leave or go. It’s up to her alone."
“Okay, that’s her choice.” The young redhead was sixteen. Young and cocky. Johnny had confidence in her choosing the right course. GTH was another story entirely. "But I think you’re ruining the band."
"How?" Charles stared at the weeping red marks on the guitarist's neck.
"By going too fast. Working with these people. Nick is all right, but Max Levy and that teabag producer are interested in selling records. Lots of records. They don’t give a shit about punk or us or you and Tammi. Money.
“Same as you the other night.” Charles stepped backwards, fearing Johnny’s lesions might be contagious.
“No, this is something I love and we should slow down before we become something we aren’t for complete strangers."
“Johnny, music had a business side and everyone out there in America is a complete stranger. They’ve never heard of GTH or punk.” Charles stated with exasperation.
"Don't you want to be a rock and roll star?"
“Not if I have to sell out."
"Johnny, this is ridiculous. No one's asking anyone to sell out."
"Sean was in your way and we dumped him.”
"That and he was horrible on bass, beside the new bass____"
"The substitute’s one of us. He didn’t experienced the cold in the loft, falling from a roof, the riot at CBGBs, and that counts for more than playing bass like Jack Bruce,” Johnny knew Sean would have given his left foot’s little toe to plunk ROPE LADDER TO THE WORLD.
"His replacement is square." Charles did love GTH. They were a band and Sean was one of them. He hated to admit it, but the bass player had disappeared and he wasn’t sending out a search party.
“Almost a cube.” Johnny chuckled, for this musician was listed on several of the biggest selling LPs of the Seventies. His knees buckled and Charles caught him. "Are you okay?"
"I’m dying." He wasn’t joking.
Charles peered inside the loft. The space was half-filled by punks and music industry people thronging around the bars. Everyone who was anybody was coming tonight, yet this gig wasn’t so important that it should cost Johnny’s life.
"You want to call this off?"
Johnny patted his pocket for the packets of cocaine and heroin he had scored from Sunshine bodega earlier. He couldn’t hold off any longer and intended to administer a flu cure. "No, this is another big night. Maybe our biggest.”
"I wasn't lying about what I said before. I am grateful to you.” It was the truth.
"I appreciate that." Johnny leaned against the wall for support. "Now give me a minute and I'll be right in."
"Take all the time you need," Charles said, as his sister entered the loft.
She was alone and dressed in sleek leather. Caroline greeted Dove and her Russian boyfriend with a kiss on the cheeks. She waved to Charles and the millionaire cautioned Johnny. "Be careful, I wouldn’t want to lose you."
"I’m not going anywhere.” Johnny fought off the sting of tears, for Charles cared for him. So did Tammi and Frankie. Despite their differences, GTH were a family and he had nowhere else in this world other than that stage with a guitar strapped to his body. Tammi felt the same way, although no one had prepared her for the onslaught of press clamoring a piece of the new sensation. A frizzy female with dark sunglasses snapped off several shots and a balding blonde man commented, "A record critic declared you were the new Grace Slick with your song SUMMER’S ALMOST GONE acting as punk’s answer to SOMEONE TO LOVE."
Tammi smiled, "Whoever said that is still on an acid trip in 1969."
"So you're anti-hippie?" demanded a dark-haired man in a soiled suit.
"No, they had their place in time.” Tammi lifted her wrists to show the studded bracelets “We just stay away from love beads or burning incense."
Another journalist asked, "What about the UK scene? Are they ripping off punk?"
"It’s a little too early to start a 'us versus them' fight, besides the Pistols' ANARCHY IN THE UK is a great song and Captain Sensible is so cute," Tammi said and several girls nearby groaned their assent.
Overhearing her with the reporters, Charles grew more concerned about losing her to fame than an old boyfriend. Nick Arcc told Charles Ames III, "The girl's has the energy, youth, a voice, money behind her. She’s bound to top the charts Donna Summer big or bigger.”
Charles wasn’t sure how much bigger than was. “You mean Cher big?”
“Why not Diana Ross huge?” Nick Arcc sensed his new patron's apprehensions. "Hey, this business is a tornado. No one can be sure who will be sucked up the funnel. You can fly with it to the top or it might spit you out at the bottom, but either way I'll guarantee you she'll be grateful to the right people.”
“I’m sure you would.” There were no guarantees in this or any business.
“You want to make her happy, then go rescue Tammi from the vultures. Take her on stage and play same as you did the other night and this city will worship at your feet."
“Is that what it’s all about?”
“It’s only rock and roll, but I like it.”
“That’s what I thought.” Idol worship had died with the rise of Christianity. The new gods were produced from the ranks of humanity, actors, actresses, politicians, musicians in all fields of entertainment. He hadn’t worshiped any deity after his fall and pushed his way through GTH’s admirers, the hangers-on, record execs, rock stars, and realized Johnny was right. The group might be cursed by too much too fast. Charles tried to reach Tammi and ran into his sister. Her black leather jumpsuit accentuated her skeletal thinness. “You happy with your wishes?”
“This didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned.” Charles peeked over his sister’s shoulder. “But it’s close. Are you mad at me?”
“Mad at you. I’m you‘re twin. We think alike and act alike. I understand what you did, but I wouldn’t try that again on me.” Caroline was no longer obsessed with living, as if she were a condemned convict, and foresaw the days stretching into years. She would marry a man of her own class. They would have children, get divorced, and she’d remarry an artist and aged gracefully at the Breakers in Palm Beach. It wasn’t such a bad future, although the majority of the crowd in the loft would die of their weaknesses long before their strengths could save them.
Caroline leaned over to ask, “So now what? You ride off on a concert tour of the Western World, have hits records, and spawn babies.”
“Nothing’s that simple.” Tammi and he were part of GTH. No one was taking that away from them.
“No, I guess not.” His sister misunderstood what this moment meant to these people or the rest of the world and that was fine too, for he was selfish enough to care about what happened to himself and Tammi more than the rest of the world. He reached for his sister’s hand, expecting her to reject this intimacy, however she grasped his flesh.
Charles examined the punks, musicians, artists, producers, dancers, thieves, uptown slummers and downtown aspirants to fame and fortune. Their pithe aspirations to wealth were doomed from birth. There were only three ways of making money. He was willing to offer Tammi one of them, even without knowing if she would love him, but at least afterwards he could say he had failed trying. Charles kissed Caroline on the cheek.
“We’ll always have each other.”
“I guess that is a comfort, considering the alternatives.” She had been hoodwinked into helping her brother. At least Charles was enjoying life again, so the $100,000 had been less expensive than any special medical treatment. She waved to Dove and her boyfriend. “You better rescue your ‘girlfriend’ before a reporter steals her.”
“I’m too late for that.” The twins could forgive each other any crime short of murder.
“I’d watch out for Dove.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I just cast her as the star of my student film. Go-Go Girls from Hell.”
“Sounds like you’ve joined our side.”
“In name only.”
“I’ll see you at Christmas dinner.” It was only two days away and they blew each other a kiss. Charles pierced the clutch of journalists. “Sorry everyone, but I have to take away the star. It’s almost Showtime.”
The reporters backed away and the two band members walked toward the stage. The crowd started a methodical clap. Tammi spotted several women musicians. They had performed a hundred shows more than GTH. "This is weird, I mean we've played one gig, We don't deserve this."
"We deserve it, if you blow them away.”
"Me?" Everyone was putting the weight on her shoulders.
"You're the star, Tammi, and____" Charles might have said he loved her, if sister hadn’t stepped in front of them. The two women glared at each other before Tammi glanced over Caroline's shoulder.
"He's not here." Caroline was bored with taunting the younger girl and she wanted her brother to be happy. “Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks.”
"I'm sorry about Caroline." Charles watched his sister greet Dove.
"All our families have a skeleton in the closet." Tammi had experienced much worst at high school plus she was pleased that Sean was MIA. He was no longer hers and she was no longer his. She was on her own. "We have a show tonight."
They took the stage to the final bars of the Knickerbockers LIES. The audience applauded her appearance and Johnny nodded to Tammi before counting out, "One, two, three, four."
They struck the chord on SUMMER’S ALMOST GONE and Tammi shuddered, for her heart wasn’t in this. Not in front of these people. Not without the real GTH on stage. The rest of the band and the audience sensed the difference and the sound curved over the roof to the street, as Doctor Bertoni slid off Sean’s Triumph. "The band is off."
Sean blew into his hands, wishing he hadn’t driven his motorcycle from Charles high-rise, but it was always practical to have an escape plan, when you were a wanted man, Sean peered at the penthouse of the slaughterhouse. "The bass is thundering,"
"Yes, but the song itself is dead. They need you, even if you suck.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“There are thousands of people on this street living day today. Nothing good will happen to them. People are fighting for their lives in Cambodia and no one will stand up for them.”
“What’s that have to do with this?”
“Perhaps nothing, but this music is against the powers suppressing people around the world. Believe me, it’s true.”
“Man, you’re getting really heavy.” Sean was spinning from the B-12 shot. He was ready to overthrow the US government. Break down the Berlin Wall. Stop Parisians buying Coca Cola.
“I had a rock band in Bolzano. The fascists and the commies hated us. The people loved us. We stopped, because I started dealing hash to finance my medical school, but we never reached the level you did the other night.”
“We were that good.”
“You weren’t, but the girl was. You have to do this for her.”
“Thanks a lot.” Sean wondered if everyone felt this way.
“And now you can repeat that miracle and you’re hesitating like the first time was a mistake. Trust me, it wasn’t. We could have made a difference in Italian rock and I’d hate that at the end of your life you say, “He was right about missing that show."
"Okay, okay." Sean had fought hundreds of times for nothing and tonight was for rock and roll and love. First they had to break through the bustling mob scene. "We can’t get in."
"Oh, yes, we can." Doctor Bertoni coughed explosively and slapped his hand over his mouth. The crowd stepped away, expecting him to vomit and he dragged Sean to the front, saying to Tiny, "He’s late for the gig."
Nick Arcc appeared from inside. "He's not in the band anymore.”
Tiny had a hard time taking orders from queers. "Bikers get preference."
Tiny hauled them through the crowd and Sean shoved the bearded A&R man out of the way.
He leapt the stairs two at a time and arrived at the loft for the last chorus of SUMMER’S ALMOST GONE.
The band tentatively approached the segue and Tammi’s voice was barely audible. The crowd was backing away from the stage, as if they had seen a terrible accident. Lacking her youthful exuberance and natural wildness, GTH were simply another band not ready for a bigger arena than a basement or garage. Johnny led the band into MAYBE TOMORROW and the redhead stayed away from the mike. Dr. Bertoni punched Sean’s arm.
"Go. Now."
People recognized Sean and created a path through the audience. Johnny yanked the bass player onto the stage. “Only a little late.”
“Better late than never.” Sean turned to his substitute, who had heard the story about his dangling Nick Arcc over an elevator shaft and handed over his bass. Frankie greeted the ex-hippie with the drum roll from MAYBE TOMORROW and Sean launched into the bass line. Charles gave up fighting the inevitable. His becoming part of group greater than himself was why he had joined GTH and planted his fingers on the plastic keys. Sean went over to Tammi. "Merry Christmas."
"Where have you been?" Tammi asked timidly, as the band repeated the bars for the singer to join them through the intro.
"Hospital. Been in a coma. And you?"
"Better you're on stage." She hadn't meant to admit that and covered the tracks of her
emotion by asking, "You ready?"
"Always was." Sean stepped to the mike and shouted, "One-two-one two."
And GTH ignited the audience with a match to gasoline. Some sang along with MAYBE TOMORROW’s chorus and the rest of them joined the dancing mob. The floor heaved like a trampoline. Tammi reverted to that runaway on the highway needing a ride fast. The audience reciprocated with such a frenzied surge to the stage that the Hell's Angels abandoned their posts.
"If not today, then maybe tomorrow." The young redhead launched into I’M NOT WAITING by leaping onto the throbbing carpet of heads.
"Don't tell me my time will come around. Don't tell me about the future, because I’m not waiting.” Tammi shrieked, as she was passed over the front rows. Johnny ripped off a cascade of harmonic distortion on his guitar. His veins were enflamed by an unnatural magma and his solo rippled down their spines with a xylophonic confusion. The crowd buckled at the knees and sagged with each note.
Several top execs in attendance worried, if the American public was ready for Punk. Their opinions were out of date by a decade. This was GTH’s time to shine and the audience joined Tammi singing, "I’m not waiting."
The spotlights blinded her eyes. The amplified music flooded her ears. Her body was tingling with an explosion of possibilities for herself and everyone else in her world. This was just like the night at CBGBs. She had power. The audience gave it to her same as they had Janis Joplin, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Tammy Wynette, and a thousand other female singers from the beginning of time. This was rock and roll. Her dream and she was attracting devotees fast. Two members of the oldest punk band leapt on stage with their guitars. This show degenerated into a long-anticipated free-for-all. She was thrown on stage and growled out, "A rocket to the moon will take me to space, to a fire in that cold, cold place____"
Sean’s voice planed underneath the redhead's soaring soprano to offer a landing strip.
She smiled at him and then at Charles for longer.
The magic was back, but Johnny’s energy died during the segue to LOVE-NO-LOVE and he relinquished his spot to the ratty-haired Keith Richard’s twin with whom he had been arguing that first night at CBGBs. Once he left the stage, Johnny hurried into the bathroom and quickly mixed a speedball in his works. The dope and cocaine had bubbled noisily in the bent spoon over a match. His syringe was brand-new and he had slipped into the vein with ease. The shot had transported him into an accelerated exhilaration. After thirty seconds the bliss had diminished and a grim reaper had dug a spade into his grave.
The new guitarist yelled for the chords and Sean shouted GAD. The other two guitarists joined the ear-splitting squalor. Nothing could resist the wall of sound sculpted by the bald soundman from CBGBs. Not the crowd, the musician, Tammi, but Sean’s bass weighed a ton and the lights were fading from his eyes. He signaled the studio musician to replace him and staggered through the congratulatory crowd to the rooftop.
The new moon painted the sky a shimmering silver. Sean’s sight was shrinking to a needlepoint. He hadn’t recovered from the beating and wished he had another B-12 shot. The band started an encore of IN-DA-GADDA-VIDA. He loved the Iron Butterfly classic hit and wanted to play along, but spotted a shadow elongated on the billboard atop the next roof. His thinness was instantly recognizable and Sean called out, "Johnny.”
Sean watched the guitarist totter against the roof's restraining wall and slip over the edge. No scream and Sean heard a loud thud. He ran to the edge. Johnny lay on the next rooftop like a doll thrown away by a spoiled child and Sean rushed inside the loft. He found Bobby Vacca by the stairs. "You have to call the police or an ambulance."
"Why?" Bobby wasn't ready for another drama.
Sean pointed to the roof. "Johnny fell."
"Shit. I'll call 911."
The driver hurried to the phone and Sean ran to the roof edge. Johnny’s legs moved and Sean yelled, "I'll be right there."
The news of the accident spread through the loft and the music stopped. People surged onto the roof. The building had no fire escape. Sean had marked a personal best of over nineteen feet as a broad jumper in high school. A leap across to the billboard was within his range. He yelled, “Out of the way.”
Sean measured off a running start. Charles looked over the edge. Johnny was lying facedown in a pool of blood. One person hurt was enough for this evening and the organist stood in Sean’s way. “Wait.”
"There’s no time.” Sean ran across the roof and jumped with his arms outstretched to catch hold of anything other than thin air. He bounced off a metal strut and seized a guy wire. He had sliced his hand badly and kicked his foot over a section of scaffolding and worked down the billboard. Dropping onto the roof he rushed over Johnny. Air bubbled from his submerged nostrils, indicating he was in danger of drowning, and Sean knelt by his side. "Johnny, can you hear me?"
A groan was his answer and Sean bent over closer. "Can you move your feet?"
The quiver of a boot indicated that his spine and neck were intact.
"Get ready for me flipping you on your back. One, two, three."
Sean lifted Johnny from the red puddle. The crush face was a cruel blow to a man with Johnny's vanity. Nick Arcc called out, “Can I get you anything?”
"Throw me a few jackets to keep him warm."
A leather coat landed by his side and he covered Johnny, then crammed his own jacket under his friend’s feet. Sean was scared. "You're gonna make it. Listen to the sirens. They're coming for you."
"I feel like shit," Johnny croaked to Sean's relief.
"You had a good fall."
"I'd hate to have a bad one, but there’s something else wrong.”
“Such as.” Sean worried he might have fallen on a nail.
"I'm dying." His body was busted from the fall and the heroin and cocaine failed to lessen the pain. The lesions on his neck hurt worse than ever. He wished he were dead.
"You’re too ugly to die tonight."
"Then I guess I'll have to wait till tomorrow. Do me a favor. $10,000’s in my pocket, you hold it for me, otherwise EMS or the cops will steal it."
“Anyone get hurt in your getting it?”
“Nothing to do with you and me.” Johnny’s vision was retreating from his eyes.
"You trust me?" Sean stuck the cash inside his jacket.
"Do I have another choice?" Johnny failed after those words and Sean stroked his forehead. He didn’t feel the cold or see the faces above him or hear the shouts of the firemen on the street. Sean was in trouble too, but he wasn’t letting Johnny slip away. GTH would play again, because Tammi was a star. They would live happily ever after, because they were too young to die young.
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