Well, early in the mornin' I'm a-givin' you a warnin'
Don't you step on my blue suede shoes.
Hey diddle diddle, I am playin' my fiddle,
Ain't got nothin' to lose.
Roll Over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the news.
Roll Over Beethoven
Chuck Berry
The
thirty year-old black man, decked out in a wrinkled silk suit just
this side the worse for wear from night after night of one night
stands, smiled down at the slightly awkward young man standing before
him.
Around the room, his band mates smiled, knowing their boss’s temperament and sarcastic sense of humor whenever anyone showed the slightest inkling of showing him up. They crossed their arms, their smiles mirroring their boss’s, never quite reaching their eyes, as they waited for the inevitable. Meanwhile, the young man, dressed in what one would generously or politely describe as a suit a college professor 20 years past his sell-by date would wear, looked around, his own smile belying his awkwardness.
Around the room, his band mates smiled, knowing their boss’s temperament and sarcastic sense of humor whenever anyone showed the slightest inkling of showing him up. They crossed their arms, their smiles mirroring their boss’s, never quite reaching their eyes, as they waited for the inevitable. Meanwhile, the young man, dressed in what one would generously or politely describe as a suit a college professor 20 years past his sell-by date would wear, looked around, his own smile belying his awkwardness.
‘You
tryin’ to tell me you can play?’
‘Yes…that’s
what I’m saying,’ he replied, his British accent completely alien
in the theater’s backstage dressing area.
‘Play
guitar?’ The man rested his hands on the edge of the table he
perched himself on, his manicured nails gleaming even in the dimly
lit room. His Missouri drawl drew out the second syllable of guitar,
making the word sound far greater than it actually was.
The
younger man nodded. ‘Yes I am. Or at least, I could last I
checked. Which, come to think about it, is probably a lot longer
than it should be. The checking, that is. Or the playing. Or both.
Yes, most definitely both.’
The
man laughed.
‘Boy,
you crazy!’
The
well dressed black man pushed himself gently off the table and walked
over to the interloper. How this stranger had gotten in was anyone’s
guess…security said he had an "All Access Pass", whatever that
meant, but the charade had gone on more than long enough at this
point. He’d had enough of people ridiculing him, stealing his
music, or trying to take him down several notches because he was born
poor and black and decided to make something of himself rather than
just accept his appointed lot in life, and this was the final straw.
Around the room, the rest of his band tensed up. This was a huge
gig, one of their first on a major stage in NYC, and they didn’t
need anyone to screw things up. They certainly did not it to be
their boss.
‘First
off, mister…what did you say your name was again?’
‘The
Doctor.’
‘Doctor?
Doctor who?’ The man’s voice reeked of incredulity as he drew
out the word who. ‘Every man’s got a name, and ain’t none of
them just Doctor.’
The
Doctor smiled. ‘Lightnin’ Hopkins. Blind Lemon Jefferson. What
would you call them when you’d be talking to them?’
The
man before him coughed out a ‘Hrmph!’ and crossed his arms before
matching the Doctor smile for smile. His smile, however, was far
from genuine.
‘I’d
call them sir, 'cause both of them are my elders, ‘n’ my mama
taught me to respect my elders. That’d be a good lesson for you to
take on.’
The
Doctor’s face fell, suitably chastened. ‘John Smith, if you
must…’
‘Alright
then,’ the man said, his voice authoritative. ‘Now we’re
getting’ somewhere. First off, boy…’
He
paused, then corrected himself.
‘John
Smith, you’re white. Ain’t no white boy can play the guitar.
Certainly not the way I can.’
‘But…Buddy
Holly…’ the younger looking man tried to interject.
‘Ha!’
scoffed the man in the wrinkled suit. ‘He ain’t nothin’! No
way he could play a lick half as hot as me…and I wouldn’t even
need to be tryin’! Now, you said Carl Perkins, I mighta listened,
but he’s country, and that’s totally different. I never tell him
I could play like him…even though I bet I could.’
‘But…’
‘Second!’
interjected the black man, his voice growing in volume, showing his
anger growing by similar degrees. ‘You English. Hell, evr’body
knows you ain’t got no soul, no rhythm, no blues. What you got?
One-two-three, one-two-three? That ain’t rhythm!’
The
Doctor held up a hand. ‘Van Morrison! Joe Cocker!’
He
waited. No one in the room budged.
‘Gerry
Rafferty?’
Silence.
‘Nothing
ringing a bell?’
‘I’m
gonna ring your bell if you ain’t done messin’ ‘round with me
pretty soon!’
The
young man slapped his forehead. ‘Of course, it’s too soon. No
wonder none of the names mean anything to you! Always too early, me.
Or too late. I really need to get that helmic regulator fixed…it
would solve so many problems for me.’
‘Now
I know you crazy,’ the black man said, picking at the wrinkles in
his suit as he turned back toward his band. ‘Ain’t that right,
boys? Helmic regulator? What kind of nonsense is that? Boy been
sprung from the cuckoo’s nest too early, right?’
The
rest of the backing band laughed. It certainly helped matters that
they actually found the sudden and unexpected defusing of the
situation a relief, but they also knew better than to not agree with
the man. None of them were ready to go off on their own, not yet,
and even though their checks were smaller by far than their boss’s
pay, it sure beat busting their backs back home or playing for tips
in a gin joint where they’d be lucky to not get ripped off at the
end of the night.
A
gawky looking man…obviously theater staff…leaned in the door.
‘Fifteen
minutes, Mr. Ber…’
‘I
know! You think I can’t read no clock? I’ll go out there when
I’m good and ready to play. And I ain’t good and ready to play
yet.’
The
stage manager ducked back out of the doorway as quickly as he’d
entered, closing the door with a bang behind him. The room fell
silent; not a word was spoken for some time after the interruption.
‘Sides,’
he muttered, more quietly despite the quick departure of the
backstage managed, ‘y’all here at this theater got your pay, ‘n’
part of mine too, if I don’t know better. I’ll play when I’m
ready to go out. Not a secon’ sooner.’
He
turned back to the English man, this…Doctor John Smith, he said he
was…standing in the center of the room and growing obviously more
nervous with each passing moment.
‘So,
you white, you English, and you think you can play rhythm and blues?
Hell, I might give you country, but you bein’ English just tossed
that.’
The
bassist nervously cleared his throat.
‘Don’t
you think we oughta…’
The
bandleader holding court held up one hand.
‘I
said we’d play when I’m good an’ ready.’ He turned back to
the focus of his attention, his eyes glinting. ‘You say you can
play? A’right, I wanta see you play. Hand the boy a guitar.’
The
bassist looked at his boss, nervous.
‘Boss?’
‘Listen,
you got a choice. You can either give the boy a guitar so I can see
him make a damn fool of himself…or you can be out on the street
lookin’ for another gig. Yo’ choice.’
Without
a second thought the man grabbed a spare Gibson off a side rack,
plugged in a lead, and nervously handed it to the suddenly smiling
Brit in the center of the room. Taking the offered instrument, he
strapped it over his shoulder, fingered the strings a few times, and
started to check the tuning.
‘Don’t
you be messin’ with my tuning, boy,’ the black man said, his
pompadour glistening as much as his suit. ‘Ain’t nothing wrong
with how I tune my guitars.’
He
sat back on the table, tenting his long fingers before him. His eyes
narrowed, attentive, nearly predatory.
‘You
said you can play. Well, let me hear you play. Show me your licks.’
The
Doctor took a step or so back, mentally and physically preparing
himself for this moment. He fretted a chord, went to strike the
strings, and then stopped suddenly.
‘Somethin’
wrong? Nervous all of a sudden?’ The man’s voice was playful,
but bitterness crept around the edges.
‘No…I
just need a pick? Might you happen to have a spare?’
The
man laughed.
’Might
you happen to have a spare,’ he asks. Man, the boy can’t even
talk like no common, ev’ry day person.’
He
rummaged through a pocket.
‘Yeah,
I got you a pick. Here.’
He
tossed it idly over to the continued focal point of the room. The
Doctor plucked it out of the air with ease, slipped it between two
fingers, and fretted the chord again. As he raised his arm in the
air to hit the first down stroke, he unconsciously shifted his legs
apart. One foot tangled in the amp lead, and without thought he
jerked his leg back, trying to free himself from the loop. His
balance suddenly off center, he pivoted on his other foot, lunging
downward in an attempt to both stay upright and not accidentally
damage the guitar. His pick struck the strings, strumming out a
harsh, atonal chord, as he found himself awkwardly propped on his
left leg, his right stuck out and looped over several times by a
length of amp cord. Unceremoniously, he slipped backward, landing
solidly on his bottom in front of the band, all of whom immediately
broke into peals of genuine, unrestrained laughter.
Blushing,
he stood up and held out the guitar toward the band’s bassist, who
took it while trying to stifle the laughter that struggled to
continue unabated. The man in the silk suit walked over, smiling,
and wrapped a long arm around him.
‘A
word of advice for you, boy?’
He
nodded, the blush still hot and florid on his cheeks.
‘I
don’t know what your day job is, but you’d best not be quittin’
it any time soon.’