Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [19]
By the time Dumb took a five-minute break, I was already downloading them onto our MySpace page, so everyone came over to look. Will nodded appreciatively, Ed raised an eyebrow admiringly, and Tash didn’t say a word—from her, it was the most approving silence I could imagine. And Josh squeezed my shoulder; just once, but I knew it meant he was impressed, and somehow his opinion mattered most of all.
The second half of the rehearsal was the Ed Chen show. For the next hour, he was no longer the geek they all ignored at school—he was their muse and cheerleader. With deliberately understated drumming, he kept steady time while Josh serenaded me with ever-evolving lyrics, and Will and Tash experimented with the new chord. Tash even kept her eyes fixed on Will at all times, so that their movements were appropriately synchronized, although I’m not sure Will ever noticed. Truth is, Will was so focused on his guitar that he seemed to occupy his own little bubble. On the rare occasions he glanced up, his cloudy expression suggested he was surprised to discover there were other people playing too. Despite that, I could tell by their relaxed demeanor that the music Dumb was producing wasn’t chaotic or mistake-prone at all. It was as if Ed had unleashed them on the previously peaceful kingdom of A minor, and they were laying claim to it for themselves.
As they gave a final rendition of “Let Go, I Feel Crappy,” which was loud and pissed enough to sound vaguely impressive from where I stood a safe distance away, it was obvious that Dumb had taken a giant leap forward in only one rehearsal. As long as Ed was around, there was cause for optimism. I even allowed myself to reflect that the positive change was indirectly my doing when a new e-mail arrived in my inbox from Baz Firkin:
Piper: I’m afraid the date of the recording session cannot be changed. I only secured release from Washington State’s finest boarding facility last night, and find myself experiencing pecuniary difficulties. While this is somewhat ironic considering my charges on tax evasion, I must nonetheless see you Sunday. Baz.
It took me a moment to translate the message into English, but the gist of it was clear enough. Dumb would be spending Sunday afternoon recording a song they’d only just written, and had only rehearsed once.
Okay, so my genius had limits.
CHAPTER 14
I stopped by everyone’s houses on the way to the recording session so that we could arrive together. It was a calculated decision to save on gas, make sure we all got there, and to elicit sympathy from Baz Firkin when he realized what a heap of crap I was driving. (USS Immovable had always gotten me sympathetic looks from everyone at school.)
The session started at noon on Sunday. Or rather, it would have started at noon if we’d realized that the studio was in the basement of a crumbling craftsman cottage. Instead, we drove back and forth through the funky neighborhood of Fremont a dozen times, looking for the snazzy building with tinted windows that turned out to exist only in our imaginations.
There was no doubt whatsoever that the man who emerged from the house a minute later was Baz Firkin. He sported a worn paisley shirt and faded black jeans, a ragged gray-brown ponytail floating down his back like a trail of smoke still lingering from the 1980s. I wondered how he’d made it through prison in one piece.
“Greetings, young ones,” he exclaimed as he glided toward us, although he seemed to be addressing only me. (Maybe he was distracted by my hearing aids—I noticed his eyes lingering on my ears as we shook hands.) “And may I say what a beautiful beast of a machine that is,” he added, pointing to USS Immovable . “I used to have one just