12

The rapid succession in which everything happened still seems incredibly, in hindsight: the power returning; the news report; Matt letting it go; Guy quitting; my assumption that Steve would take over bass duties. And, to add to it, the three of us ceremoniously storming out of the Shack to practice in a gym that we were probably going to be barred from, only to find the entire murder scene wrapped out, shipped out and carted away.

We said nothing, continued to stomp toward the gym, past the gawkers that replaced the police at the murder spot, into the gym through unlocked doors. Steve hit the breaker box and shunted the lights on, the halogen humming to life in unison. He went to set up amps, I started assembling Guy's drum kit--what was he going to do to stop us?--and Matt turned on his heel and left, presumably to get the bass I left in the music building the previous day.

Centering the kick drum on a rug, I asked, "Are you comfortable playing bass?"

"I've got two hands, don't I?"

"It's a lot different from guitar, I mean."

"Yeah, I can--"

"--not saying that you can't handle it or any--"

"--I think I can hack it."

Matt returned, set the three guitar cases down, and moved to help Steve. It took us a bit longer than we were used to, but we got set up. Matt strummed his Telecaster and adjusted knobs on his effect pedals while Steve worked his way around the bass fretboard. "Would you suggest I use a pick, or what?"

"I'd say try using your fingers--go with the pick if that doesn't work."

Matt stood and looked at us. "Let's try 'Respite.'" I got sat on the drum stool, completely forgetting how Guy played when we practiced. They looked at me to click out a tempo on the drum sticks so, without thinking about it too much, started with a count of four and began a steady, simple drum beat.

The other two guys started playing, but almost immediately Matt let go of his guitar, the body swaying from the strap, and shouted, "Whoa, whoa, wait--that's too fast!"

I kept going, as did Steve. He was plucking the strings with apprehension, but he seemed to have the knack. He grinned. I continued to lay down the beat, adopting a swinging ride cymbal scheme as Matt frowned and gripped the neck of his guitar. He started playing again, notching his part up to tempo.

It'd been a few years since I seriously played the drums. My brother got me listening to Coltrane and Monk when I was a freshman in high school, lending me cassettes he made for his drives to and from grad school. I loved the music, but was hypnotized by the drumming. Elvin Jones and Max Roach got me on my brother's spartan drum kit, which had collected dust while he was at school; those guys steered me away, at least partially, from the bad radio pop I'd waterlogged my mind with. I couldn't get the exact groove down--I had trouble using my left foot and right hand separately from each other--but I was enamored with the minimalist jazz approach. Screw the fills, love the silence.

We wrapped "Respite" up, and as soon as I set the stick down, Steve cheered. "That was great!" He rattled his right hand a bit and we both turned to Matt.

"I don't know. I still think it's too fast." He took his guitar off, turned the volume down, and set it on his stand. But he was wrong; in fact, this was the turning point we experienced as a band.