“This is going to take forever,” says Caleb.
“Hey! Hey, you four!”
The shouts of the bouncer get our attention. And he’s looking at us.
“Yeah, you!” He waves us over.
“Um . . .” I glance at the band, and we make our way to him.
The giant man leers down at us. He has two fingers to a Bluetooth device in his ear. I notice a camera keeping watch from over the door, silhouettes up above, possibly looking down.
“Which one of you is Caleb?” he asks in an impossibly deep voice.
“Me.”
“The manager says I’m supposed to let your party in. IDs.”
“We’re not twenty-one,” says Caleb.
The bouncer exhales, so bored by this. “They’re minors,” he says into the Bluetooth. “Uh-huh . . . we’re going to need a chaperone.”
“Kill me,” says Jon.
Caleb motions to Randy, who pushes out of line, causing huffs around him.
The door opens and a tall, professionally dressed woman with jet-black hair and giant brown eyes steps out. “Right this way.”
“Any idea why the manager is letting us in?” Matt wonders from behind us. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”
“Stay cool, Matty,” says Jon. “They obviously knew we were coming.”
“Yeah, but who knew?” Randy wonders aloud.
Maybe the DJ got word that we were coming somehow,” I say. “Maybe he knows to help us.”
Caleb just shrugs. He’s deep in Fret Face.
We enter a world of dark and pulsing light that smells almost tropical. We have to walk single file through the tight crowd. The music hammers at my chest and saws at my ears. No melody, just urge and overkill. We pass a bar gleaming in red and amber, lined to the high ceiling with sparkling bottles, and a dance floor that is literally crushed with people.
“Whoa . . . ,” Jon breathes. He’s pointing to a platform along the far wall, where a line of girls wear identical skimpy silver dresses wired with white LEDs. They look like androids and dance with stiff movements. I wonder if they are paid to do that, or if that is really their idea of fun.
Caleb’s hand slips into mine as we thread through the shoulders and hips, as if our troubles are less important than getting through this zombie horde alive. Ahead I see a staircase to the balcony, where a couple DJs spin. The one in the center is lit in red and wearing a welder’s visor. The disco ball reflects in the glass. Something tells me that’s Claro.
We’re led up the stairs to the balcony. More stairs lead up to the roof. We’re behind the DJs now, where two minions scramble back and forth to crates of vinyl.
Our escort proceeds to a huge metal door with a heavy spinning handle, like a bank vault. We push through and find ourselves in a high-ceilinged room. When the door seals behind us, there’s a whoosh of air and the thump of the club is extinguished. The assault is replaced by whispers of tinny music and I see that it is coming from headphones. Everyone in here is wearing them. They sit in leather chairs, plugged into stereo systems on low tables between them, each with a turntable. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves like we’re in an old library, complete with ladders that slide along, only the shelves are filled with records. The clientele are all hipsters in fashionable vintage attire, cool hats, flouncy dresses or jeans and sneakers, thick glasses and beards and scarves. Or maybe they’re all time travelers from the sixties. They talk quietly about records by the walls, or bop their heads along to the headphones. Waitresses dressed in tweed skirt suits bustle in and out of a door on the side, delivering cocktails and coffees.
Daisy sits obediently by the door. We all pet her head lightly. It feels like sandpaper.
“Okay,” says Caleb, “wow.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” says Randy. “There is a god.”
“Must resist . . . the urge to find . . . all Ramones records,” says Jon. He vibrates like he’s hooked up to electrodes.
“Are you kidding me?” says Matt. “Zeppelin II, and 2112.”
“I thought drummers had to choose sides in the great Bonham versus Peart debate.”
Matt shakes his head. “That’s like debating pancakes and waffles. Totally different. Both awesome.”
“And both need the maple syrup goodness of lead guitarrrr!” Jon air-guitars.
“Sshh!” One of the tweed librarian-waitresses holds a finger to her lips.
I am busy scanning the stacks. They are organized by genre. Rock, jazz, R & B, and soul.
“This way.” Our escort leads us across the thickly carpeted room, stopping at a set of chairs by the high back windows, which look out on a collage of back porches and windows and layers of city. We find ourselves standing before two older men.
The man on the right has a badge pinned to his tan jacket. He’s not wearing headphones, but the man on the left is. Seeing us, he slips them off his bald head. He’s wearing a slim black suit and looks like he just stepped out of a casino in a James Bond movie. I feel like I almost recognize him. He smiles, eyes on Caleb, and he and Randy seem to know exactly who this is.
21
MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 2m
Who’s up for staying young forever? Grown-ups = legalese and loss.
“Hey, Randy,” the man says over tinny headphone music. “Caleb, it’s nice to meet you.” He reaches over and carefully lifts the needle off the spinning vinyl. As it slows, I see it’s the Doors’s L.A. Woman.
The man puts out his hand. “Kellen McHugh.” In his other hand he holds a thin black cylinder.
Caleb shakes, manners taking over. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hey, Kellen,” says Randy, and it doesn’t sound friendly. “What brings you to San Fran?”
Kellen holds the cylinder to his mouth and inhales, and I realize it’s an electronic cigarette. It lights up blue at the tip. Kellen has thin features, kind of hawk-like, and small glasses. He looks more literary than rock star. When he exhales, the cloud of steam smells like mint.
“Same thing that brings you here, I’m thinking.” Kellen motions to the man beside him. “This is Detective Saunders. He made the trip up with me.”
I suddenly have that feeling of being in detention (only happened once), or grounded (a few times). Both Caleb and I are silent.
“I’ve heard you’re a great musician,” Kellen says to Caleb, “and I also know that you recently found out about your dad. That was probably kind of a shock.”
“Yeah,” says Caleb tightly.
“I’ll be honest,” says Kellen, “I don’t really know why you’re here, but based on what I’ve heard, I suspect that maybe it has something to do with Eli’s lost songs.”
Caleb just shrugs.
“Look,” says Kellen, “I don’t want this to be complicated. I always suspected Eli was working on those last songs. I’m sure they’re genius. When he never delivered them, not to mention bailed on the band, it really messed things up for all of us.”
“You make it sound like none of that was your fault,” says Randy, his tone frigid.
“We all play our parts,” says Kellen. Back to Caleb: “I completely understand you wanting to find your dad’s lost songs, but I also don’t want your life to get messed up by Eli, like mine did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Caleb asks.
Kellen produces a fold of papers from his jacket and hands it to Randy. “That’s a copy of the contract Eli signed with Candy Shell Records. You saw a contract at one point, with Burn Bottom Records, right?”
That last comment feels like a slight. “Yeah,” Randy grunts, leafing through the pages.
“So you can verify that it’s the real thing. Any songs that Eli wrote during the time that he was in Allegiance to North are technically the property of Candy Shell,” says Kellen. “The fact that he passed away doesn’t change that.”