CHAPTER 19
—CCA—
“… the illusion of purpose.”
Wonders Upstairs, said the sign at street level.
It seemed an outlandish claim for such an unprepossessing structure—a barnlike two-story wood frame building on a commercial street ten blocks from the Rice University campus. Downstairs was the Small Planet Grocery, a busy food and drug co-op which seemed to have an exemption from every licensing law and packaging code. Above, under the gambrel roof, was Wonders.
Daniel Keith recognized on first sight that the three-hundred-seat club was organically one with the co-op below—that is, Spartan, quaint, and inexplicably successful. Everything that wasn’t handmade seemed secondhand. Half the seating was comprised of unpadded wooden benches, the other half of uncomfortable plastic chairs packed too closely together.
Most surprising, the only performance support was a twelve-channel sound system and an autospot. There was no net feed, no audio optimizer, no prompter—to say nothing of such cutting-edge technologies as a SyncScreen or harmonizer. But, as Keith learned when he editorialized aloud, that state of affairs was the result of the owner’s philosophy, not his poverty.
“What fun is it if there’s nineteen layers of insulation between me and the performer?” snorted Bill “Papa” Wonders, he of the great white beard like an Elizabethan ruffled collar. “That’s like putting a tourist in a six-axis harness and a thrill-ride helmet and calling him a gymnast. My musicians work without a net.”
The audience had somewhat better support: A little bar and food counter in a glass-walled annex sold bottled drinks, light polypep, and a smattering of desserts—all of the crunchless variety, out of consideration to the performers.
But it was the music, not the menu, which filled the seats in Wonders at fifteen dollars per, six nights a week. Techjazz, English vocal, electric filk, revival rock, antitonal—everyone agreed that Papa Wonders had eclectic tastes. Most agreed that he also had good taste.
Which is why only Tuesdays were free for sampling new performers, two on a split bill, an hour set each with a break between. Tonight, the poster in Wonders’s narrow stairway read:
Tuesday
December p.m.
CHRISTOPHER McCUTCHEON
Traditional Guitar
+ + +
BONNIE TEVENS AMBIKA
Synth Moods
At a quarter to eight, Keith slipped into the little room that served as the performer’s warm-up room and found Christopher bending over his instrument with surgical concentration.
“What’s up, guy?”
“Broke a string.”
“Ah. Better here than on stage, eh?”
“Better,” Christopher agreed. “How are things outside?”
“Greg has the recorders all ready to roll. The multi is audience center, fifth row, so he can do splits on your fingering, and the tank camera is front row left. And he’s doubling sound with a digital MIDI.”
Christopher shook his head. “God. He really went overboard.”
“You ask a techie to help, you let them do it their way,” Keith said with a shrug. “Nobody’s going to think it’s strange.”
“No? Fifty thousand dollars of hardware and fifty people in the audience?”
“Says who? The room’s filling up nicely. I think it’ll be close to full.”
Christopher was taken aback. “Really. Bonnie and Ambika must have a following.”
Keith shook his head. “If they do, they’re gonna have to stand in the back. There’s a good dozen archies out there, and at least half the other faces look familiar. Looks like word got out around the center.”
“That Greg’s doing, too?”
Grinning, Keith said, “Well, not exactly. I didn’t think you’d mind a friendly audience, after all the work you’ve been banking. And with graduation Friday and winter holiday coming up this weekend, I didn’t have to twist any arms. We even got a few out from Noonerville.”
Christopher sat back, the neck of the guitar held loosely between his knees, and looked sideways up at his friend. “Thanks, Daniel,” he said. “I don’t mind. I just hope I’m up to it.”
“Just have some fun,” Keith said. “They’ll enjoy it if you do.” He nodded. “You’d better finish with that.”
“It’s tuned,” said Christopher. “You know, I’ve never done a whole set with just the Martin before. But that’s what Bill asked for.”
“High time,” Keith said. “All that synth fill and bangbox stuff is for cowards.”
“Who told you to say that?”
“Papa Bill did.”
“He would.” Christopher’s expression darkened. “Just to save me from looking—I don’t suppose Loi or Jessie—”
“Sorry. No,” Keith said. “Not unless they came in while I’ve been in here.”
Tight-lipped, Christopher shook his head. “I didn’t expect them.”
“Still at war?”
“Trenches and mortars. They won’t pick a new counselor, I won’t go back to the old one. We lob words back and forth at each other a couple times a day.”
“Bad juju. But save it for later,” Keith said, glancing at the clock behind Christopher. “Five minutes. I’m going to get out of here and let you collect yourself.”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?”
“Nervous,” confessed Christopher.
“Nervous is good, I hear.”
“I’m not used to playing for people who’re there to listen instead of to get laid.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, I can try to get laid.”
A laugh broke through the nervousness. “Oh, gee, Dan, it’s awfully nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“Sure you could,” Keith answered with a grin. “Anything for a buddy. Break a string, huh?”
An hour alone on stage can be an instant or an eternity. For Christopher McCutcheon that night, it was an eternity, and Daniel Keith’s heart ached for him.
The worst of it was that it was no one’s fault but Christopher’s. Papa Wonders kept his introduction low-key and discreet, careful not to oversell his inexperienced opening act or splash Christopher with the taint of Allied Transcon. And the friendly crowd gave Christopher a warm reception as he came down the aisle. The portents were all good. All he had to do was rise to the moment.
But when Christopher went to mount the small stage at the narrow end of the hall, he stumbled and nearly fell, cracking his guitar sickeningly against the steps. Collecting himself, he crossed to the stool at center stage and worriedly inspected his instrument.
“Is there a luthier in the audience?” he murmured, almost to himself, as he fingered a spot on the edge of the body. Finally satisfied, he looked up and out at the audience. “Good thing I don’t have to walk and play guitar at the same time.”
The honeymoon was still in effect; the weak joke got a stronger response than it deserved. Keith could only imagine what it felt like to look out from there and see more than two hundred people looking back at you expectantly.
“Anyway, thank you for the welcome. I’m going to try to give you about six hundred years of music in about sixty minutes,” he went on, speaking quickly, “so I won’t waste too many of those minutes talking. Just sit back and let me drive the time machine. And remember, if the scenery gets dull, you can always take a nap for a hundred years or so.”
The laughs were noticeably weaker for the second jest. They had come to be entertained, and Christopher was parading his self-doubt before them like an anxious youth drafted for a recital before the relatives. His shaky confidence was understandable, but letting it show was a mistake.