Strawberry Fields for Evan

Stardust

CHAPTER ONE

When?

Madison Heights, Michigan: January 2012.

The glow from the Daley’s Tavern sign spread unevenly over the few remaining cars in the parking lot as a light snow began to fall. With his Honda Civic parked strategically near the rear entrance of the bar, Evan Fritz maneuvered the last of his drum kit into the cramped confines of his well-worn but heretofore roadworthy vehicle.

His ears rang with the remnants of the night’s music, and his body—despite his muscular frame—felt the effects of four long sets. In a ritual that felt as old as time itself, he bent, twisted, and struggled to make the final pieces fit before collapsing into the driver’s seat, surrounded by an avalanche of cymbal stands, drum cases, and other assorted tools of the trade.

As he fired up the engine, the last stragglers from the evening’s revelry filed past him and dispersed into the night amidst stuttered laughter and puffs of cigarette smoke. Goodnight, sweet morons, he whispered to himself.

Surely he’d paid his dues by now, he thought, as he sat watching them stagger past. He’d suffered their tedious song requests for years and engaged in a legion of mind-numbing conversations, all the while pasting a smile across his mug in an attempt not to offend the many patrons—and the many managers who worked for the many owners of the many venues. That’s what the game was all about at this level.

Evan was tall with dark brown hair and eyes. He looked every bit the musician and carried himself as such. Heaving a sigh, he pulled the last occupant from a crumpled pack of Winstons, clicked his lighter, and let his thoughts drift to the frustrations and limitations of his current situation.

After leaving college to pursue a career in music, he’d bounced from one band to the next, building up a name for himself around the Detroit area as a rock-solid drummer and strong vocalist—not to mention a budding songwriter who was never far from the old Takamine acoustic guitar that was his life’s blood during off hours.

A loud thump on the window brought him around, and he glanced to his left to see the smiling face of Kelly Hines—bass player, roommate, best friend, and a genuinely good guy. Hey man, you coming to Denny’s with us? yelled Kelly into the night air as Evan rolled the window down.

Yeah. You guys ready? Evan grinned back.

Almost. Mark’s getting the check now, said Kelly. The bastards better pay up and not give us a hard time ’cause they had a good night tonight. That dance floor was full, Evan, to the brim!

You got that right, buddy.

This was life in a cover band playing cover songs. You had to dream and scheme your way into local dives to prove yourself, and live and die by the attendance figures. You were forced to play the same tired set lists deep into the night and try to sneak in an original song or two in the hopes that some patron of note might hear something special and punch your ticket to the big time.

Bar owners were notorious for stiffing bands, and you were treated like second-class citizens until the cash registers proved otherwise. Then, it was smiles all around, a few free drinks, and improved attention from the girls who decorated the various clubs around town. Paydays were always tough, however, regardless of your stature, due to the owners’ propensity for penny-pinching.

The band, Night Flight, had been together for over two years now and had worked their way from Tuesday night auditions to fairly steady weekend gigs. This measure of success had come at quite a price, as Evan now found himself playing songs that he’d sworn he’d never consider. In the band’s quest for a larger payday, they had been forced to include many tried-and-true crowd-pleasers—numbers that were being played by countless bands across the country and, most likely, the world.

As the snow picked up its pace, Mark Duprey—Night Flight’s handsome lead singer, bandleader, and morally challenged womanizer—stepped into view and approached the car. Behind him, scurrying along through a veil of white, a pair of figures emerged and joined the gathering at Evan’s vehicle. Completing the group were guitarist Steve Dunn and keyboard wizard Bryan Allen. All eyes focused on Mark with hopeful financial questioning. He drew himself to full expanse and gave them the thumbs-up.

Excellent! roared Kelly. Evan and I will make rent again this month. Hallelujah! There’s a big-ass plate of bacon and eggs with my name on it waiting for me, so let’s get out of this cold and make haste, boys.

The rapid movements of the other three as they tumbled away from Evan’s car signaled unanimous agreement. Evan smiled to himself, flipped on the lights, and headed into the crisp Michigan night.

The drive to Denny’s restaurant was predictably routine and uneventful, but there was time for Evan to pop in a CD and crank up the volume to fill the car with his beloved Beatles. He sang along at full voice with a grin stretching from ear to ear as the Fab Four weaved their magic. As he and John Lennon barked out Rock ’n’ Roll Music, Evan thought about how long the Beatles had been his favorite group and how incredible it must have been to be caught up in their whirlwind.

Minutes later, the band had reconvened at the restaurant and, now seated warm and dry around a circular table, the conversation flowed fast and furious. Check out the waitress, Evan. I think she’s got it for you, dude, announced Steve Dunn with a wink. Chicks and drummers, man. Chicks and drummers.

I thought chicks preferred singers and guitarists, challenged Mark. You know we’re the pretty ones.

The pretty arrogant ones, said Bryan meekly.

Kelly announced that his bass playing was the high point of the gig and was greeted promptly with a shower of napkins, sugar packets, and a lemon slice.

Sometime later, as the band tucked into mountains of eggs, piles of bacon, mounds of sausages, stacks of pancakes, towers of toast, and platters of hash browns, Evan steered the conversation to new material. Look, seeing how you guys don’t seem to be interested in doing originals right now, we’ve at least got to play some different tunes, he hissed. We talked about adding the three Beatles songs, so I’m gonna get the sheet music on Tuesday, and we can work ’em out for next weekend. There was a collective groan, save one.

He’s right, agreed Kelly, nodding to Evan. Look, we need to keep rotating and adding material or we’re gonna be looking for work.

Sure, stick up for your roomie, sneered Mark. Look, the songs we’re doing are working. They love us and the dance floors are rockin’. Yeah, I guess we should do some new ones, but what’s the rush? And why is it always the Beatles with you, Evan? Don’t you like any music post 1969?

Evan started to respond, but Kelly put a hand on his arm. Look, Mark, we need new material, Evan’s willing to get it, and you know the crowd will love it. The Beatles always go over, he said, and added, We’re a cover band, so let’s cover some good stuff to go with all the crap we’re forced to play. Besides, it’ll make the singer even more attractive.

Mark thought for a second, sighed, and smiled. All right, fine. Get the songs. Beatles, always Beatles. Are you sure you’re not some time traveler from the Sixties?

Evan was, in fact, not sure of much these days. This band, while fairly regularly employed and ostensibly fun to be part of, was not what he’d hoped for. Original music was the only real way to go, he thought. Bands that lived on cover songs became permanent fixtures at local bars and clubs, while bands that played their own music at least had a shot at breaking free.

It was so easy to fall into the trap. Play your own songs and the audience reacted with either polite indifference or outright disdain. Play any number of songs from the hit parade and it was smiles all around, cheers, and a party atmosphere. You could get used to that quickly, but it was hollow praise indeed, Evan mused.

There were a small number of underground bars in metro Detroit that catered to originals, but there was no money to be had, and the crowds were much smaller and harder to win over. The bands in these clubs were populated with dedicated and determined musicians who lived for their music and only for their music. He ached to be in their company and had the utmost respect for each and every one of them, regardless of their musical tastes or abilities.

Evan knew that in order to reach the holy grail of a full-time music career, this was the direction he needed to travel. But what was holding him back? Was it the steady money and security of his day job combined with the supplemental income from his drumming duties in Night Flight? Or fear of the unknown and reluctance to take a chance? It was all these things and more. He hated himself for it and felt like a musical prostitute every time he played.

As commotion reigned at Denny’s, Kelly and Mark were locked in an animated debate on the pros and cons of wireless microphones. Steve rambled somewhat incoherently about the various weights of guitar strings, and Bryan stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Evan decided to leave his musings on his failures and character flaws and rejoin his band mates in the moment.

On into the small hours it went. They joked, laughed, and discussed, their meal marked with five empty plates and countless cups of coffee. Most nights went this way. Denny’s patrons came and went like ants at a picnic, and still the band remained locked in conversation. Finally, the comments dwindled to a precious few and it was time to leave.

See you back at the chicken shack, Jack, said Kelly, grabbing his bill and heading for the counter. Maybe there’s something good on the tube.

Um, well, I think I might just drive around for a while, Evan replied. He needed some space. He needed to think. He needed not to think. He needed something.

As he pulled away from Denny’s, he could hear the last few shouts from the others and, waving a hand out of the window, he bid them goodnight... or good morning depending upon one’s perspective.

He turned onto Twelve Mile Road and headed past the endless wash of fast-food joints, party stores, pizza dives, gas stations, and Laundromats—letting the scenes drift over him until they were combined in a multi-colored blur.

The Beatles provided the soundtrack for his early morning cruise and, as so often before, Evan found himself lost in thoughts of early 1960s England, specifically Liverpool and its famous Cavern Club. The electricity must have been palpable, he thought as he drove on.

Change was in the air back then, but did the patrons realize they were witnessing the birth of a cultural phenomenon? Surely some of them did, he reasoned, but if crowds in 1960s Liverpool were anything like those in modern-day Detroit, most of them probably missed the boat and were as surprised as anyone by the events that transpired.

As they had done for so many others since their music first graced the airwaves, John, Paul, George, and Ringo had both eased the pains and increased the pleasures of adolescence for Evan. Their music was never far from his thoughts... or his speakers. They’d been there ever since he’d first heard All You Need Is Love as an awkward nine-year-old one cold Michigan winter night.

The song had at once lifted his spirits and awakened his artistic passions. From that moment on, he was hooked. He owned every release in their catalog, and his collection of Beatles-related books and magazines filled the shelves on the walls of his bedroom in the modest house he rented with Kelly.

He drove for another hour, winding his way through the suburban landscape before returning home to 4240 Cameron Court and parking in his customary spot to the right side of the driveway.

Their house was no different from the plethora of homes that lined the landscape of suburban Detroit. Built in the 1950s, their two-bedroom, one-bath, split-level ranch hinted that a pair of bachelors resided within. It was tidy, but not overly clean, and furnished with a collection of gifts, finds, and garage sale purchases. There was no theme to the decor, for the inhabitants believed that themes were for married couples and designers. Plus, they were just too busy and low on funds to worry about such things as decorating.

Despite the first hints of the sun peering out from the horizon, Evan eased the front door open to find that his roommate was wide awake.

What’s up, bro? said Kelly, looking up from his spot on the oversized brown sofa in the living room. You want some coffee?

No thanks, I’m still juiced up from the hundred cups at Denny’s, replied Evan with a grin.

So, where’d you go? Off to visit some young lady of ill intent?

Nah, I just drove around and listened to some music.

Hmm, Kelly sighed with a gleam in his eye. I wonder who you might have been listening to... Um, could it have been a certain quartet from the north of England by any chance?

Maybe, smiled Evan, walking through to the kitchen and throwing his jacket over a chair before grabbing a fresh pack of Winstons from the counter.

Well, hell, why stop now? Let’s crank it up, man! laughed Kelly as he moved to the coffee table and fiddled with the silver iPod resting in the black iHome. The opening strains of the title track announced the arrival of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album, and Evan eased back on the sofa and let the music flow through him.

As the album progressed, Evan sat immersed in the glorious combination of guitars, basses, drums, percussion, keyboards, horns, strings, effects, and heavenly vocals. He hung onto every note and each word and was once again surprised that the music never got old, but continued to illuminate deeper layers and textures with each listen.

If only he could have been there at the beginning, back in the lean Liverpool days when they were hungry, just like him. If only. The two friends sat together until A Day in the Life reached its thundering climax, prompting Evan to bid Kelly a sleepy goodnight and remove himself to his room.

Evan’s bedroom was, in direct contrast to the sleeping chambers he had occupied growing up, compulsively neat and organized. A queen-size bed occupied the center of the room, resting on a thick Oriental rug. Virtually every inch of wall space was covered with posters, most of them relating to the Beatles. In fact, the entire room was something of a shrine to the lads from Liverpool, giving it the aura of a museum. A stack of snare drums was arranged on the mahogany dresser and directly beside them stood various guitar effects pedals. To finish the theme, Evan’s Takamine was propped on a guitar stand in the corner, over which, painted in exacting detail, hung a large wooden yellow submarine. It was apparent from the décor and content that this was the room of a musician.

He lay on the bed thinking about Night Flight and how he’d love for them to get the same fire that he had for shifting directions. He mused about how they might one day soon realize that original music was the way to go, even at the expense of decent pay and reliable steady gigs. No pain, no gain... or was it no guts, no glory? Or maybe it was both. At this hour, he couldn’t be sure which would be more appropriate.

As he gazed up at the ceiling, the smiling faces of John, Paul, George, and Ringo smiled back down on him from the huge poster of the Please Please Me album cover pinned to the ceiling. The sight of the four young Englishmen, poised to take on the world from the EMI balcony, inspired him as always to grander pursuits. As visions of long-ago Liverpool and the band that started the British Invasion danced in his head, Evan’s eyes drooped as sleep finally found him.

CHAPTER TWO

In My Room

Saturday began at noon, as did most days following a gig. Evan rolled out of bed and glanced carelessly out of the bedroom window. The ground was draped in white from the night’s snowfall, and there was that familiar winter’s silence that he loved so much; the noise of the surrounding population muffled by more than a foot of fresh powder.

He spent the remainder of the morning perched intently on the bed, accompanied by his acoustic guitar, notepad and pen, and his trusty micro-recorder. Working with great intensity, he put the finishing touches on his latest composition, When? It had a bossa-nova feel to it, and he smiled as each chord change fell almost effortlessly into place.

Once he’d nailed the melody and tightened up the words in the last verse, he scanned the lyric sheet with a satisfied sigh, taking in each phrase. Evan knew that the song was his best to date and that the words were a summation of his life to this point. He read them again, slowly and carefully.

When?

When will my life be worthwhile?

Will there come a day I see fortune smile?

How far do I have to roam?

When will the compass carry me home?

In the light of day, questions return again

Will I see the way to find the answers?

Can you tell me when?

When?

When do all the pieces fit?

Will the winning number finally hit?

Who is holding all the cards?

When will the dealer let down his guard?

In the dark of night, shadows play let’s pretend

It’ll be all right

I’ll crawl from under, but I wonder when?

When?

Somewhere in the past, I thought I’d have it all back then

My optimism didn’t last, now all I ask is when?

When?

When is it okay to cry?

How long will I watch my dreams passing by?

Will I ever change my ways?

Will I get it all together one of these days?

In the rush of time, I cling on until the end

Will I reach my prime?

And if I’m going to, can you tell me when?

When?

Evan made a quick recording of the song and uploaded it to his iPod for further study. He’d play it for Kelly later, too, he thought, just as he did with all his tunes, but that could wait as there was a promised visit with his parents on his afternoon agenda.

A fresh sprinkling of snow had started falling, and the sky was flecked with white dots all along the route to his childhood home. As he drove, Evan basked in the glow of his new song and, as usual, his thoughts drifted to the Beatles. For the drive, he had selected the With the Beatles disc, and each note conjured up images of the young lions, pounding out their art with intensity mixed with desperation that surely marked their early days.

Without warning, it hit him. A flash of light and a deep chill that had nothing to do with the winter weather consumed the car; the music crackling and shuddering while the suburban road seemed to melt into a grey-and-brown city street. His breath was coming in short bursts and his heart was thumping audibly as he strained to process what was happening.

The images appeared with more clarity as the moments dragged on, and Evan fought not only to maintain control of the vehicle, but to hang on to his sanity. As he struggled to keep his eyes on the pavement in front of him, he could make out the shapes of figures and outlines of buildings, but without specific detail. It was as if time slowed down and the visions passed in front of him like those old choppy 8mm films from his parents’ childhood.

He could hear distant noises amidst the music still blasting from his speakers, but, as with the images flashing before his eyes, he couldn’t distinguish any particulars. As he bounced between the two realities, there was a sudden lurch in his stomach. He seemed to lose his bearings momentarily as the scene finally played itself out. Evan pulled the car over to the shoulder and sat shaking, trying to compose himself, feeling as though he’d just run a marathon.

What the hell was that? he said aloud, his voice breaking the silence with a quiver. He tried to replay the scene in his mind, but the shock of what had transpired gripped him and made rational thought impossible. Ejecting the disc and sitting in the silence, Evan contended that he had never experienced anything remotely like this in all of his twenty-two years. This was no dream, he told himself. This was—dare he even think it?—real. But how and, even more troubling, why?

Evan sat in the car for a full twenty minutes before he eventually composed himself and pulled back into traffic. As he drove the remaining miles to his parents’ house, he struggled to keep his mind and his vehicle on the road, as the visions and sensations replayed themselves on a mental tape loop. When at last he’d parked in the familiar half-moon driveway, he felt emotionally spent and physically weak. His mom and dad were there to greet him as he stepped out of the car, and his mother, Marian, smothered him in her proverbial maternal embrace.

Evan, I’m so glad you’re here, she purred. Your father and I have been looking forward to this all week. Come on in the house and let’s get you fed. She hurried ahead of them and disappeared into the front entrance.

How’s the band going? said Peter Fritz to his son as they lingered by the car, a trace of remorse on the edges of his voice.

Not bad... We’re working pretty steady, Evan replied as the pair of them walked slowly up the driveway and climbed the steps to the front door. We’re looking to get a few more nights here and there once we get some new material worked up.

What about the job? They paying you all right? continued his father with a weak attempt at a smile.

Could be better, replied Evan, but at least I’m employed. A lot of my friends are still out of work.

They entered the house, and the welcome smell of a home-cooked meal filled Evan’s nostrils. His stomach rumbled with anticipation as his mother hugged him yet again. Sit... sit, she beckoned, I’ve made all your favorites, honey.

True to her word, the tastefully decorated dining room table was filled to bursting with plates of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, coleslaw, and dinner rolls, plus pitchers of iced tea and lemonade, and two golden-brown pies that Evan knew had to be apple and cherry. The blending of these foods created an all-encompassing and inviting aroma that surrounded the senses and stirred the stomach.

Noticing her son’s delight in the surroundings, his mom beckoned the men to take their seats. Come on, boys, there’s plenty of food, and I know you must be hungry.

Yes, Mother, said Peter with a wry grin. I know Evan doesn’t eat like this every day.

That was certainly true. Evan and Kelly usually confined their meals to sandwiches—depending upon the general health of whatever lunch meat was in the fridge—or pizza and Doritos... which served as delicacies in their humble home. Given their limited combined income, some days the grocery choice was between food and beer and, as was the case with many young men their age, the beverage usually emerged as the winner.

Dig in, his mom said, motioning to Evan. There’s plenty here, and you can take any leftovers back with you.

Thanks, Mom. I definitely miss your cooking.

Have you given any more thought to your future? asked Evan’s father, peering over his glasses and fixing Evan with an icy stare. It’s not too late for you to pick up where you left off and get that degree. If not, you know your brother’s offer of a job still stands, and you can work your way up into management and maybe run your own store someday. I mean, the music thing was fine for a while, but where are you? Working a menial position for no money and maybe playing music a few weekends. Is that what you left school to do? When is enough really enough?

His dad’s words carried with them a ring of truth, but Evan also knew that he hadn’t given the music his full attention and energy. He was certainly not happy with his current situation, but he couldn’t give up until he’d poured his heart and soul into his dream. One hundred percent. Nothing less would do, but he hadn’t yet found the energy or motivation.

To do his music justice meant changes on the horizon... changes he had thus far been too nervous and/or lazy to make. Wishing to avoid the usual argument with his father, he gave an answer best suited to prolong addressing the issue.

Yeah, I have thought about the future, Dad. I’m weighing my options, but I need more time to figure things out.

Well, don’t wait too long, son, or time will pass you by, came the reply, and Evan gave silent thanks that the subject seemed to have reached its conclusion, for the time being anyway.

He rose from the table and began to help his mom clear away the dishes. When they were out of earshot of her husband, she kissed her son and said, somewhat under her breath, You give it the time you need, honey. Your father just wants what’s best for you, but in the end it’s your life and your decision.

Good old Mom. Something of an artist herself, she had always encouraged and supported Evan’s musical pursuits. As he took a wet plate from her and started to dry it, she confessed that in her younger days she had musical aspirations.

Maybe you’d like to join the band, he grinned, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. We could always use another free spirit.

Yeah, that’s just what you need—some old hag singing out of tune—that’ll get you that record deal! They laughed together, and Evan was reminded of countless moments like this in years past. Where his dad was much more serious and slightly aloof—traits shared with his older brother, John—his mom was more like him, which had drawn them closer together over the years.

They finished the dishes and returned to join his dad in the living room. After more conversation and several cups of strong coffee, Evan excused himself and went out on the back porch for a smoke. The late-afternoon air served to heighten the jolt of the caffeine in his system, and his thoughts drifted back to the strange events earlier in the day.

He’d never experienced anything like that and could still feel the ice-cold detachment that preceded what he could only assume was some sort of hallucination. The vision of the grey landscape was alarming, as much for its drab presence as for the feeling that it was so real. He’d had dreams before, but this had been—in that brief flash—as real as anything he’d ever known.

After some soul searching, he decided that he’d mention this experience to his parents, just to see if they might offer some insight. There was, as always, the creeping feeling that this would probably be a mistake, but when had that ever stopped him? He returned to the living room, chose the armchair opposite his parents, and took a deep breath.

I had a really strange experience today on the way over, he started. I wanted to get your opinions.

What happened, dear? said his mother, in a slightly nervous tone.

Well, it’s kind of hard to put into words, Evan replied, tapping his fingers on the small table next to the armchair. It was just a few seconds, but I’ve never been through anything like it.

Over the next five minutes, he described as best as he could the vision and accompanying sensations that he’d experienced. His parents offered several possible explanations, including lack of sleep, his smoking, his late-night lifestyle, and various other suggestions ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous.

His dad summed up his thoughts with a single sentence. Evan, you need to go back to school. He could always count on his father for the standard answer. Thanks, Dad, he muttered sarcastically under his breath before announcing, I’m gonna go up and check out my old room. He stood up and headed towards the stairs as his parents watched him closely.

His room had ceased to serve its original purpose and was now more of a storage space; however, there were traces of its previous owner in the form of several piles of books, assorted clothing, and, fittingly, a massive movie poster from A Hard Day’s Night perched in the place of prominence over the spot where Evan’s bed once stood. The memories came flooding back and he recalled countless nights spent lost in the music of his heroes, laying on his bed with the headphones on and the world thankfully kept at bay.

It was here that he had planned his grand vision of musical success; here where he learned to play drums and guitar; here where he had also made his first attempts at writing songs; and ultimately here, in the shelter of these four walls, where his personality was shaped.

He smiled and recalled how his music obsessions had isolated him from many of his classmates and served to worry his parents. They had fretted about his avoidance of such activities as school dances, sporting events, and proms, as he chose to spend most of his free time concentrating on his first love.

He moved to the window and gazed out onto the backyard. The recent snow had covered all traces of activity, and the entire area was pillowed with white. As the edges of evening made their presence felt, Evan turned from the window, eased out of the room and made his way back downstairs to join his parents. There was a gig tonight at McGee’s Pub, and he needed to meet the rest of the band for load-in at 7 o’clock. I need to get going, he announced in a voice much louder than he’d intended. We have a gig at nine, and I need to get ready.

His mother jumped up, hugged him, and smiled. Play well, have fun, and try to get some sleep, honey. It was so good to see you. I hope you’ll come back and see us soon. Call any time. Love you.

Me, too. I’ll call you, Mom. Thanks for everything; the food was fantastic. He glanced over to the couch where his father still sat. See you, Dad, he said sheepishly.

Yep,’ came the stiff reply from behind a newspaper. Take care of yourself, and consider what we talked about.

His mom walked with him to the front door and watched as he got into his Honda. He waved as he backed out of the driveway and saw her wipe her eyes as he turned onto the newly plowed street.

CHAPTER THREE

Same Old Song

The rest of the band was already assembled around the well-worn group van by the time Evan arrived in the McGee’s Pub parking lot. As he got out of the car, he was greeted with the predictable avalanche of good-natured abuse.

Hey, Fritz, nice of you to make an appearance, said Mark Duprey, his eyes gleaming. The singer leaned in closer and whispered, Glad you’re gonna join us.

Yeah, I thought I’d stop by and see if you guys suck as badly as they say, came Evan’s reply, as Kelly and Steve walked past, grunting in unison under the weight of a PA column.

Any time you guys wanna grab something... muttered Steve irritably. The faster we get this done, the sooner we can get a beer.

Evan took the cue and started unloading his drums with purpose. As he started for the rear entrance of the pub, Mark returned. Hey Evan, Kelly told me how much you write and play your acoustic, so how come you’re a drummer?

It was a good question, Evan thought as he contemplated his reply. Well, I definitely love writing songs and playing guitar, but I’m just better on the drums, and I figure I should go with my strengths, he said, peering around from behind a wall of cymbal stands. He did feel that his drumming was his strongest suit, but he was certainly no slouch on the guitar either. He was often torn with his decision to opt for drumming, but for now it was a moot point.

While he had built up a reputation around town as a solid, inventive, and aggressive drummer, he was keen to be seen and heard as a singer/songwriter too. He knew that, as the drummer in an all-original band, his opinions would be destined to take a back seat to those of the songwriters. The only way to control his destiny, he surmised, would be to put his own band together and be the one responsible for the material and the presentation. Evan loathed himself for his delay in taking the steps necessary to begin a serious pursuit of his dreams.

Over the course of the next hour, equipment was hauled out of vehicles and onto the small stage at the rear of the pub. Once the guitars were tuned and sound man Rob Flynn had signal, they were ready for the sound check. This usually consisted of running through two or three songs and stopping now and then to discuss, argue, rant, and rave... and finally adjust instrument and vocal levels. Tonight was no exception, and, once Evan had Rob give him more of the bass in his monitor, he felt ready to go.

This was the time he felt most at ease during a gig. Equipment ready, levels set, the chance to have a drink and unwind with the guys. Unlike Daley’s Tavern the previous night, where the band were considered little more than unknown lackeys, the staff at McGee’s treated them pretty much like family. They’d played there on and off for over a year now, and the waitresses and bartenders gladly supplied them with free drinks and included them in most of the gossip that circulated the bar.

Evan sidled up to Mark as the singer sat talking and flirting with two of the waitresses. I’m gonna get that sheet music for the three Beatles songs tomorrow, he whispered. So, let’s keep on schedule, all right?

Yeah, man... I told you we would, replied Mark impatiently. He took a large swig from his ever-present mug of beer and continued. You need to relax, Evan. Where’s the fire, dude?

I just want us to get better, Mark. I’ve also got a bunch of new originals, and I’d really like to start working on some of those, too, he said, with more than a slight sense of urgency in his voice.

But we’ve been through this. They don’t pay us to play our songs. If we start throwing in originals, we’ll lose the gigs, Mark warned him, with the familiar air of one of their old high-school teachers. There are a million other bands waiting to take our place. We can work on our own stuff later, when we’ve gotten bigger.

There was a note of finality in Mark’s voice that told Evan there was nothing further to say at this point. He was used to the roadblocks being erected each time he mentioned the subject. He grabbed his Winstons and lighter and made his way to the back door and out onto the patio, which served as the smoking area.

Standing huddled against the winter wind trying to light his cigarette, he thought about his never-ending campaign to make original music a part of the band. He’d read numerous interviews where many of his favorite musicians would bemoan the intrusion of the business mindset into the art of music. There were ways to break the mold and be fairly self-sufficient without the complete dominance of the corporate mentality. This is what Evan longed to achieve, and he vowed to address the subject of an original band before long.

Minutes later he hurried back through the doors and squeezed through the mass of people scattered around the bar to join the band. Still clustered around their table, which was now cluttered with pitchers and glasses in various stages of fullness, the rest of the group was talking in animated fashion and had attracted a crowd.

The clock threatened 9:30 and, at last, it was showtime. As frustrating as the cover band routine had become to Evan, he still enjoyed the buzz of playing to a live audience, the release that drumming gave him, and the camaraderie of the guys. He could at times lose himself in the music, depending on the song, and just enjoy the sensation as he let the playing wash