Going Bovine

Page 7

Chet smirks. I’m pretty sure the Bible says Thou Shalt Not Smirk, but that could be a rumor. “Yeah? What religion’s that?”
“Apathy.”
Jenna looks like she could cheerfully strangle me. Staci Johnson turns to her posse and giggles. “Whatever!”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” Chet says to the others like I’m not even there.
And in a way, I guess I’m not.
CHAPTER FOUR
In Which a Brief Sanctuary Is Found, I Fail to Comprehend Jazz, and I Am Forced to Have a Conversation with My Asshole Father
Eubie’s Hot Wax sits one block away from the university, nestled between a head shop disguised as an incense and candle store and an art studio famed for its stained-glass cat selection. It’s a little oasis of sounds sans the attitude of the mega music store in the mall. It’s my favorite place in this dusty Texas town.
At Eubie’s there are no six-foot risers announcing the latest release from a pouty-lipped nymphet with only one name. No college music majors earning extra beer money while snorting out pretentious statements like “Well, sure, I guess the Copenhagen Interpretation’s an okay band, but they wouldn’t have been anything if Pet Sounds hadn’t come out first.” Just bins upon bins of obscure LPs and CDs from newer bands mixed in with jazz and novelty stuff like my personal fave, the Great Tremolo, whose songs about the pain of life were written solely for recorder and ukulele. You have not felt angst till it’s been filtered through Portuguese and nose-thrumming vibration. Plus, he has the highest voice I’ve ever heard in a dude. When he reaches for that one ball-breaking note in every song, I can’t help losing it every time.
I was first introduced to the Great Tremolo via one of those satellite radio shows that exists just to play obscure, freaky shit you could swear the producers made up during the break. As I was lying on my bed with my headphones on—the ones I decorated with space stickers from Tomorrowland—the DJ dropped the needle on the Great Tremolo and a song called “Para Mí He Visto Ángeles,” which, according to the liner notes, translates to something like “For I Have Seen Angels.” I sat straight up, laughing. It’s like the Great Tremolo’s voice is from space, and he’s on the verge of crying while he sings, but like crying with happiness if that makes any sense at all. I mean seriously? How can you not lose your shit over that?
The Great Tremolo made close to twenty albums, and with Eubie’s help, I’ve managed to collect seven of them. I take comfort in the fact that there is someone out there who’s more of a loser than I am, and believe me, the Great Tremolo is a total emo loser, tilting at sonic windmills.
Eubie hears the bells tinkle over the door when I come in and looks up from his perch behind the counter, where he’s playing store DJ. He’s got a big smile for me. “Heeeey, Cam-run., where you been, my man?”
“Nowhere,” I say, stepping up to the counter. Eubie’s growing a little soul patch. It looks good with the dreads and the multicolored T-shirt emblazoned with the face of some famous reggae star.
“Nowhere’s a bad place to be. I been there. How come you got no girlfriend?”
I pick up a copy of the free weekly newspaper I have no intention of reading. “Ahh, you know. The Cam-man is meant to be shared by many, held by none.”
Eubie laughs. He’s got a laugh like a machine gun firing through velvet. “That’s some serious bu’shit, man. Do yourself a favor, friend. Leave my shop and go live a little.”
“I am living. A little. Got any new Tremolo for me?”
“Come on back.” Eubie leads me through the purple curtains at the back of the store that hide the storage area where the employees take their breaks. It’s not much of a room. Couple of chairs. A long counter covered in plastic take-out containers and backpacks. There’s a large cork bulletin board on one wall. It’s loaded with pictures of the employees dressed up for Halloween and Christmas parties. Ticket stubs from concerts and hard-to-read flyers for band members needed poke out at odd angles, overlapping. A torn piece of notebook paper advertises a carload of guys going to the YA! Party House for spring break who are willing to give somebody a ride for cash. Mardi Gras beads hang from a thumbtack beside a picture of Eubie in a feathered mask, whooping it up on Bourbon Street. Down in the right-hand corner is a picture of an old man in a suit, a hat, and black sunglasses. He holds a trumpet in his weathered hands.
“Who’s this guy?”
“Junior Webster. Best horn player in New Orleans.” Eubie sucks in air and shakes his hand like he’s burned it. “That cat is outside, I’m telling you. You ever get to NOLA—and you should—go check out the club he used to play at, the Horn and Ivory.”