at?”
Over a thumping run of bass notes, I said, “My wife says I suck at everything.”
Dylan powered up his amp, hammered out a chain of power chords, and said, “Let her go, man. She’s full of shit. I’ve known you one week, and I can see that you’re a good guy.”
Beyond the stage, people were fist-pumping to Dylan’s chords. It was a vibrant young crowd tonight. Barrooms had changed. In my Minnesota youth, there were nine men to every one woman. Tonight Heaven’s Door was teeming with women, and the ratio was closer to 1 to 1. The average age looked to be 25—Dylan and I were the two oldest men in the club. With the twin catalysts of alcohol and dim lighting we’d appear as young as the others.
The drummer and keyboard player joined us on stage. Dylan said, “Mikey and Luke, meet The Doctor. Boys, let’s do a little rockin’ blues. Woogie Boogie in B flat. Here we go. Hun, two, three, hah!”
The three men broke into an upbeat 12-bar blues, with the drummer driving the tempo fast and hard. After three measures, I learned the chord progression and joined in with the bass line. I reached over and turned up the volume knob on my amp to the max. The power of my notes shook the floorboards beneath me. Dylan looked over and winked in approval.
The dance floor became a mosh pit. At my feet, a muscular dude in a tattered Minnesota Twins T-shirt gyrated with a blonde in tight jeans and an even tighter red sweater. She melded her scarlet arms around his torso and dug her chin into his shoulder. The couple bounced and rebounded off every dancer within ten feet of them. At one point, the girl smiled up at me, rolled her tongue across her upper lip, and blew me a kiss.
I took my right hand off the bass strings and caught the kiss. I feigned a look of amazement toward her and angled my bass to the ceiling to validate my masculinity. It all felt wonderful. This big-fish-in-a-little-pond rock star gig was the best thing to happen to me in years. I was floating six inches off the stage. I looked over at Dylan. His head was bobbing to the beat, and his knees were going east and west at the same time.
“Go, Doctor, go,” he shouted at me. My fingers flew over the strings to carve out a bass riff that blared through the refrigerator-sized speakers. I loved the power. From Elvis to Jagger to Maroon 5, this was what rock n’ roll was all about. Forget the words. Give them a thundering beat, a dark room, and a chance to escape.
The primitive urges of the music stoked my disdain for my wife. Alexandra—strutting like a prostitute in her spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress down the hallway of our California home. Alexandra—beautiful and ornery. I hated her and I loved her. The wedding ring on my left hand was the tiniest handcuff in the world.
The hottie in the red sweater gyrated below, and the spectacle she presented motivated me to man up. I took my hands off the bass for five seconds, long enough to slip the wedding ring off my finger and drop it into the front pocket of my Levis. I jettisoned the shackle of my wedding band here in a town where I had a clean slate—a town where I sensed I could become someone special.
Like Johnny.
The band took a break after the set ended, and Dylan said, “Time to go outside, Doctor.” We pushed through the back-slapping crowd, and I followed him onto the sidewalk facing Howard Street.
“Man, that was a rush,” I said. “The applause, the attention, the music. I love it.”
“Being on stage is a drug, Doctor. It’s been my drug for years.”
“You play here every week?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been playing clubs and concerts all around the world since I left high school, but now I just play here. Twice a week. Acoustic set on Tuesdays, electric with the band on Saturdays. There’s some nice tail here on Saturdays,” he said, lighting a Marlboro. “Glad you came out tonight. You need it. Can’t have you at home worshiping at the throne of the distant Mrs.
Over a thumping run of bass notes, I said, “My wife says I suck at everything.”
Dylan powered up his amp, hammered out a chain of power chords, and said, “Let her go, man. She’s full of shit. I’ve known you one week, and I can see that you’re a good guy.”
Beyond the stage, people were fist-pumping to Dylan’s chords. It was a vibrant young crowd tonight. Barrooms had changed. In my Minnesota youth, there were nine men to every one woman. Tonight Heaven’s Door was teeming with women, and the ratio was closer to 1 to 1. The average age looked to be 25—Dylan and I were the two oldest men in the club. With the twin catalysts of alcohol and dim lighting we’d appear as young as the others.
The drummer and keyboard player joined us on stage. Dylan said, “Mikey and Luke, meet The Doctor. Boys, let’s do a little rockin’ blues. Woogie Boogie in B flat. Here we go. Hun, two, three, hah!”
The three men broke into an upbeat 12-bar blues, with the drummer driving the tempo fast and hard. After three measures, I learned the chord progression and joined in with the bass line. I reached over and turned up the volume knob on my amp to the max. The power of my notes shook the floorboards beneath me. Dylan looked over and winked in approval.
The dance floor became a mosh pit. At my feet, a muscular dude in a tattered Minnesota Twins T-shirt gyrated with a blonde in tight jeans and an even tighter red sweater. She melded her scarlet arms around his torso and dug her chin into his shoulder. The couple bounced and rebounded off every dancer within ten feet of them. At one point, the girl smiled up at me, rolled her tongue across her upper lip, and blew me a kiss.
I took my right hand off the bass strings and caught the kiss. I feigned a look of amazement toward her and angled my bass to the ceiling to validate my masculinity. It all felt wonderful. This big-fish-in-a-little-pond rock star gig was the best thing to happen to me in years. I was floating six inches off the stage. I looked over at Dylan. His head was bobbing to the beat, and his knees were going east and west at the same time.
“Go, Doctor, go,” he shouted at me. My fingers flew over the strings to carve out a bass riff that blared through the refrigerator-sized speakers. I loved the power. From Elvis to Jagger to Maroon 5, this was what rock n’ roll was all about. Forget the words. Give them a thundering beat, a dark room, and a chance to escape.
The primitive urges of the music stoked my disdain for my wife. Alexandra—strutting like a prostitute in her spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress down the hallway of our California home. Alexandra—beautiful and ornery. I hated her and I loved her. The wedding ring on my left hand was the tiniest handcuff in the world.
The hottie in the red sweater gyrated below, and the spectacle she presented motivated me to man up. I took my hands off the bass for five seconds, long enough to slip the wedding ring off my finger and drop it into the front pocket of my Levis. I jettisoned the shackle of my wedding band here in a town where I had a clean slate—a town where I sensed I could become someone special.
Like Johnny.
The band took a break after the set ended, and Dylan said, “Time to go outside, Doctor.” We pushed through the back-slapping crowd, and I followed him onto the sidewalk facing Howard Street.
“Man, that was a rush,” I said. “The applause, the attention, the music. I love it.”
“Being on stage is a drug, Doctor. It’s been my drug for years.”
“You play here every week?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been playing clubs and concerts all around the world since I left high school, but now I just play here. Twice a week. Acoustic set on Tuesdays, electric with the band on Saturdays. There’s some nice tail here on Saturdays,” he said, lighting a Marlboro. “Glad you came out tonight. You need it. Can’t have you at home worshiping at the throne of the distant Mrs.
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