Page 70 of Your Chorus
I drop my hands from my bass to the couch and glower at him. It doesn’t have any effect. It never does with him.
He hauls himself to his feet and shuffles over to the nearest shelving unit laden with LPs. I watch him trail a finger over their spines and brace myself for whatever insulting analogy he’s going to come up with next.
“Tell me,” he muses, “what does a bass player do?”
I guess he’s aiming for a different tactic. I feed him the first answer that springs to mind, the one I’ve heard from all the music teachers I’ve had before.
“They provide the rhythmic and harmonic foundation.”
“Harmonic foundation.” He spits the words out like they’re bitter. “You’re not a textbook, man. Don’t talk to me like one. Tell me, when you’re up on stage with your band, what do you do?”
I pause and think for a moment. I’m not even sure what he’s asking. What happens when I play usually justhappens. That’s part of what makes Sherbrooke Station concerts so good; we don’t have to think about what we’re doing. We feel it. We live it. We let it take hold of us.
Still, I know by now that James isn’t one to let a subject drop once he’s made his mind up to seeing it through, so I do my best to put into words what I feel when I’m on stage.
“I’m the...weight. I keep things solid, grounded. I give the song a foundation. I let it make an impact.” I pause and swallow. “It’s like all the other sounds can get carried away. They can escape you. They can go somewhere you can’t follow, but the bass—it calls you back. It’s calm. It’s cool. It—”
“Wrong!”
James whirls around and marches over to stand right in front of me.
“That’syour problem, Cole. You’re too cool. Music—especially rock music—isn’t supposed to be cold. When I hear you play, it’s like...like sitting in front of a radiator that’s only turned on halfway. You limit yourself. You hold back. Youhide.” He narrows his eyes and stares me down, like he’s cornering an animal in its burrow. “Bass isn’t ‘cool.’ Those other instruments, they’re the fuel and the flames, but the bass—it’s the hottest part of the fire. It’s the part that’s still glowing after everything else has gone out. The bass...”
He trails off and starts chuckling to himself for so long that I have to ask him what he’s laughing at.
“It didn’t even hit me until now.” He settles back down in his armchair, a final chuckle escaping under his breath. “Music is a fire, and the bass, Cole—the bass is the coals.”
I feel a smirk stretch across my face. “I see what you did there, Mr. Stepper.”
He shakes his head, grinning right back at me. “I don’t think you do, or I wouldn’t have to keep making you play these songs over and over again. What’s your deal, anyway?”
“My...deal?” I repeat.
“Your deal. I know that strong, silent type thing can’t just be to impress the ladies. You’ve kept it up all week even though the only lady to impress around here is Camilla, and I’m sure you know as well as I do by now that nothing is ever going to impress Camilla. So what’s your deal? I see it all the time, especially when you play: you’re holding back. Just like I said, you’re hiding. Why?”
I stare at him. “Do you...Do you really expect me to answer that?”
He stares right back. “I didn’t ask the question for the good of my own health.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stepper, but I’m not here to talk about persona—”
“Musicispersonal,” he interrupts. “If it weren’t, we’d have robots playing it for us. If you want me to teach you anything, which is apparently why you came here, then we’ve got to get to the bottom of what’s holding you back when you play. So what is it? The age-old Daddy issues?”
He says it like a joke, but my hands curl into fists before I can stop them.
“Mmm,” James hums. “So itisDaddy issues.”
I start to pull my bass strap over my head. “Look, I’m not going to—”
James waves down my attempt to get off the couch. “Sit down, Cole. I’m not a psychologist. I’m not going to ask you about your earliest memories or anything like that. My father was a son of a bitch just like his father before him. I get it, all right? You don’t need to explain everything, but you do need to figure out why it’s stopping you from playing. If I’m right—and I think I am—then it’s stopping you from living, too. So check that Mr. Mystery ego of yours and just consider what I’m saying, man.”
I pull in a deep breath, not because I’m actually considering hashing out my issues about my father right now, but because just the thought of it is getting me worked up. I need to cool it—and fast.
“You’re still doing it,” James goads. “You’re trying to hide.”
He doesn’t know what he’s messing with.
“I see you doing it,” he continues. It gets harder and harder to keep my breathing even. “You walk through life on your damn tiptoes all the time and back down from anything that has even a chance at making you angry. Are you angry, Cole? Does this old man poking at you with his cane make you angry? Get angry, then!”
