Page 70 of Naughty Dreams
It was a dismal setup, a stage so cramped it could barely accommodate their equipment, and less than thirty people present, most of them drinking and not paying much attention to the band yet. DJ deemed it a good spot to audition the drummer and see if he put in the effort even for an indifferent audience. They’d done the U2 song first, an audience pleaser, and when Tal finished, he’d leveled a look at DJ and said, “Fun, but too easy.”
DJ told him to choose any song from their standing repertoire. “Burn” by Deep Purple came next. Thrilling and fast, he and Steve crowding the mic to do the vocals and pound out the guitar parts, keeping pace with Tal’s furious fills. Then DJ faced Tal for the guitar solo.
They’d finished the song with shit-eating grins. Tal had arrived at the audition as a single burning light bulb. Realizing he was going to be part of them turned him into a stadium of illumination.
Discovering they’d caught the attention and enthusiasm of those thirty people was the icing on the cake. Later that night, they went back to Marjorie’s barn, their first rehearsal space, to jam some more. DJ remembered them crashing and burning seventy seconds into “Dance of Eternity” by Dream Theater, which was about twice as far as he’d expected to get. But those haunting guitar notes…
Haunted. That was Tal. So lost he didn’t see he was in the back seat of a driverless car, headed toward a brick wall.
DJ wanted to really hit the drums. Beat it out, harder, faster. He rose and stripped off his Rush shirt, then sat back down.
“‘Burn’ by Deep Purple,” he called out. Cole gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, and switched the music.
DJ picked up the sticks, twirling one with a flourish, then closed his eyes again.
Bam!That first beat. His arms flexed, hands came down, and the sticks made contact. The guitar entered the fray, normally his part, but not today. The drums set the underlying rhythm and that was the current he was riding. He worked it, making it angrier, needier. Sadder.
He connected to his brother's soul, his heartbeat.
You’re strong enough to beat this, Tal. Beat the drugs, beat the way you feel about yourself. Find the right rhythm. Like your drums, it will keep you steady, bring you back.
It was the best way DJ knew how to pray, sending his music to the heavens, the angels, to whatever Power was listening. Music could do anything, transcend anything, reach anything. The drums were the center, the heartbeat, and that was what DJ would lay his hands upon, to channel that healing to Tal.
Dibbidee dibbidee dum, a fast all the way around the world sequence, kick drum, snare, toms, hi-hats, ride and crash cymbals, working the main drum pedal. He heard the part wherehis guitar solo had started, him and Tal facing off, then Steve and Pete coming in. All together.
In this life, he’d seen the drugs win a lot. Creative souls were vulnerable, and addiction grabbed hold and ate them like a cancer, until there was nothing left to save.
DJ didn’t accept that. Couldn’t accept that. He was starting to sweat, but he was about to get sweatier.
“‘Painkiller,’” he shouted. Cole moved to comply. Against his eyelids, DJ saw Tal beating out the Judas Priest song.
From their first meeting, he’d recognized Tal’s anger and hopelessness. His soul already believed it was beyond saving.
You’ve learned differently since you’ve been with us. I know it.
DJ emptied his mind and let the music take him. It would be the first time in a long while that he felt this much without thinking anything, no songs coming from it. He would remember that later.
Much later.
When he finished, his head was bowed, chest expanding as he caught his breath. The silver chain of his ichthys was glistening from what coated his upper body.
He lifted his head to give Cole agood job, approving nod, but Cole wasn’t paying attention. The sound engineer was on his feet, staring at the TV. So was Roy, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, his phone to his ear and expression gripped with something DJ had never seen there before.
Shock.
DJ turned to look at the screen.
The sitcom had been interrupted by a special broadcast. A crashed plane filled the screen, smoke billowing, fire blazing across the runway. Flames leaped from crumpled metal, fire crews in heavy gear scrambling around them.
A voice in DJ’s head said, “Oh shit, no one’s walking away from that.” The wave of sympathy was what anyone with a heart felt, even knowing it wouldn’t affect them directly.
He read the words scrolling across the screen, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Didn’t want to make sense of it. But the words didn’t care.
Members of Survival, the world-famous rock and metal band, were believed to be on the plane…
Were.Were.
DJ surged up and forward. He forgot the drums in his way, so he fell over them, foot going through the main drum, the metal on the top edge slicing through his jeans. He didn’t feel it, wouldn’t remember how the cut got there.
