Power Chord Read online

  Power Chord

  Ted Staunton

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHER

  Copyright © 2011 Ted Staunton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now

  known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Staunton, Ted, 1956-

  Power chord [electronic resource] / Ted Staunton.

  (Orca currents)

  Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-55469-905-6

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)

  PS8587.T334P69 2011A JC813’.54 C2011-903428-X

  First published in the United States, 2011

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011929395

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Ace starts a band and learns a tough

  lesson about plagiarism.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this

  book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its

  publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government

  of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts,

  and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council

  and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by First Light

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  14 13 12 11 • 4 3 2 1

  Thanks to Liz, Kim, Bernice, Tabitha,

  Sue, Florence, Roma, Lindsay and Daniel,

  for great suggestions, and to my son Will,

  for great music.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Denny is yelling, but I can’t hear his words. Onstage, Twisted Hazard has just ripped their last chord. It’s still bouncing around the gym.

  “What?” I yell back. I pull the tissue out of my ears. I always take tissue to Battle of the Bands.

  “I got a great idea,” Denny yells.

  Denny gets lots of ideas. His last one called for coconuts, shaving cream and our math teacher’s car. If this is a great idea, it’ll be the first time he’s ever had one.

  “What is it?” I say.

  Denny says, “We hafta start a band.”

  “What for?”

  “What for?” Denny waves at the stage. The Hazard bass player is a hobbit in red plaid pajama pants. He’s talking to two girls in amazingly tight jeans. The lead singer looks too young to stay out after the streetlights come on, plus he’s in chess club. Three girls, one very hot, are chatting with him. The drummer has glasses and is wearing flood pants. He’s handing his snare and a cymbal to two girls in grade ten. One of them is his sister, but still.

  “Look at those guys,” Denny says. “Imagine how we’d do.”

  I hate to admit it, but maybe Denny has a point. Those guys are in grade nine, and we’re in grade nine. They are nerds, and yet those girls are all over them.

  We’re not nerds—even if Denny’s ears do stick out—but we’re invisible to girls. There are girls all around us, in cool shapes and sizes and smells. They don’t help us with anything, except maybe give us something to stare at.

  Maybe a band is the answer. I bet playing in a band is easier than playing basketball, especially for someone my size. There’s a problem though.

  “Uh, Den,” I say, “don’t you have to play music to be in a band?”

  Up onstage, the next group is plugging in. It’s No Money Down. The guitar players are in my English class.

  “Well, duh,” Denny says. He’s patting his pockets. He pulls out his cell and flips it open. “No problem. You’ve got that stuff at your house.”

  There is a bass and a guitar at my place. I fool around on them a little.

  Denny says, “And I play guitar and sing.”

  Denny did take some guitar lessons a couple of years back.

  “Since when do you sing?” I ask. In between ideas, Denny has been known to lie.

  “Me?” he says. “I sing great. I was in that choir, remember?”

  I make a face and say, “So was I, Den. That was grade four.”

  Denny says, “Yeah, well, I sing all the time at home. While I’m playing guitar. I just don’t do it around other people. Anyway, it’s your band style that counts.”

  “Band style?” I say.

  Denny says, “Yeah. You know, your look, your attitude. That stuff. Like, notice how cool bands never smile in pictures? Anyway, most of them don’t even play, they fake along to their records.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  Denny shrugs. “Everybody knows that.”

  “One problem, Den,” I say, “we won’t have any records to fake to.”

  Denny is too busy texting to answer.

  How did we end up talking about starting a band? Really, we only came to see who was around. And to look at girls and make jokes about them we don’t really mean. Soon we’ll probably yell and fake wrestle with some other guys. Later we’ll walk back to my place to watch downloads of Python Pit 6 and Facemelt and laugh at them. I mean, you have to do something on a Friday night.

  Up onstage, some goof from the student government introduces No Money Down. One of the guitar players hits a power chord behind him. Everybody is crowding the stage around them. Girls are crowding the stage around them.

  I look at the two guys from English. They look the same as they do in English, only they don’t. They have sweet guitars that I don’t know the make of. Lights are shining on them, and everybody is watching. They’re trying to look cool, but you can tell they want to giggle like little kids.

  Do I want that? Yes I do. I turn to Denny and say, “Let’s do it.”

  “Wait.” He’s still texting.

  “Who are you texting anyway?” I ask.

  “I’m not texting.” Denny looks up and grins his big maniac grin. “I’m tweeting.”

  “What?” I say. “Since when are you on Twitter?”

  “Since today. Look, I just told the world.” He holds up his phone as No Money Down stomp off their first song. On the screen it reads: Hot new band startup 4 u. dr. d & ace will rule. watch for more later.

  “Let’s do it, Ace,” Denny says.

  “Props.” We bump fists. I’m in.

  Chapter Two

  We decide the first thing we need to do is find a drummer. We start at three on Saturday afternoon. We’re not what you call early risers.

  “We’ll get Pigpen,” Denny says to me on the phone.

  “I didn’t know Pig played drums,” I say.

  “His older brother has drums. He was in that band, remember, when we were in grade eight.”

  I do remember. They were pretty good, even though at the time, I said the
y sucked.

  “His brother plays drums, but that doesn’t mean Pig does,” I say.

  “I heard Pig tapping pencils in study hall,” Denny says. “He’s great.”

  We meet at the bus stop. Pig lives a ways from us. When the bus arrives, Denny insists we sneak on the back doors as other people get off. Not many people get off on a Saturday.

  Right away, the driver calls, “You in the green hoodie!”

  Denny looks around as if he’s not wearing a green hoodie. He’s also grinning.

  “And your buddy,” calls the driver. “No free rides. Get up here. Pay your fares or get off.”

  Everyone stares at us, which I don’t like. Denny grins bigger than ever. We shuffle up front, digging in our pockets for cash.

  It’s a seven-stop ride. When we get to Pigpen’s house and ring the bell, his mom answers. Denny blathers all over her, the way he always does with adults. I wait. Actually she is pretty nice.

  “Jared!” she calls down to the basement. Jared is Pigpen’s real name. “Friends!” She sends us downstairs.

  Pigpen is not exactly a friend of ours, but we knew him in grade three. Then his family moved. We met him again this year when we all started at the same high school. His nickname is kind of a joke, because he’s a neat freak. He has a buzz cut and always tucks in his shirt. His jeans are pressed. Even his locker is organized. It’s spooky.

  When we get downstairs, Pigpen is polishing a pair of black combat boots. I wonder if he’s a closet punker. Sure enough, a drum kit is set up in the corner.

  Denny makes his pitch. Pig listens, then nods. “Okay,” he says.

  Pig isn’t a talker. He could have been in silent movies. Denny is a talker. In fact Denny is a motormouth. I can be a talker with my friends, but not around adults.

  “Cool,” says Denny.

  There are more props all round. I notice Pig is wearing latex gloves to keep his hands clean as he polishes.

  Denny says, “I’ll bring over my Tely, and Ace has got a bass and amp and—”

  “Can’t,” says Pig.

  “Huh?” we say.

  “Can’t.” Pig dabs more polish on a boot. Then he says, “Mom won’t let us. Too loud. Said New Teeth made her grind her own.” New Teeth had been the name of Pig’s brother’s band.

  “But the drums are here,” I say.

  “Gotta move ’em,” Pig says. He starts buffing the toe of a boot with a brush. “My brother won’t care. He’s away at school till Christmas. We can use his microphone too.”

  “There’s no room at my place,” says Denny. He’s right. That leaves us with my place. They both look at me.

  I sigh. “I’ll have to ask my mom.”

  “So call her,” Denny says.

  “She said not to call unless there’s a disaster. She’s showing a house.” Mom sells real estate. She says the market is slow.

  “Then let’s take everything over. How can she say no?”

  “She can say no lots of ways, Den,” I say. “I’ll ask when she gets home.”

  Denny grabs the hi-hat anyway. The pedal clunks off on his foot. “Ow, Jee—” He cuts off. Pig’s mom is upstairs.

  “So let’s go,” I say.

  Denny is limp-hopping around the room.

  “Call me,” Pig says.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Denny looks back at him, still limp-hopping.

  Pig picks up an unpolished boot and nods at it.

  “Later,” I say.

  “Later.”

  Chapter Three

  We’re out of cash, so Denny and I walk the seven stops back to my house.

  Denny says, “Pig didn’t even want to come with us.” He shakes his head in amazement.

  “He was busy, Den,” I say.

  “Yeah, see those boots? What was that about?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he’s a professional grape stomper.”

  Denny says, “Don’t you wear hip waders for that?”

  My mom isn’t home when we get back to my place. We get snacks. Archie, our cat, pads in and stretches. I give him a snack too.

  “Let’s check out the stuff,” says Denny, as if we haven’t a million times before.

  We haul everything out from under the basement stairs. There’s a microphone stand, a Yorkville bass amp, two guitar cases and a cardboard box. All of it looks pretty battered. Inside the cases are a Squier electric bass and a Cort acoustic guitar with a pickup. I know there are straps, patch cords, a couple of picks, and an electronic tuner with no battery tucked in there too. When you open the cases they let out a whiff of wood polish and plastic, cigarette smoke and beer. The bass case also smells of cat pee. Arch once took a leak in there. It doesn’t matter. I like it. It reminds me of Chuck.

  Chuck is the owner of all this stuff. He was a boyfriend of Mom’s when I was eleven or twelve. Chuck was a goof, but in a good way. I liked him. I think Mom did too, but she said he had “reliability issues.”

  When Chuck wasn’t driving a truck, he played in a band called Razorburn. He said he was only driving truck until his music took off.

  Mom said the truck would take off before the music did. She was right.

  Inside the cardboard box is a pile of leftover copies of Razorburn’s cd, Mullet Over. I haven’t listened to it in a million years.

  Denny is trying to tune the guitar. He gives up and strums. It’s not music, but it gets your attention.

  “Power chord,” says Denny. “See what I’m doing?”

  “Mangling the guitar,” I say. We hear the door open upstairs.

  “Hi,” Mom calls.

  “We’re down here,” I call back.

  There are footsteps, and then Mom’s feet and legs appear on the stairs. I spend a lot of time in the basement. I always like how people on stairs seem to sprout magically in front of you. Mom is wearing her house-showing pantsuit. Mom looks at all the gear spread out. She raises an eyebrow.

  “Ask her,” Den hisses. “Go on, ask her.”

  There are reasons I shouldn’t ask her. I am supposed to be getting better marks. I am supposed to be looking for a part-time job. I am supposed to be more reliable. Thanks to Chuck, I don’t think Mom thinks reliable and music go together.

  On the other hand, Denny and Pig need this too. And getting out this stuff reminds me of how Chuck showed me chords and bits from songs. I liked that. Chuck said I was good too. Above all, there are girls everywhere who don’t know I exist, but who soon will—if I ask. I ask.

  “We want to start a band. Can we practice here?”

  Denny takes a running step off the carpet. He slides toward my mom on his knees across the patch of lino. It’s a good rock-and-roll move, actually. He stops in front of her and looks up, his hands together, begging, “Please Mrs. C, please?”

  Mom looks from him to me. I am trying to look hardworking and reliable. Her mouth twitches. She says, “This is going to cost you straight Bs, minimum, on your next report card.”

  Denny starts tweeting.

  Chapter Four

  Mom invites Denny to stay for supper, but he has to go. She asks me to make salad while she cooks spaghetti. I start by looking in the junk drawer. “Do we have any batteries?”

  “What size?” Mom asks. She’s running water to fill a saucepan.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “The square ones.”

  “Nine-volt,” Mom says. “I think there’s one. What do you need it for?”

  Man. Already she’s piling on questions. I say, “The guitar tuner thingy.”

  “Look in the computer desk.” She passes me the knife and cutting board. “After you make salad.”

  Instead, I look in the computer desk right away. I can’t find it.

  By now, Mom is browning ground beef in the fry pan. She has stacked the salad vegetables beside the cutting board. “Who else is going to be in the band?”

  I say, “Pigpe…Jared.”

  Mom says, “Really? Jared from grade school?” She turns to look at me.

  �
�Uh-huh.”

  “That’s nice,” she says. “I haven’t seen Jared in ages. What does he play?”

  “Drums.” I tear off chunks of lettuce to wash. Will the questions never end?

  “Anybody else?” she asks.

  “No,” I say.

  Mom nods and says, “What are you going to call yourselves?”

  I turn off the tap. “We haven’t decided. Either Green Day or the Beatles.”

  “All right, smart guy,” she says as she takes spaghetti down from the cupboard. “Just…”

  “What?” I start chopping carrots, ready for the lecture.

  “Never mind,” Mom says. She tells me about the people interested in the house instead.

  After supper I hit Facebook and try to line up the evening. It is Saturday night, after all. For way too long I write on walls and don’t get anything back. Where is everybody?

  Finally, Denny writes back and asks if I want to go to Rock ’N Bowl. I’m a bad bowler, but I like Rock ’N Bowl. You don’t tell people you like Rock ’N Bowl though. It sounds lame. I message back better than death and ask Mom if she’ll drive us.

  There’s an hour to kill before we pick up Denny. I go down to the basement and open the guitar cases. I look at the instruments, nestled in plush. They are full of music I want to get at. I remember Chuck showing me chords and a bass pattern for playing blues. The guitar had felt big as an army tank. Now it feels light—and hard, for something so curvy-looking. I pluck the strings softly. I don’t want Mom to hear. I also don’t know what it’s supposed to sound like.

  I take the neck in my left hand and press down on the littlest string with a finger. It’s tougher than it looks. In fact, it hurts a little. I pluck with the pick. Cluk. I press harder. Now I get a twang. I stop the sound with my hand. I remember a chord Chuck showed me, a G, I think. Anyway, it’s the one where you reach across with two fingers to the two thickest strings. It’s tough tucking my little finger in behind. I try a quiet strum.

  Yuck. I need that tuner.

  I put the guitar down and pick up the bass. It’s heavy, and the balance is different. After the guitar, the neck is like a tree. The strings feel thick as snakes. They push back under my fingers, vibrating through me when I pluck them. Cool.