Power Chord Read online

  I have to take the next step, even if I’m not in tune. I have to hear the sound, the real sound. It’s time for power. I plug the patch cord into the amp and the bass. I flip the power switch. A red light pops on, and the amp starts to hum. I feel my whole body hum with it. I set the volume down low and try again. The strings slither under my fingers. The sound vibrates right into my gut, like it’s the center of the Earth.

  All at once I can see myself on a stage with Pig and Denny. I feel music swirling all around us, loud music. I see bright lights, and beyond the lights are faces and waving arms. I want that. I want it to be me you hear at Rock ’N Bowl, especially if you are a girl.

  I start fake singing at the empty microphone stand. I blump at the bass like an idiot. Already my fingers hurt. I close my eyes and make a rock singer face. When I open them, Mom has sprouted on the stairs. I freeze in mid-blump.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I thought you might want this.” She’s holding a battery.

  I say, “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” I can feel my face turn the color of spaghetti sauce. This is worse than being caught on certain websites. I take off the bass, then grab the tuner from the case. “Where was it?” I ask.

  Mom smiles. “In the kitchen drawer.”

  “Oh. I’ll just—” I’m fumbling so hard I can’t get the tuner open.

  “Let me try,” Mom says. She takes the tuner. She opens the back and hooks in the battery. She presses the button. Bingo. “Remember how to use it?”

  I nod.

  “Good,” she says. “Didn’t Chuck write out some things to get you started?”

  “Oh yeahhh…,” I say. My face is cooling off. I look in the guitar case. There are pages with writing in pen. One says How to Tune. Another has chord charts. I remember practicing making the chords. Another sheet has bass patterns for songs marked on it. There’s “Smoke on the Water” and “Sunshine of Your Love.” I remember Chuck showing me those. They were cool.

  Then I think of something. “Is it, like, okay to—”

  “To use Chuck’s things?” Mom smiles. “I think so,” she says. “In fact, I think he’d like it. Besides, he’d have been back if anything had been important.” Her voice changes, and her smile fades.

  “Okay,” I say. “I thought that since he used to show me stuff…”

  She smiles again. “You’re right, he did. He was good that way.”

  “Maybe he forgot it,” I say.

  Now she laughs. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Forgetful was a way of life for Chuck. Remember the time he used two tins of Archie’s food by mistake in the—”

  Now I laugh and say, “Yeah, and we all had to go out for dinner.”

  Mom stops laughing. “And I paid. No, Chuck did pay. I shouldn’t be so hard on him. He was a nice guy…” Mom sighs and looks at me now. “I’m glad you’re giving this a try. Focus is good. But remember your promises, Davey.”

  David is my real name. Everybody calls me Ace because when I get asked about marks, I always sarcastically say, “A’s.” Everyone but Mom thinks it’s funny. Now I nod my head. “I know,” I say.

  “Good. We should get going in ten minutes.”

  I turn off the amp. Mom starts back up the stairs. “Cat food.” I hear her chuckle. She vanishes a step at a time.

  Chapter Five

  “How long till the next bus?” I ask.

  Pigpen shrugs. Denny is busy tweeting: nmbr1 rd. trip w/drums. need rdies nxt time 4 help. R U up 4 it girls?

  We’re at the bus stop near Pig’s house. It’s Tuesday after school, and it’s hot for late September. I’m sweating and thirsty because we’re carrying the whole drum kit. Also, the fingertips of my left hand are sore.

  I’ve tuned the instruments that are waiting at my house, and I’ve been practicing. I don’t tell Pig and Denny. I want to surprise them with how good I am. Instead I say, “We could have waited till tomorrow. My mom could’ve given us a ride.”

  “Rock and roll doesn’t wait, Ace.” Denny snaps his cell shut. “And Pig’s mom wanted the stuff out.”

  “It was only until tomorrow,” I say.

  “Who cares?” Denny says. “It’s cool. Anyway, it’s like free advertising for the band. People will remember us: I used to see them carrying their drums down the street.”

  This could be true. We’re hard to miss. The drums take up a lot of sidewalk. I’ve got the bass drum, pedal and a cymbal stand. Denny’s got the toms, the snare and stand. Sticks are poking out of his back pocket. Pig, the biggest of us, has the cymbals, a stand, the hi-hat stand and another set of sticks. How did he end up carrying so little?

  “What we really need,” Denny goes on, “are band T-shirts. If we were wearing them, everybody would know who we are and remember when they hear us.”

  “The T-shirts would be blank, Den,” I say. “We don’t have a name.”

  “Oh yeahhhhh,” Denny says. “Okay, I think we should be Corruption.”

  “Incoming,” says Pig.

  “What kind of name is that?” I ask.

  Pig jerks his head. I see he means that the bus is coming.

  As we pick up all of the drum parts, Denny says, “Remember, slip in the back door. Nobody will notice.”

  This time it’s nearly rush hour. Getting on by the back doors is like swimming upstream to Niagara Falls. With a drum set. Tired-looking adults glare at us, especially when Denny backs into someone with his drum sticks.

  “Hey!” the guy says.

  The driver’s voice comes on over the intercom. “Boys with the drums, come to the front.”

  Have you ever tried squeezing down a bus aisle with a bass drum? It’s hard to do. I feel like a human bowling ball, but this is not Rock ’N Bowl. I get stuck between a sweaty fat guy with grocery bags and a tall skinny lady who looks away. This is not what being up close and personal with your fans is supposed to mean.

  The bus rumbles. I stare at the top of the drum. As we slow for the first stop, Denny squeezes back to me. “We gotta get off,” he says. “She says we’re creating a disturbance. Besides, I don’t have money for a ticket.”

  I have to back out when the bus stops. I keep my eyes on the drum, but I feel the staring and hear the grumbles. At least we’re going with the flow. I make it to the sidewalk before I have to put the drum down. My arms are killing me.

  “I bet they’ll remember us—even without T-shirts,” Denny says.

  “Incoming,” says Pig.

  “We just did that,” I say. My back is killing me too.

  “For a name,” Pig says. He doesn’t seem tired.

  Den is busy tweeting. “I kind of like that,” he says. “What about…” Then he forgets to say anything.

  We have to walk the rest of the way to my house. At every rest stop, Denny tweets how far we’ve gone in case any girls want to rush on down to help us. Nobody does.

  “Gee, Den,” I say, “Maybe you gave the wrong directions.”

  “Aw, Ace. You watch,” Denny says. “Give it one month, and we’ll be chick magnets.”

  “That’s how long it’s going to take to get to my house,” I say.

  Denny changes the subject. “I think we should call ourselves The Spank. We could play in jock straps, like the Chili Peppers.”

  “Spitfires,” says Pig.

  Denny shakes his head. “That would be like a Kiss cover band. You know, spitting fire? This drum is heavy.”

  Now Pig shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. We walk, talking names. Then we stagger, talking names. At least, Denny and I stagger. Pig doesn’t even break a sweat.

  Pig suggests Surface to Air and Wing Commander or something, and Chopper. I like Chopper. Denny doesn’t. Then Pig goes back to Incoming.

  I can’t think of anything good that isn’t taken. Every name I think of reminds me of some other name. By the time we turn down my street, we’re back to The Spank or Incoming. Finally, I vote with Pig for Incoming.

  “I was just kidding about the jock straps,” Denny complai
ns.

  “I don’t want to get spanked,” I say. “I’m not a little kid.”

  “It’s okay,” Denny says. “Lots of rock stars are short.”

  “I’m not short, either,” I say. I change the topic. “Incoming, for now.”

  “It can’t be for now,” Denny says. “We have to start a Myspace page, post pictures, list influences.”

  He’s right. I hate it when Denny’s right. I hate carrying a bass drum even more. Luckily, we’re at my house.

  “Incoming,” I say again as I put the drum down on my front step. My fingers stay bent. Archie watches us from the porch.

  “Too bad Archie can’t take pictures,” Denny says. “He could take our first group shot.” He drops the snare on the grass. Our lawn isn’t much bigger than the drum.

  “Hey,” says Pig.

  “Sorry.” Denny lays the other stuff down to tweet again. “Okay, influences?”

  Maybe there’s blood getting to my brain again. I say, “Nirvana.”

  “Billy Talent.”

  “Green Day.”

  “Chili Peppers.”

  “Doors.”

  “Alexisonfire.”

  “Led Zep.”

  “Slayer.”

  “Hendrix,” says Denny. His thumbs fly, tweeting. More names come up. It’s cool to sit here like real musicians and toss around names of bands we want to sound like.

  I imagine our video. I get that image of playing onstage in my head again. I press my fingertips. It’s cool that they’re sore. Only musicians have sore fingers. And maybe martial-arts guys, from all that eye poking they do. But that would be different. When we stand up again, I’m all stiff. That’s cool too. It feels like a sacrifice for my art. I’ll blow off some homework and practice again tonight.

  Chapter Six

  We have our first practice the next afternoon. I discover seven important things about starting a band.

  One: You can’t look cool if practice is at your house.

  Denny has spent the whole day carrying his gear around school. I’ve always made jokes about guys who carry guitars around, but I wish I needed to do it. I know it would make me look way cooler.

  Two: You need all your strings.

  When Denny unpacks his guitar, I say, “Hey, your guitar is missing the high string.”

  “Oh, yeah. It broke.” Denny plugs in. He slips the strap over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I don’t use that one much yet anyway. I’m all about the power chords.”

  He sets his fingers, then jabs at the strings. Out comes a sound like pigs in a blender.

  “You got that tuner thingy?” Denny asks.

  I hand it to him. I look closer at the head of his guitar. “I thought you said you had a Telecaster.”

  “I said it was a Tely.”

  “That says Teleporter by Thunder on the head. A Thunder Teleporter? A five-string Thunder Teleporter?”

  “So I’ll get another string. Anyway, it’s a good amp.”

  The amp says Melodia. It looks like a kindergarten toy.

  Three: Bring earplugs.

  I figure I’m good with tissue, like at Battle of the Bands. Pig pulls on a monster set of noise-blocker head phones.

  “What’s with those?” I say to him and point.

  He pulls a giant padded yellow cup off one ear. “Industrial strength,” he says and puts it back on.

  Denny finishes tuning his five strings, plugs in and turns up his amp. He tries his power chord again. The top of my head almost comes off. I yell something that not even I can hear. Archie streaks for the stairs.

  “Told you it was a good amp,” says Denny.

  As I dig for more tissue, Pig yells, “Turn up your guitar. I can’t hear it.”

  “What?” yells Denny. “My ears are ringing. I can’t hear you.”

  “What?” Pig hollers as he lifts off a headphone.

  “What we all need are earplugs,” I say.

  “What?” they both yell.

  Four: Don’t kiss the microphone.

  Since they can’t hear, I lean close to the microphone. Too close. The microphone is also plugged into Denny’s amp. There is a shriek louder than the Thunder Teleporter. Upstairs, Archie howls. I pull back and try again.

  “What do you want to play?” I ask.

  Five: Your own voice will surprise you.

  I don’t hear their answers. Instead I’m thinking, Why does my voice sound whiny and crappy? Do I always sound like that? That can’t be me. It must be a cheap mike.

  Six: It’s harder than you thought.

  We all look at each other. This is it. We are going to play music. There’s a lot of music in the world. Where are we going to start?

  It’s a no-brainer. We choose “Brain Stew” by Green Day. I’ve only been playing bass for four days, and I can play it already. You just stay on the top string and work down from the fifth fret. The guitar part is Denny’s favorite. It’s nothing but power chords, two fingers, max.

  “Wait,” Denny says, “I’ll tweet the world what our very first song is.” Out comes the cell.

  “Let’s go,” I say. All at once, I want to play.

  Denny finishes. He puts down his phone. We get our fingers ready on the strings. Pig taps on the hi-hat with a stick. “Two, three, four—”

  We all start on a different beat.

  “Try again,” says Denny.

  “What?” says Pig.

  “Take your headphones off,” I yell.

  “What?” says Pig.

  I scream, “Take your headphones off. So we can all hear.”

  Pig frowns. He keeps the phones around his neck. Denny adjusts the mike. We get ready again.

  “Two, three, four—”

  Denny and I start on different notes. It’s my bad.

  “Two, three, four—”

  Denny drops his pick. He stands up and bumps the microphone stand. It wobbles toward the amp. There’s another feedback scream. I grab the stand and bump the crash cymbal, or is it the ride cymbal? Pig dives over the toms to grab it. I jerk back. There’s a crackle and a gadump sound as my bass cord pops out.

  We settle again. I plug back in.

  “Two, three, four—”

  This time we get it—for a little while anyway. The first notes of “Brain Stew” fill the room. They’re wobbly but loud, and I think they are music. We get through the song twice. Denny’s screams are pretty good. Pig has trouble keeping the beat with his feet, but he starts to get it. Even with only five notes to play, I’m not always sure where to fit them with the drums.

  The second time through, Denny tries to solo. This is a mistake with only five strings. Oh, well. Pig and I power on.

  Seven: Bring rubber gloves.

  It’s not until everything stops and I pull the tissue out of my ears that I hear another sound. It’s weird and high, like Robert Plant screaming on a Zep song. Only it’s not Robert Plant.

  It’s Archie yowling and throwing up in the front hall.

  “I think we’re an extreme band,” Denny says.

  We are so extreme we make cats barf. I’m cool with that (except for having to clean up), because I love us. Whatever this is that we’re doing is the most fun I’ve ever had.

  Chapter Seven

  After three more practices we’re way better. You can tell because Arch doesn’t barf anymore. Sometimes when I take my earplugs out, I hear him yowling upstairs. When I go upstairs to put him outside, he runs right to the door.

  I also know we’re better because we can blast through “Brain Stew.” We can play “Teen Spirit.” We’re working on playing it backward too. We’ve started practicing “Seven Nation Army,” and we have a list of songs we’re going to learn.

  Denny now has all six strings. His screaming sounds good, but he doesn’t do many stage moves. That’s because the basement ceiling is too low.

  Pig and I are getting it together too. On “Brain Stew” I match my notes with the bass drum for those two quick beats every time. At first
I couldn’t figure out when they came in. Then Pig showed me that I could count along to the beat of the hi-hat.

  Pig had trouble because he had to make his left hand play every beat on the hi-hat while his right foot played the two fast beats on the drum. See? It’s tricky.

  Now I’m checking out websites about bass playing. I got some patterns to practice, and I play bass along to our songs on my mp3 player. I’ve played so much that my fingers hardly ever hurt anymore. My fingertips are all tough and callused, and I can’t feel much with them. It turns out it’s a good thing I bite my nails too. Guitar and bass players have to keep them short, especially on the left hand. I’m really getting into this, even apart from the girls. Not that I’ve forgotten that. Chuck said girls can tell musicians by their hands. I hope he’s right. I try to keep mine out of my pockets as much as I can.

  “Stage two,” Denny says while we’re walking down the hall at lunch. We’re going to eat outside on the bleachers. “We gotta do the Myspace page, and it’s gotta have video.” He slings his gig bag higher on his shoulder. “My tweeting is already building a fan base. Now they want more.”

  “How many followers have we got, Den?”

  “I haven’t checked lately. But I know it’s for sure more than my mom. So, what we’re going to do now”—Denny pulls the door open—“is ask the girls in the video club to help. And I happen to know that they always eat lunch out here.”

  “What?” All at once I’m not hungry. “We can’t just ask them. They’ll think we’re dweebs, that it’s a put-on.”

  I thought girls would gather around after they heard us. I never thought we’d have to ask them to make a video.

  Denny shakes his head and says, “No, they won’t. Will they, Pig?”

  Pig shrugs. “I’ll do the Myspace page.”

  As we cross the football field, I see the girls in the video club sitting in the bleachers. There’s Lucy, from grade school, and Jessica from math, and Alison and Nadia. Oh, man. I see hair and smiles and many round body parts. “Why don’t you text them?” I whisper to Denny.

  “None of them gave me their numbers,” he whispers back.