Backbeat Rhythm

Chapter 2: Backbeat Rhythm-1

Chapter 2: Backbeat Rhythm

“I thought I said 8:30.” Rod’s thick eyebrows lowered over his blue eyes. “You’d better be ready to take the stage, Kit.”

“The sitter was late.” Kit pulled his bass from its case, plugged it in, and started tuning. A few curious patrons were already gathered near the stage, watching them set up. The regular groupies crowded around the sales table, grabbing T-shirts, stickers, and copies of the new CD. The rest of the club was dark and smoky, and he could see a lot of the crowd was still milling around the bar, seemingly oblivious to the band.

Rod thrust a finger at Kit’s chest. “If you weren’t such a damn good musician, I swear I’d get a new bassist.”

Kit ignored the vocalist. Rod’s temper was infamous—and it’d blow over just as quickly as it appeared. “Ebon’s after me to cut my hair again.”

Tom slammed both drumsticks down on a cymbal. “For crying out loud, doesn’t the kid understand we’re a metal band?” He tried a riff on his snare, adjusted the height of the drum just a touch, and settled onto his stool. “What’s a metal band without hair?”

Kit shucked off his jacket and thumped the E string. “He says it’s embarrassing.”

“Fathers are supposed to embarrass their kids,” said Brian, hitting an E on his guitar. “It’s in the rule book.”

Kit finished tuning up and joined the guitarists on stage. “I dunno, Bri. Maybe I should think about it. He’s a good kid, you know?”

Rod adjusted his microphone. “Nobody’s cutting their hair in this band.” He raised his voice. “We’re Radioactive. Are you ready to rock?”

The resultant applause was less than enthusiastic, but it was early. The groupies set up a cheer from the front lines, but most of the club’s patrons just watched curiously, waiting to see if they could actually perform. Chris brandished his guitar, stepped forward, and hit the opening bars of “Crazy Train.” Better to start off with cover tunes, warm up the crowd, before they introduced their own music.

The lyrics, as always, made Kit a bit broody. He had his own wounds, his own troubles. It wasn’t easy raising a seven-year-old on your own, not if you were trying to make ends meet. It’d be nice if he had a partner, but who the hell had time to go looking for one? He’d love to have a second income, another adult for Ebon to look up to, somebody to turn to when things got rough. But where was a man supposed to find such a partner nowadays, especially working as much as Kit did.

He forced himself to forget his worries and settled into the music. A good bass man teamed up with the drums to lay down the rhythm for the band without overpowering the guitars and vocalist. Most people wouldn’t be able to hum the tune he was thumping out, but they’d notice if it wasn’t there. Kit kept an eye on Tom and matched his rhythm perfectly.

If his fellow students at Julliard could see him now—their jaws would probably drop to the floor in shock. They’d have gone on to respectable careers in orchestras, or teaching at colleges. He’d actually seen one of his old professors in the crowd once, and the man had merely raised one eyebrow in Kit’s direction and kept dancing.

Kit did give music lessons during his free time—and in his opinion, he got more out of his students than most of his classmates probably did out of theirs. Sure, some of the kids only came to him because their parents insisted, but most found the same joy in music that Kit did. And if he gave the odd discount for a single parent with a gifted child, that was his business. But teaching sure didn’t make ends meet very well.

A tall, dark man moved to the front of the crowd, dancing as if he didn’t care who was watching. For an instant, Kit thought it was Ebon’s Scout leader, that good-looking Mr. Hill. He imagined the man extending an arm to Kit from the floor. Kit would put away his bass and join the gyrating throng, dancing just for his partner. But who was he kidding? He scarcely had time for himself, much less for a partner. Daydreams took a lot less of a man’s time. A scantily-clad female shoved through the crowd to the man’s side, running a hand along his tight backside. Fortunately for Kit’s dreams, the man turned toward the stage then, and it was obvious he wasn’t Mr. Hill.

Kit shifted rhythms as they modulated into Enter Sandman. Metallica always went over well with the fans, and soon it looked like most of the club was now on its feet and on the dance floor. Kit lost himself in the music, as he always did, letting himself become a channel for the hard rhythms pulsing through the club.