No Names, page 17
“Would you care to go over to the beach for a swim?” Daniel asks. He gestures in the direction they came from.
“Water’s great!” Pete chimes in a little too enthusiastically.
I shake my head, annoyed and ashamed by my annoyance.
“No thanks,” Matt answers.
Bobby says the same.
Pete gives it another go, “You guys should! Seriously!”
“Let’s head back,” I say, my voice monotone.
After docking back at the glass palace, Daniel asks, “So, would you fellows like to go to the studio in the city and have a session?” He’s finally responding to Bobby from before we got to the island. I seriously don’t get what’s in it for him, except for maybe hanging out with Pete. He holds the boat for us to climb out.
Bobby’s eyes bulge. “Boy, would we! That’d be a blast!” He thinks he’s answering for all of us.
Matt, understated as ever, adds, “Cool.”
Pete looks at Daniel, like a servant grateful for some scraps off his master’s plate. “Are you sure, man?”
I don’t say a thing.
Daniel secures the boat. He’s practically staring at me as he coils rope, like he’s expecting an answer, or maybe he’s trying to hypnotize me.
Not wanting to be a total prick (as Pete would likely say), I grumble, “Sure.”
“Great,” says Daniel, “then I’ll ring up the studio.”
The studio’s located on one of those narrow, cobblestone streets they have here, in one of those old houses with crooked window frames and doorframes. Inside, though, the place is all modern.
“State of the art,” Bobby declares, looking around at all the equipment, wide-eyed.
I suppose it’s because Pete has told him I write most of the songs, or else because he’s trying to butter the sullen one up, that Daniel turns to me as soon as we’re in the door, and asks, “Do you have any new material?”
I bristle. All eyes are on me. I cough into my fist. “There is some new stuff.”
“Yes?”
“About ten songs, mostly not done. Works in progress.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I was trying to communicate the opposite. “We’ve gone through them only maybe twice.” I’m hoping this puts the kibosh on the whole thing.
Instead, Daniel responds with nauseating alacrity. “That’s fantastic! This way, there will be fewer preconceptions about what the music should sound like. Let’s go with them.”
Again, all eyes on me. I would put the brakes on the whole thing but don’t want to be the prima donna (the worst thing in the world, according to my mother).
We set up. Daniel listens to us go through the first song, “Star Boy,” and when we start a second go through he joins in on the piano. I sing, “Star Boy, far boy, come close and be our sun, Star Boy, bar boy, come out and have some fun …” Of course, he picks up the music instantly. Not like it’s Chopin or anything. We’re talking three chords, fast and loud. I hate to admit it, but right off the bat he gets the ratio of ugly to beautiful we strive for. And the piano somehow works. Daniel makes it work, keeps it punk. I was sure the piano would make the music too smooth or else sound like jazz or, worse, honky-tonk. His playing joins the parts without making them too unified. This classical guy keeps the anarchy. And he doesn’t go solo on us, which is, Bobby’s always said, antipunk. I look over at Daniel, he looks back. I nod.
We’re in this perfect chamber for hours. We go through all the songs a couple of times. The piano—I mean, his piano playing—does stay punk but also seems to be making it a new genre. I’m liking this and start thinking maybe Daniel’s a decent guy after all.
When we’ve been rehearsing for what seems a light-year, Daniel asks, “Ready to record?”
I blink hard a few times. “Hold on a minute. Record? I thought we’re just jamming.”
“Who’s got the rights?” Bobby wonders. I’m glad it’s him asking and not me. He’s bordering on aggressive. I like that.
Daniel laughs it off. Dismissive yet polite, polite yet dismissive. Either way, I’m not impressed. He clarifies, “I was only thinking as a memento of our time together. I was going to have the studio press copies so we each could have a few.”
Bobby looks to me, then Pete, then Matt. We each nod. He last turns to Daniel and tells him, “That’d be cool.”
Daniel readies the equipment to record. He suggests we run straight through, not stopping between songs, like a symphony. Crazy as this sounds, that’s what we do. It’s the opposite of how punk’s supposed to be, what with short songs and all. But at some point, I find I’m going with it completely, and the others seem to be going with it too. At least for a while I feel like I’ve gotten past all the crap that is me. I want music now more than I’ve ever wanted it. I guess this is how art’s supposed to be. Unexpected. Possibly, or hopefully, transcendent. All thoughts of us as part of society evaporate. It’s ecstasy, what’s happening here, and I swear it’s important.
When we’re finally done—when the last notes have completely faded away—we stand there drooped, like a platoon after a fierce battle won. Daniel walks up to each of us and shakes hands, like a commander or something. That’s probably what he does when he plays with an orchestra. We unplug and flop down on a couple sofas to listen to the reel-to-reel. Bobby, all jittery, keeps saying, “Wow!” and when it’s over, Pete shouts, “A new manifesto!”
Daniel laughs his well-patrolled laugh and thanks us all. “Let’s call it Undersong?” he suggests. The guys—especially Bobby, who has to explain to us what that means—dig this. Then, once again, like a good boy or a businessman on a tight schedule, Daniel has to leave to catch the last train home. On our way out, I grab some stationery and envelopes lying on a desk. The gray paper feels expensive. I don’t know why I do it. A souvenir? A way of making the place and what happened in it more real? A bout of kleptomania? Bobby and Matt go off to see some girls they’ve met. Pete and I do shots at the first bar we see, before heading back to the squat to get some sleep.
When we hit the beat-up mattresses on the floor, he turns toward me and says, “This is totally dreamatory, my Mike, not to mention scary as shit.”
“Good scary?”
He reaches over and gives my cheek a sarcastic pinch. “Good scary.”
AUGUST 1978, DANIEL
I once again manage to slip into the last car of the last train right as the doors are closing. I’ve got luck down to an art! On the outskirts of morning the city becomes a passing thought, buildings and streets splinter as we gain speed. Faces in the windows of the train moving on the next track become clear and almost familiar for the moment or two our velocities synchronize, then, in the next moment, blur.
It has been one of the best days of my life. The American fellows are wonderful. It would be so great to jam with them again. I don’t consider myself a sentimental person, and yet already I am missing them. I have never considered myself a lonely person either, but now I begin to wonder.
It’s a foreign feeling for me to want camaraderie in anything more than small doses, but confronted with the four of them leaving I find myself wanting more. My impossible dream would be to sail the five of us all the way to the Færoes when their tour is done, stay a few weeks, play music and hike the mountains, then continue the voyage on to America. I have to remind myself that my chosen profession has made me so solitary a soul. Practicing long hours, studying scores, taking private lessons instead of subjects with classmates, and so forth, have all of course been necessary for success. As the maestro reminds me every now and again, music demands complete devotion. It is also, I must admit, in my nature to want to be alone, and that could be, at least in part, why I chose to become not simply a musician but a soloist.
It is strange, because at conservatory anyone would have said that I had friends—they might have even gone so far as to say I was popular. Of course I did refer to certain people as friends, and they considered me theirs, but, antisocial as it sounds (and as difficult as it is to admit), I would never have called anyone friend to my innermost self, not really. The exception was the mason’s apprentice, and he, like these four Americans, had nothing to do with my world. I never even learned his name! How preposterous is that? To call a nameless near-stranger friend? Maybe the absurdity of the situation had to do with us having been seventeen? Or is the absurdity what made the friendship work for a loner like me? Hard to believe we met nearly every weekend night for a year on this very train, in this very car, and yet it was more than a month into our friendship before we realized we hadn’t exchanged names. Somehow, he convinced me it was meant to be, declaring that not calling each other by name made our friendship more profound. It hurts to recall that he used that word, profound.
If it hadn’t been for the mason’s apprentice, I would certainly never have met the No Names. If nothing else, I owe him that. He introduced me to punk. Before meeting him, I hadn’t even heard of punk. Inexplicably, I took to the sound immediately. Was it as simple as punk serving as a counterbalance to classical? Or was it the connection with my stranger-friend? He and his music most definitely brought me out of myself, my routines, and for that I am grateful. The couple of times I got off with him at his stop, and we listened to his records all night long, definitely took some of the good-boy veneer off of me as far as my parents were concerned.
Only once did I have him over to listen to classical. I usually try to avoid thinking about him but tonight I cannot. I chose popular selections—a Brandenburg concerto, “Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” the opening movement of Beethoven’s Fifth—but the piece that moved him the most was the overture to Tristan und Isolde. The impossibly deep, sustained tones of those sublime chords seemed to paralyze him. It was as if I could see his innermost self float out of his body. When the music stopped, he shuddered and looked at me with damp eyes, embarrassed, as though he had forgotten I was there witnessing such an intensely private moment.
I still don’t understand what happened. After that day, my nameless friend simply disappeared. It’s hard to believe I have not seen him, even by chance, or heard from him since then. His unexplained absence continues to hurt deeply. I can’t help thinking of him now and even found myself scanning the crowd at the No Names show for him. It’s ridiculous, but I still wear the dragonfly amulet he made for me. I shouldn’t, as it is a sad reminder of him, but it is quite possibly the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me. It still seems unreal, and yet no matter how hard I try to stop it, the night of the dragonfly plays over in my head every time I step into this last car on this the last train of the night. It is still so vivid, that sapphire-blue dragonfly following us into the train and staying, hovering above our heads, even after we were seated and the train started moving. Then, suddenly, the mason’s apprentice leapt up and, lizard-like, caught the insect in his mouth! It was unbelievable. I don’t know what I thought when, after a few moments, he pulled the stunned creature out and, without a word of explanation, slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. He simply continued our conversation as though nothing had happened. Sometimes I think I imagined the whole thing. The next weekend when we met on the train, he presented the dragonfly to me. He had embalmed it by dipping it in polyurethane, after which he affixed it with a metal clasp to a leather cord. He fastened the amulet around my neck, telling me it was a symbol of change.
Only lately do I understand why, after the mason’s apprentice abandoned me, I avoided friendly overtures from most anyone. I had grown cynical. This only intensified when, after winning two international piano competitions and releasing a recording that has received strong critical praise, I suddenly discovered I had many new “friends.” With fame, friends began to multiply like loaves and fish. Due to this miracle, I became even more of a loner. This is, I think, why it has come as quite a shock that the No Names have brought about a sense of change in me, a flowering of fellow feeling. Especially after so short a time. They have changed my sense of self in ways I cannot yet account for. They have brought me out of myself—my orderly, rational, solitary self. When we played music together, I was brought to a state where, at least momentarily, I apprehended new, as yet unnamed, truths about myself. These fellows have made me happy, which may well be the dangerous part, as very soon they will, like the mason’s apprentice, disappear from my life.
AUGUST 1978, MIKE
The old naval building is even more packed tonight than it was for the first concert. There’s a restlessness, like it’s the same crowd come back for the big-bang finale they never got.
Daniel’s in the audience again, which surprises me a little. Seeing him gets me to give my all. It seems like the guys are following suit. Playing with him yesterday has changed me—changed us, I think. At least it’s helped me think beyond what we’ve been doing. The show moves like a dream. My whole body goes perfectly still, except for my hands flashing over the guitar. Then I sense myself starting to vibrate. Always a good sign. We play to the limit. We do three encores. The audience wants a fourth. Three measures into “Pissed Off!” I step off into the crowd. This time no one hits me, no one mauls me. I catch Daniel’s eye through the wall of frenzied bodies. He’s leaning against the same pillar again tonight. He nods and smiles, like he approves. Given how much respect I have for him musically, that means a lot. I still don’t get him but have grown to want to connect with him.
As we’re leaving the stage, Daniel comes over. He congratulates us and asks if we’d like to go to a bar to celebrate. Bobby and Matt have other plans. They’re going to meet their girls. I’m pretty sure they’ve been shooting up with them. I tell them to take it easy. I wish I could make that phrase mean more, a lot more.
My body feels like it’s collapsing after the show, but I tell Daniel, “Sure.”
Pete says, “Maybe we can check out Jean-Luc and Jean-Marc’s place.”
That makes me nervous, though there’s definitely something about Daniel that makes the idea of shooting up in front of him not even an option.
The three of us head out to the old harbor, which for some reason is called Nyhavn, or New Harbor. There are lots of bars along the water, mostly sailors’ dives. As it turns out, Jean-Luc and Jean-Marc’s place isn’t a sailors’ dive or any kind of dive at all. It’s not even punk. It’s the kind of club where Pete and I don’t belong, and Daniel does. Sophisticated, I guess you’d say. Its name is a reference, Daniel explains, to a poet who was a revolutionary or a revolutionary who was a poet, more than a century ago. A historical reference, yet it’s got big abstract paintings on the walls and modern chairs and sofas made of hard plastic.
Pete’s impressed with all the lovely women. I think they look bored and say so. With a sly grin, Daniel remarks, “That’s the way girls here show their interest.” He insists they are definitely attracted to me and Pete. We sit around one of the low tables. The hard egg-chairs force us to slouch.
The beer in this country is incredible, so that’s what Pete and I order. Strong and full of flavor, like nothing back home. Daniel orders some other drink. We don’t understand what he says to the waitress. The clear liquid that arrives could be water, vodka, or anything really.
“You fellows were especially on tonight,” he says in his oddly formal way. Odd, though not awkward. “Your guitars interlocked perfectly.” I like that, when he gets specific.
“Thanks,” Pete says, “we dig playing together.”
I go one further and tell him I couldn’t play without Pete.
At Pete’s request, Daniel analyzes more of our playing and music. I’m interested but have to force myself not to listen to the background music—an uninterrupted flow of pop. That’s the trouble with me and bars—or me and anyplace—I get distracted by the music, whether it’s great stuff or crap. Daniel’s got something of the teacher in him, always asking questions and then giving the answers, usually long ones. That could, I suppose, come off as condescending, but with him it doesn’t. He’s just inquisitive and likes to bring that out in other people. I’m glad for whatever knowledge I pick up from him. What makes Baroque Baroque? What makes jazz jazz? What makes punk punk? I know genres when I hear them but not what in a technical sense makes them what they are, so this is useful.
After a second round, someone sends over a third. Like an idiot, Pete thinks it’s one of the fine ladies, but of course it turns out to be Jean-Luc. He follows the waitress to our table.
In English he welcomes us, then takes a seat. Before we finish our beers, he signals to the waitress, and she brings a bottle of clear liquid and four shot glasses. “His national drink,” Jean-Luc says, nodding at Daniel, “akvavit.” It’s unclear whether they know each other or not.
We start doing shots. There’s one of those lulls in our conversation, as well as in all the conversations around us, that sometimes happens in noisy places, which makes it even easier to get lost in the music. After two shots on top of the beers, I’m feeling a little blitzed. The alcohol has also taken its toll on Pete (always a lightweight). Daniel and Jean-Luc still seem to be sober, though. By now it’s almost one in the morning and the place is packed with beautiful people. Pete’s zoning out. I’m zoning out. Like the times before, Daniel announces he’s leaving to catch the last train. I find myself trying to reach for his arm, to ask him to wait, to stay, but my limbs don’t move, my voice doesn’t work. I feel like I’m falling away from him faster than he’s leaving, and that soon, for some reason I can’t explain, Pete and I will be lost.
At this point, Jean-Marc shows up with their two girlfriends. After greeting Jean-Luc and Daniel with cheek kisses, the girlfriends leave to talk with some other girls at the bar. The French guys are talking to us, but in the state I’m in it sounds mostly like a lot of heavy accent and laughing. As far as I can tell, Pete’s not even registering that much. Then, all of a sudden, I’m wide-awake when Jean-Luc asks, “How would you like to make a film?”
