Larry said, pointing at the other half of the Danes’ fabled rhythm section, are way too conservative to play rock ’n’ roll. Did you see the elevator?
Duane frowned.
You mean the wooden box full of chicken feathers?
I like it, Philip said, already seeing the partition that would separate the control room from the live room.
Well, shit, Duane said. Once you got Philip on board it’s a done deal. He looked around the cold space and saw Ross was smiling, too. Shit again. We’re doing this, aren’t we?
Larry put his arm around Duane’s shoulder.
Can you see it?
Nope. I can’t see it.
Right there … a sparkling set. Larry snapped his fingers, as if capable of manifesting Duane’s Slingerland drums.
I don’t see it, Larry.
Oh yes you do.
I see a cold place to record come December.
Larry laughed. His leather coat crinkled as he pulled Duane closer.
Come here.
Where?
To the window.
The window was just a small square cut unevenly into the white cinder-block wall. The four bandmates pressed close together and looked out at Detroit below.
Look at that girl. Ross whistled softly.
I know her, Philip said.
Know her? Ross asked. How is it that you know every girl in Detroit, Philip?
Philip shrugged.
Girls like the piano, Ross.
Well, shit, man. All my life I heard that it was girls and guitars, guitars and girls. I picked up the guitar for girls. And now you’re telling me—
Look. Larry pointed. There’s another one. Just as fine.
The Danes grew quiet. Their ears were almost touching.
You know her, too, Philip?
Philip paused for effect.
Naw. I don’t know her.
But I bet she walks by every day, Duane said, his voice distant.
Oh man, Larry said, turning to face the drummer. Oh MAN, Duane!
Now, hang on, I didn’t say—
We’re doing this, Duane!
Now hang on, Larry—
We’re buying our own fucking studio space!
Today, Wonderland is full. The Danes have been hired to produce an album, a rock and roll record, because they’re good at what they do and the space they got is legendary around the city for its “room sound.” Even jazz players have recorded with the Danes, despite the band’s reputation as being crazy. That room might be as professional as my uncle’s liquor cabinet, Clay Daniels once said, but fuck me if it doesn’t sound like gold. The Danes recorded a hit song and two follow-ups in Wonderland. “Make Noise” reached number seventeen on the regional charts and “Killer Crawl” spiked at number six. But it was “Be Here,” at number one, that propelled them. And still, the fact that they served in World War II is the bigger draw. It doesn’t matter that they weren’t on the front lines. To most Americans, being in the army band was just as good as being in the army. And the tag veteran is the reason locals who have no interest in music at all stop in to see what happens at Wonderland.
Some of these people have become drinking buddies. Others have walked away worried about Philip Tonka, the piano player who took more shots than he played notes.
Broom off. I’m on the Path.
What Path?
Look down. You don’t see it? You’re standing right on it, too.
Some think the Danes are damaged. They drink more than the veterans of World War I. They never miss a party. And they’re spontaneously writing the postwar soundtrack that’s equal parts angry, joyful, confused, and intentionally ignorant. As in, let’s move on. As in, that was yesterday. The name of their number-one hit song unintentionally sums up their collective worldview.
Be here.
Breathe it.
Be it.
“Put a blanket in it,” Larry says into the control room microphone. Today they have a job to do. But will they do it?
“Really?” the kid drummer of the Sparklers asks. Through the glass he looks like a lost child. “A blanket in a bass drum?”
Duane gets up from the control room couch and speaks into the microphone. His deep voice has always been the most authoritative of the Danes’.
“Makes it less plastic, son. More of a thud. Trust Larry. Put a blanket in the bass drum.”
The Sparklers’ drummer, a suburban kid, clean curly blond hair, looks for a blanket.
“On the cots,” Philip says, pointing through the glass. He sips from a bottle of Ronrico rum. The Sparklers’ guitar player is helping his drummer look. He accidentally knocks the tuning pegs of his Fender Stratocaster against the wall. Because he’s already amped, the sound blasts through the control room speakers.
“You see those four cots in the back?” Duane tells them.
The Danes often sleep in the studio; wild nights, wee hours, right where they need to be come morning. The floor is littered with empty fifths.
The drummer picks up a sleeping bag.
“No,” Larry says into the mic. “Too thick. Something lighter.”
Now the drummer is blushing. Thinks he’s being put on. The band’s manager, Arthur, a rich kid from Birmingham, looks bothered. He’s standing by the leather couch in the control room.
“Fellas, we hired you to make a record, not decorate Fred’s drum kit!”
“You see that yellow-and-black blanket there, Art?” Larry asks him, pointing with a pencil through the glass to an unmade cot against the far wall.
“Yes. Of course I see it.”
“That’s the same one we used on ‘Be Here.’”
The
