When Colleen sat down at a microfiche machine in the public library and read the article “Rocker Runs” from the London Daily Mirror, April 1966, things began to make sense. Once the shock passed.
At first, she found it hard to believe a man like Steve would run from a situation like that. But she got it. He was a kid at the time and the prospects of an underage girl dying in his hotel room bed—nude, as the papers kept pointing out—was not something the world took kindly to. Even so, nothing made Colleen feel he had done anything truly underhanded. His guitarist, and childhood friend, maintained Steve never used drugs and abhorred them. He was a boozer, and that seemed to be it. He was a decent guy. Any way one looked at it, the event was a tragedy for all parties involved, for the poor girl who died, her family, and Steve, who paid for it many times over. His career was eviscerated, and he became an outcast. All in one single night. He soon fled France, where he’d initially run, to Brazil. In Rio, he met a young American record exec on vacation by the name of Lynda Morris. The two hit it off, marrying on the beach after a whirlwind romance, allowing Steve U.S. residence. He had also established Brazilian citizenship so that he could escape extradition should he move elsewhere. He came to the U.S. with his new bride in 1967. The case in the U.K. had been filed as Death by Misadventure, but the British authorities still wanted to talk to him. But he was safe enough if he kept his head down and didn’t return to the U.K. Shame was his punishment.
His new wife, Lynda, made futile attempts to secure Steve a new recording contract. But no one would touch him. His money was gone. He worked construction. Melanie came along, but she wasn’t enough to save Steve and Lynda’s marriage. The two divorced. Lynda came into perspective as Colleen saw a woman who had believed in Steve, trying to revive his decimated career to no avail. And Lynda’s anger at Steve, although certainly not justifiable, bore a slightly different context now.
Colleen put Steve to one side and did some research on The Lost Chords, Delco records, and even found a couple of minor articles in Variety about the ongoing lawsuit over rights to Steve’s catalog.
That gave her an idea. She went to the periodicals section, dug out the latest copies of Variety.
There was an article at the bottom of page 17 of a recent issue that caught her eye. “Shades of Summer. Again.” The song Colleen loved. A Hollywood director was quoted as saying it would make an ideal song for an upcoming RomCom—Romantic Comedy. Unlike the Chords’ other songs, all firmly rooted in foot-stomping rock ‘n’ roll, “Shades of Summer” predicted the Summer of Love and sounded it, full of jangly guitars, phased drums, and ethereal vocals. Sure, it was just another pop song, but it was ahead of its time. Steve called it silly and downplayed it, but it was clear he had been growing as an artist, and it made his rapid exit all the more heartbreaking.
Now she understood why Steve refused to let his music go. Even at the cost of borrowing mob money from Octavien Lopes.
She drove home, feeling wiser but glum, and circled the block before she pulled into the lot, looking for a white van, or anyone out to do her harm. She found none.
Up in her flat, she called her answering service. No new messages.
This was what they called a quiet evening at home. She wondered what Alex was up to.
She poured a glass of wine, dimmed the lights, fired up the stereo, and got out her precious album, autographed by the guy who sang it, the same guy who was in serious trouble if his ex or her dad didn’t come across with $27,000. She cleaned the record off with the disc-washer and put it on the turntable and set the tonearm down carefully on side two. Very few crackles for an album over ten years old.
She couldn’t help but wonder what other connection existed between Steve’s demise as an artist in 1966 and his current situation. Delco Records was hovering in the background. There was the news in Variety about an upcoming RomCom. Lynda’s father was in the movie business. Coincidence?
She sat back, lit a Virginia Slim, and took a sip of Pinot Noir as the guitars chimed in the intro to “Shades of Summer.”