Uncle found Roc on the patio, surrounded by scribbled notes, absorbed in his music; he stood at the doorway watching his old friend in a familiar pose before announcing his arrival. In the light of day, he could see the bits of grey spiking through the black mop as Roc’s head bobbed in time to the song he was trying to find. He’d been shaken by Roc’s call last night concerning the intruders in the studio, and he knew that he was going to have to be at his reassuring best to accomplish his number one mission today.
“Hey!” Uncle strode onto the patio and saw that he’d completely surprised his friend. “Sorry, brother, do you want me to give you a little time? I can wait inside.”
“Oh, hey. No, no … I was just … you know. Lemonade?” Roc indicated a pitcher on the table.
“Sure. Thanks. What are you working on?” Uncle played to Roc’s vanity.
“It’s just a fragment right now. Maybe it’ll become something, maybe not.” Roc played a restless riff on his guitar and sang in a world weary tone:
“A makeshift day the colour of rain
Did they scrape the light off the sky
The hours roll past like cars on a train
And I watch the world go by
I can’t feel the spin but I know it’s happening
Can’t feel change or blood or anything.”
“Then I’ve got another section, not sure how they connect; but remember in ‘Hollow Hand’ it was choruses from three different songs, and in a rehearsal we jammed them together because they were in the same key.” Roc flipped the guitar on his lap and banged out an intense groove while half humming, half singing something that sounded like,
“I hear voices
How’d they get my number
I read the news
Words written on water.”
Roc looked up at Uncle and laughed. “I don’t know what the hell I’m writing about. The last line refers to Keats’ gravestone, ‘A name writ on water,’ I think.”
But Uncle could feel the ripple of anxiety beneath the surface of the lyrics that he’d just heard. “Very cool. I’d love to hear it when you’re done. Listen, I’m sorry about that surprise visit last night. I’m going to redo the security set-up. Do you like pit bulls? Seriously, when Eddie gets back from Joshua Tree, we’ll go to the spy shop, get it right, okay?”
“You two going to wear your invisibility cloaks?” Roc gave Uncle a skeptical smile. “Maybe pick up some cool matching night vision goggles?”
“Just want to protect your ivory tower, my man. So, do you want the good news first or the good news?” Uncle asked smugly, palms aloft. Roc put down his guitar and waited. “Your video is number one most requested and broke all records for one-day phones. Oh, and by the way, your album is platinum as of this morning.” Uncle didn’t try to hide his satisfaction at being the bearer of this news.
“You’re kidding?” Roc knew he wasn’t. “Amazing. And all I had to do was die. All right, you’re a genius, I admit it.” He reached out and shook Uncle’s hand, and the two laughed together, glorying in the moment.
“I’m meeting with an agent this afternoon. I’m thinking about relocating the office, and she tells me she’s also got some Big Sur properties for us to check out, in case you were wondering how to spend your Higher than Heaven royalties.”
Roc smiled, nodding and thinking that this sounded good. He’d been yearning for the ocean lately and often fantasized about a life in northern California. His picture of this life was as foggy as the coastline he loved, but he could fill in the details later. The reverie passed. “On the subject of real estate, what in God’s name was my mother doing on MTV? She got over my earthly departure awfully quickly,” he added bitterly. “Did you see it? And who the hell is MinnieMall Enterprises?”
Uncle flashed a grin of resignation. “She got me at a bad time. I gave her the merch rights so she wouldn’t ask too many questions. I’m not going to bore you with the mountain of probate issues on your future ‘old’ songs, but this was an easy way out. It’s limited to the home tour stuff, and I think it’s her way of handling her grief, keeping busy.” Knowing Roc really didn’t want to deal with this, Uncle moved on, his voice dropping into the obsequious register. “Listen, I know I caught you off guard the other night when I brought up the Marie thing, but,” smelling resistance, he pressed on, “it’s different this time. Yeah, Marie’s got a rack you could start a religion around, but there’s more to her. She’s elegant, funny, smart. And she does this thing to my head.” He involuntarily rubbed his gleaming dome. “I’m in love.” Seeing Roc’s bemused expression, his voice became urgent. “Wait, stop, I know you’ve been through all this with me, but … I think I want to marry Marie.”
Roc eyed Uncle like he was waiting for the punch line that didn’t come. “Marry? As in, I promise to honour, cherish, and fondle?”
Uncle smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “All right, I wouldn’t be opposed to a see-through wedding gown.” They laughed. Roc got up and put his arm around Uncle’s shoulders.
“You’re full of surprises today. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word ‘elegant’ before. And let me guess, you’d like my engagement gift to be a song for the bounteous bride, right?”
Uncle didn’t reply but eventually nodded. Roc sighed, slowly shaking his head. “You’re relentless. All right, why not? But no duet from the grave. You’ll have to find someone whose vital signs would allow them to appear in the video.”
Uncle laughed in nervous relief. “Most excellent. Merci, mon ami. I really appreciate this. Now, she doesn’t have much in the way of vocal range, but she’ll make up for it in attitude.”
“I’ll do my best to work that in. Keep the pout quotient high.” Roc found himself amused that he had caved in to this most ridiculous request. Then he had a flash. “Just one condition. I want to go to the memorial.” He locked his gaze on Uncle, preparing for the evasion that was sure to follow.
“Roc, that’s not fair. You know that’s impossible.” Uncle looked deflated.
“Nothing is impossible, remember, Mr. Übermanager.” He was sounding more determined, to Uncle’s alarm. “Listen, this set-up is totally cool,” Roc said, looking around the patio, “and I’m having a ball, cutting new songs as I write them, free from scrutiny by some pimply label hack. But, it’s confining at times, and I know Big Sur’s going to take a while to become a reality. And, frankly, I’m curious as hell and need some excitement.”
“A couple of kids breaking in and playing music in the studio in the middle of the night wasn’t enough of a buzz for one week?” Uncle failed to hold back his sarcasm. Even as he was working it out in his mind, he threw the question to Roc. “So, how do you propose we pull this one off? You want to strap on some wings and just kind of hover over the Wiltern Theater?”
“Use your imagination, big boy, unless Marie’s sucked it dry. I don’t know, maybe another trip for you and Eddie to Spies ’R Us. C’mon. Wheel me in inside an equipment case; rent a security guard uniform, nobody notices those poor sods. You don’t have to come up with it right now, but I want to go, Uncle.”
“Yeah, I can see that. All right,” Uncle said wearily, “leave it with me. Just no stopping people in midsong and correcting the lyrics like at that Boulder folk festival.” Uncle couldn’t resist tossing out a memory painful for both of them.
Roc frowned and rolled his eyes. “Hey, one other thing. Do the security cameras record what they shoot? I’m awfully curious about who the hell was here last night. The band was pretty cool, for what it’s worth.”
“I’ll have to ask Eddie. Okay, platinum pal, I’m outta here. Good luck with the writing.” Uncle paused, taking in the setting. “It is nice here, isn’t it? Well, you’ll need your creative mojo working. Savage is already asking what’s in the vault for the next release. Not many artists get to decide what direction their posthumous career is going to take.”
“You’re right,” Roc smiled. “Hey, what do you think of this, a kind of grunge Maurice Chevalier thing?” He began slashing at his guitar and singing, “Every little breeze seems to whisper … Marie,” before coughing with laughter.
“You need to get out more,” replied Uncle, shaking his head. “Just kidding. See you.”
A few minutes later, Roc returned from the kitchen with lunch and fresh lemonade and sat down with his notebook open. While grabbing his guitar in the studio, he’d noticed a new post-it note beside the drums. Against the ruin of the world there is only the creative act. — Kenneth Rexroth Not really Eddie’s style, he thought on his way upstairs. He tried to come up with a germ of an idea for Marie, but the whole notion seemed ludicrous. Nevertheless, he’d pretty much committed himself, and it was best to get it over with. After downing an avocado sandwich, he picked up the guitar and strummed aimlessly, watching a butterfly on the railing flapping its wings. Supposedly, they came back to the same place every year. How do they know? he mused. Relying on an old trick, he tried to picture the video before the song existed, but he kept seeing Marie playing an accordion on a bicycle with a baguette sticking out of her purse; Marie as Edith Piaf in a spotlight on the stage of the Olympia Theatre in Paris; Marie, with a cigarette holder sipping Pernod in a café in the rain. If he’d known what this song would lead to, he might have not bothered to write it at all.