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8:00 p.m. Showtime.
I was sitting in the darkened auditorium, praying intensely. Maurice, please don’t disappoint these people! Please make this happen!
The Irondale High School auditorium was humming. The place was smaller than I’d remembered, as is everything after you’ve grown up, but Sharon had made the best of a mediocre situation: she’d built a veritable concert arena set-up. The stage stretched the full width of the auditorium, hundreds of expensive lights and speakers hanging from scaffolds wreathing the stage. Dry ice flowed along the stage from beyond the drum riser. At the back of the stage hung a billboard-sized video screen. At the back in the balcony, where, as a student, I’d worked on the stage crew with the rest of the nerds, professional techies were manning spotlights and the sound board.
I was almost shaking with excitement and dread. Allison grinned at me in the darkness, eyes huge with child-like anticipation.
A pungent wreath of pot smoke hung above the crowd. I watched a group of balding men two rows ahead of me passing a mickey along. It was like being at a Rolling Stones concert. The gorilla-sized security force fronting the stage didn’t seem to mind the booze and pot; like everyone else, they were in high spirits. I nervously scanned the crowd. I spotted my old English teacher, Mr. Philips, six rows in front of us, with a girl who was probably his granddaughter riding his shoulders. He’d awarded Steven with the Grade Twelve English Award—he’d been a big fan of Steven’s poetry.
Earlier, outside the school, the parking lot and all of the neighbouring residential streets had been packed. Allison and I had found ourselves walking through a throng of rock’n’roll tailgate partiers—people of all ages drinking, sharing weed, some on the football field even cooking up burgers and chicken on Hibachi barbecues.
“Donny Love!” a middle-aged guy had cried out, raising a beer. “What’s up, buddy?” He’d held out a hand to shake mine. At first, I hadn’t recognized him. But under the layers of change, I soon recognized Tom Fitch, a jock I’d come to hate back in the day, and with him were Rob Woodley and Dave Rinehart, two more bully bastards. After Grade Eight, when they’d hit puberty but I’d been relegated to the land of skinny, pimple-faced pariahs, their contempt and arrogance had filled me with toxic rage. I stared at this man, a stranger to me now, a different person from that young jerk. My anger shifted deep inside me, rolled over and went back to sleep. Tom was smiling and laughing, apparently unaware that he had ever had any negative impact on anyone. I felt a flooding sense of relief, knowing that I could leave my teen angst behind me for good. Tom’s friendliness had erased the past in a single gesture. What power there was in goodwill!
Standing by his Volvo station wagon, we exchanged small talk and introduced each other to our wives. Tom had a booster seat and an infant carrier in the back seat. I caught Allison looking wistfully at the Big Bird sun shade on the window, and we exchanged a potent smile.
We made our excuses and headed towards the school.
“Wow, how nice for you to meet up with on old friend,” Allison enthused.
I laughed. “That guy was the biggest bastard who ever walked the halls of Irondale,” I said. “And he made my life hell for a while, too.”
Allison looked perplexed. “He’s not your friend? You just seemed to like each other.”
“Water under the bridge, baby. You’re looking at a guy who can leave the past where it belongs.” Feeling cocky, I gave her bum a little grab.
“Donny!” she hissed, grinning. Her eyes darted around to see if anyone had noticed.
We waded through the crowds. Allison had begged to go backstage, but I refused. I wanted to watch Maurice the Maestro perform his brilliant Steven McCartney impersonation from a safe distance. Running distance from the exits. I promised Allison that, if the show didn’t completely stink and the crowds decided not to lynch me, we’d go backstage afterward. And that, yes, I would try to introduce her to Brad Pitt. Butterflies danced in my gut.
And Brad was there. Seriously. And a few other celebs who had obviously decided not to miss the photo ops. Flashes were going off everywhere, and the shrill shrieks of young women were making my eardrums bleed. Sharon had set up a red carpet and cordoned off a number of front row seats for the Hollywood crowd. Various bodyguards and security people stonily flanked their charges.
We’d quickly ducked into the last row and found some seats in the middle. I felt relieved no one had noticed us. Everyone was too busy gawping at Pam Anderson, who had tottered in on five-inch stilettos, wearing almost nothing. As we squeezed past a reporter, I overheard her announcing to her audience that, unfortunately, Sir Paul McCartney was unable to make it to the show today. Apparently, he had been mildly injured by a prosthetic leg during a domestic assault with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Occasionally, voices from the past greeted me: “Donny Love!”, “How’s it going?”, “Let’s talk after the show, man”, “Man, where the hell have you been all these years?” and so on. I waved haphazardly, as hysteria had me firmly in its grip, almost numbing me into a stupor. I just couldn’t focus on anything or anyone. Start the show, let’s go, let’s go!
Like Victor Frankenstein, I had pieced my column together, limb by limb, into a living, breathing monster. But it was a rather cool monster, I had to admit. Concert of the Century. People hooted and hollered and whistled. Butterflies the size of cats pounced in my belly now. I didn’t want Maurice to disappoint these people. They wanted to see Steven, maybe some even needed to see Steven, to help them re-discover some lost magic. Please Maurice, please make this happen. I took Allison’s hand and squeezed.
The lights went out.
Darkness blanketed the auditorium.
I stopped breathing. “Shout”, the song made famous by Tears for Fears, suddenly erupted through the speakers. The swelling crowd cheered shrilly, singing along, pumping their fists in the air.
The huge video screen came to life, Maurice silhouetted from behind—the lone gunslinger—the same image that Sharon had placed as a full-page layout in the Gazette. It was the image of a rock’n’roll god. The hairs rose on the nape of my neck.
The crowd roared.
Blinding lights lit up the darkness. Like a microphone-wielding ninja, Maurice flew onto centre-stage in a scissor kick, his hair flying, and the band kicked it off with “Sex Machine”. Maurice was transformed. He wore a brilliant blue tailcoat, like a psychedelic ringmaster, and he now had a mane of wild, dark blonde curls. Tight black leather pants and purple jackboots completed the ensemble. He was definitely still wearing make-up, but there was nothing silly about it. He was electric. He was a sex machine! As he strutted and jived, the crowd erupted.
And then, when he sang, my jaw dropped. He sounded just like James Brown, note for note, every nuance and inflection. I couldn’t believe it. People all around us were on their feet, dancing. Allison nudged me in the side, motioning with her head to start boogeying with her. I did, and I really got into it. I had been so pent-up for such a long time that I let it all hang out, every last molecule, and it felt cathartic.
In every number, Maurice was brilliant. In fact, I’d even say he was pure genius. I knew then that Steven couldn’t have done this, not even in his heyday. Maurice was the real thing. He was in the realm of the greats, the Freddy Mercurys, the Elvises. He deserved to be a superstar!
He stormed through a non-stop set of Billy Idol Generation X material, having changed into a ripped white t-shirt and black stovepipe jeans, pumping his red Converse high-tops with boundless energy and stabbing surprisingly well-muscled arms in the air. The twenty-year-old beside Allison shrieked out “Steven, we love you!” after one number. Without missing a beat, Maurice called back, “Sweetheart, we love you, too!” Chameleon-like, he transformed his voice and appearance throughout the program, which included English Beat, old Michael Jackson, the Beatles. I saw Mum and Dad slow-dancing in the front row to “All You Need Is Love”, Dad good-naturedly giving Maurice the finger behind Mum’s back. Maurice cheerfully responded by bringing my folks up on stage to finish their dance. Not even my smart-ass Dad had the nerve to give him the finger on-stage.
Plaid pants held up by suspenders, and wearing his purple jackboots and a Brady Bunch T-shirt, Maurice even paid a tribute to Hamilton’s greatest punk band, Teenage Head, by singing a revved-up version of “Picture My Face”. Midway through the program, he proved himself to have a powerful talent for ballads, singing Burt Bacharach’s “Going Out of My Head” with such ache in his voice that Allison and I both started to tear up. A few lighters popped up into the air around us. And, God bless that big ham, he came out as Clint Eastwood, poncho and all, cigarello hanging from his lips, for a quirky rendition of the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. The crowd loved that one.
There was heart-stopping moment when I thought that the gig was up. In response to the non-stop shouting of his name by one determined girl, he raised his eyebrow suggestively and purred “Call me Maurrrrrice, you saucy little thing!”, and then swung his leather-clad bum in her direction and smacked it a couple of times. The audience did not seem to be confused by this directive at all. In fact, more than a few voices called out the name “Maurice!” throughout the rest of the show. The suggestion of an alter-ego just excited the crowd more. They don’t care what he calls himself, I thought in wonder. Maybe he doen’t even have to be Steven McCartney any more. I might just be off the hook here!
Maurice really worked over the audience. He pumped up the guys. He seduced the women. He had people crying and cheering and singing along. By the time he got to his final number, I think that we all felt deliciously pummelled. He sat down to a piano and the lighting became muted and magical. Sitting with quiet grace at the piano, he finished with an original song. A backdrop of stars and planets soared past behind him on the big video screen. As he sang the chorus “And you and I / are on this journey / together”, you could feel the love in the hall.
They called him back for three ovations. And he ended up giving them all another forty-five minutes of musical heaven.
At the end of the third encore, a loud slurry voice called out from the audience. “Steven, don’t leave us, man!” There was a chorus of agreement from the crowd.
I felt my elation start to slip away. But Maurice neatly took possession of the ball.
“Is there anyone else here who would like to hear me sing another concert?” The crowd erupted enthusiastically. “Well, then, I’ll just have to change my plans, won’t I?”
At that moment I decided to leave the Steven legend in Maurice’s hands. He could decide what was going to happen next. I was done. And, clearly, he could handle it better than I could.
As the house lights came up, I had a good look around, no longer afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. My co-workers had shown up. Bob Chamberlain stood at the side of the stage, dressed to the nines, wearing a backstage pass (how did he get one of those?), yakking it up with Bob Yates, a CKOC Oldies radio personality. Meg and the others were milling about, laughing and relaxed-looking. They all seemed to be having a good time.
I spotted two of my old teachers, Miss Radic, my music teacher, and Mr. Henderson, who had terrorized generations of Irondale kids with his threats of push-ups if you were late for Math class. I wondered if they would remember me, the classic underachiever.
Allison and I squeezed our way toward the Stage Door entrance, which was packed with eager reporters and fans. Over their heads I could see Sharon and a huge bouncer carefully screening people who were desperate to get in to meet Maurice. Reingruber was enthusiastically flailing his arms in the air to get my attention. Clinging to him was the red-headed librarian, looking far too attractive for the likes of our Norbie. Tony and Angela were chatting with John. Allison and I pushed our way through to them, with me carving a pathway ahead of Allison’s pregnant belly like an icebreaker. Sharon gestured to us impatiently.
“C’mon already! You’re missing all the fun!” she yelled over the din.
Tony and John clapped me on the shoulder. “You did it, Love,” Tony said. “Man, I can’t believe how freaking good that show was! That guy is the real deal, Donny.”
John was practically dancing with excitement. “That show was amazing! I think I had an out-of-body experience,” he laughed.
Reingruber just nodded his head voicelessly, his eyes suspiciously moist-looking. Morag discreetly handed him a Kleenex. Wow, Norb has found himself a keeper, I thought.
Sharon grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the dressing rooms. “He’s been asking for you since the show ended, and I think that he’s going to have a hissy fit if he doesn’t soon see you, so get in there!” She looked frazzled—and like she was enjoying every minute of it.
I stopped her for a moment and impulsively gave her a big hug. She endured it, the way people who don’t get hugged much do.
“Sharon, I want to thank you for all of this, this—magic that you did here today. You saved my life. And I didn’t really deserve your help, either. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a bloody goddam genius at what you do. A talent.”
She looked a bit embarrassed, but pleased, too. “It was a fucking good show, wasn’t it?” she asked thoughtfully. “And I do know how to pick ‘em, don’t I? I mean, just between you and me,” she lowered her voice a bit, “I was starting to think that maybe he wasn’t going to put out the goods, you know? I was contemplating keeping a packed bag by the stage door.” She gave me a wry grin. “Anyway, c’mon. The Maestro awaits!”
Maurice was holding court in his dressing room, which was actually an old prop room that had been cleared out and decorated in his honour. The relaxed, indulgent expression on his face changed immediately to furrowed concern when I came in. Grabbing my hands earnestly, Maurice asked “Well? Did I do it? Did I channel him?” His eyes searched mine.
It was breath-taking that such a monumental talent could have such insecurity, could be asking me, of all people, for validation.
“Maurice, you are a god, and I worship you,” I said, in semi-seriousness.
He blew out air in exasperation. “Dammit,” he half-whispered, glancing around at the crowd of people in the room, “I’m not talking to one of these bootlickers, am I? I’m talking to you, Donald Love, and I want a straight, brutally honest answer from you. Did I get Steven right or not?” He glared at me sternly, daring me to try a joke again.
I choked down a nervous impulse to giggle and told him the truth. He deserved it.
“You were better than Steven. You were what Steven would have liked to be. No, actually, you were what I wanted Steven to be, in my greatest dreams, Maurice. Thank you. You rebuilt my faith in big dreams today.”
His tense face relaxed. He looked like a man who had rebuilt his own faith in big dreams, too. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without your help. You’re the man who knows Steven best.” He looked sheepish when he asked, “Do you think that Steven might have made it to the show today? That maybe he was in the audience, in a disguise perhaps, checking up on his doppelganger?” I could hear the note of hopefulness in his voice.
“Well, you never know, Maurice. I mean, there were a lot of important people out there today, checking you out. So, you never know.”
He beamed.
