London Harmony: Doghouse (3 page)

The next morning, Gina made us what she called a fry-up; eggs, bacon, and hash browns.  We sat and discussed my plans for my stay in London as we ate and sipped our coffee.  I really wasn't sure how long I would be there, it really depended on how many gigs I could land.  And I wasn't really hot on going back to Seattle.  Nothing but another hole in my heart waited there for me.

We got t talking about the London underground music scene and she surprised me when she said that her friends were always dragging her along to some rave or another.  I pulled the playbill out of my backpack and handed to her. “A busker in the Garden gave me that.  I can't make head nor tails out of it.  It is for some rave four years ago.”

She chuckled at me. “Silly yank.  Ignore the year.  That is the date of the rave, it is tonight.  This part over here tells you where it is going to be held. Take the first letter of each word.  It is at the Kent.  The Kent is an old abandoned butchery in Bromley.  Bring this with you, it is your ticket through the door.”

Then she arched her eyebrows. “Oh... see this symbol here?  This is a Ronnie Marx rave.  He doesn't do many after he went legit. He likes to keep his hand in the underground scene, though.  He's sort of a legend around these parts.  He has a knack for finding fresh talent.  You'll have a blast.”

I nodded.  “That's cool.  You think he would let me play a piece?  Let prospects hear me if they are looking to hire a bass for a gig?”

She shrugged.  “I don't know.  If he heard you play, then maybe, though his raves are more thrash, rock, and pop.”

I winked at her. “I've got some fusion that'll knock his socks off.”

I packed up my stuff and she held the door for me.  I stopped half way out. “When you decide, you're going to make some lucky person a hell of a catch.”

She blushed then gave me a peck on the lips.  “You can... you can stay here while you are in town if you like.”

I gave her a soft smile.  “Thanks, Gina, but I think I'll be all right out there.  I really appreciate the offer, and I'd love to have coffee or something while I'm around.  I'm not kidding when I say I see you as friend now.  You have my number.”

She bit her lower lip, damn, that just wasn't fair I couldn't do something about how tempting that looked.  I escaped while I still could.  I didn't need to be imposing on the girl any more than I already had.  I said, “Bye brat.”

She giggled in a high register as she closed the door behind me.  I had a little extra bounce in my step.  Yes indeed, I was loving London already.  I hoped she would find someone who makes her happy soon.

I thought of the playbill and formed my plan of attack for the day.  I'd talk to this Ronnie Marx to see if he had any slots.  Most of the raves in the European rave scene I have been to so far were mostly just deejayed, though a few had live bands.  It sounded like Marx used live bands, the way Gina spoke.

First things first, lodging.  I turned on my cell and snorted at the one missed message from Kelly late last night.  I said out loud, “Sorry dude, Gina beat you, you snooze you lose.  Maybe I'll call if the youth hostel is booked.”

I pulled up the YHA app on my cell and pulled up London.  There were a couple listings for beds to flop on under twenty pounds a night.  One private room for forty.  Damn, London is spendy, I usually paid around nine euros.   I noted that the Oxford offered lockers and cages on a bring your own padlock basis.  That sealed the deal, as long as Audrey was safe, I could sleep on a cot in the commons.

I made the call and was damn lucky I did, they only had one bed available in the commons, but they couldn't hold it unless I had a credit card, which I didn't, I do everything in cash.  I checked the map on my phone, I was closer than I thought, just eight blocks away.  I psyched myself up, settled Audrey in for the bumpy ride and took off jogging as fast as my legs could carry me.

When the hostel was in sight, I saw a guy with a heavy rucksack walking toward it from the opposite direction.  We both hesitated a moment when we saw each other then we grinned and started running.  It was awkward with my bass bobbing around on my back, but I stretched and laid my hand on the door a fraction of a second before him.

He chuckled and with an Austrian accent said, “Damn.”

I beamed at him.  “Too slow.”

He grinned at me.  “Don't rub it in.”

I inclined my head and he started walking on as I opened the door, calling out, “London St. Paul's has a room and a cot.”  He nodded thanks and we exchanged that all knowing vagabond backpacker's nod.  The one that acknowledges a kindred soul.

At the front office I paid in advance for a week from the stack of bills from the people who donated to my cause in Covent Garden, I didn't have to touch my emergency stash.

I could stay a maximum of two weeks.  They frown upon you for more.  They need to keep beds available for others.  I understood completely, I loved the youth hostel and backpacker system, they made my travels on foot through Europe quite affordable.  You just needed to make sure you got a bed early in the morning like this because they usually filled up in the first hour or so.

The first thing was to get Audrey tucked away.  I pulled a combination lock and my shoulder bag out of my backpack, and left my stuff in one of the many cages lined up on the office wall.  Then I went into the commons to look around before I went exploring for the day.  It was pretty much the same as every other hostel I had visited.  It was spotless compared to some. There was one in Poland that I felt like I needed to wash up after I left it.  But for the most part, the YHA makes sure they all adhere to the base standards.

I pulled out an ratty old piece of paper that I have had to tape back together many times.  It was a list of the thirty clubs Uncle Slade had on his wish list.  I knew the list by heart, but I still had to look at it for some reason.  To assure myself that I was accomplishing it.

I smiled and took out a pen and crossed out Blue Moon Jazz Club, Paris.  I've played all the clubs on the list except the two that closed down years ago, and the two here in London.

I stared intently at the last two, Ronnie Scott's, and the Factory.  This was it, why was my heart racing?  I was more scared than excited.  Sure I was excited that I was so close to doing it, to keeping my promise, but terrified that it was almost over.  I'd have to go back and face my life back in the States... alone.

I exhaled and stuffed the list back in my bag and looked at my phone.  I already had the two pinned on the map.  Ronnie Scott's was the closest so I turned that way, put in my earbuds, and cued up some Billie Holiday, and Duke Ellington, and started walking.

I got into the groove, swaying and swinging along with the beat as I walked.  Plucking imaginary strings as I dreamed of playing with the greats.  Damn, what a beautiful day!

I arrived at Ronnie Scott's about a half hour later.  I had passed so many amazing things along the way, which I promised myself I would see on a sightseeing day after I dropped my demos on the clubs.  Ronnie's wouldn't open their doors until five that night.

I walked around the building and found the service entrance and rang the bell.  After a minute, a big beautiful man opened the door.  His shaved head gave his hard features some balance and made you just want to rub your hand over it.  His skin had the tone of dark coffee, and he had hard brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black.  He was muscular and in great shape.  I grinned at his plain white tee, that was purposefully one size too small so you could see his abs poking through.

He said in a menacing voice as he sized me up,  “We're closed.”

I popped my earbuds out, and some Louie Armstrong drifted up to us as I grinned.  “Hello.  I was hoping to speak with the owner.  My name is Eliza Montrose, I'm a string bass player, wondering if I could get a little heat here.  If any bands have an opening or a solo slot.”

He eyeballed me and started to turn back toward the door, saying, “No.”

I prompted before the door shut, “My uncle, Slade Evans, said Earl might be able to hook me up.”

The man hesitated, standing there with the door mostly closed.  Then he looked back and squinted his eyes.  “Slade Evans?”  I nodded and he said, “Slade Evans is dead.”

It hit me like a knife in the gut every time someone voiced it.  I played it cool on the side. “I'm intimately aware.”

He looked me up and down then said, “Stay here.”  Then closed the door behind him.

I exhaled then put my earbuds back in.  I tried to forget again as the music washed over me.  Then the door opened and the big man stepped out again and moved to the side.

Another man, who looked a lot like the first, just much older, plumper, and with much more hair and a grey beard and mustache.  He had deep laugh lines on his face and held himself a little stooped over.  He held his hands a little curled in and I could see the visible inflammation of his finger joints that marked the arthritis of a long time horn player.

He had dark sunglasses on so I couldn't see is eyes.  He looked me up and down as I removed my earbuds.  Then he spoke with a deep voice filled with so much gravel and history that you could feel it as much as hear it.  I was surprised that he had an American accent, unlike the younger man who had to be his son or grandson.  “You're Slade's little Liza?”

I nodded. “Yes sir.”

His smile slowly bloomed and he shook his head as he put a hand out, palm down, at about waist level.  “I'll be damned.  I haven't seen you since you were so high.  Right after Walker took you in.”

I smiled at the nickname.  Everyone in the business had called Slade, Walker Evans because nobody could walk the strings like he could.  Then I tilted my head in confusion, trying to place the man's face.  He had seen me before?  I really didn't recognize him, though I didn't remember much in the first few months after the accident.  None of it had felt real to me.

He offered his hand and I shook it.  He uttered, “Earl James.  You called me Mr. Raisin.”  Memories flooded my head.  I remembered when Uncle Slade had to go to a lawyer's office a couple days in a row.  He had to deal with things with my parent's will and estate.  A couple of his buddies stayed with me while he went.  There was this plump trumpet player who had a huge laugh, like Santa, who gave me some raisins to snack on.  I called him Mr. Raisin!

I could see it in his face now, even lined with age, I'm sure I was gaping as I whispered, “Mr. Raisin?”  He grinned and nodded and laughed out loud, that same laugh, colored by the years that have passed and the joy and sadness all those years had brought him.  It forged his laugh into something that you could almost reach out and touch, it had a history of its own.

Then he narrowed his eyes and said in a deeper tone, “There are a lot of people looking for you.  You disappeared off the face of the planet after Walker passed.”

I nodded and said, “I don't want to be found.  Not until I fulfill my promise to Uncle Slade.”  I had heard people were looking for me before.  I have no clue what anyone would want from me.

He cocked his head in confusion and I explained, “I told him I'd play all the venues he dreamed of in Europe.  I've hit them all but two now.  Yours is one of them, the Factory the other.”  I pulled out the paper and handed it to him.

He stared at it then me incredulously, and handed the paper to the younger man and whistled.  “You've really played them all?”

I nodded, then since I had a little traction, I blurted, “So if any of your talent needs some low strings to bounce the Bose, I could step in.  Or if you have any open gigs.”

He chuckled and asked, “You have Walker's touch?”

I shook my head. “Nobody has Slade's touch, but I pluck a mean string.”  I pulled out one of my cards and a disposable thumb drive with my demos on it and handed it to him.

I pointed at the drive. “There's some Jazz, swing, and some of my new fusion sound.  My number is on the card.”

He looked at the card and chuckled.  “Have Bass, Will travel?”  Then he pursed his lips and said as he nodded, “I'll give it a listen.  I'd like to visit when you have time.”

I nodded and turned away as I said, “It was nice meeting you again.”

He replied, “You too little Liza.”

I felt optimistic and heard him call out when I was a few steps away. “Liza.”

I turned and he tossed something to me.  I caught it one handed and looked at it.  I burst into giggles at the little box of raisins in my hand.  I could hear his booming laugh as he shut the door behind him.

I shook my head and said to myself in amusement, “Mr. Raisin?  I'll be damned.”  Then I put in my earbuds and swayed down the lane toward the Factory.

That wasn't as fruitful.  Their bouncer wouldn't allow me to speak to the owner and he said that it was an invitation only venue for seasoned Jazz musicians.  I guess fifteen years of experience doesn't make me seasoned.

I had come all this way, there was no way in hell I was going to go back to the States with my tail between my legs.  I would keep my promise to Slade.  I was a little grumpy so I put my earbuds away and thought about what I could do to convince the owner to see me and let me play.

I could feel the evil smile spreading on my face as I started to form a plan.  One of my superpowers is being annoying.  I was going to be a thorn in the Factory's side until the owner agreed to see me.  I wasn't going to desist until I got a face to face.  I just knew I could convince him.  I didn't even need part of the gate, I'd perform gratis, even if it is just performing a single piece.