By Wayne Ng
Dan Lee stood on stage tuning his vintage Gibson guitar. He gingerly tweaked the pegs and caressed the maple neck before strumming the strings with the fleshy part of his thumb, the way his idol Wes Montgomery did. Dan often fantasized about jamming with the late, great jazz guitarist. He dreamed of playing like him and becoming the first, truly great Asian jazz musician.
While his childhood friends, drummer Cliff and pianist Seth, talked basketball, Dan reviewed the setlist. He practiced hours each day, a routine he developed after his parents forced him into the church band. He fled the church, but his passion for playing soared.
He waited for Ruby, his sister-in-law, and their vocalist. It was her seed money that had financed Dan's guitar and other gear, thus sealing the band's name, the Ruby Lee Quartet. He studied The Dungeon’s brunch crowd, hungover from last night's Metallica Revival.
Ruby stormed in, looking like a middle-aged Dorothy who’d been sidetracked for twenty years in a bar outside of Emerald City.
"Ready, boys?” She smiled and re-tied her ponytails.
Dan strutted a few bars of, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Ruby silenced him with a menacing look. She then puckered her lips before powering up the microphone. With her back to the room, she snapped her fingers then spun around as Seth and Cliff jumped in on cue. Like a karaoke singer, she belted out a jazz standard.
Despite Ruby’s screeching vocals, Dan fell into a groove and picked out the melody. They typically did Sinatra covers with Dan and Cliff playing off one another. Just before the final number in the set, she exited the stage, signaling Dan’s solo, a melodic version of the Rolling Stones classic, Sympathy for the Devil. He played with an unshaken focus, adding an extra kick while simultaneously gliding over the wrinkles and ridges that gave the original its unmistakable edge. Dan heard some voracious clapping by the back exit.
The band took a break and Dan switched his amp off then played some block chords when a shadow approached.
“You were really cooking up there, Danny Boy.”
The stage lights blinded Dan. “Huh? Oh yeah, thanks,” he said.
The shadowy figure emerged into the light revealing a squat man whose face was covered in boils, wearing an ill-fitting, plaid jacket and a rumpled shirt that bulged beneath a pair of suspenders. He clutched a green cocktail with odd fingers that reminded Dan of his appendix, which he’d kept in a jar when he was eight years old. He thought it strange that while the basement bar was always cool, it suddenly felt hot.
The man smiled but his eyes were vacant, leaving Dan a bit uneasy. He slurped the last of his cocktail. “Though if you were heavier with the octaves, you’d get a smoother, more expressive tone that’ll bounce off the tune’s tempo.”
Dan stretched his lean frame over the man. “I think the audience enjoyed the pacing as is.”
“Kid, they’re like sheep, dumb ass sheep who think counting bars is a pub crawl. Trust me, if you soften the chorus, it’ll add more sophistication to the low notes. Plus, I'd be honored.”
Dan hesitated. “You'd be honored? Sorry, I didn't get your name.”
The man’s glass had suddenly become full.
“My name? Oh, I go by many names. But call me Norm, Norm Granz. Hey, that jazz box is a beaut.” Norm eyed the guitar as if it were an original Picasso. “Yep, I gave one to Wes when he headed west in ‘57.”
Dan suddenly remembered that Norm Granz was a huge jazz promoter in the 1950s. Wes could only be Wes Montgomery. Dan sighed. He’d finally met a jazz aficionado in this hole, and he turned out to be a wingnut who believed he was a dead music producer.
“I'm glad you enjoyed the set, but if you don't mind....”
“Oh sure, Danny Boy, whatever, go crazy. Just that you may want to think twice about adding a tag on your next number. Your canary can't carry drawn-out endings. Give that colored boy on the skins a longer opening. It's a 32-bar song, so what's the hurry? Above all, give yourself some heat. You’re the boss, not that chirp of a sister-in-law.”
“Skins? Colored? Really, mister?”
Norm proceeded to give more detailed and intimate advice on all aspects of the quartet. Dan just about dropped his Gibson as Norm winked before retreating to the back of the bar.
The others returned, shaking Dan out of his daze.
“You okay?” Cliff asked.
Dan shook himself. “Did you see that weird looking dude?”
“Who?”
“The guy....”
Seth and Cliff looked at one another, then at Dan who started to explain but stopped.
Dan mulled over some of the man's advice. He looked out at the audience. The Steelers game riveted the crowd. They might as well have been sheep and the band invisible. He decided they had nothing to lose and suggested different arrangements. Cliff and Seth looked at Ruby but snuck Dan an eager nod. Ruby protested about having to scat.
Then Cliff laid down some heavy beats and the others followed. They hit a groove they’d never found before, jamming for much of the set, improvising melodies and harmonies. Each song extended itself as if propelled by another force. As the set concluded, several customers applauded, startling the band into awkward smiles.
“I don't know what you're on, man, but you were smoking up there.” Cliff patted Dan, who grinned, very pleased with how they'd found a big-time pocket.
“Well, whatever it was, let's just remember what this band is called,” Ruby chimed in, “and who loaned who the money for an antique guitar.”
Dan ignored her and trailed them towards the door when Norm stepped out.
“You fellows sure have the chops,” Norm said, sipping another green cocktail.
Dan was startled, but still very much on a high. He stared at Norm’s drink. “What is that?”
“Mint julep.”
“Since when did The Dungeon serve anything other than mimosas and beer?”
“Never, I BYOB it.”
Norm pulled out a cigarette.
“It’s no smoking here.”
“Kid, no one else can see.”
Norm lit the cigarette with the tip of his finger.
“Cool. You a magician?”
“Kinda.” Norm blew perfect smoke rings.
Dan shrugged. “Okay. So, how do you know so much about—”
“About jazz, about you?” Norm sucked hard before exhaling. “Long story. Let's just say I'm a promoter. I look after people, and they look after me. Everybody wins.”
“You’re a promoter? Yeah, right. Thanks for coming, mister.”
“Not so fast, John Leslie. Ya think those silky chords you strummed were suddenly clear because you now got the juice? You had help. Most days you play alright, but you just can't get to the next level by yourself.”
Dan froze. The name John Leslie was Wes Montgomery's real name, and something he called himself when he fantasized about playing like him. He turned to Norm with narrowing eyes.
“Okay, quit pissing around. Who are you and what do you want?”
Norm chomped on some mint leaves. “I want to give you what you want. That's all.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“You want to be the king of jazz, Chinaman-style of course.”
“You can’t say shit like—?”
Norm held his hand up. “I know your kind. I know that every minute of every hour you practice in your basement, you dreamed of playing like Wes.”
Dan fumed, but also felt as if his diary was all over Facebook.
“I can make it happen,” Norm said.
Dan remained speechless.
“You’re thinking I'm crazy. You're wondering how I could do this?” Norm tapped the ashes off his cigarette. “How’s a guy who can’t play bass, can’t sing, and murders his girlfriend, still become a legend?”
“You mean Sid Vicious?”
“Ten points, kid. I made him. How did Jerry Lee Lewis marry seven times, including his 13-year-old cousin, yet stay popular? How did you suddenly play like Wes? I make things happen, simple.”
“Sure. What do you get out of it?”
“Me? I could say I’d be happy just making you happy, but I’m not gonna bullshit you. Since Bruce died, I haven’t had a handle on the yellow market. He was a made man until the Big Guy took him in ‘73.”
Dan pretended to ignore the slight. “The Big Guy?”
“Dude upstairs.” Norm pointed upwards. “He prefers hymns, loud organs, choirs, the occasional born-again rocker, you know the sort, all very predictable really. Anyway, it's kind of a tit-for-tat game. For every Billie Holiday I make, he comes back with a born-again Van Morrison, the prick! Easy come, easy go. But you, I had to hear for myself.”
“Wait, you’re talking about Bruce Lee? My dad idolized him.”
“Yeah, of course, kid. He was my soy toy boy.” Norm took a sip. “Then the Big Guy got all pissed that I branched into actors. It was a brilliant play, really. Bruce and I had all of Asia, and North America was coming around. Then the asshole threw Bruce a cerebral edema. Killed him instantly. That’s okay, I got him back with them priests and altar boys. I can’t believe he didn’t see that coming.”
Dan gulped. ”So, you're the dev—”
“Oh puhleeze with the labels.” Norm waved him off. “You swore off the church when your dad caught you wanking off, remember? So enough already.”
Dan felt a direct hit, one that stung like his father’s strap. “Why, why me?”
“You're hungry kid, you can be made. And you can open doors to a wider, untapped audience. You can help me go east again. Besides, when I hear “Sympathy for the Devil,” I’m moved. You got verve, but you need a manager.”
Dan looked away. He wondered if he'd been practicing too hard and was seeing and hearing things. Heat radiated from Norm, reminding Dan who and what was making the offer. The thought of fame and fortune sent his head spinning. His voice shook. “Miles and Billie... they died young. I can't handle this. Just stay away from me, please.” He fumbled towards the exit.
“Sure, I took ‘em. They shook on it, and it was a hell of a ride, for them and for me.” Norm smiled. “No matter, the Big Guy will be pleased. Maybe he’ll tap you as Van Morrison's throw-away sideman. Maybe you’ll be groovin’ a version of “Loving Shepherd of Thy Sheep.” You really want that?”
Suddenly Dan heard every church song he was forced to recite and play. He kicked at the door and kept going.
* * *
They practiced daily, but couldn't get into the same groove they had on Sunday. Ruby was prickly and let her displeasure be known over her having had to take a back seat that day. Even Dan, who was usually at peace playing, was distracted with thoughts of Norm.
The next Sunday, they filed back into The Dungeon. Dan scanned the crowded bar for Norm but wanted to believe that he had been an illusion. He chose to go with last week's setlist, minus “Sympathy for the Devil.”
They started poorly and never recovered. At the end of the set, he dreaded that he'd never be more than a sideman for Ruby. He stepped out into the alleyway for a blast of cold air. Only the smells from overflowing garbage containers and the sounds of a distant siren greeted him.
A coarse voice sang out:
“Loving shepherd of Thy sheep
How you wash us as we sleep,
The stars above show us your light,
Cause without me you’ll never get it right.”
“You again!” Dan called out.
Norm laughed until a hacking cough almost made him keel over.
“So, you're...real?” Dan said.
“Kid, that was lame back there, but I don't have to tell you that.”
Dan slumped against a garbage bin. “Just tell me one thing.”
“Fire away.”
Dan took a deep breath. “That screw-up of a set, was that your doing?”
Norm shrugged. “Does it really matter? You've lost what the Big Guy calls…faith. You're not the only talent to have tried and failed without the right promoter. But with me, you'll play the Apollo, win Grammys. You'll be the Emperor of the East. Play that in your head.”
Dan's heart jumped. Years of quiet practice, years of playing dungeons. It didn't have to be this way anymore. He could finally have it all. It felt like time to cash in. Dan turned away and looked upwards as if he could find guidance from above.
“Don't expect any help,” Norm pointed skywards. “You lost faith, so you're on your own, except for me.”
“Wait,” Dan said. “The music, you never mentioned freedom. What kind of rope will I have to play what I want?”
Norm sighed. “Kid, I'm the manager, I call the shots. Don't worry, no disco.”
Dan thought of Ruby. “I don't want to be her bitch anymore.”
“Those days are over.” Norm shook his head. “Now you go first class, all the way.”
“And my band?”
Norm snickered. “I'm offering you fame for fuck’s sake.”
Dan couldn't respond. He grew up with Cliff and Seth. They were like brothers, even Ruby was family.
“Kid, you gotta ditch the canary, she’ll always drag you down.”
“She's my sister-in-law, my brother will kill me. I owe him---”
“Shit. She goes, and so does that colored boy Clint. You gots to be good playing the heavy.”
“Cliff, his name’s Cliff, not Clint. He’s black, not colored, and he’s a man. He stays.”
Norm pointed a smoldering, blackened finger at Dan. “I'm the boss now. Kurt Cobain also got mouthy, know what I’m saying? Save the attitude for her.”
“Let’s close this.” Norm's eyes glistened as he extended a hand to Dan. “Put it there, Bruce.”
“Bruce? It’s Dan. What kind of manager are you if you can’t get my name straight?”
“Look Bruce, Dan, you’re all the same to me. I own you, I get to call you whatever I want. I know you want this so stop bullshitting yourself and making this harder than it has to be.”
Dan kicked at an empty beer can. “What else do I have to do?” He whispered.
“I’ll let you know. Look, as a sign of good faith, I'll let you keep the boys until I find new bandmates. But you show me you mean business by telling that dame she's gone. After that, all you do is play like my boy, Wes.”
Just then Dan and Norm heard Cliff calling out.
“No sweat, kid.” Norm withdrew his hand. “We’ll seal the deal after your next kick-ass set.”
Then he vanished.
“There you are.” Cliff handed a coffee to Dan. “Looks like we all shoulda stayed in bed, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Yo, bro, why so sad? We’re playing music together, right?” Cliff smiled. “Remember when we were six, we started with rubber bands and plastic containers?”
“My old man thought it was noise, drove him crazy.” Dan shook his head.
“Yeah, but nobody thought we’d still be playing. Now you da Asian Sensation! Only Jackie Chan has faster hands than you, bro.”
“Don’t you mean Bruce Lee?”
“Hell no, he’s dead, and he can’t make me laugh like you.”
Dan grimaced. “Asian Sensation, too funny. Put that on the marquee.”
“Already done.” Cliff patted Dan on the back. “Yo, dude, maybe we don’t play Carnegie, but we’re going to be at this for another forty years, trust me.”
Forty years playing the same shit hole, Dan said to himself. He thanked Cliff for the coffee. They marched back in. Ruby and Seth waited on stage.
Dan stepped up. “We sucked earlier.” He looked at Ruby. “We gotta make changes.”
She protested but he cut her off. “You're my sister-in-law. That means I have your back and will no longer let you embarrass yourself. We play best as a trio. You come back as an occasional special guest, after voice lessons. End of story.”
Ruby glared at Dan and uttered something about them never going to make it, and money owed, then stormed off.
“You da man.” Cliff fist-bumped Dan.
“I am.” Dan said out loud. “I’m the man.” He now understood he didn’t just play music. He was a jazz guitarist, that he had his own band, and that he'd found it. He discussed the next number before announcing to the audience that he'd reworked an old classic.
The smell of sulphur drifted in from the back of the room. Norm grinned and raised his glass of mint julep to him.
Dan began strumming the strings with the fleshy part of his thumb, like Wes Montgomery.
Then he improvised, knowing Cliff his Ringo Starr, Seth his Thelonius Monk—loyal sidemen, were always in sync. Without missing a chord, he pulled out his pick. Cliff followed with a feathery touch on his snare. A unique sound followed, a mellow expressive tone that had Norm and much of the audience tapping their feet.
Norm’s smile morphed into a scowl. He understood the simple melody of the song. His face and hands turned a deep scarlet. The glass in his hand shattered as Dan dove into an upbeat version of, “Loving Shepherd of Thy Sheep.” Norm’s eyes blazed and Dan could hear him roar above the music. He closed his eyes and followed Cliff’s shifting beats. The smell of sulphur disappeared, and he allowed himself to be swayed by that which came naturally and easily to him.
He decided he didn’t have to be anybody’s toy or role model. The band would be re-named “The Black Sheep.” He could play for a long time with Cliff and Seth, even if they never got much further than the Dungeon. For now, that counted more than being a train wreck of a star. He smiled at the remote possibility that he’d be mentioned in the same breath as Van Morrison’s sidemen, even if it came from the Big Guy.
Born and raised in eclectic downtown Toronto to Chinese immigrants, Wayne Ng has always been a chronic daydreamer and traveler. His second novel Letters From Johnny was just released by Guernica Editions, a coming-of-age, immigrant boy's story set in Toronto during the FLQ crisis of 1970. In 2018, Earnshaw Books published his first novel, Finding the Way: A Novel of Lao Tzu, a political thriller wrapped in a philosophical bowtie.
