Chapter
1: The golden bottleneck
Perched on the
edge of my bed, I stuffed foam under the strings of my guitar,
near the bridge, to mute them so I wouldn’t wake my parents.
I’d been practicing the Cross Road Blues all night, with
a bottleneck that I’d made from an old Coke bottle.
It was an easy
song. But I couldn’t get it to sound right. Sleepy though
I was, I wouldn’t put my guitar away. I had to keep at it
until it was perfect. So I played it, over and over again.
I was startled
when my guitar slipped from my lap. I must have dozed off.
A boy, as deeply and darkly red as the western horizon at
nightfall, caught my guitar. He wore no clothes or jewelry,
only a golden bottleneck on his left ring finger.
He knelt before
me, my guitar in his hands. I don’t know why I felt no fear.
I wasn’t even surprised that suddenly this boy had appeared
in my room. Maybe I’d always expected this meeting to occur
sooner or later.
The boy tuned
my guitar and played the blues. In spite of the foam, my
guitar was crying as if the world was about to end. It was
exactly the way I’d always wanted to be able to play.
He laid my guitar
flat on his hands and offered it back to me as if it were
a tray. He looked me in the eye with unfathomably black irises.
He spoke not a word. Still, I understood him. I knew the
agreement I would seal if I were to play my guitar, tuned
by him.
And play it I
did. The Cross Road Blues cried under my fingers. The boy
closed his eyes and nodded.
I was startled
again when my mother opened the door. “But, child, have you
been sitting there practicing all night again?”
Chapter
2: “Hello, beautiful Julia.”
It wasn’t eight
o’clock yet. Broom, Tone Wheel and I had already put on our
stage clothes. We stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance
of the “966 Muschi Bar”. I shivered. It was going to be another
cold night.
The rain on the
awning above us sounded as if gravel was being dumped on
it. Passing cars on the brick-paved road behind me sounded
like snare drums, the heels of passing pedestrians like claves.
“With Sputnik
those sneaky bastards got the drop on us as well.” Wardrobe,
the bouncer, took a puff on his cigarette. He thumbed the
silver whistle he wore on a chain around his neck. With his
wide body in a black seaman’s jersey, he stood in front of
the closed red curtain. On either side of the doorway, thighs
wrapped in fishnet stockings were painted on the wall.
“I’ve seen the
nine Mercury astronauts on the color TV in the Telefunken
shop-window.” Neon lights painted alternating color patterns
on Broom’s face. “The Americans will beat those Russkies
into space. I’m sure of it.”
Tone Wheel shook
his head and pointed his cigarette at Broom. “The Russians
are already secretly flying around up there. They’re watching
us and preparing the invasion of Western Europe. High time
to get out of this country and emigrate to America, while
we still can.” He turned to me, put his cigarette into his
mouth and spoke through his teeth: “Well, Livewire, are you
finally coming with us?”
I sighed. “You
know I’m never leaving Germany.”
“What’s holding
you…”
Tone Wheel was
interrupted by the squeaking of a passing streetcar. He cringed.
The tip of his cigarette glowed. “That D-flat was off-key.” He
closed his eyes and cramped up the middle finger of his right
hand as if he were pressing down one of the black keys on
his Hammond organ.
Suddenly, I heard
tires screaming. I turned with a jerk. Through the rain curtain,
I saw a pearly white Cadillac Eldorado go sideways. With
locked tires it slid up to the curb and came to a halt.
A red Isetta behind
it could just swerve onto the streetcar track. With a horn
that squeaked like a stuffed animal, the little car passed
the American leviathan.
Rainwater gushed
from the body of the still rocking Cadillac. I saw the reflection
of an “Agfa Photo” neon sign in the paintwork on the side
of the car. The tail lights were glowing red as if they were
gun turrets on Mercury rocket tail fins. The side window
wound down. “Hello, beautiful Julia,” a male voice said to
a lady on the sidewalk.
Her light blue
raincoat was tied with a belt around her slender waist. Her
long, blonde hair stuck in wet strands to her neck and coat.
She held her hands in her pockets. Quietly she spoke: “Drive
on, stupid Romeo.” Her alto voice sounded sultry and panting.
Despite the rain and street noise, I could understand her
crystal clear.
A lightning bolt
cleaved the night sky behind the ‘Bavaria, St. Pauli’ facade
across the street.
The eight cylinders
of the Cadillac growled. Its back wheels clawed for grip
on the slippery bricks. A thunderclap rent the sky. The lady
watched the giant car tear off down the Reeperbahn.
I heard Broom
laugh. “He must have thought he was in Herbert Street, where
all the hookers are.”
“That guy is desperate,” Tone
Wheel said. “I bet he’s going to turn right into David Street
to get to Herbert Street.”
The lady’s raincoat
left her slender calves uncovered. The seams on her black
stockings were dead straight.
Suddenly I heard
the tires of the Cadillac scream again.
I looked up. The
Caddy’s front wheels were turning into David Street but the
car slid straight on. A dull, metal thud followed. The car
buried itself into the side of a VW Beetle parked on the
corner. It pushed the Beetle onto the sidewalk and flattened
it against the wall of the Aladdin Theater. The Cadillac
ended up a smoking wreck. A hubcap rolled clattering against
the wall. Cops ran out of the police station next to the
Krause Hostel.
The lady turned
on her black stiletto heels. She kept her head down and looked
at me from under her thin, sharply demarcated eyebrows. With
a grin, she seemed to take stock of me.
She lifted her
right foot and swayed it back and forth on her ankle. I don’t
know if she stretched her foot or hesitated in which direction
to walk.
Wiggling her hips,
she finally put one foot in front of the other and joined
us under the canopy. “Boys, do you have some room left for
a lady?”
“Always,” said
Broom. “Shall I fetch you an umbrella? Or a towel?”
She turned her
head slowly toward him and grinned. “What on earth for?”
“You’re so wet.”
“Do you mind if
a girl gets wet?” She raised her left eyebrow.
“Yes…uh, no, I
mean…”
“I like being
wet.” She closed her eyes and laid her head back so the water
that dripped off the awning fell onto her head. Water streamed
down her cheeks and under the collar of her coat. She pulled
her hands from her pockets. Gold-colored, sharp fingernails
slowly brushed her wet hair back with long strokes.
“I love rainwater.” She
pulled her head back from the drip and looked at me again
from under those eyebrows. She opened her lips and licked
her fingers. “It’s so deliciously sweet.”
She grinned as
she let her gaze glide over our faces. She stepped closer
and looked at me again. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke,
doll,” I said. “It’ll give you wrinkles.”
Broom held out
his packet of Gitanes filter cigarettes. Without looking
away from me, she took a cigarette between thumb and forefinger
of her right hand and stuck it between her lips.
I heard a match
being struck. Broom held the flame under her cigarette. With
her left hand she grabbed hold of Broom’s wrist. She stooped
to stick the tip of the cigarette into the flame. She held
my gaze as she sucked the flame toward the cigarette. The
tip glowed bright red, just as red as her lips.
I saw her breasts
rise as she filled her lungs. She took the cigarette from
her mouth and grinned. She held her breath and kept hold
of Broom’s hand.
The flame danced
along the matchstick and came ever closer to Broom’s thumb
and forefinger. I saw his fingers cramping up to try and
increase the distance to the flame.
Not until the
flame hit the nail of Broom’s forefinger did she pout to
blow it out, enveloping my face in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
She turned to
Broom. “Thanks. I really missed this.”
“Aren’t you cold?” Broom
asked.
“I’m never cold.” She
took a step toward Broom and held the black lapel of his
gold jacket between the thumb and forefinger of her left
hand. She let her thumb slide up and down over the fabric. “Nice
outfits.”
“We’re just about
to go to work.” Broom pointed toward the poster of our trio
in the window.
A Mercedes ambulance
passed with deafening sirens and stopped at the crumpled
up Cadillac. First-aid medics ran out and rolled a stretcher
toward the Caddy.
“It looks like
he’s really been flattened,” Tone Wheel said.
“High time the
Reeperbahn gets an asphalt road deck,” Wardrobe said. “It’s
carnage every time it rains with the bricks on that corner.”
The lady didn’t
even glance at the spectacle. “The Electro Cats trio,” she
read our poster aloud. “Are you famous?”
“We’re world famous
in all of Germany.” Broom smiled and held out his hand. “They
call me Broom.”
“Then you must
be the drummer.” The lady ignored his outstretched hand.
Broom raised an
eyebrow. “Smart girl.”
“Do you only play
with brushes?”
“No, but I do
prefer them to sticks.” Broom grinned and pointed toward
Tone Wheel. “We call him Tone Wheel.”
“Hammond Organ?” She
pressed her lips together and nodded. “Modern instrument.
A B3, like Jimmy Smith?”
Tone Wheel shook
his head. “Its bigger brother. An A100.”
“Heavy equipment
to drag along. Do you have any roadies for that?” With her
left hand she pinched Tone Wheel’s right arm. She smiled
and pursed her lips. “No, you probably lift it yourself.
Such a strong boy.”
“All of us help
out to lift that heavy monster.” Broom pointed in my direction. “And
that’s Livewire.”
“Livewire?” She
looked at me from the corner of her eye. “So he’s the guitarist.
Is he any good?”
“Livewire is the
best jazz guitarist in the world.”
“Really?” She
raised her eyebrows. “I thought Barney Kessel was the number
one in the polls.”
Out of the corner
of my eye, I saw the man from the Cadillac being lifted onto
the stretcher.
Broom’s mouth
fell open. “You read the jazz polls in Down Beat?” He looked
at Tone Wheel and me with a wide grin. “Guys, may I introduce
you to my dream girl.” He turned back to her. “What’s your
name?”
She took a drag
from her cigarette. “Lora.”
Broom immediately
sang the first line of the Johnny Mercer film ballad ‘Laura’. “My
dear,” he said. “Barney Kessel has nothing on Livewire.”
“Then why are
you guys playing here?” She turned up her nose and pointed
her cigarette at the posters with pictures of scantily clad
women in provocative poses on the windows of the 966 Muschi
Bar.
“This is one of
the few places where we can play jazz and blues in this country,” Broom
said.
“Why don’t you
go to America?”
Broom and Tone
Wheel laughed. Tone Wheel looked at me, pursed his lips,
nodded and pointed in Lora’s direction.
She walked between
Broom and Tone Wheel to the wall and stared at the poster ‘Girls
wanted’. “Oh, I get it. You guys are looking for me.”
She went to stand
in front of Wardrobe.
He nodded, stepped
aside and held open the curtain. “Hilda,” he cried inside. “There’s
a girl here who wants to speak to the boss.”
Lora dropped her
cigarette and stepped on it with the tip of her shoe. She
turned and looked at me once more. “See you in a minute.”
She disappeared
behind the curtain.
“I saw her first,” Broom
said.
The ambulance
tore off, sirens wailing.
Chapter
3: Voice Box
As always in the
early evening, the place stank of the Lysol that was used
to wash everything. Even the girls reeked of it. They thought
it was an effective contraceptive. The Lysol couldn’t drive
away the smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and alcohol.
Everything was saturated with it. My guitars, my clothes
and myself.
Nettie Page was
the first act. She stripped to ‘Peter Gunn’, the theme of
the TV detective. I threw my Fender guitar around my neck,
and switched on the bridge pickup, so it sounded razor sharp.
I plucked the opening riff. A stiletto heel appeared from
the wings. The spotlight lit up a leg wrapped in a black
fishnet stocking.
Sailors around
a front table began to shout and whistle. A man at the bar
gave them the evil eye. Other than that, the joint was empty.
Wearing a black
trench coat and fedora, Nettie came onto the stage from behind
the curtain. She danced with big hip movements, looking around
as if she was being followed.
When she arrived
at the middle of the podium, Tone Wheel started the theme,
with all stops drawn out. The Hammond organ thundered like
an earthquake. Nettie pretended to be hit by a bullet and
fell onto the floor. She threw her hat into the audience,
revealing her long black hair. One of the sailors caught
it.
Nettie writhed
rhythmically on the floor, her hair dragging across the stage.
At the next big growl of the organ, she jumped up and began
to open her trench coat buttons, staring seductively at the
sailors.
Bullwhip Betty,
stripping to “Lily Marlene” with a whip, wearing a black
leather uniform, and Patty Pussy, stripping in crimson satin
and lace on the slow blues “Night Train” by Jimmy Forrest,
had already had their performances. The club was packed.
We accompanied
Broom singing the “Just a Gigolo/Ain’t Got Nobody” medley
with his best Louis Prima imitation. The spotlights, which
were focusing on us, lit up the cigarette smoke like a white
wall of fog. Through it, I could discern Nettie sitting at
the table with the sailors, wearing her trench coat again.
One of the sailors
was wearing her fedora. She laughed. The sailors had ordered
the champagne buffet, which meant they had spent a lot of
money on cheap bubbly. Nettie would stay at the sailors’ table
as long as they kept the champagne flowing. Nettie herself
only drank cola. The girls were prohibited by Minkmeister,
the owner of the 966 Muschi Bar, from drinking alcohol. The
orchestra and the staff weren’t allowed to drink alcohol
either.
Someone walked
through the light beaming off the spotlights. I blinked.
Minkmeister was coming over, his right arm around Lora.
She was dressed
in a short black, tightly fitting glitter dress with fringes
on her thighs and large see-through parts revealing most
of her bulging bosom.
They came to stand
next to the orchestra podium behind the organ. Minkmeister
kept his right arm around Lora’s waist, took his cigar from
his mouth and beckoned us.
We went to the
final chord. After a meager applause, Tone Wheel played our
pause jingle.
I put my guitar
on its stand and plunged next to Tone Wheel onto the organ
bench. Probably the boss wanted to tell us that he had hired
the new girl on trial. We had to discuss what music she would
strip to. Almost every day there were new girls coming and
going.
“Boys,” Minkmeister
said. “Lora has auditioned for me in the office. She’s amazing.
I’ve hired her for the rest of the month.”
I nodded.
“Okay,” Broom
said.
“A really great
jazz singer, just what you guys were missing.”
I looked at him
in surprise.
“Boss,” Broom
said. “We were hired as a trio. We don’t need a sing—”
“No discussions,” Minkmeister
said. “This is my club. I decide who sings here. She is now
your singer. You should be glad that I can recognize talent.”
“But, boss, the
last talent you—”
“I can still hear
you talking. Get behind those drum kettles and make it snappy.
She sings and that’s final. I’m going to grab a beer at the
bar and then I’m coming back to sit down here up front. Before
my ass touches the chair, you’ll have started her song. Otherwise
you guys are fired.” He turned and walked to the bar.
“Can I do a sound
check?” Lora asked.
Broom grinned,
pushed the tip of his nose up with his brush sticks and triumphantly
mimed ‘sound check’.
“You just produce
the sound, doll,” I said. “We’ll take the check.”
“Did I say something
funny?” She lifted her head. For the first time I could clearly
see her eyes. They were light blue like the ocean after sunrise.
“Sound checks
are for amateurs with tin ears. Just tell us what you want
to sing.”
“Don’t you like
me anymore? You’re breaking my heart.”
“Listen, doll.
No offence. It’s not that we don’t like you. But you can’t
imagine how many girls with beautiful, big, uh….lungs, who
think they are Peggy Lee, we’ve had to accompany in this
place. We all get them dropped into our laps after they’ve
had an oral audition with the boss. Not one of them could
squeeze out even one correct note.”
She grinned. “I
can.”
“Then let’s not
talk about it. Let’s just do it.”
“A man after my
own heart.”
“Come on, let’s
get it over with.” Tone Wheel sighed. He glanced at the bar
and rubbed his jacket with his right hand, just where the
inside pocket was. I could tell from the look in his eyes
that he wanted to whip out his hip flask to throw back a
swig of rum.
“Which masterpiece
will it be?” Tone Wheel yanked out a few drawbars of his
organ and pushed a few others back. “Fever…My Heart Belongs
to Daddy….Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend…”
“Cry Me a River,” Lora
said.
Tone Wheel stopped
abusing his organ. He pressed his lips together and stared
at her.
Broom lifted his
eyebrows and let his brushes slip into the holder next to
his drum stool. That intimate jazz ballad was played without
drums.
“By Arthur Hamilton?
That song was so beautifully sung by Julie London,” I said. “Are
you sure you’re up to it?”
“That song was
so beautifully accompanied by Barney Kessel.” She looked
at me again. Her light blue irises shone. “Are you sure you’re
up to it?”
“The lady loves
a challenge.” I grabbed my semi-acoustic Gibson guitar from
the stand. “How many flats?”
“Flats?”
I hung the jazz
guitar on my neck and grinned. “I mean: what key?”
“E minor.”
“That’ll be one
sharp then.”
“Yeah, one sharp
is enough to satisfy me.” She lowered her head and hid her
eyes under her eyebrows again.
Tone Wheel’s left
foot played the first bass notes on his pedals. I played
the dramatic opening chords. The bustle in the room was so
loud I could barely hear my own guitar. Tone Wheel built
up the tension by closing off the intro with the bass line
moving down.
Lora took the
microphone up to her mouth and hit that first high note.
She held it long, soft and panting, almost embracing it with
her velvet voice, and then ending it in a fragile vibrato.
Suddenly it was as if the rest of the world was sucked away
into a vortex. I don’t know if the murmur in the club had
really died down or if it was just me. I could perceive nothing
else but that voice anymore.
She sang the first
line of the melody down and held the last note in the back
of her throat as if she were sucking in her audience. I realized
that I’d forgotten to play my accompaniment chords. I came
in again, gently propelling her forward with sparse chord
progressions and fills.
When the song
went to the bridge, I built up the tension. The drama grew
in her voice. In her long notes she almost whispered, as
if she were broken. She hit every note right on the nose.
As we struck the
final chorus, my eyes were filled with tears.
She repeated the
last sentence three times, becoming softer until the final
note ended in a panting whisper.
It was deadly
quiet. Through the highlighted haze of smoke, I vaguely saw
how all the faces in the club were staring at us. Applause
erupted, louder than I had ever heard it in the 966 Muschi
Bar.
Lora bowed. She
turned, looked at me with a grin and handed the microphone
back to Broom.
Broom swallowed
and cleared his throat. “Welcome to our band, Voice Box.”
Chapter
4: Oil Runner Ollie
Voice Box was
sitting on a stool on stage, singing the last line of “My
Funny Valentine” with her eyes closed. Wisps of smoke drifted
through the beam of the spotlight that was pointing at her.
Her white babydoll and her long, blonde mane shone. An angel
with the voice of an angel.
During the applause,
the waiter walked over. He spoke in Voice Box’s ear and pointed
to Oil Runner Ollie, a regular who had earned a fortune smuggling
furnace oil. Apparently he had ordered a champagne buffet
for her. We had already gotten used to our new singer being
just as popular as the dancers.
“She’s going to
earn the boss a fortune.” I turned toward Tone Wheel and
cranked up the volume of my amp, which was standing beside
his organ.
Tone Wheel sat
bent over, hiding behind his organ. He slipped the black
leather hip flask back into the inside pocket of his jacket
and shook his head. “Wardrobe told me that she’s refused
a contract for next month.”
It was as if someone
rammed a knife into my heart. “Are we going to have to play
here without her next month?”
“Yes, without
her.” Tone Wheel sat up. “But not here. The boss has just
hired the Steiermark Chicks.”
“That’ll make
the dancing girls happy. Those Steiermark girls can’t even
play a blues. Do we have a new gig?”
He drew a wry
face and tapped a few drawbars of his organ with a swift
movement. “Our agent sorted out three months in Bad Reichenhall
for us.”
My heart sank
into my shoes. “The old spa hotel?”
Tone Wheel nodded
and shrugged. “Well, at least the pay is better than playing
here.”
I pointed at Voice
Box. “And where is she…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. Broom
started a swinging shuffle.
Tone Wheel followed
and urged the rhythm on, running his foot over the bass pedals.
On the manual keyboards he started the intro of “Lullaby
of Birdland”.
Shirley Vulva
came out on stage, rocking her hips in her white Shirley
Temple dress. She had a baby hat on her blonde ringlets and
fake freckles on her cheeks. In her hand she carried a stick
with a two foot high, fake lollipop. Her smile and the dimples
in her cheeks were real.
Shirley had already
taken off her dress when I took the lead from Tone Wheel
and started to improvise. I kept my eye on her to complement
her movements. In white lingerie, laden with ribbons, she
writhed on the stage, sticking out her perfect curves at
the audience. She stuck out her tongue and licked her fake
lollipop.
She wrapped her
fingers around the lollipop stick and slid up and down. I
made glissandos on my guitar neck so that my guitar seemed
to admonish her. She took a wide-legged stance, nodded at
me with an exaggerated smile and put the lollipop stick between
her legs. She descended onto the stick and slid up and down
along it, flattening the bow on her panties.
That’s when I
heard a loud bang, followed by creaking and the sound of
breaking glass. Shirley flinched and peered into the room
with a frightened stare.
A shrill whistle
cut through the place. I could only see a smoky haze and
blinding spotlight. I held my hand in front of the light.
Suddenly the beam was pointed away from the stage and into
the audience.
A sailor stood
at the table where Voice Box had been sitting. He raised
his beer glass with a jerk. The glass shattered in Oil Runner
Ollie’s face.
I turned around,
grabbed my Fender from the stand and ran with both my guitars
offstage behind Shirley. I opened the broom closet and carefully
put my guitars against the wall between the Lysol bottles
and the mop.
When I ran back,
Tone Wheel had already closed the lid of his organ. Together
with Broom he sat crouching in front of the drum set, both
holding the wooden plank of a music stand in front of their
faces.
We never rehearsed
any songs, but we constantly practiced how to protect our
instruments in a bar fight.
I loosened the
wing nut of my music stand, and gave it a tap so it rolled
itself off the bolt. I caught it in my hand, pulled the plank
off the stand and squatted next to Broom.
The sailor was
on top of Ollie, punching him in the face again and again,
his fists covered in blood. Still he kept raising them and
ramming them into Ollie. Wardrobe suddenly flew at him, grabbed
the sailor at the back of his belt and lifted him off the
floor. Wardrobe rammed the sailor head first into the bar.
He dropped him onto the floor, where he lay motionless. Oil
Runner Ollie was lying with his face in a pool of blood which
was growing ever larger.
A beer glass flew
through the air. I ducked behind my plank. I felt the blow
to the board and heard the glass shatter.
When I looked
up, four sailors were jumping Wardrobe. He pushed them away.
Wardrobe was struck with an uppercut to his chin. He staggered.
One of the sailors lifted a chair over his head.
That’s when the
bouncers of Cafe Kix and the Koket Club came running in with
the bouncers of The Red Mile and The Hot Little Room in their
wake. They flew at the sailors’ throats. The lifted chair
fell to the ground.
The four bouncers
overpowered the sailors in an instant. They dragged them
to the door, where a handful of other bouncers threw them
out. Bar fights never lasted long on the Reeperbahn. All
bouncers came to each other’s aid when one of them blew his
whistle.
I saw that Voice
Box was leaning on the bar in a relaxed pose. She looked
down at the two men who lay motionless on the ground. She
blew out a puff of smoke and dropped her cigarette next to
the face of the unconscious sailor. She stepped on it with
the tip of her shoe.
While the injured
sailor was already being rolled to the red curtain on a stretcher,
two medics were still trying to resuscitate Oil Runner Ollie.
Hilda, the barmaid,
sat on her haunches with a dustpan to sweep up the shards
of broken glass on the stage. I squeezed past her to put
my Fender and my Gibson back onto the guitar stands next
to my amp.
With an ice pack
pressed against his chin, Wardrobe stood by the curtain talking
with one of the policemen. The officer wrote something in
a notebook. Another policeman sat at the bar with Voice Box.
She smiled and wiped a speck of dust from his shoulder.
“That girl is
no good.” Hilda sat up and pointed her dustpan at Voice Box.
She sighed and brushed back a lock of hair which had dislodged
from her ponytail.
“Why?” I looked
at her in surprise.
“She deliberately
set Oil Runner Ollie and that sailor against each other.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating?
Every week guys are punching it out over some girl.”
She looked at
me from the corner of her eyes and nodded. “She enjoys teasing
men and driving them insane.”
“Can’t you say
that about all the girls here?”
“Poor Ollie.” Hilda
walked away, shaking her head.
The medics drew
a sheet over Oil Runner Ollie’s face.
Chapter
5: No blues, no bebop
“What are you
going to do when our contract here expires?” Voice Box tightened
the belt of her raincoat and walked out through the red curtain.
“We have been
condemned by our agent…” Tone Wheel spoke slowly and staggered
out of the 966 Muschi Bar, following Voice Box. “…to three
months Spa Hotel.”
“Three months
of oofta-oofta.” I yawned, walked through the curtain and
blinked. My eyes were burning from the light of the sun which
had just come up over the horizon.
“Oofta-oofta?” She
laughed.
I heard Broom
behind me jumping to attention. He marched out singing the
German folk song “The Faithful Hussar”, throwing in an “oofta-oofta” on
every two beats between lyrics.
Tone Wheel doubled
up with laughter. He staggered sideways. I grabbed him by
the shoulder.
“Didn’t Louis
Armstrong once make a swing version of that?” Voice Box asked.
“We’ve done that,
too.” I rubbed my eyes. They were getting used to the light.
Every morning
when our work was done, the Reeperbahn always looked strange.
Instead of colorful neon signs, I could only see grays and
browns: watery sunrays which were reflected by pavement,
bricks and tiles. There were almost no people or cars passing.
A gust of wind blew a piece of paper through the gutter.
On the other side of the road, a man in a frayed captain’s
jacket was leaning against the wall, his head bowed, a liquor
bottle in his hand.
“No!” Tone Wheel
put his left arm around Voice Box’s shoulder and his right
arm around mine. He pressed us so hard against his body that
the air was forced out of my lungs. Alcohol was steaming
out of his pores. “I don’t want to remember that.” Tone Wheel
looked at me, his breath nauseating.
“Why not?” Voice
Box asked.
“It’s a disgrace!” Tone
Wheel giggled and leaned forward, his weight on our shoulders. “That’s
what they cried out. We were almost lynched.”
I held my finger
against my temple. “Three months of marches and polkas. No
blues, no bebop…” I pretended to squeeze the trigger on a
gun.
Tone Wheel pressed
me against his body again. He looked at me with moist eyes. “You
are so wonderful. Do you know how much I like playing with
you? I love you, man. Do you know that?” He spouted his alcohol
saliva in my face and planted a smacker on my cheek.
“I didn’t know
you guys were sleeping together.” Voice Box looked at me
sideways. “So that’s why you haven’t made a pass at me.”
“I love you, too.” Tone
Wheel turned his head toward her.
She saw him coming
and quickly lifted her head.
Tone Wheel planted
his lips on her neck and sucked the skin inside his mouth.
Voice Box laughed
and tried to struggle free.
“Hey, fool, you’re
not Dracula.” I laughed and pulled at his chin.
With a sucking
sound, he let go of the skin of her neck. “I’m going to miss
you. Girl, I’m going to miss you so much. Where are you going?
Come on, tell us! Do you have a new gig lined up somewhere?
You have to keep singing, you know. With those pipes of yours.
Promise me that you will keep singing.”
“I’m booked on
the MS Aglaphon, on a world cruise to America. Helgoland,
the Orkney Islands, Rio, Miami…I’m going to get off in New
York. I’ll try to find something in a jazz club there.”
Tone Wheel’s jaw
dropped. “My gosh, that’s…” He closed his eyes and sighed. “So
great for you…just great.”
“I’m going to
need a trio to accompany me.” She glanced toward me. “Do
you guys feel like joining me?”
My heart sank
into my shoes.
Broom began to
smile from ear to ear. But his face clouded over when he
looked at me. He bit the inside of his cheek and took a drag
of his cigarette.
“With you to America?” Tone
Wheel’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Voice Box nodded. “Really.”
Tone Wheel let
go of us and staggered backwards. “With you?” He made a grand
gesture. “…Until the end of the world!”
He staggered back,
grabbed Voice Box around her neck and whispered. “Really.” That’s
when he turned his head and looked at me with a frown.
Suddenly all three
of them were staring at me.
I bit my lip and
shook my head. “I think it’s great for you guys and I wish
you all the luck and success in the world.”
“Goddamn, Livewire!
We can’t do it without you.” Broom threw his cigarette onto
the ground and trampled it with his black dress shoe. I had
never heard him swear before.
“You’ll find a
replacement. You can find guitarists on every street corner.
What about…”
“No guitarist’s
as good as you.” Broom shook his head. “You and Lora…you’re
just like Barney Kessel and Julie London.”
I pointed at Tone
Wheel. “With such a good organist, you don’t need a guitarist.”
Tone Wheel let
go of Voice Box and stomped on the floor like a child that’s
lost its toy. “No! You must come, too.”
I shrugged my
shoulders and raised my hands. “I can’t. I’m not allowed
to. You know that.”
“Why can’t you?” Voice
Box asked.
“That’s…that’s…” Tone
Wheel held his hands up like he wanted to catch a ball. “Nonsense!”
“Who didn’t allow
him?” Voice Box asked.
Tone Wheel turned
to her and raised his hands above his head as if he wanted
to jump her. “The devil!”
A wave of anger
shot through my body. That was my secret. Except for Tone
Wheel and Broom, nobody knew about it. I made a defensive
gesture, turned and walked away.
I felt a hand
on my shoulder pulling me back.
I turned with
a jerk and knocked away the arm. I looked straight into Tone
Wheel’s haggard face. I pushed him away. He staggered backward
and fell over.
I jumped forward
to grab him. But Broom had already caught him.
Tone Wheel straightened
up, his shirt hanging out of his pants. With a jerk he tried
to straighten his jacket but it only became more skewed.
He blinked and looked at me with moist eyes. “Why are you
leaving us?”
Voice Box looked
at me again, her eyes hidden under her eyebrows. “Is someone
going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Livewire believes
he received his talent from the devil,” Broom said.
Voice Box stepped
closer and looked at me from head to toe. “You have interesting
acquaintances.”
I stared at the
ground. “On the night after my eighteenth birthday, he appeared.”
“Really? Does
he still do that?” Voice Box asked.
“He believes it,
you know,” Broom said.
“He’d seen how
hard I’d been studying on my guitar,” I continued. “He said
I could be the best. That’s what he offered me.”
Broom shook his
head. “You’re selling yourself short.”
I looked into
Broom’s eyes. “He made me into the best jazz guitarist in
the world,” I cried out. I turned to Voice Box. “But there
was one condition: if I ever try to leave Germany, I die.
He would come for me and I’d have to play for him for all
eternity.”
Voice Box grinned. “The
best jazz guitarist in the world, trapped in the land of
polkas and waltzes. What an irony.”
“We’ve been playing
together for six years now.” Broom shook his head. “That’s
how long I’ve had to listen to your superstition.”
“It’s no superstition,” I
said.
“You owe it all
to yourself, not to the devil,” Broom continued. “You have
your talent to thank and all those hours you’ve studied.” He
turned to Voice Box. “We’ve played for ten hours now. And
what do you think he’s going to do when he gets to his hotel
room? He’s going to sit on his bed, plucking those strings
for another five hours.”
“How can I convince
you guys?” I cried out.
“You dreamed it,” said
Broom. “Or you made it up. I’ve been hearing those excuses
for six years now. I’ve had enough. You’re just afraid to
take the plunge. Here you are the best. But that’s easy in
Germany. There, across that big pond, you would have to compete
with the greats. You’re afraid that you’ll no longer be the
best then.”
“It really happened.” I
shook my head. “It really happened. He appeared to me in…”
Broom let go of
Tone Wheel and pointed at Voice Box. “If you pass up an opportunity
like this, then you’re not worth a snap of my fingers. In
this country you can’t achieve anything as a jazz musician.
We’re turning sour here. It’s time to take it to the edge,
to make the most out of ourselves. No more strippers, polkas
and bar fights. But concert halls, record studios and interviews
with Down Beat.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“Do you really
want to throw away all your chances as well as the six years
we’ve been playing together?”
“If I could, I
would go. How can I prove it to you? Do you want to see me
die when I take a step outside Germany?”
“What have you
got to lose? Surely, this isn’t living?”
I bowed my head. “I
can’t go.”
“You, you…” Tone
Wheel suddenly flew at me. He grabbed me by my collar and
shook me. “You’re not letting us down.”
Broom grabbed
him by the shoulders and pulled him away from me. Tone Wheel’s
hands clawed at me. His right hand hit my chin. My teeth
clapped together. A stabbing pain shot through my jaw.
I drew back and
looked at Tone Wheel in surprise.
“Control yourself,” Broom
said in his ear. “You can’t force Livewire.”
Tone Wheel put
his left arm around Broom and leaned on him.
“If he believes
that the devil will come to get him if he leaves Germany,
then we’ll have to respect that.” Voice Box took Tone Wheel’s
right arm and put it around her shoulder. “Come on, guys.
He’s right. We don’t need him. We can do it, just the three
of us.”
I stared after
them as they walked away, my only friends. Working with monthly
contracts, taking you somewhere else every month, barely
gave you any time for family or other friends.
They formed a
symmetrical unity. Tone Wheel, taller than Voice Box and
Broom, staggered along between them. The seams of Voice Box’s
black stockings were still perfectly straight. The clicking
of her heels on the pavement tiles was drowned out in the
din of a passing truck.
Chapter
6: “Play it for me, guitar devil.”
When I arrived
at the 966 Muschi Bar, Tone Wheel, Broom and Voice Box were
already talking with Wardrobe in the neon lights under the
awning. Voice Box saw me coming. She nodded in my direction.
Tone Wheel looked
at me. He waited until I stood by them. “Say, Livewire, everything
I said. I was…the…uh…”
I nodded. “It’s
okay. I understand and I’m sorry, too. I’m going to miss
you guys as well. I hope you’re going to be a big hit in
America.”
“Round Midnight.” Voice
Box said. She took the microphone from Broom and sat down
on her stool in the spotlight.
“The Thelonious
Monk song?” I shook my head and nodded toward the crowd. “Too
slow and complicated for this audience.”
“They love me,” Voice
Box said. “And it’s our last night here with you. I want
to do something challenging. Not for them, but for us.”
Tone Wheel played
the opening. Broom caressed his snare drum with his brushes,
his eyes closed.
Voice Box sang
the first line in a sultry whisper.
I only needed
to play an occasional chord. I felt a pain in my stomach.
Did she really do this because she wanted to play that song
with me? I already felt like the fourth man in their trio.
Voice Box sang
the last line of the bridge of the song. Then she turned,
looked at me and said: “Play it for me, guitar devil.”
She couldn’t mean
that? I really had to improvise to this song? No one in this
audience wanted to hear that. Surely, she knew that as well?
She put the microphone
onto her lap and kept looking at me.
I was annoyed
but I had no choice. Tone Wheel already went to the second
chord. So I took the lead and began to improvise. After one
bar I was already completely engulfed in it. No more doubts.
The fingers of my left hand ran up and down the neck and
my guitar sang with a warm voice, just as warm as Voice Box’s
singing.
After I had played
one chorus, I looked up to give her back the lead. She still
had her microphone in her lap. She raised two fingers and
nodded.
I played on. I
could no longer see the world; I only heard the music in
my heart and copied it on my guitar. My soul and brains flowed
into my guitar and took me up to ecstasy, just like that
night ten years ago, with that blues and that golden bottleneck.
Suddenly I heard
loud banging. The music in my heart burst apart like a bubble.
I looked up.
A head with bulging
red cheeks looked at me with watery eyes. He had a beer glass
in his right hand. He wiped his mouth. With his left he pounded
onto the podium. “Hey, string picker, what is this? A funeral?” He
pounded again. “Come on, tempo! We want to hear some lively
music and not that graveyard plunking. Let’s party, damn
it!” He turned to Tone Wheel, pointing his beer glass at
him. Beer poured onto his hand. “Hey, organ grinder, throw
some oars on that organ. Do you know the Radetzky March?
I bet you can’t play that, can you?”
Tone Wheel looked
at me helplessly. While his left foot kept playing the bass
line, he took his hands from the manuals and made an asking
gesture.
The man turned
to Voice Box. “And what about you, you slut! You’ve already
been sitting here like a bag of salt for more than half an
hour. What are you doing here?” He turned to the room. Half
the contents of his beer glass gushed out and splashed onto
the floor. “Why are we paying so much for our beer in here?
We want to see some tits, don’t we?” He turned back to Voice
Box. “Show us those milk jugs! Come on, take off those rags…”
Wardrobe flew
toward the man and grabbed him by the neck. “You’ve had enough
for one night.” He escorted him out through the curtain.
Tone Wheel and
Broom had now stopped playing as well.
I let my eyes
glide through the room, past the faces of ‘Tigerfibel’ Pauly, ‘Knives’ Bodo, ‘Double
Nose’ the tax inspector and a group of half drunk sailors.
Their eyes were serious and bored.
“Play something
fast,” Knives Bodo said.
Suddenly, I realized
that I’d known grumpy faces like that for years. They always
appeared sooner or later when we played something we really
liked, something challenging, something to be proud of. For
years, I had tried to avoid those faces. Suddenly the fear
came over me that that was all that I was going to do for
the rest of my life: keeping those faces happy. Suddenly
I didn’t care anymore.
I looked at Voice
Box, her big light blue irises looking back at me. She nodded
as if she understood.
“Do you know that
new song by Miles?” She turned to Tone Wheel. “So What?”
Tone Wheel nodded. “Sure.
That modal ditty. No problem. It’s just two chords.”
“Eddie Jefferson
has written some lyrics for it. And he sings it in breakneck
tempo: around three hundred beats a minute.”
“Three hundred?” Broom
sat up, his eyes lit up. He changed his brushes for drumsticks.
Tone Wheel began
to giggle.
“You want fast.” Voice
Box spoke into the microphone. She looked me in the eyes,
grinning. “You’re going to get fast.”
Broom stepped
onto the pedal of the hi-hat: more than five times a second.
“Faster,” Voice
Box said and Broom stepped up the pace even further.
Tone Wheel’s left
foot started to run over his bass pedals at the same pace.
Lora sung the
lyrics and then went straight into a scat, making up acrobatic
melodies and phrasings to the chords that Tone Wheel and
I were playing. Her notes flowed out of her like an express
train, always right on the beats. She hit every note and
every phrase went seamlessly into the next.
At the end of
her chorus she turned with a jerk towards me. I took over
and proceeded the same way she’d started: making up original
melody lines and note flurries. My fingers were flying. I
played better than I’d ever had. I was unstoppable.
Suddenly a hand
grabbed my right hand and pulled it away from the strings.
My pick fell from my fingers. I looked up and saw the boss
staring at me in shock.
“Damn, do you
want to ruin me?”
Behind him I saw
guests walking out of the place. A sailor kicked over a chair,
looked at me and shouted: “I’m not musical, either. Can I
play with you guys?”
“You’re chasing
all my customers away.”
“Sorry, boss,” I
stammered. “It’s our last night together. We just wanted
to have some fun.”
“Fun? You can
have fun in your own time!”
Chapter
7: It’s time
I leaned over
the railing of the stern and took a deep breath. The sea
air tickled my nose, the swell rocked my body. A stray seagull
flew over, screaming. The lights of the MS Aglaphon reflected
in the dark water that surrounded the foamy white wake behind
the boat. In the distance I could see the city lights of
Helgoland in the twilight.
“Aren’t you glad
you came along?” Tone Wheel said.
I glanced sideways.
The tips of Broom and Tone Wheel’s cigarettes lit up almost
simultaneously. In the distance behind them I saw a lightning
flash illuminate the thunderclouds.
I nodded. “The
last few days here in the Bebop Lounge with you guys were
a delight. I shudder to think that I’d almost been playing
polkas and drinking songs in Bad Reichenhall with that coal
beater of a pianist they wanted to team me up with.”
“It’s good to
finally get some applause when we’re playing something from
Parker or Miles, isn’t it?” Tone Wheel said.
I nodded. “Even
if that audience only consists of two or three couples. The
rest of the boat is all going to one of the bigger bars.”
“Once we’re in
New York we’ll be jamming with Chet Baker and Stan Getz for
audiences with thousands of people,” Broom said.
“We’ve already
left Cuxhaven two days ago.” Tone Wheel gave me a smirk. “And
the devil still hasn’t come to get you.”
I burst out laughing.
“It’s time.” Voice
Box came in between Tone Wheel and me.
I turned to her
and looked into her eyes. A squall made her long white dress
and her golden hair flutter as if she were floating above
the deck. The wind blew a fine mist into my face. I tasted
the salt on my tongue.
Tone Wheel and
Broom threw their cigarettes over the railing, turned and
walked to the door of the stairwell.
Voice Box and
I were still looking in each other’s eyes. Despite the dim
light, her light blue irises shone. I pressed my lips together
and tried to turn around to run after Tone Wheel. It was
as if she held me on the spot with her gaze.
Voice Box reached
out and straightened the bowtie that belonged to my stage
outfit.
I heard the echoing
sound of Tone Wheel and Broom who opened the metal door and
stepped over the sill.
“Are you coming?” Broom
said.
I tried again
to turn and run after them. Voice Box however clenched my
face between her hands. Her thumbs stroked my cheeks. “Helgoland
still belongs to Germany. We’ve just now left Germany’s territorial
waters.”
A wave of fear
swept through my body.
Behind Voice Box,
I saw a mountain of water roll towards the ship. The top
of the towering wave foamed, curled and broke apart. It looked
like the sharp, white nails of a black claw which was coming
straight at me.
I closed my eyes. “It’s
time.”
With a thud the
wave swept me from the deck. All air was knocked out of my
lungs. It was like being hit by a truck.
I felt the icy
water swirling around me. I opened my eyes wide. Dimly I
saw a jet black shadow above me, cleaving through the water
with two churning propellers at the rear. The dull thumping
of the ship’s engines pounded through the water. The lights
of the ship signed its silhouette as if it were carried by
the light.
I tasted salty
water in my mouth. My lungs gasped for air. I shook my head.
I pressed my tongue against my palate to prevent myself from
sucking in water. With my arms and legs I beat around me.
I pushed off and tried to work my way up. But there was nothing
that I could push off against.
Above me the silhouette
of the ship was getting smaller. I struggled but was helpless.
It was as if the whole world around me was sinking into a
vortex.
I couldn’t hold
back anymore. I opened my mouth. My lungs sucked in the icy
water with all its force. It was as if a fist of water was
rammed into my throat. I saw a stream of bubbles shooting
up. The last bit of air from my lungs. I clawed at it with
my arms. But I was sucked down deeper and deeper.
My lungs were
tightening. It felt as if the fist of water was rammed up
and down my throat. Again and again.
The silhouette
of the ship became vaguer. I couldn’t feel my arms anymore
and saw their movements getting slower and smaller. I made
a supreme effort, but my arms just moved less and less.
White sparkles
whirled before my eyes. White patches flashed past. They
were wings, fins…Voice Box’s dress. Her body seemed to radiate
white light. I saw her coming at me, her hands outstretched
the same way as that darkly red boy had handed me my guitar.
I tried to reach out and grab her hands. My eyelids became
heavy and fell shut.
Chapter
8: On top of the rock
Heat flowed from
my mouth through my body. Slowly it drove out the icy cold.
I opened my lips. Suddenly it was as if all the cold water
was sucked from my lungs and hot water was forced into them.
I opened my eyes
and looked at Lora’s light blue irises. I felt her lips slide
over mine. I relaxed my tongue and felt Lora’s tongue in
the salt water sliding over mine. The feeling came back into
my arms: Lora hugged me. Where she touched me, I felt her
nurturing warmth.
When I was warm
through and through, she let go of me. Her body shining in
the pitch black water was all I could discern. Her hair and
fins were slowly waving through the water. She smiled and
beckoned me with her right hand. With her left she grabbed
hold of me.
She gave a tug
on my arm. Suddenly the water started to flash past.
Lora let go of
my hand. The water in my mouth tasted sweet. She looked at
me but said nothing. Yet I understood every word.
I nodded. Yes,
the river was wonderful.
She swam up, I
followed her. I broke through the surface: an explosion of
water. I vomited the water from my lungs and took a slow
breath. Fresh air filled my lungs. No Lysol, smoke, sweat
or alcohol. I held my breath. The urge to breathe was gone.
I saw the moon and the stars through the hole in the clouds
above me.
The murmur of
the river sounded bright after the muffled sounds under water.
Lora waved from
the shore, under a rock that towered above the water.
I swam to the
shore, each stroke a deafening splash.
I lay on my belly
in the sand. Behind me I heard the river lapping against
the shore. Lra sat before me at the foot of the rock. With
long strokes she let a golden comb slide through her hair.
She looked at me.
I sat up.
She was still
silent, yet I understood everything.
I nodded. I had
no choice, just as she’d had no choice. This would be my
new home, my new gig, together with her for all eternity.
She grabbed my
hand and lifted me into the air, more than a hundred meters
up to the summit of the rock.
To the left, to
the right and in front, the black river wound around the
rock, deep beneath me. The ribbon of water disappeared into
the distance between the hills. Forests stood out against
the moonlight. Shreds of mist floated through the river valley.
On the other bank
I saw city lights and camp fires.
Lora pointed to
the left. The lights of a river boat.
I nodded.
She pointed to
a golden guitar against a moss-overgrown rock.
I picked up the
guitar, sat on the rock and played the dramatic opening chords.
My guitar howled as if the world were coming to an end.
Lora sang the
first line of “Cry Me a River”. Her golden hair waving, her
singing sailing down with the wind. But our rendition somehow,
imperceptively, morphed into a poem by Heinrich Heine which
I, like every German child, had sung in school.
“Ich weiß nicht,
was soll es bedeuten,” she sang to my guitar strings,
as people far below us began to scream.
“Den Schiffer
im kleinen Schiffe ergreift es mit wildem Weh,” she
continued to the distant accompaniment of a dull thud,
metal creaking, squeaking and the sound of breaking glass.
A wailing ship’s horn joined in as she and I reached the
final line.
“Und das hat
mit ihrem singen die Lorelei getan.”
