(Credit: Author)
Now Playing: “I Slept With Bonhomme At The CBC” – Broken Social Scene
Asbury Park is the real deal. Despite being late October, the town feels lively enough even with a slight chill in the air off the ocean on an otherwise warm and sunny day. My meeting at WJLK went well. I honestly cannot remember anything we talked about, and I honestly don’t think I will. The guy said he’d email Daniel with a summary, which is fine by me, because it freed my day up for the important parts.
The houses are cute around here. There’s a similarity and a difference to what’s up home. I guess all coastal houses on the northern parts of the Atlantic coast have some similarities with each other. When I pull Allison’s car in front of one of them, just a few blocks from the beach, she seems a little surprised.
“Why are we stopping here?”
“I got us a rental for the evening.”
“I thought we were just going to drive through the night after the show.”
“Neither of us are eighteen anymore, we can’t get away with our previous level of dumb shit.”
She shrugs, and accepts, though the tone of her voice feels a tad uneasy. Nevertheless, I shut the car off and grab the bags and we toss them aside. It’s less of a house and more of a bungalow, but the online listing said it could comfortably sleep four, so I’m not worried about us having separate beds. We don’t stay to check it out on account of both our rumbling stomachs, so we head back out into the October weather and towards the sound of our beloved ocean.
Allison makes a slightly disparaging comment about my aviators, and I blow her off. It’s easy to say the basic level of the truth that my Ray Bans have provided such a level of sun protection that I’m so used to them and going without is a little painful. But there’s a deeper level that I don’t always talk about. I enjoy the anonymity they provide for me, keeping my eyes out of view of the world when I’m out in the daylight. It’s a way to create some distance and keep people from seeing what I’m thinking and feeling. And makes it less awkward when I keep looking over at Allison as a reflex.
As for my best friend, I can’t help but notice a shift in things since Philly. There’s an intimate gentleness in the way we’ve spoken this morning that had been missing. It’s a cupful of warmth in every sentence, the way it was when we were in high school and spent practically every waking hour getting into all sorts of trouble together. I’ve found myself breathing easier, and even the hunt for my mother doesn’t seem so pressing. We established some solid ground rules for easing us back into a friendship and trying to dispel the continuing awkwardness of, well, everything.
We stroll towards the boardwalk, the smell of the warm kaleidoscope leaves dropping from the trees mixing with the renewing familiarity of the saltwater as the waves continue landing on the shore. As we near the edge of the roads, our view opens up to a park with a large brick structure on the other side of the park. I didn’t know what my reaction would be when the Paramount Theatre and Convention Hall came into view, but I’m awed at this historic castle by the sea. It’s a commanding structure, stretching over the boardwalk in red brick trimmed in tan stone with green fixtures which I’m not sure if they gained their color at construction or if time gave it to them. Nevertheless, the place feels like it has history. Maybe some ghosts roaming around inside too.
I spent hours researching this town, knowing of its importance to mom. She told me about how this was the place she and her friends would spend time at during the summer. Partially because she loves the ocean as much as I do, but mostly because she wanted to catch shows at all the venues she could. Walking though Asbury Park, towards the ocean and history is the closest I’ve felt to mom in a long time. She will come back here with me one day and tell me all of her stories.
Allison makes the salient point that we need lunch, and I don’t disagree. I remind her that I still technically have a little bit of work to do. We walk down the boardwalk, discussing what we potentially want for lunch. It’s been several hours since my aunt, uncle, and grandmother served us breakfast, and with us attending a show tonight, we figure that a late lunch and an even later dinner will probably be on the docket.
For October, there’s still a decent crowd on the boardwalk. Some figures on the beach, plenty of restaurants and storefronts are still open and doing decent business. We walk past a few restaurants, weighing some options in our heads while a busker plays an acoustic guitar on one of the benches, and the laughter of children rings as they run around chasing each other outside of a retro arcade.
And then, on the other side of the street is a low white building with a black awning and signs. The Stone Pony, one of my mother’s favorite spots to play, and a pilgrimage spot in her youth thanks to her love for The Boss. I feel wrong admitting it, but in Springsteen country, I’d feel even worse to live the lie. I always preferred Billy Joel. The comparison to me was of the Great American Songwriters who came out of the seventies, and I always felt Billy Joel’s storytelling was more my speed than Springsteen’s.
I push the door in and get greeted with…a concert venue. There’s nothing spectacular about the place, but I suppose that’s the point. It’s the history, not the building that makes this venue legendary. I walk up to one of the people working here and tap her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Sydney.”
“That’s me!” she clarifies. She’s a petite girl, with curly brown hair and green eyes when the light hits them just right. She emanates sweetness and you can tell beneath everything else, she’s a kind soul.
“Hey, I’m Casey Adams, we spoke on the phone.” I offer my hand to shake before gesturing to Allison, “This is my best friend Allison Graves.”
“Wassup,” Allison introduces herself in a very un-Allison like fashion, which nets a suspicious and disapproving side-eye from me. In yet another frequent instance of ‘Casey elects to ignore his friends doing odd shit to avoid a pointless tangent,’ I elect to ignore Allison doing odd shit to avoid a pointless tangent.
“You work at the radio station!” The bolt of recognition hits her face. I nod in confirmation.
“Yep. Is the band here yet?”
“They’re in the back; I can take you.”
“Thank you so much.” She leads us back to the green room area. “Say, while I’ve got you here, you wouldn’t happen to recognize this woman, would you?”
I show her a picture of my mom. She studies the photo on my phone for a few moments in the harsh light of the backstage hallways before a wave of recognition slowly rolls over her face.
“I did. She was here a few months ago.”
What? Seriously? Is she sure? Does this mean? My mind starts racing, questions flying so fast they shatter the sound barrier and I can’t hear anything but ringing from within my own head.
“Are you sure?” Allison finds the words that I cannot.
“You don’t forget a woman like that. I never saw anyone make jeans and a leather jacket feel so unique,” Sydney summarizes mom in the best way possible.
Allison and I share a look of incredulity, excitement, and triumph. We only managed a cursory examination of the letters this morning before breakfast. Mom took great care to be as vague as possible in her missives to her brother. And while I’m certain that she left some clues, whether intentionally or unintentionally, we won’t know more until we get the chance to study them in depth. But this? This, this is Apollo 8. Maybe we’re not landing on the moon yet, but we’re closer than anyone has ever gotten before. We’re laying groundwork.
“You do not realize how much of a help you’ve been with this today, Sydney. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her response falls somewhere between a statement and a question with a furrowed brow and the narrow eyes of confusion. We continue onward to the room, where she knocks on the door.
A somewhat familiar voice bids us to enter.
I find myself face-to-face with the members of Catherine Cold. Rockers in their own right, it’s a motley crew of characters for certain. Two girls in faded jeans and flannels, one guy in a henley shirt with about four necklaces, a bearded guy in a stained Asking Alexandria t-shirt, and…Bryce Tanner!
“Casey Adams!” the familiar voice attached to a former classmate greets me, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, I work for the radio station, I came to ask you guys if you wanted to be on the show. Since when the hell are you with Catherine Cold?” I ask incredulously as we hug. It’s heartwarming to find a familiar face far from home, although I’m a little skeptical of the odds.
“Last summer, right after we graduated, the band played in Detroit. Keyboardist got sick, I was recommended as a spot starter, and then in October, that guy had to leave and they asked me to join full time!”
“Right on dude, that’s awesome!” I offer him a fistbump, which he glowingly accepts.
It’s at this moment that I notice everyone looking at us in confusion, so we explain that we were college classmates who ran in similar circles. One of Bryce’s friends was in Kim’s former band, he and I had a class or two together during our time in school, yadda yadda yadda. Sydney has remained in the room, both in awe of the coincidence and enraptured by the stories.
I introduce Allison as my best friend in high school and tell the version of the story fit for public consumption, leaving out the ancient crushes and almost kissing and weird comments by family members. Bryce introduces us to the band, and we have a long conversation about music, and who plays with who, and the drama of being on the road.
Bryce asks if I still hang out with Martin, to which I confirm that I do almost every day. I then recount the story of how he and I kept working with Cory after our last band broke up. He seems amused that the three of us stayed together, and laughs about how Kim reached out after she decided to stay in town after graduating. Amy Saunders, the lead singer, makes a comment about how Kim’s roommate just so happening to be a keyboard player seemed almost too good to be true. Bryce and I explain that’s just how Grantchester is, it’s a cheap alternative for budding musicians because of the connections playing around town gets you, and it’s a good homebase for people looking to gig even out in Cape Cod during the summer months. Bryce mentions a story about a recent gig which I talked about on air the other week.
I snap my head around to him so fast it threatens to send it flying off my shoulders. “You listen to the show!?”
He laughs as if the answer was obvious. “Do you realize how much great music you’ve introduced me to?”
Amy interjects questions into the bro reunion we’ve got going on here to figure out what we’re talking about. I explain that I am a producer at WARP, and I run a very popular Friday afternoon show. Amy ponders this while Bryce inquires how I’m doing the show this week.
“Oh, Kate Kaplan hosts a show on Saturdays. She and I swapped shows for this week to let me come see you guys. I wanted to ask if you wanted to come up to Grantchester and do an interview and play a set live on air,” I explain, matter-of-factly.
You could roast marshmallows on the fire that lights up the room. Everyone’s face registers disbelief, gratitude, excitement, and approval. Amy and Nick, the bassist, blink repeatedly and stare each other in a stunned silence at the offer. Bryce charges me and nearly slams me into the wall with a bear hug.
“You’d do that for us?”
“I dig your sound, I’d love to get you guys with some publicity. Record label people listen to our station. Trying to support independent artists as much as I can.”
The band talks amongst themselves for a moment while I catch Allison looking at me with glowing approval. She tosses me a wink, while Sydney tries to take all of it in. She probably has other responsibilities she’s ignoring in favor of our dramatic afternoon into evening, but I can’t even blame her because I’m basically doing the same thing.
“Hey man, you should play a song or two with us tonight,” Bryce offers once the huddle breaks up.
“You sure?”
“Yeah man.”
“Woah, dude, I dunno about this guy. I appreciate him giving us the radio interview, but him joining us for a few songs? Are you sure he can hack it?” Amy protests.
Bryce narrows his eyes in disbelief. “You do realize that Melanie Winters is his mom, right?”
Amy’s eyes practically bulge out of her head the way a cartoon character’s would.
“Your mom is Melanie Winters!? I love her stuff!”
I share an uncomfortable glance with Bryce. The moment I purse my lips, his eyes register understanding. Bryce knows the rough sketches of the situation with my mom as well, whispers through the grapevine that I had to confirm one day at an impromptu jam session on the quad. That’s the harsh edge of being the son of a local legend, even if she is more of a ghost at this point: the whispers always manage to reach living ears in some fashion. He quickly realizes his error and loudly clears his throat.
“Let’s not get sidetracked, we need to figure out what we’re going to play with Casey,” Bryce interrupts the tangent authoritatively. I gather from Nick’s expression that it’s not the first time somebody has to play hall monitor amongst the band.
“How about ‘Dreams’ by Fleetwood Mac?”
Inspired by Amy’s suggestion, I make a better one after some questioning on how fast everyone can learn new music. While we get sorted to do a little practice, Allison gives us some space and heads back out to talk to Sydney. They promise to return with food, which we all agree that we’ll need.
I haven’t picked up a guitar in close to a week, and here I am, about to go on stage. Here’s hoping I don’t totally choke.
***
Now Playing: “Destiny Rules” – Fleetwood Mac
The electricity which replaces the blood in one’s veins before they go out and perform before a cheering crowd doesn’t change even when they’re not the main attraction. The rhythm guitarist, Lindsay, loaned me a spare amp and her cherry red Stratocaster which is set up closest to how I have my own done. When Bryce introduces me to a muted but hopeful cheer from the crowd, I bound out onto the stage and pick up the guitar off the stand.
Personally, I think it was an inspired choice to go with something off of Fleetwood Mac’s last studio album. “Destiny Rules” is a song people likely haven’t heard before outside of serious music fans like me who appreciate the classics the way their parents taught them. In other words, music dorks. This song is not one that was performed often by the band, and I felt it fit more thematically in with the rest of the band’s catalog. I was not surprised when Amy told me she was a huge Stevie Nicks fan, so picking one which Ms. Nicks wrote felt appropriate.
A count-off by the drummer and my fingerpicking sets us out on the trail, and the crowd starts to groove in with the song. I’ve used this song as a warmup for about six months, and since I knew the guitar part would be the most difficult to pull off, I wanted to do something a little familiar to me so that I wouldn’t totally eat it on stage. Amy has one hell of a voice, able to capture the raw emotion of the song so well. Looking out at the crowd, I have my usual excitement of being on stage, but nothing more. This stage should feel a little more meaningful to me, seeing as mom loves this place, but her absence is all the more disquieting.
My own darkened emotional state from this morning and our drive to Jersey from Philly makes the song feel all the more impactful. Allison and I had another long discussion about us. In a way, we represent all the wonderful things about our pasts to each other. Days of carefree lounging in the summer sun and the hot drinks sipped under warm-hued trees before high school football games, and holidays together, and days before the pressures of reality haunt us from the moment we wake up and we cannot find solace even in our dreams.
Allison being back is a moment I’ve been dreaming of for years. Even under blistering stage lights with a mostly-packed house worth of body heat, contemplating the ramifications of her return send a chill up my spine. I’m playing the guitar, in the crowd watching myself, walking outside to smell the sea air, and curled up in my bed begging for answers, out at the diner waiting for Martin alone with my thoughts, and staring at my evidence board all at once.
And Allison and I are like Schrödinger’s goddamn cat. The answers to all of the whats, whys, and hows exist in every state simultaneously until we open the freaking box. Despite the hours we’ve had discussing our emotional states, practicing clear communication with each other, and everything, none of it feels like it’s built to a resolution. It’s all shadows and smoke and mirrors in a maze while blindfolded and sleep deprived.
The disquieting portrait hovering oppressively over the backdrop is my mother’s face. I know now, throughout all of this, that she’s the reason I was so angry at Allison. Allison came back, while mom never did. I, like the unhealthy idiot I am, displaced all of my anger and nearly burned a bridge in the earliest stages of reconstruction. Luckily for me, her stubbornness matches mine. I couldn’t imagine going back to a life without my best friend.
Lindsay cues me to take a guitar solo. I clear my mind and let the emotions pour out of my fingers onto the strings. Bleed out my anguish and confusion and pain at being pulled seven different directions at once until there is no energy left with which to keep myself awake tonight, seeing as we have a six hour drive after which, I host a radio show tomorrow.
Right now, the music is all that matters.
***
Now Playing: “Blinded by the Light” – Bruce Springsteen
I sat in with the band for four more cover songs before I let the band finish out their night with their own material. And I was still dragged back out for an encore of, as completely expected, a Springsteen song. Bryce told me as the band was packing up that he was grateful I knew so many other songs because it gave a convincing excuse for the band to pad their set time with covers since they don’t have enough original material that they’re comfortable performing live. Pieces of their first album are pretty technically ambitious. While touring for it, Amy and the lead guitarist, Will, realized good songwriting doesn’t have to show off technical proficiency.
Syd, having hit it off with Allison quite well, invited us out with her friends to their usual bar after the show was over. We said why not. I invited Bryce out as well, but he said they had to get going because they were playing a hometown show in Pittsburgh the next day and needed to make sure they got into town with enough time to set up. Well, the band’s hometown at any rate. I bid him farewell after listening to the griping about being in Penguins territory when he’s a Red Wings fan.
The bar is a few blocks away, barely a five minute walk. Nestled between taller apartment buildings in various states of construction, Kim Marie’s is a well-loved Irish pub with laughter and life spilling from the inside. It’s not particularly large, but I understand why our fellowship for the evening calls it home. The kitchen is open until the place closes down, and despite Allison and Syd going on a late lunch run for us all and the band, we’re all eagerly looking forward to wolfing down bar food because that was several hours ago for everyone, and a lot of performing on top of it for me.
The two of us took up spots near the edge of the table the group claimed for the evening and are content to watch the group do their usual back and forth. In some ways, it’s like living out our usual evenings in another venue. The same inane conversations, laughter at inside jokes, pointless story followed by pointless story, and pleasure at ignoring the pressures of life for a little while that we make our nightly ritual at the diner or our own bar can be found here. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
“I love watching you perform,” Allison says loud enough to be heard over the crowd at the bar, yet it feels enough like a whisper to make my hairs stand on end. It resonates deep within my chest, meaningful and sweet and important.
“Yeah, well, you’re going to get to see it happen real often. You’re stuck going to all the gigs from now on.” I opt for levity over engaging with the other implications. Allison’s been offering mighty tempting bait, but I refuse to bite. “If you think Martin’s going to not whine until you agree to come every time, then you forgot a lot more than I thought you did while you were away.”
Allison laughs at the comment, and we carry on for another hour or so making inane conversations and strengthening new friendships. By the time our evening draws to a close, and our fatigue catches up with us, we’ve made Syd the standing offer to visit and show her the same hospitality if she’s ever up in our neck of the woods.
Allison stroll through a chilly night back to our rental. Without the sun to counterbalance the ocean winds, it’s colder, and she presses herself against me, using my coat as a shield against the cold. I caution her about stretching it because I like it. The idea of her wrapping her arm around me crosses my mind, and it bothers me. Turns my stomach.
Luckily, the awkward moments keep their distance until we get back to the rental. I punch the code into the door lock, and we enter. Allison flips the lights on, and I finally get a good look at our rental, having been too weird to really pay attention when we dropped off our bags. Decorated in light and airy colors, with lots of blues and tans befitting its location by the ocean, and pleasantly bright hardwood floors, this is the perfect place for a beach rental. Only one bathroom, and the living room is really small, but worth it.
“Well, there’s only one bed,” Allison reports after she finishes exploring it. We didn’t do much more than drop our bags basically in the doorway when we showed up earlier, so seeing the house was smaller than I anticipated was a surprise which waited until now. The listing said there was enough room to sleep four. I guess that was a lie, unless the couch pulls out. Guess I’m going to have to figure that out.
“Son of a bitch!” I snap.
“I mean, we’ve known each other long enough. I don’t see the harm in sharing, we’ll put pillows up in between each other.”
The nice night we had been having goes up in a flash. I fix her with a glare hot enough to melt steel and make titans wither. I am in a relationship with Jordan, and I don’t think she’d be too wild about me sharing a bed with someone else. Let alone someone who not eighteen hours ago agreed with me that we would be careful and not get ourselves into any weird situations.
“I’ll take the fucking couch.”
Without another word, I grab my clothes and head into the bathroom to shower.
Ark of the Lost Angels 
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