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  • Getting Good
  • Richard Russo (bio)

"Almost the whole capital of the novelist is the slow accumulation of unconscious observation."

—Mark Twain

I was in junior high—as middle school was called back then—when I heard my first live band. The venue was the gym where we hormone-driven eighth-grade boys ran laps, climbed ropes, played dodgeball, and wrestled, in the process converting our recent cafeteria lunch—half a ham salad sandwich and a shallow bowl of Campbell's tomato soup—to methane. I'd been to dances before at the YWCA, but in that smaller gym a DJ spun records. This was different. Hearing the same songs I'd listened to on the radio thundering through guitar amplifiers, the insistent bass thumping so hard that the bleachers vibrated, was a revelation. I all but levitated. This was for me.

The boys in the band were older by what—two or three years? Four at the most, but an eternity back then. And cool? Dear God. Their longish, shiny hair was slicked back on the sides, their pompadours somehow dangling down over their foreheads and swaying [End Page 555] to the music's urgent beat. They wore white shirts and narrow ties, dark jackets and tight "pegged" pants. When they stepped up to the microphone to sing "Baby, Wha'd I Say," they seemed almost to whisper into the mics, but their voices boomed and echoed off the walls, the pulses and crackles of their low-slung Fender guitars seeming disconnected from both the fingers of their left hands, which flew over the frets, and their barely moving right hands, as they picked and strummed. The songs themselves weren't perfect, like the more polished and heavily orchestrated versions played on the radio, but to me they were so much better. Hearing the former, you'd smile and nod your head. In the gym—never mind the wafting aroma of dirty socks and sour jockstraps—you could sense in every ringing, echoing note the thrilling proximity of something you couldn't name or even describe. Freedom was part of it, but more than that, power. Music played this loud by tall, lean boys showed even the school's thick-necked bullies what mattered and what didn't. Though trying to look nonchalant, they hung on every note as hungrily as dweebs like me. The boys behind those roaring sunburst guitars altered our world and in the same instant ruled it. It would be decades before I'd want anything as much as I did to be one of them. Before that eighth-grade moment my most fervent wish had been that my father, long banished, might return to the house my mother and I shared with my grandparents in an upstate New York mill town. Afterward, there were things I needed more than him and an intact family. A guitar. An amp. A mic.

What do you do with such visceral yearning?

If all you have is a cheap acoustic guitar, you start saving the money from your after-school job for a cheap electric one, and after that you somehow manage to buy a secondhand amplifier about a quarter the size of those in the gym. Everything that comes out of it sounds fuzzy because some other boy with a need identical to [End Page 556] yours has blown one of its two tiny speakers. Next, you join forces with a kid who dreams of being a drummer and whose parents have promised him a set for Christmas, and another boy who also plays guitar—his is better than yours—and has a decent amp. When the drummer gets his drums, his parents let you practice in their basement. Somehow, somewhere, you locate a couple microphones, which means both mics and guitars are now plugged into your good amp. It takes you forever to find the setting that doesn't result in earsplitting feedback. Your drummer doesn't think of the band as a collaboration so much as a competition between members. He wants to bang, so bang he does. The song he's beating out is only tangentially related to the one the guitars are playing. He...


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pp. 555-612
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