The Oracle Year(54)
The scale of the Site’s plan was obviously vast, a densely coordinated global effort, constantly in motion. Evolving into . . . something. And the team trying to understand that evolution, maybe even stop it, included a failed musician, a grade-school teacher, and an ex-investment banker.
It was like trying to play chess in a pitch-dark room, where you had to determine your opponent’s moves by sense of smell alone. And you had a cold. And your opponent was God.
Futile.
But still, they plugged away, dutifully studying the board, trying to win a game they didn’t and most likely couldn’t understand.
Hamza and Miko had each other. They could share the weight of learning that the Oracle’s predictions had almost certainly resulted in the rise of the Sojo Gaba movement in Niger, and the subsequent U.S. bombing campaign that was slowly but surely pulverizing that nation in an attempt to destroy its leader while giving President Green a new hook upon which to hang his reelection campaign. Or the slow, endless downward spiral of the global economy. Or any of the other things the Site was doing to the world. They could share that weight.
Will was alone. His friends knew that, and they had concerns. Possibly justified concerns, after what they’d seen him do in Uruguay.
And so, they had gently suggested, then firmly suggested, then flat out insisted that he find an outlet for his Oracle-related tensions, which led to Will calling Jorge and asking to sit in at one of his Sunday jam nights.
They were always held at the same club—the Broken Elbow, down in the Village. A rotating cast of New York’s musical elite attended, whoever wasn’t on tour or booked somewhere, just to catch up with one another, trade gossip, and play a bit. Technically, anyone could ask to sit in—it was an open mic—but you got up on that stage at your peril. Jorge called a song, and the band played it, and that was it. No rehearsal, no prior discussion. If you couldn’t hold up your end, no one would be a dick about it, but you were out of the cool kids’ club, without much hope of ever getting back in.
Playing at that moment were, among other luminaries, two musicians from the SNL band and a guitarist who had laid down studio tracks for at least three top-ten singles in the past year. And Will Dando on the bass, holding down the line. Sitting in that pocket.
He felt light. He wasn’t the Oracle. He was just a musician, on a stage with some of the best players in New York City, holding his own.
The song wrapped up, clanging through the snarl of little guitar licks and drum fills and sax squeals that tended to end jams like this, culminating in one big punctuation mark hit on the snare. The four men and one woman onstage started removing their instruments, placing them on stands, trading nods and in-jokes and subtly joyous appreciation of one another’s skill.
Will turned to Jorge.
“Okay if I do one during the break? Just something I’ve been playing around with. Want to see how it works with the audience.”
Jorge hesitated—this was a breach of etiquette. It wasn’t an originals night, it was a covers jam, and moreover, no one was supposed to be featured. Even more, if someone was going to get a feature, Will Dando probably wasn’t first on that list.
But Jorge shrugged and clapped Will on the shoulder.
“Sure, man,” he said. “Have fun. I’m glad you came out tonight. You’ve been missed. Not the same without you. Let’s talk after, too—I’ve got some gigs I’d like to put you up for.”
He gestured at the microphone at the front of the stage.
“All yours.”
Will moved to the center of the stage, pulling a few of his effects pedals over from his amp and arranging them in front of the microphone stand. He tapped a few—a loop, a thick layer of distortion and some chorus—and tested the sound as the rest of the band left the stage and headed for the bar.
A bark of snarling distortion whipped out across the club, fading into pedal-assisted echoes. Will could see the front rank of the audience lean back a bit, all at once, as if they’d all been hit by a blast of arctic wind.
“This is a new song,” Will said. “It’s about where things are for me, right now.”
Will began to play—thick, effects-driven chords rippling out from the amp. Loud, grainy and low, with a little melodic hook kicked in from higher up the neck every few measures.
He sang, almost speaking, his voice intent and focused.
I don’t speak to my family,
They don’t know what I know.
Twelve people gone, many more, many more.
You don’t know what I know.
The song went on, Will’s voice rising to a wailing lament, the final chorus just a repetition of the words I know . . . over and over again. He finished, his eyes closed, the last note drifting out into the silent club.
Applause, but scattered, barely registering over the background chatter. The room had taken the band’s break as an opportunity to fire up conversations. Will didn’t know why he was surprised. A lone bassist they didn’t know playing a song they’d never heard? It barely qualified as entertainment. He was lucky they hadn’t booed.
Futile.
Will began to play again—a short, repeated pattern, just an appealing little anchor line.
“How about the world these days, huh?” he said, talking to the room. “I’ve been paying a lot of attention to the news lately. More than I ever used to. Shitty out there, right? What’s a gallon of gas these days—like four bucks?”