Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(36)

We have a quick dinner of microwaved Swedish meatballs and fettuccine before Dad, Matt, Sean, and me reconvene in the basement.

“All right.” Dad paces around feverishly. He runs his hand through his hair. “First things first. All these albums. All these concert tapes. You need to study them. They are a master class in how to rock out with your jock out. The Who. KISS. Talking Heads. The Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix. These guys knew how to put on a show. Not like these candy asses today. I mean, we’re talking crazy outfits, blowing up their instruments, running around like men possessed by demons, lighting their guitars on fire, spewing blood from their mouths. You name it. Each and every one of them knew how to put on the flash. And if anyone’s going to sit up and take notice of you fellas,” Dad points at us, “that’s what you’ve got to do. Capisce?”

Matt waves his hands in the air. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you want us to play our instruments and do other stuff on top of that? There’s no way.”

Dad gives Matt a stern look. “I don’t like that attitude, Guitars. There’s always a way. This past week we’ve learned a few songs. And that’s good. But it’s not going to mean squat if you’re as boring as a narcoleptic whore. That’s why we’re going to start on this now. Today.” Dad claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay. So now I think we should start with a rock-and-roll staple. The big junk stroll. Who wants to go first?”

Nobody moves.

“All right, Keyboards. You’re up.” Dad motions with his hand. “Walk to the far wall and back.”

“Why?” Sean asks.

“Just do it. There’ll be time for questions later.” Dad takes a seat and presses his palms together. “Go on. Just walk.”

Sean shrugs and starts walking.

Dad studies him for a second, then slaps his knee and cracks up. “That’s hilarious. What do you got hanging between your legs? A couple of raisins and a twist tie?”

Sean stops, a confused expression on his face. “What? You told me to walk.”

“Yeah, walk. Not mince.” Dad stands and mimics Sean’s walk, his legs pressed together, his feet shuffling across the floor. “Are you in a rock band or a baroque quartet?”

“I don’t know,” Sean says.

“Yeah, well, that’s your first problem. Look, you’ve got to stroll onstage like you’re king of the world.” He straightens up, his shoulders back, and starts strutting around the room with his legs slightly bowed. “Like you’re straddling something elephantine. See the difference?” Dad takes his seat again. “All right. Give’er another try.”

Sean looks at me for some help but I’ve got nothing for him. He takes a deep breath, widens his stance, and starts walking like he’s astride a bull.

Dad laughs. “That’s a bit better, except now you look like you just spent the summer on Brokeback Mountain.”

Matt and me bust up.

Dad whips around and points his finger at us. “Hey, chuckleheads, keep it down.” He turns back to Sean. “Just rein it in a little, pal. You’re doing great.”

Sean pulls his legs in a bit and strides back and forth. He still looks like an idiot but Dad’s not laughing anymore. And Sean seems to be enjoying his new swagger.

“Perfecto,” Dad says. “You saunter onstage like that, my friend, and you won’t have to play note one before the ladies start screaming their lungs out.” He turns to Matt and me. “All right, peanut gallery. Who’s next?”





“THAT’S THE KIND OF THING WE NEED,” I say, pointing to the television screen. Sean, Matt, and me are watching a KISS concert in my bedroom. Well, actually, Sean and me are watching. Matt’s been unconscious ever since he sprawled out on his sleeping bag with the excuse that he was “just going to rest his eyes for a minute.”

It’s one of the concert videos Dad brought back from Grandma’s. The band members are all decked out in costumes and makeup. There are huge towers of smoke billowing up at both ends of the stage. A ton of confetti floats down on the audience, and bright colored lights flash all over the place.

“We can’t afford those kinds of effects,” Sean says.

“Not the effects,” I say. “Although, that would be nice. I’m talking about the outfits. We should come up with something cool that we could all wear onstage.”

Sean looks dubious. “I don’t know. Maybe if we were really kick-ass musicians we could pull something like that off. But what if we don’t get much better? Aren’t costumes just going to draw even more attention to us?”

“We want to stand out, Sean-o. Everyone else is going to be lame and boring. We want people to remember Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare long after we leave the stage.”

“Like, with makeup and everything?” He grimaces. “People will laugh.”

“Maybe not makeup. Unless we come up with something really dope. Like skull faces or something. Let’s ask Matt what he thinks.” I move over to our sleeping friend, who’s lying on his back with his mouth hanging open. “Matt,” I whisper. “What do you think about dressing up like skeletons for the Battle of the Bands?”

Matt just snores.

I glance over at Sean. “Do you think that was a yes or a no?”