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On Tuesday I was in a band with Elvis. Lucky for me, he wasn’t the overweight Elvis from the 1970s, eating a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich and wearing a sequined jumpsuit, the version most impersonators go for. In that case, Ms. Lottie, the wardrobe lady, would have decked me out in a Las Vegas costume with a huge headpiece, a sheer body stocking, and sequined pasties over my ni**les. Everybody in the band was supposed to match, more or less. So if the lead singer had been drugged-out Elvis on death’s door in Vegas, his fiddle player would have been a bare-breasted showgirl.
And to think: my sweet granddad had gotten me this afternoon job. If I’d had to wear an outfit like that, it would have served the rest of my family right.
Fortunately, I’d been hired as a fiddle player to fill out tribute bands in Nashville, not Vegas. The bandleader for my first gig was the young rockabilly Elvis from a 1950s movie, wearing a broad-shouldered suit with a skinny tie and wing-tip shoes. Ms. Lottie had an honest-to-God circle skirt for me. Considering what I’d imagined when she’d first said “Elvis,” I was relieved. The skirt was way too big, though. She had to fold darts into the waistband and sew me into it.
Then she eyed my hair, lifting short black sections with her carefully manicured pinkie nail, squinting at my locks through the rhinestone-framed reading glasses on the end of her nose. “I know you’re going to feel warm in a wig, hon, but that’s what you need. With some of the girls, I can pile up their hair and pull off an Audrey Hepburn, but yours isn’t long enough.” She pinned a redheaded ponytail wig onto my head.
Ms. Lottie also made me wash off my makeup so she could start over. I asked her if she was doing this because the casting company in charge of the band wanted me to look tasteful. She was way too polite to be baited into admitting my look was the stuff of her nightmares, though. She said the company wanted me to look “period,” with my makeup redone in soft tones that played up my natural beauty (according to her gracious bullshit). With a chiffon scarf knotted around my neck above the starched white collar of my fitted blouse, I eased out of Ms. Lottie’s chair, my thigh still sore from the wreck last Saturday night. I went out to meet Elvis.
His singing voice and guitar picking were tolerable. He imitated the King pretty well, too, but he was ten years too old to be Elvis in his twenties. I wondered what he was doing here in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Shouldn’t he be working at his real job? This gig sure wasn’t paying his rent. Usually people figured that out by his age.
The other guitar player rounding out our trio was an elderly man I’d already met, Mr. Crabtree. I would never know all the professional musicians in Nashville because there was a constant influx of new ones trying to make it big. But I’d played the bluegrass circuit long enough that I’d encountered Mr. Crabtree over and over. He was also my granddad’s friend. My granddad must have used his connections in the music industry to get a job for his poker buddy and his screwed-up granddaughter.
I hadn’t played in a wandering band of minstrels like this before, but I wasn’t nervous. I was well trained in jumping into a group and blending in with no rehearsal. My parents had dragged my sister, Julie, and me to every bluegrass festival in the country for as long as I could remember. They’d taught innocent, impressionable young me to say yes anytime some crazy lady asked me to get onstage with her. I didn’t always know who the adult musicians were at the festivals, but my parents did, and the crazy lady might turn out to be Reba McEntire about to discover Julie and me and propel us to the fame and fortune that had been so elusive our whole young lives. Yes yes yes!
Besides being an old hand (or hack) onstage, I knew just about every song there was. The ones I didn’t . . . well, there were basically three chords in all of popular music—major one, major four, and major five—with an occasional minor six or (gasp!) crazy-ass minor three thrown in to get everybody titillated. The solo break came at the same place in every song. The fiddle took a solo first, guitar second. I always knew what key we were in. I could predict where the music was going. Anyway, the audience didn’t notice mistakes. They noticed hesitation.
Or would they? I’d been told that some days in this job, I would be traveling with a band to a local shop’s grand opening or car dealership’s sale extravaganza. Today we were staying right here in the vast shopping mall, playing country standards as a gimmick to attract customers. I doubted anybody on a mission to buy a new bathing suit for the summer would give the Elvis-impersonator band a second glance.
But a gig was a gig, and I would do my best. I played a few chords with Elvis and Mr. Crabtree outside Foot Locker to make sure we were in tune. From there we jumped right into one rockabilly song after another. As I’d predicted, it was a lot like being onstage with Some Lady Who Might Be Reba McEntire but Wasn’t. I took the melody in the intro, then backed out and played easy staccato chords on the upbeat while Elvis sang and swayed his pelvis and hopped around on the industrial tile floor. In the chorus, Mr. Crabtree sang the lower harmony and I took the higher one. During the second verse, I went back to staccato chords, and I added a lilting string line in the third verse for variety. We sounded like we’d been playing together for years. Musicians and their instruments and vocals were interchangeable building blocks in a song, with no soul at all.
I hadn’t allowed myself to think too hard about it, but I realized now that I’d hoped playing with other people again would lift me out of the funk where I’d spent the past year. Instead, I was going in the opposite direction, backing farther into my cave. I was finally playing in a band again. But without Julie, the magic was gone.
If she were here, I would glance over at her when she missed a note, see the shocked look on her face, and cringe to keep from cracking up at her. We would roll our eyes at the questionable fashion choices of the customers strolling by. We would tease each other about any cute guy who seemed to notice us. Our mom would scold us later for acting unprofessional. After she stormed off angry, our dad would buy us an ice cream as a consolation prize. Between bites we would tell him what had been so funny, and he would laugh with us and recount something that had happened to him while playing in a Knoxville biker bar in the early 1990s.
I had thought I missed performing, but it was my family I missed. And since they’d left me behind, music was nothing for me now.
Of course, I had no ties to the real world anymore, so nobody noticed I was having a tragic epiphany. Elvis and Mr. Crabtree rocked on blissfully, oblivious to the fact that, during their fun rockabilly beat, my heart was breaking for the umpteenth time. The salesmen dressed like referees came out of Foot Locker to stare at us.