A WebNovel by Stephen Rose
|
A WebNovel by Stephen Rose
|
|
Click cover to enlarge Search this site
Site updated 07 Mar 2005 05/02/15/22.17 |
The excerpt is from Hot Springs Part I, Chapter 1, pg 21 - 29 TO Jason, this ferry ride had always been a slice of heaven. The cleansing wind and the crisp blue and white of the ferries seemed strong and pure and somehow gave him strength. Riding high above the ocean, seeing the snow-capped mountains on the mainland side, the promise of home of the Southern Gulf Islands on the other - all this natural sensory input worked like salve on his turmoil. Although heading home, he felt more like he was embarking on a new beginning. Out with the old and in with the new. Banish the past! Bring on the future! The 90-minute ride was like a baptism or rebirth. When the Olympic Mountains to the south came into view, he’d know he was home. Packing had been brutal. Every single thing he picked up, every item he touched, reminded him of something. Of the career he was abandoning, of the woman he was leaving behind. Saucepans, wine glasses, the stereo, his CD collection, the stained-glass mobile. Even his Rubik’s Cube. And the sheets… he didn’t even want to think about the memories associated with those. As he stuffed things into cardboard boxes or wrapped them in newspaper, Jason’s possessions seemed to become the Read Only Files of experience that couldn’t be deleted. After the night at the pub when he’d played the role of Jason the Unkind with such verve and aplomb, Dee Dee had, unsurprisingly, gone to ground. Several times, guilt basting him like a turkey, Jason broke down and called her; but she never returned them. Her silence was deafening. Then, when he’d finally given up and steeled his resolve, Dee Dee came up for air. Another case of miserable timing. She started leaving messages on his machine and his cell phone and it was his turn to ignore. She also sent e-mails. The first ones were sweet and endearing and he felt the old Dee Dee tug and he almost called her half a dozen times. But as he resisted the temptation to reply and restart what he now knew would become another endless cycle, the gap grew and her messages turned shorter and more bitter, from boxes of candy to packages of cough drops and then to poison pills. Before long, an announcement on the ferry’s PA system informed passengers that a musical performance, courtesy of BC Ferries, would be taking place shortly in the main deck lounge. Jason, warmed by the sunshine and promise of a new start, decided to check it out. Being a musician himself (guitar and piano, both learned from Dada), he wanted to see what was happening. And what a performance it looked to be. Seats had been moved to clear a space and the floor was dotted with canvas bags full of musical instruments with a heavy emphasis on percussion. There were djembes, bongos and congas, tambourines large and small, maracas (again of varying sizes), rhythm eggs, wooden fish - you name it, it was there. Triangles, jingle sticks, clavels, finger cymbals and castanets. The instruments were from Africa, South America, Asia, Hawaii. An electric keyboard was ringed by stands holding mandolins, banjoes, a guitar, a ukulele, a dobro, a couple of fiddles and more. The collection was impressive and also somehow familiar. Taking his eyes off the instruments for a second, Jason scanned the area. There, that had to be him, the star of the show. It was a guy - tall, wiry, and blonde. Although he was shaking hands like a politician, his attire was anything but. A Latino-looking cowboy hat with a colorful band and an exotic feather crowned his head. Lower down, the outfit included a white wool lightweight serape replete with three bright stripes several centimeters above the bottom hem. Jeans and sandals completed his attire. Jason noted the long, blonde ponytail flowing onto the serape back and the penny dropped. Jason knew him. It was Cassidy. Cassidy! Of course, who else… All the instruments, on the way to Hot Springs… the clues were plentiful Jason mentally kicked himself for not recognizing him earlier. Nothing would surprise him now. Cassidy turned slightly. His profile confirmed his identity. Although Cassidy was glad-handing and grinning for all he was worth, it was no act. Cassidy loved people. He truly did. In fact, he probably loved people more than anyone Jason had ever met. He adored them and reveled in them. Cassidy seemed to need people like most people need air. Smiling his great big white smile, he had a good word for everyone and he sucked his audience into the vortex of his overflowing will and energy like dust specs into an Electrolux. Jason thought about saying hello but elected not to. Cassidy was busy. Instead Jason stood back and waited for him to do what only Cassidy was capable of. Returning to the circle’s center, still grinning, Cassidy bent from his 6’3” height and gave a low elaborate bow, left leg bending behind him, right arm sweeping right to left. “Gentle ladies and gentle men, thank you for coming today. Not that you had much in the way of choice,” he said, flashing his great white smile again and gaining an appreciative chuckle. “My name is Cassidy Maher and I’ve been living on fantasmibeautiful Hot Springs Island for about five years now and make my living by playing music and helping run the unequaled Hot Springs Island Garden Center… and I’ve left some business cards on the table for all you green-thumbed organic tree-hugging types.” Another laugh. “What you’re about to see and hear and feel is not just music or song. Today we’re going to go traveling in time because, today, this is not a British Columbia ferry. It's' a BC ferry... you know, Before Christ Ferry." Everyone laughed. "Oh nosiree, today this isn't a regular ferry. It’s a time machine - and I’m not just talking about how old this boat is.” This earned more laughs. “Yes. Today we’re going to travel back to a time that heralded the very origin of music. We are about to touch the pulse of what drove us human beings to discover music in the first place. What am I talking about? To what do I refer? Yes. Yes! As some of you have guessed, what I am talking about is - are you ready? - rhythm. Yes, rhythm. Rhythm is at the center. Rhythm is at the core. It’s in the middle and heart of everything we do. Rhythm is the very nucleus of everything to do with music and at the heart of everything to do with life. Our very pulses are rhythms. Our breathing is rhythm. Our hearts are rhythms just as are the cycles of days, months, and seasons. Rhythm is the tide, rhythm is the waves. Rhythm is life itself. “But, when I say rhythm, I don’t just mean listening to some drumming by a shmuck like me. Ohhh no. Ohhh no. What you're about to…to… experience is something far beyond the realm of a mere ordinary drumming exhibition. Ohhhh yes. Ohhhh yes.” Another laugh, but this time more cautious. “Because, gentle ladies and gentle men, the rhythm performance you are about to experience is going to be performed by none other than - YOU!” A gasp. Then, in a frenzied burst of movement Cassidy started handing the bags of rhythm instruments to three or four people who’d been instructed to pass them out to “anyone and everyone!” Whippet-quick, Cassidy zoomed back and forth, passing out gourds and rhythm sticks and sandpaper blocks. Some he even threw and tossed. He darted instead of walked. Jason was reminded of the invisibly quick movements of hummingbirds and sparrows, squirrels and dragonflies. “Now! Now!” said Cassidy, gaining momentum, gaining force. Returning to front and center, he maneuvered himself behind what looked like a hollow log set on the carpet in front of him. Two much smaller sticks lay nearby. He sat down behind the log, cross-legged, and seemed to enter an almost trance-like state. Everyone was silent, people straining to see him. After a moment, in a loud and commanding but still somehow serene voice, Cassidy spoke to the crowd: “First, just listen.” Eyes closed, back straight, Cassidy then picked up the smaller sticks and began drumming. Despite the unlikely locale, Cassidy was managing to transform the moment into something more than entertaining bored passengers. Pot-bellied men and well-coiffed matrons were becoming transfixed. Kids were absorbed too. Even teenagers. Everyone. It was if they were witnessing some rite, something sacred, even if damned if they knew what it was. Then, his left hand continuing the rhythm, Cassidy opened his right eye and pointed to the group on his right, waving his drum stick in a circle like a magic wand. “YOU!” she shouted. “ALL OF YOU! NOW JOIN ME.” And they did. Some latched onto his simple rhythm quickly. Some were slightly off. It didn’t matter. “Now,” Cassidy said next, “Keep it going. Great! YES! That’s IT! That’s IT!” Now that a third of the group was carrying the rhythm, Cassidy could quit drumming himself. He pointed to the middle of the large semicircle gathered loosely round him. “NOW YOU ALL! I want you to do this!” And he started a contrapuntal rhythm which the middle group picked up and started playing with a solemn but enthusiastic panache. He had them. To Jason, it felt like a combination grade one music lesson mingled with a cult indoctrination session, but Cassidy’s ability to create this…this unified group… out of a diverse slice of morning ferry traffic was nothing short of astonishing. But Cassidy wasn’t stopping there. Next he initiated a third rhythm with the crowd to his left. Once they were set, Cassidy returned to his log and, closing his eyes again, began pounding on it again like there was no tomorrow. “Now! Faster!” he cried. Then he slowed them down. He sped them up again and slowed them down. All eyes were on him. Beginning with the first group he stopped them in the same order he started them. Finally, again, the only drummer was Cassidy. He went faster and faster and faster until his arms were a blur. Then - without warning - he stopped. He raised his arms high. Silence reigned. As if floating in some post-orgasmic state, he was done. The applause was as thunderous as the drumming had been. Cassidy didn’t move. He remained frozen in front of his log, arms still raised, eyes still closed. Then - again without warning - he suddenly bounded straight up high - high! - into the air. His smile dazzled. Then he jumped back and forth between this person and that. Returned from whatever spiritual outpost he’d been visiting, Cassidy leapt from group to group, person to person, praising and patting and hugging and sometimes kissing. It was a virtuoso performance - not of drumming, thought Jason, but of human psychology. Jason had never seen anything like it and his observation was confirmed in the faces around him. Faces glowed. Cheeks were pink where they’d been pale before. You could see couples and even strangers exchanging looks that said, “See what we did!” As the buzz subsided, Cassidy moved to the electric piano and began to play and sing. As a singer, unfortunately, Cassidy left much to be desired. His voice was thin and reedy and slightly off-key for most of this Sarah McLachlan song - an unfortunate choice since the key was well beyond his range. His piano playing, while competent, was a bit rushed and stood in stark contrast to the perfection of his drumming performance. Before long the crowd thinned and Cassidy had been demoted from the miraculous to the ordinary. The mood had been broken and the spell worn off. Conversations resumed, couples went to the cafeteria, and Cassidy was suddenly more or less alone with his instruments and scratchy voice. Two more songs and he was done. Jason used the break to say hello. They’d met a number times on Hot Springs, as Cassidy had taken over the leadership of the Hot Springs Island Music Club, to which Jason was an occasional visitor. The full name of this loosely held-together organization was the Hot Springs Island Friday Night Music Club - although usually shortened to ‘the Hot Springs Island Music Club’ or ‘the Friday Night Music Group’ or even just ‘the Music Club.’ Whatever it was, though, was Cassidy’s. At the Music Club, Jason had witnessed Cassidy weave the same kind of magic he’d just seen - but, then as now, he’d also seen him lose the spell with his squawky vocals and questionable song selection. Those asked to describe the Music Club often had trouble doing so. Maybe it was just that everybody had their own definition. You would hear things like, “it’s just a bunch of musicians getting together to jam,” or “it’s just a real friendly group of down-to-earth people.” Jason, of course, had his own take. What the Music Club was really about was variety. A variety of people and personalities. Of sitters-in, hangers-on, characters, guests, occasional visitors, invited performers and friends as well as some superb musicians (and some not quite so accomplished). It was a party in a way, too, sometimes a little wild but more usually not. It was a meeting place and a social confab, a gossip mill, the place for tiffs and makeups, romances, breakups, love triangles, reunions, interventions and all affairs of the heart and soul. There was also a vast variety of musical genres and it was impossible to tell in advance what any Friday night would bring. Another thing the Music Club had become since Cassidy’s arrival was user friendly. Anybody could play - and did. There was no set format, no rules to learn. If you wanted to stand up and do a song you did. You had 70-year-olds playing accordion tunes and a few minutes later a teenager bashing out Nirvana. There was little judgment and ample encouragement. The vibe was ofttimes superb. The Music Club underwent a dramatic change five years ago. Prior, it had been held Friday nights in Salty's Pub (a ramshackle place in Short Harbour, down the road and round the corner from central Amazon). No one except Moses, the somewhat dour owner of Salty's, really knew when the Music Club had begun but the figure usually bandied about was a decade. Knowing Moses, that might or might not be accurate. Those 10 years had been haphazard ones. On again, off again with some of the off stretches lasting too long and depriving the island of music - at least the free public kind. During that time many of the regulars didn't have money for pubs and Moses was accused by some of hosting the jams merely to line his greedy pockets. So the true musicians found other places or moved to Victoria or Vancouver or wherever they could find a gig or the promise of one or even just like-minded souls to jam with. Dada had tried shifting the venue to the Hot Spring Island Hotel several times but Moses wouldn’t yield. "I’ll part the damn Red Sea first!” he’d say using one of his favorite expressions. Moses liked to play on the biblical associations of his name, even though he was against religion and anything else that offered him no immediate tangible benefit. Cassidy’s arrival five years ago changed everything. Cassidy changed most things he touched because he was a changer. Not just for its own sake, however. Instead it was more that he saw events and people and dynamics in a certain way and once he had a vision he was compelled to make it real. His rare critics thought him myopic. But to others he was visionary. Oh, not that he had some grand scheme or huge cosmological agenda to advance, but more that he liked things his way - and his ways were unique and his methods for realizing them were single-minded and electrically energetic. And, amazingly, once other people saw the magic he could wring, most everyone else liked things his way too. That was his secret: the ability to sweep others along in his wake. Most people like to have a dynamic leader and that described Cassidy to a tee. But people didn’t follow Cassidy purely because he liked to lead. Many were also attuned to the things he revered. One of Cassidy’s gifts was genuine warmth. Another was his acceptance of everything and everyone (provided they did things more or less his way, it had to be said). His prodigious energy and generosity were other factors in his favor. Most people even accepted his occasional bluntness and directness because, from him, they would take it. Not always, of course, because no one is ever loved by everyone. Cassidy was accused by a rare few as being a user, particularly of attractive women. He’d had a number of short-term romances with Music Group members that had, temporarily, put an edge on things while they ran their course. The women usually either ended up quitting the group or accepting their fate. But, as yet, no lasting damage had been inflicted on the whole. The magic of group harmony happened often enough to make Cassidy remarkable and durable. And he was remarkable, no question about it. Thanks mainly to Cassidy and the almost disciple-like devotion of some his closest friends, the Music Club had become, to some, a kind of symbol of Hot Springs Island. The club held benefits and fund-raisers and, even as broke as many of its members were, money was found, it went out, and the needy got helped. The charities or school groups or individuals on the receiving end were always of Cassidy's choice, however, but even his sternest critics (although there weren't many) admitted that, without Cassidy, the money would never have been raised in the first place. The Music Club, with Cassidy in charge, was a microcosm of the island in its makeup and its location. And perhaps that was its true identity. The members (although there was no official membership, no cards, no dues, no formalities) represented a cross-section of the island. There was Cristine the painter, Barry the retired banker, Colleen the self-proclaimed hippie chick. Members were from every path and walk of Hot Springs life. There were people from every profession and those without jobs. Young and old, long-haired, bald or brush-cut, it didn’t matter. The Music Club's venue was now also equally democratic. Unlike the days when Moses exercised his tyranny of place, the Music Club had become a moveable feast, thanks once again to Cassidy. Every week the session was held at a different home and Cassidy knew so many people there was never a shortage of locales. Back inside the ferry, Cassidy recognized Jason. “Jason! Jason! How are you!” Cassidy’s enthusiasm was sincere and infectious. Despite himself, Jason found himself smiling and embraced like a long lost sibling by the wiry but muscular Cassidy. “Cassidy, good to see you,” Jason said, still being bear-hugged. “That was quite a performance…” Without acknowledging the compliment, Cassidy immediately zeroed in on what was most important. A serious look came over him and concern welled in his eyes. Cassidy grabbed both Jason’s shoulders and looked him dead in the eye: “How’s Dada?” “Well, he was hospitalized and the doctor thought…” “It might be a minor heart attack,” continued Cassidy, finishing Jason’s sentence for him. “I know. I went to visit him just about every day he was in there. I meant how is he today?” Jason was taken slightly aback a. He was ashamed that he hadn’t known of Cassidy's dedication and he was almost foolishly grateful at the same time. Typical Cassidy - thoughtful to a fault. Once again, Cassidy’s extraordinariness had become the dominant motif of the exchange. “He’s good. I talked to him this morning.” “Great, my brother, great,” said Cassidy. Cassidy loved calling everyone ‘brother’ or ‘sister.’ But before Jason could continue, Cassidy was suddenly beckoned by some other friends. Jason ducked out. He’d have plenty of time to see Cassidy later, on music night, or at the garden shop - somewhere around the island. Hot Springs wasn’t a big place and Cassidy was a large presence. Cassidy had also made him feel slightly guilty; he seemed to know more about Dada’s condition than his own son did. Jason went out on deck and looked over the rail down at the ocean. Through the thick windows he could see Cassidy packing up and chatting with people. Jason wondered how aware he was of his effect on others. Or if he was aware that his singing was worse than second-rate… Whatever, Cassidy moved like a satellite within his own orbit and that was all that mattered. Below Jason the waves pounded the hull of the Queen of Hot Springs and the dark indigo of the ocean was beautiful but opaque. Jason knew from sailing the area that it was hundreds of feet deep at this spot and he gave his head a little shake (it seemed Jason had been shaking his head a lot these past few weeks). So much down there, he thought. So much we can’t see. And that’s how the idea for the song hit him, out of the blue - literally. He sat down on the gleaming white, hip-high, metal, life jacket container and pulled out his small, spiral-bound Cambridge notebook. Quickly, he wrote down the lyrics that materialized almost from nowhere, scratching out words here and there but still finishing the song in a remarkably short time. Sometimes they came slowly or not at all; sometimes they were ridiculously easy. Jason smiled unconsciously, glad that not everything was a struggle. Maybe he was right about a new start. Maybe moving back to Hot Springs was the absolute best thing he could have done. He scanned his lyrics again and wished he’d had a guitar with him. He contemplated borrowing one from Cassidy but instead remained sitting outside, the melody playing over and over in his head all the way to the main ferry terminal on Hot Springs Island. Under the Surface It’s all beneath the surface In the places we can’t see In the darkness and the shadows Underneath, underneath
Dreams, they are the ripples On the surface of our sleep Fathoms and fouled anchors That’s the deep, oh that’s the deep
Everything’s under the surface The places that we’ve never been Everything’s under the depths and the dark Everything we’ve ever dreamed
You’ll never ? know what’s down there It’s the unknown that we fear Engulfing, all surrounding Far and near, oh far and near
Everything’s under the surface The places that we’ve never been Everything’s under the depths and the dark Everything we’ve ever dreamed
Rivers, lakes, the same thing Weeds tugging at our feet As eerie, the subconscious Oh so deep, it’s oh so deep
Everything’s under the surface The places that we’ve never been Everything’s under the depths and the dark Everything we’ve ever dreamed
Interested in actually hearing this song and/or downloading others written and recorded by Jason? If so, then please click here.
|
|
All rights reserved. © Copyright 2005 by Stephen Rose |
