@Summerfolk @GoodNoisePhotography 2019
Lorne closes the store early that hot, July afternoon. He tapes a note to the door that reads “Closed – Folk Festival.” He considers writing a little poem, by way of explanation, something along the lines of “the answer is blowin’ in the wind,” but he doesn’t want to annoy farmers who pull up looking for a box of screws and leave with only Dylan. Only Dylan.
His father-in-law, bless his soul, would turn in his grave to see the shop darkened for a concert, but then Norm McKinnon didn’t love a banjo solo the way Lorne does. Or the sweet harmonies of a Celtic trio wafting in the summer breeze above a crowd of tie-dyed shirts. You can’t explain the pull of outdoor music to the living, let alone the dead.
He whistles while he washes off the dust of the hardware store and discards his navy work pants and collared shirt, the thick one with Lorne embroidered on the left breast pocket. These days, thanks to his ex-wife Sharanne’s handiwork, his hair is close-cropped, but every once in a while he feels the ghost of his teenage pony tail on his neck and wishes he could go back in time. Never mind. He pulls on a pair of soft faded jeans and a concert t-shirt from the 70’s.
For one brief moment he wonders if he’s playing dress-up. “Grow up man,” he says, pulling off the old t-shirt and replacing it with a plain yellow polo.
Most years, Lorne has gone to the Folk Festival by the Bay with Monica and Ella, but this year Monica had to rush to the city to check on her sister, Violet, and Ella was up north at summer camp.
“I guess it’s just me this year,” he said to his wife before she left. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. It might be fun to wander from stage to stage, to go where the music led him. But she wasn’t having it. Monica sees too much loneliness in her line of work. So, before he could stop her, she mentioned to Brad, the Volkswagen mechanic three doors down who kept her old Beetle running, that Lorne was going to the festival alone. The next thing Lorne knew, she’d set him up.
“It’s not a date,” she said. “You already know Brad.”
“Yeah, but we never talk about music.”
“You talk about cars,” she said. As if it was the same thing.
He finds his ball cap and folding chair and trudges down to the alley. Brad is already there, leaning against the hood of Lorne’s pick up. Lorne looks him up and down and breaks into a big smile. Brad, whose hands are still grease-stained from the day’s work, is wearing the very same shirt Lorne rejected.
Rock on.
The first show on the grand stand starts at three, so after Lorne and Brad find a place for their folding chairs in the amphitheatre, they wander around the craft booths and follow their noses to a French fry truck. Brad isn’t a big talker and at first Lorne finds it awkward to walk in silence for so long. But later, he realizes the mechanic isn’t expecting him to fill the quiet and somehow Lorne relaxes into the space, resting in his own thoughts.
They sit down under the willows by the beach and watch a young family take a dip in the lake. They have a baby who squeals in delight each time her toes hit the water, and the sound makes Lorne nostalgic for the days he took Ella swimming down by the pier when she was little. She had a pink ruffled bathing suit she wore like she ruled the world. He blinks quickly to hold back unexpected tears. How has time gone by so quickly? Now she’s a lifeguard up north, a whistle round her neck like she really does rule the world.
Behind them, he hears a guitar trio warming up from the Southern Sounds Pavilion. Brad stands and announces he’s going to browse the record exchange and then head back to the main stage for the East Coast fiddler opening the evening lineup.
Lorne tips his cap. “See you around.”
The guitars behind him grow quiet and then a high-pitched screech reverberates across the lawn. Somebody swears. Curious, Lorne tosses his leftover fries to the gulls and wanders over to the tent. The band looks up.
“Lord have mercy! You’re here! Every time we plug in the keyboard, them amps cry out like a banshee.” A large man with a bandana round his neck shakes his head. “Rentals.”
Lorne looks from the offending amp back to the man and blinks. It can’t be. He’s not on the ticket. But it is. If people knew Clay Rivers, the famous blues idol was here, the park would be overrun. He’s heard of musicians doing this – making a surprise appearance alongside a new band, nothing showy, just a nod to say, “here’s one to watch.” But, wow… Clay Rivers.
The lead guitarist clears his throat. “We’re on in an hour… if you could?”
In that moment, Lorne doesn’t ask himself where the real sound guy is. He glances down at the black box and the tangle of cords and goes to work. In the olden days, he assumes preacher’s spouses might have become de facto organists or choir directors. But ever since he married the reverend Monica, he has spent many Sunday mornings tweaking the antiquated sound system of All Saints to bring out of the best of the choir and adjust old man Sinclair’s headset so he can hear the homily. From All Saints, he’s been recruited to set up microphones for the Rotary fish fry and the P.A. for the annual pottery auction… It’s hardly enough to say he is qualified to prep the stage for Clay Rivers but… He looks around for someone with obvious credentials. There’s no one. Fifty-eight minutes until showtime. He crouches down and starts reconnecting cables and adjusting speakers. After ten minutes it looks worse than when he first stepped in. Here goes nothing. Standing back, he gives the band a thumbs up, crossing his fingers behind his back. Clay strums the first lines of his hit song. His rich baritone lets out a deep “Oh, oh, oh” and the lead guitarist, the unknown musician who sits in the big man’s shadow, tosses his dreadlocks to one side, smiles at the keyboard player, and lets loose. And it’s perfection.
From the beach and the market, the merch tent and the beer garden at the far edge of the park, people follow the music and make their way into the Southern Sounds Pavilion. Lorne stands by the tent flap door, tapping his feet, keeping an eye on the speakers, attentive to any crackling or pops. After the first set, a red-faced sound tech comes in to make sure everything is under control. Clay points at Lorne.
“Yessir. My man’s got the touch.”
The tech swivels around. “Who are you?”
“The new guy,” Lorne says without thinking.
“Oh,” the man says. “We should get you a shirt.”
Brad goes looking for Lorne after he misses the first three sets on the main stage. His empty lawn chair is getting some sideways glances from families confined to a single sleeping bag and looking to spread out. Brad finds him sitting in a circle picking away at a bass guitar, a huge grin on his face and wearing a bright orange t-shirt with SOUND written across the front.
“Hey man, I thought we came here to listen to the music,” he jokes.
Lorne waves his neighbour over. “Ladies and gentleman, meet Brad.”
Clay Rivers extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you. You play?”
Brad shrugs. “Bit of guitar but mostly I sing.”
Lorne’s jaw drops. The lead guitarist passes over his back up guitar. “Have at ‘er. I need to get a refreshment before the next set.”
Brad sits down, strums a chord or two and then holds his hand flat on the strings and sings an old, mournful tune.
“Here comes the rain, baby. Guess it’s goodbye again, baby…”
A woman picks up a fiddle and improvises alongside the refrain while Clay gently shakes the castanets, transforming the rock ballad into a folksy tavern tune. Soon, the bass player nods at Lorne as if to say go for it and Lorne joins in. Before he knows it, it’s midnight and the afterparty is about to begin. Brad and Lorne say their goodnights and head back to the main stage to claim their chairs. As they blend into the throng of bodies branching into the quieting streets, Brad tells Lorne about Roy Orbison’s wife.
“Killed in a motorcycle accident,” he says, shaking his head. “Died instantly.”
They walk on, the chairs growing heavy.
“After that, Orbison threw himself into his work, but he stood out from all the other bands of his era. Tragedy and talent but never quite making it to the top.”
“His music is kind of hard to put in a box,” Lorne says.
“Country, blues, rockabilly… it doesn’t matter,” Brad says. “You could add a banjo, keyboards, harmonica…”
“Play with what you’ve got?”
The Volkswagen mechanic doesn’t answer, but later that night when Lorne drops him off at home he doesn’t go inside right away, preferring the company of his old six string and the quiet of his front porch.
Saturday night, they return to the Southern Sounds Pavilion afterparty with their own guitars. At two o’clock in the morning they take a break and a bottle of single malt Kentucky bourbon gets passed around. Clay turns towards him and says, “So, what’s your name anyways, bass man?” It cracks Lorne up that they’ve been having too much fun to bother with something as superfluous as names.
When the bottle is drained, one of the musicians, a statuesque, grandmotherly woman, cradles her ukulele and says, “here’s a song I sing to my students when they’re runnin’ low on steam…
This little light o’ mine. I’m gonna let it shine…”
The others begin clapping their hands, as though it were Sunday morning gospel hour already.
Lorne smiles, thinking of Ella once more. After the song ends and everyone is re-energized, he says, “So, you’re a teacher?”
“Best kindergarten teacher in all of Tennessee,” Clay chimes in.
She smiles benevolently at her friend, obvious affection flowing between them. “Says the best taxi driver in all of Trigg County.”
Lorne raises an eyebrow. “Taxi driver?”
“Going on thirty-two years, son. I been driving since before Vietnam.”
As though it were a confessional, the trumpet player chimes in. “Law office clerk. Nine to five and a 401K. Three nights a week at the Piccadilly Café. Best of both worlds.”
Brad glances for a moment at the black under his own fingernails. “So you all have day jobs?”
“Yeah man,” the lead guitarist says with a chuckle. “Don’t ask us about our Monday morning performance…”
They all start howling. And then they quiet down just as suddenly and a reverent silence descends upon them. Clay clears his throat.
“Come summertime, you get on the bus, pray it don’t break down and when you get to where you’re goin’, you play with your soul ‘cause you gotta keep the spark alive, you hear?”
And all Clay’s people murmur, Mmm Hmmm.
“You gotta keep the spark alive. Ain’t nobody gonna do that for ya.”
#
A week later, back in their apartment, Monica spots her old Beetle in the alley.
“Do you think Brad got the part?”
Lorne stands up from the table and meets his wife at the window overlooking the lane. “I’ll find out.” He gets up to go outside and sees Brad backing another Volkswagen into the yard.
“Come by the shop in an hour or so,” Brad calls out the window. “And bring your bass guitar.”
“What was that all about?” Monica asks when he gets back inside.
Lorne isn’t sure.
They head down to the river with the dogs, Knox and Wesley, and stroll in companiable silence. He’s happy his wife is home again. Whenever she leaves to go back to the city, he worries about her, going from shelter to shelter in search of her sister, and spends the hours waiting for her nightly phone call listening to old vinyl recordings. But now she’s home again, her sister located once more.
He squeezes her hand and she says, “What’s wrong? You’re glum.”
“Old trees just grow stronger,” he says.
“Old rivers grow wilder every day,” she answers, and sighs. “Too much John Prine. I should know better than to leave you alone.”
He wraps an arm around her waist. There can never be too much John Prine.
The sound of someone whaling on a hi-hat makes them turn towards the alley. She looks at Lorne. He hears it, too. They jog back towards Brad’s garage and peer through the windows into the shop. In the middle of the floor, where the cars normally queue up for inspection, he’s cleared a space. Greg McQuarrie, the welder-artist known for his giant bird sculptures, sits behind a drum kit, oblivious to his audience. Brad stands behind a microphone. “Testing, testing.” He looks up, meets Lorne’s gaze and smiles.
“How do you like the name “The Sparkplugs”… for our band?”
When people asked, years later, what made you pick up your guitar again?, Lorne would say, “one night Brad and I just started jammin’,” but of course that’s not quite true. It was simple, but that didn’t make it any less serendipitous. And where to begin? Did it start that Friday afternoon when he quieted the pesky feedback for Clay Rivers, or the Saturday night, when they returned with their own dusted off instruments and stayed until dawn, walking down the beach with the sun coming up behind them, feeling wide awake though they’d jammed for a solid five hours? Hard to say. They weren’t looking for gigs, in the beginning, though eventually they played at weddings, wakes, the Fall Fair and of course, the weekly Friday fish fry. In the beginning, Lorne walked through the door into Brad’s shop, tuned up his bass and started to play.
Gotta keep the spark alive.
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If this story has you itching to see live music once again, or thinking about how you can support and sustain the artists and creators out there who have been struggling since March 2020, learn more about how you can lift up the creators who have given you gifts in the past, so they can continue to make magic in the future.