150 SONGS FROM THE WOOD

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SONGS FROM THE WOOD

After the interview they took us into another studio and recorded us saying things like “When I’m in Dee-cee, I listen to…” individually and as a group. And we signed some stuff for their prize vault, and for the staff, and shook hands with the program director and then we were back in the van and back onto the roadways.

“Great job you guys,” Carynne said from the driver’s seat.

“That was cool.” Bart held the bongos in his lap like he wanted to keep playing them. “Did we get a tape?”

Jonathan held up a cassette. “They taped it from the prod studio.”

“I bet Chris taped it, too,” I said. We had the radio tuned to the station and they were playing a Nomad tune, “Missing.” No one seemed to notice my brief return to sanity during “Windfall” and I felt better not mentioning it. The next song to come on the radio was Dire Straits “Telegraph Road”–a song I hadn’t listened to in a long time but was pretty sure I had brought on tape with me.

“Is this on Love Over Gold or Making Movies?” I asked the general air.

“Love Over Gold,” Bart answered. He was sitting in the seat behind me, drumming without seeming to realize he was doing it, on the back of the seat instead of on the bongos in his lap. He sat forward suddenly. “Hey, you know what we could do tonight?”

“What.”

“We could… see a show.” He said it like it was a truly strange and novel suggestion, and maybe a bit lewd. And maybe it would be if you consider it voyeurism for performers to watch other performers succeed or fail.

Jonathan laughed. “I’d think you’d want to rest your ears one night at least.”

“Eh? Did you say something?” Bart answered, cupping his ear.

“We should have asked at the radio station if they could get us in anywhere, what shows are going on,” Jonathan continued. “Ah well.”

“Let’s see what Chris & crew are up to,” I suggested. “Maybe they’ve picked up the newspaper.”

Jonathan turned partway around from where he sat in the front seat. “If you could see anyone, anyone at all, tonight, who would it be? Anyone. A genie gives you this wish, and you just have to think of who. Dead or alive. Who?”

Ziggy winced. “Only a reporter would come up with a question like that.”

Jonathan. “Off the record, I assure you.”

“Jeezus. I have to think about it,” Ziggy said.

Bart hesitated only a moment. “Spinal Tap.”

The sound of “Missing,” Remo’s subtle guitar propelling the melody along, still echoed in my ears. So I lied when I told Jonathan that it was a toss up between the 1968 Beatles and the 1971 Bowie.

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