Two high school misfits who hate each other. One music competition where they have to work together. Can their love of classic 80s rock unite them?
************************************************************************************************
High...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Side A: Oz
On Saturday I ask Dad to drive me down to the music shop in the center of town before our first real band practice. I figure I can waste some time testing out instruments and keeping my eye out for any likely future band members. Maybe the shop owners would know some people I could ask.
The bell tinkles as I open the door. I've been here before, to hang my poster and snag some new guitar strings, and the poster is still up there on the bulletin board near the door. It's half-covered by a poster for a swing band playing at a local bar and a torn piece of paper with the scrawled message, "Looking for ride to Phish concert, 420 friendly, text me" with a phone number.
I dig my flyer out from under that crap and turn it over. Pulling a sharpie out of my backpack, I consider for a moment, then write, "Looking for base player and singer for new rock band ASAP." I add my phone number and, taking a cue from the Phish-head, write TEXT ME.
I'm tacking it back up when I hear, "Still looking, huh?"
The guy who runs the shop looks like he could be the Phish-head with his tie-dye shirt and long, graying hair. No, I peg him as a Deadhead for sure.
"Yeah, nobody showed up for the audition."
He shrugs. "It's a small town."
"Do you give guitar lessons here?" I ask. Last time I was here, I had heard the god-awful sounds of a violin lesson.
"Sure do. You looking for some pointers?"
"I'm mostly looking for people to be in my band."
The man nods and scratches his scraggly beard. "You one a those homeschooled kids?" I shake my head. "Then you go up to the high school? There oughta be lots a kids up there in band. You in band?"
"Are there not any other kids who come in for guitar lessons?" I ask, already disappointed.
"Mostly we got kids too young for school," the man holds out a finger, then peels off another finger, "homeschool kids learnin' whatever instrument their lil hearts desire," a third finger, "and old folks who never got around to learning an instrument but always wanted to try."
My shoulders sag. "Any of those homeschoolers play guitar?" I ask.
The man laughs. "Acoustic guitar, maybe. Not base. We've got a crew of ukulele players, one learning accordion, another one wants to play the digeridoo."
Yikes.
"Your teacher up there, Laurie Burgess? She's a good one. She teaches lessons here in the summers. If you ask her, I'm sure she'll know someone for you."
"Thanks," I tell Mr. Deadhead.
I head to the back, where there's all the sheet music and a collection of old tapes and records, and nearly trip over some idiot in a hoodie curled up near the floor with a whole mess of cassette tapes spread out around him. He looks like he might be my age. I see The Clash and The Ramones and The Dead Kennedys and my heart starts to trip along a little faster. "Hey, man, do you wanna be in a rock band?"
