CHAPTER TWO
Marshall Garnett stared back at his mirrored reflection as he sat at his dressing room table. He reached down onto the table and picked up a small pile of already soiled Kleenex and began rubbing blush from both sides of his cheeks. God, how he hated having that crap on his face! He understood the stage makeup being a necessary evil, but the goddamn blush was just too much. Satisfied that he resembled a man once more, he slowly rose to his feet. The tailored suit seemed to fit OK. His only concern was if the reinforced crotch would hold up during his dance numbers. He glanced down at the paper that contained the sequence of songs he had planned for that evening and satisfied himself that he remembered them all. He looked at the reflected suit again as he adjusted the costume jewelry on his wrist and neck. He had not realized the suit was so…well, so silver. It had seemed all right during the fittings, but as he examined it draped over his six foot two frame, just ten minutes before show time, he was not so certain.
The door burst open as Andrew Tibblett, his longtime valet, fluttered into the room, looking nervous and flustered like some caged, agitated bird. He stared at Marshall as though he was seeing him for the first time. "Don't tell me you're not ready? You go on in less than ten minutes you know! The opening act just finished!"
Marshall smiled, "Well, one thing's for sure, with the money they're paying me, they won't start without me! How do I look?"
Andrew's expression of concern dissolved into one of mild shock at Marshall's flippant attitude. In all the years that Marshall had known the man, his one character defect had been his lack of humor. Everything was serious and to the point with him. Marshall always had great fun poking holes into his serious facade. He was the perfect straight man.
Andrew circled the singer, missing nothing. The suit was adequate although not to his taste. The fade haircut that Marshall had worn for the past three years was still intact, but now the top was relaxed with a red tint and a small braid broke up the faded hairline in the back of his head. Andrew grimaced at the singer's concession to youth. He knew that Marshall would be forty in March and could not understand why he would not accept that fact. He had even included a rap number in the act. Marshall Garnett was and always would be an R&B singer. He had six American Music Awards and three Grammys, not to mention countless other minor honors to attest to the fact that what he did, he did damn well! Why tamper with success? Marrying that ghetto air head had almost been the last straw for Andrew. He had never been closer to quitting than at that point, but the man needed him. Hell, to be honest about the situation, he also needed Marshall. He loved show business and having no talent as a performer, the only way he could be around the business would be to serve someone in some capacity. As with most of the entertainers he had met during his years with Marshall, the man certainly had his share of neurosis and they fed directly into Andrew's need to serve. They were a perfect match! A loud tap on the door announced the arrival of Wiki Paden, the lead guitarist and band manager.
"So my man, you ready? Its time go out there and kick ass!"
Marshall smiled and embraced him. "You know I am. Man, where in the hell did you get that suit? That's the most fucked up blue I've ever seen…is it neon?
Wiki laughed in his loud booming bass voice that never failed to surprise Andrew. Wiki was five foot seven and a hundred and forty pounds on his heaviest day. To hear a voice so powerful and commanding come from a man with his stature always managed to unnerve him.
"OK, you cracking on my clothes now…right? Shit, you're the one who decided to wear a silver suit…just wait till you see what the rest of the band is wearing!"
Marshall leaned over to the mirror, moving his head in quick jerky moments. "Well, we're in the Apple, so you know anything goes…so long as the music kick ass…everything's all set?"
"And you know it bro…you ever known me to fuck up?"
"No Wik…you always keep everything straight…now you can help me get straight!"
Wiki stole a quick glance at Andrew. The man busied himself straightening out Marshall's dressing room table. Marshall and Wiki walked over to the far side of the dressing room. Andrew heard the quick loud snorts and turned around. Marshall leaned forward and took two more deep snorts of the cocaine before turning and looking in Andrew's direction. Andrew quickly averted his eyes. Marshall absentmindedly wiped his nose as he walked over to his dressing room table. A loud knock on the dressing room door interrupted the awkward silence.
Wiki stuffed his silver coke spoon into his shirt pocket as he walked over to open the door. The artificial smile that adorned the face of the bearded man could not conceal the obvious tension he was experiencing. Steve Pelucci, the hall's stage manager, had a large pockmarked face that illuminated the darkened doorway as his deep set black eyes scanned the room with expert eyes.
"Wiki…er Mr. Garnett…everything all set? Showtime's in less than ten minutes!"
Wiki walked over and playfully tapped the tall Italian on the back. "Everything's straight Steve. We'll be on stage on time, no sweat! As a matter of fact I'd better get out there and make sure the band is in place." He turned to Marshall and said, "See you on stage, boss!"
"Wiki…make sure that lift is rigged right…you know I've never been crazy about stage props."
Wiki's flashed a sardonic smile. "Chill out, Marsh. I checked it out at least three times today. The last time was only a half hour ago…it's ready."
Minutes after the door closed, Marshall felt the "mood" come over him. It was a long time companion that had been with him during his entire fourteen year career. It manifested itself as a sort of unseen tension that took control of his body and helped to block out everything but the show. Andrew looked over at Marshall as though he wanted to say something and hesitated. He recognized the change in the man instantly and knew exactly how to deal with it. Marshall bowed his head and closed his eyes. To an impartial observer he would have appeared to be meditating. Andrew busied himself laying out Marshall's evening clothes, losing himself in his own thoughts.
Suddenly, Marshall turned and stared at Steve, his brown eyes clear and trance like. Steve stared back at him, a puzzled expression and half opened mouth the only outward indications he had witnessed the subtle transformation. He had long ago adjusted to the eccentricities of people in the business, so as long as the man did not become violent, he considered it all in a day's work. Marshall walked toward the man in long purposeful strides as he headed for the dressing room door. He was only vaguely aware of a pretty tan face that peeked over Steve's broad shoulders as the man stepped aside allowing him to pass. Marshall did not so much as smile at his wife as he made his way down the crowded hall. He did not acknowledge the soft touches to his arms and shoulders or the whispered "break a leg" and "give them hell, Marsh!" He felt Steve brush pass him, clearing a path in the crowded hall. He was aware of the excitement and nervous energy that emanated from the stage hands, dancers and assorted camp followers that managed to infiltrate every touring band. He was totally focused. This was the end of a grueling, nine-month, thirty-three city tour and he was dangerously close to exhaustion. The band had rehearsed this show for close to two weeks, and he could perform the choreography in his sleep. There was nothing left to do but kick ass!
He stared through a slightly balding white man with pale blue eyes as he stepped from the temporary scaffolding. The man gently guided him across the make shift platform into the star shaped stage prop. He stepped into the small cage and for the first time experienced a slight uneasiness. The band, thirty feet below, began playing and at the same time the curtain started to part. The star prop began moving forward, propelled by some sort of hydraulics much faster than Marshall would have liked. The strange shaped apparatus quickly dipped like a miniature roller coaster and suddenly Marshall found himself six feet above center stage and rapidly sliding down a rubber chute painted red to conform to the color of the prop itself. It was showtime!
Chris had just escorted Collette to her third row orchestra seat and a wildly gesturing Ressie Jackson when the band started. He shifted the long cumbersome fur over his left shoulder and walked as quickly up the carpeted aisle as he could. He looked straight ahead, attempting to avoid the curious stares of the seated people. Collette eased her way through to her seat. A large plastic smile in place in a vain attempt to conceal her annoyance at not having the aisle seats she had requested and Ressie's adolescent waving drawing further attention to the fact that she was under dressed. She had no doubt that she was the only woman in the theater in a silk, sleeveless mini-dress in the dead of winter! She settled into her seat and buzzed Ressie on the cheek, when suddenly they were startled from their pleasantries by a spontaneous explosion of sound and light that emanated from the huge stage.
Everyone in the cavernous hall fell back in their seats stunned by the devastating marriage of lights and sound that assaulted them. They sat with their eyes glued to the stage and the unfolding spectacle of a huge, red star descending onto the smoke filled stage. The star itself was bombarded by a barrage of multi-colored laser controlled lights that partially blinded the audience and pulsated every time the base chord was played. The overall effect was electrifying. The audience rose as one, screaming and chanting "Do you wanna get busy?" "This was the title of a dance, funk record Marshall recorded three years earlier that had sold five million singles. The concert going public had made it into his anthem and an almost obligatory intro at any of his major concerts.
Collette sat back in her seat, her eyes glued to what was unfolding on the huge stage. She was as bewitched and dazzled as everyone else in the audience, in spite of the fact that she had seen several rehearsals. Marshall slid down the chute and performed a bouncing split, which he then duplicated three more times. Each time facing a different direction until he had completed a three hundred sixty degree turn. After the last split, he jumped four feet into the air ripping the breakaway suit jacket from his body at the same time and flung it into the audience. The place was pure bedlam and he had not even sang one note! Eighteen scantily clad dancers, equal portions of men and women, came dancing through the rapidly clearing smoke energetically performing a sensational variation of the current hip hop craze. Marshall quickly walked over and removed the wireless mike from its stand and began singing,
"So glad to meet you, so glad to greet you, I'd like to treat you, and yeah, I'd like to heat you, ooh, I'm so excited and I don't want to fight it, this fuse is hot and if you're not, this evening's shot! Now watcha gonna do? Do you wanna get busy???"*
It was then that one of those rare moments in entertainment happened. The audience started to sing along. It only takes place when a song and singer has somehow managed to impose their special chemistry onto the music buying public. It is not something that can be bought or learned. The audience themselves do not realize that it is going to happen, it just does.
Collette felt a lump in her throat. She had never felt more proud of Marshall or been happier for him. She of all people knew what his music and career meant to him. It was a wonderful moment. She watched her husband closely, amazed at the energy and charm he exuded from the stage. Once again, she was impressed at his sheer mastery of the audience and overwhelming stage presence.
She glanced around at the vast audience, recognizing several of Marshall's musical contemporaries. To her immediate left, one row ahead of her in an aisle seat, sat Rollo Perkins, the number one R&B singer in the country and her husband's most hated adversary. Marshall had sung backup for Rollo for four years before Rollo fired him from the band while on tour in Seattle, Washington. His excuse had been that Marshall was constantly late for practice and sang too loud. To add insult to injury, he even badmouthed Marshall to other bands that were considering hiring him. Collette stared intently at the rotund man in his ugly turquoise tux. Sensing he was being watched, Rollo turned briefly and looked at her. Their eyes met and Rollo suddenly did a most bizarre thing. He winked at her and rolled his tongue around his lips in an obscene gesture. The egotistical bastard did not recognize her. He thought she was some hot in the pants fan trying to catch his eye! She quickly averted her gaze and noticed Berri Barnes seated in front of and to the right of Rollo. Berri was sixty years old if she was a day and her musical career had been over for at least fifteen years. She had degenerated into a coke head and easy lay for handsome young white boys, but she was without a doubt an icon in the music industry and everyone loved her. Marshall himself had given her at least two hundred thousand dollars over a three-year period, and Collette knew for a fact that dozens of other celebrities also contributed freely to help her maintain the lifestyle of a star. Collette turned her attention back to the stage. There was something frightening about the woman's heavily made up face and garishly teased, dyed hair. It made Collette think of failure and old age.
Collette sat and watched her husband for the better part of an hour, captivated and mesmerized, along with the rest of the audience as Marshall worked his special magic. After the opening number, the band continued with a string of up tempo dance songs accompanied by the seemingly tireless dancers. She understood the reasoning for the furious pace. New York was the major market of the world for popular music and it also was headquarters to the industry's most powerful and venomous critics. In spite of this, Collette still felt the show bordered on the verge of sensory overload. Everything was a mind boggling collage of color and motion paced by sound. Finally the band settled into a string of soulful ballads, Marshall's specialty. His unique voice was in fine form. He sang in a mellow baritone that brought out the rich gravel like texture that induced women to carnal thoughts and made men think they were going to get lucky that night. Collette had always thought he sounded like a mixture between Luther Vandross and Rod Stewart. Whatever it was, it had kept him on top of the music industry over the last ten years.
After the completion of one of his major hits, "I Don't Want To Be Just Another Lover"*, three giant movie screens slowly eased down onto the darkened stage. The house lights dimmed and the screens were suddenly filled with giant pictures from several of his more successful videos and the dancers suddenly appeared to perform, allowing Marshall and the band with a much needed ten minute break. Marshall stood quietly in the wings, soaked with perspiration and slightly winded. Andrew eased out of the bustling silence and handed him a glass of Hennessy and coke before toweling him down. Wiki walked over. He cast a covetous glance at the chilled glass as he spoke.
"Well Marsh…just one more hour and we can check out the parties and wait for the vultures in critics' clothing to deal us our fate…I think its going great so far…I…"
"NO! Cut the shit at least a half hour...I'm just not feeling it!"
Wiki stared at Marshall for a long moment. Dumfound and startled, he almost dropped the glass that the man had shoved at him. Andrew held out a fresh T-shirt so that Marshall could change from his wet one. He waved it away and stared out at the stage. "Whassup Marsh…I mean you can't be serious about cutting the show…shit man, we're gigging the hall, man…the fucking Christmas show, you've got to be kidding!"
He could not understand what was happening, but he knew the man. Marshall never joked when it came to his career. It had to be something serious. Marshall took the towel from Andrew and slowly wiped the persistent sweat away.
"When we get back on stage, go to the third song from the end. I'll do that and introduce the band. On the last number, bridge it a couple of times, you know, milk it…"
Wiki's expression was a mixture of surprise and disbelief. This was chitlin circuit shit. He had to know the critics would never allow him to get away with it. What in the hell was going on?
"Wik…go and cue the band… I don't want any mistakes, I expect to be off that stage in one half hour."
Wiki's expression darkened. He handed the empty glass to a bewildered looking Andrew and started to say something, but it was Marshall who spoke first.
"Oh…one more thing Wik. After the show, have the lead background singer…er…what's his name?
"Jerry Tate!"
"Yeah, have him come to my room after the show. I want to talk to him."
Marshall stood in the wings of the stage consumed by his thoughts. He knew Wiki and Andrew were puzzled by his actions, but how could he explain to them what had happened? It seemed to have first affected him somewhere in the middle of the first set. For some ungodly reason, he just lost it! There seemed to be no reason why it happened, it just did. He ran five miles every two days and performed aerobics for two hours every other day with the exception of Sundays. So there was no problem with his stamina. What he had lost was even more devastating. He had lost his desire! After fourteen years of grinding out a career that meant everything to him, he had somehow managed to lose that feeling of enjoyment he used to get from entertaining a crowd of people. Suddenly it all seemed so repetitious and mundane and it seemed to have come upon him with pile driving intensity. He felt as though he wanted to quit, but he knew he would not. Perhaps the solution was some time off…yes, that was the answer. He would take some time off. He would finish his engagement here and maybe take a year off!
The dressing room after the show was the usual chaotic scene of well wishers and sycophantic phonies who buzzed his cheeks and told him how great both he and the show were. His wife Collette and her girlfriend Ressie had been the first ones in to congratulate him. She had not stayed more than five minutes before she breezed out the door, shouting back to him that she would see him at Antoine LeBaron, the record producer's party. There were the usual baskets of flowers, dozens of them that threatened to make him sick when their natural odor was mixed with the artificial, expensive colognes and perfumes that permeated the limited air space.
Rollo Perkins, one of the last to leave, came over and shook his hand, congratulating him in his most sincere voice and offering fake compliments on how great a show it was. He mentioned how proud he was of Marshall as though he had something to do with his success. Marshall was tired and irritable as he walked Berri Barnes to the door averting his head from her vodka tainted kisses. He turned and gave her blond, pockmarked boyfriend the obligatory handshake before he was mercifully able to close the door. He sighed and fell onto the large sofa in the far corner of the dressing room. He undid his robe and vaguely wondered where Andrew was. He had not lay there for a full five minutes before he heard a timid knock on the dressing room door. He cursed softly under his breath and got up to answer it.
Marshall opened the door and stared at the fidgety young man standing in the doorway.
"Mr. Garnett…I understand you wanted to see me?"
Marshall was so tired, he did not recognize the man at first glance.
"See you…why would I want to see you…what's your name?"
The man's puzzled expression was accompanied by a shy smile.
"Well, I don't know what's up Mr. Garnett…all I know is Wiki said you wanted to see me after the show!"
"Oh yeah…Tate…your name is Tate right, one of my backup singers!"
"Yes sir, I'm Jerry Tate…"
"Come on in man."
The man walked slowly into the room, his large eyes taking in every nuance, every detail of the cluttered room. Marshall knew that somewhere in the back of his mind he was planning to someday be in a room just like this one, only he would be doing the summoning. When he was a star!
"Er…would you like a drink, Tate?"
Jerry sat carefully on the edge of a winged back chair as though it would break if he put his full weight on it. He stared up at Marshall with an anxious expression. "Yes…Mr. Garnett…I…mean if you have beer…that's all I drink."
Marshall pulled a Michelob from the small refrigerator in the corner of the dressing room and handed it to the man. He poured himself two fingers of Hennessy and decided against ice cubes. What he had to do he wanted to do quickly. He sat in the wingback twin directly opposite Tate. He always believed in facing a man when was preparing to cut his throat. He coughed, his throat felt raw and uncomfortable. How long you been with the band, Tate?
"Oh, just before the tour started…about nine months/"
"You know I feel a little guilty…you being with the band that long and I barely know you…but I recognize talent when I see it man…and you can take it from me. You're going to be an important artist someday. You got one hell of a set of pipes my brother."
Jerry's eyes met Marshall for a brief second. It was more than enough…he knew he was going to be fired! When he spoke the words rushed out.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Garnett…I mean Wiki has spoken to me about singing too loud a couple of times…I mean, I can work on that…no problem."
Marshall looked directly into Jerry's panic stricken eyes. "No…no that's not the problem at all my man. The fact is you're a damn good singer…in fact, too good to sing as a backup in my band!"
Marshall stood and swallowed the two fingers of Hennessy in one noisy gulp. He suddenly felt tired and decided to get this thing over with. "Look brother, on some of our road stops you got a bigger ovation than I did…that's the problem! I realize what I'm going to do is fucked up…but that's the nature of this business, self first and that's the way it is. I didn't make the rules, but I've got to play by them just like everybody else…I'm sorry, but I've got to cut you loose…I mean, like they say, nothing personal just business!"
Jerry sat and looked up at Marshall, a blank expression on his face. Only his eyes reflected the inner pain.
Marshall attempted to soften the blow. "Look man, it's not as bad as you might think. I've got some contacts with a couple of touring bands and I know I can get you another gig within a week…and…er…of course I'll pay you the rest of your contract in full, with a five thousand dollar bonus. You know…you're really gonna make it man…I…"
Jerry suddenly rose from the chair and walked past Marshall, out the door. He did not offer one word of protest and he did not look back. Marshall walked slowly over to the dressing room table and took off his stage watch, replacing it with his Rolex. He reflected for a moment on how strange life could be. Fourteen years in the business, trying to be fair and straight with everyone and in less than five minutes, he had turned into Rollo Perkins.