Fic: Nashville Verse: Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow
Author: rivlee
Title: Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gene Roe, Babe, Walt. Gen.
Summary: It’s been a long time since Gene Roe and Babe Heffron shared the same space. Nashville ‘verse, first of the 506-focused fics.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title and cut-text from The Gaslight Anthem’s The ’59 Sound.
A/N: Unbeated. Tiny background story ficlet.
506 split up eight years ago, but the band and its crew still got together for an annual cook-out. There was no bad blood between any of them. Ron Speirs had to leave the band to raise his kids, and there was no 506 without Ron Speirs at the mic, leading them off. Gene Roe had few regrets from those years long past, he got to live the dream of touring stadiums around the world and playing to sell-out crowds, but he quite enjoyed his life now. The crowds still sold-out, just in much smaller venues. The music was softer, the entourage miniscule, the lyrics darker and sadder. It was usually just Gene and his guitar these days, and whatever mixed bag of touring musicians he could find.
Ron went off with his kids, took them from Tennessee to New York to Los Angeles and back. He was starting an art gallery, something to keep the kids grounded in the here and now and keep Ron from going insane. Ron needed art and its expression more than anyone else Gene ever met. The whole Speirs family was much the same and Gene prayed they could find what they needed on the streets of Music City.
Chuck Grant was their frontman. Ron sang the lyrics, but Chuck was the wordsmith. He played the bass like his life depended on it and wrote straight from the heart. Chuck settled in Brooklyn after the break-up, thought he was going to be living on the edge and moved just in time for the urban renewal. He still liked it though, even if he bitched about overpriced coffee and hipster kids, Chuck was one of the best music mentors out there.
Bill Guarnere was their drummer. He could play fast and hard, though he learned through jazz and classic rock records. There was something timeless about Bill, he was an old soul who had a swagger few could match. Bill didn’t stick around the music scene much longer. Well, that wasn’t exactly fair to say. He went back to Philly and taught band classes and gave private music lessons. He worked by a barter system for the private lessons. It drove his wife Fran a little insane, but even she couldn’t deny that it was nice always having some newbie guitarist mowing their lawn in exchange for some lessons.
Bill was the one who brought Babe Heffron on board as their guitar and drum tech. Babe was this fresh faced kid at the start of high school when 506 started touring. He was the same age as Bill, but somehow just seemed years younger. Babe still worked the music scene; he was a lifer, just like Gene, never able to escape the allure of the business. And with Babe, hell, he alone held at least 85% of Gene’s regrets from that former lifetime.
Gene could be closed off, he could be cold. He was always there for his friends and family, always there for the show, but the constant toll of the road took something out of his soul. The years when 506 broke into the mainstream weren’t good for his peace of mind. He was never quite comfortable in his own skin, playing those stadium shows, with pyrotechnics and flashing lights. He wasn’t okay with the interviews that seemed far too invasive and everyone who wanted just a little bit of his time until they took it all. So when Babe came to him, young and confused and desperate for something the kid really didn’t fully understand at the time, Gene turned him down and turned him away.
And Babe never said boo about it. He kept his mouth shut and kept up his fool’s façade, but Gene could always see that rejection, lurking somewhere in those wide eyes of his, only there for a second before it was gone with a small joke and a forced laugh.
When 506 was done, so was Gene’s time with Babe, but that didn’t mean he stopped looking out for him.
Gene couldn’t always connect with people on a personal level, he just had to keep to himself for sanity’s sake, but he had no qualms about sharing his music, knowledge and skills with anyone who came by looking. It kept Gene on the road for most of his life now, but he didn’t mind much. He had little calling him home, except a few relatives and childhood friends. Gene knew some of it was avoidance, the refusing to settle down, to think about what he lost, but it’s not like he didn’t feel the loneliness, sleeping in a cold hotel rooms and choking down another continental breakfast. Gene was well aware when he went to bed at night and when he woke up in the morning just what he lost. Even if it was hard to lose what you never really had in the first place, it didn’t mean you forgot the ghost of the opportunity.
So while he traveled the globe working for various bands and consulting companies, he kept his ear to the ground. He made sure Babe wasn’t working for any bands, managers, and labels known for shady deals. He tried his hardest to get him job opportunities on the tours where the hardest drugs were booze and pot. He did his damnedest to try to get Babe settled as a studio musician in New York, but apparently Edward Heffron had a wanderer’s soul too. Babe never stayed anywhere too long, unless it was home in Philly for the holidays. Still, Gene wanted to do what he could. He had no right to, he knew it was wrong of him to even make the assumption and change Babe’s employment opportunities, but out of all the 506 people, Gene was the only one still active in the business from a global perspective. Chuck and Shames, their old manager, really had no friggin’ clue what was going on in Munich’s music scene much less Sydney’s.
Everything was going fine, quietly, just like it was supposed to until one September night in Boston. Gene was in town to play his own set at the Middle East in Cambridge, but first he was doing an opening gig at the House of Blues for Flogging Molly. The last minute job was a personal favor. The second opening act just dropped off the tour and the first opener was some green kid from Virginia by the name of Walt Hasser. When Dave King called in a favor, Gene couldn’t say no. Not after he kidnapped Bridget and Nate last year for some help on his solo record.
He was just getting out of the Kenmore Street Station when he ran into Babe coming out of the 7-11. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in real life and Gene was so surprised he almost dropped his guitar.
Babe reached his hands out, grasping onto the case in reflex.
“Shit, Gene,” he said, “if you still got your Martin Sunburst in here, I’m going to kill you.”
“It’s a Taylor,” Gene said, “I left the Martin with Chuck.”
Babe’s eyes went wide.
“In a locked display case which only I have the keys to,” Gene quickly explained. Chuck was an amazing musician but he had the worst luck with instruments and Gene’s old Martin was a classic style they no longer produced.
Babe laughed and took a step back. “Christ, Gene Roe, how the hell have you been?”
Babe’s smile seemed genuine and there was a peace about him. He still had that manic energy under his skin, Babe never could sit still for long, always had to fiddle with something or talk to someone, but he’d grown up. Gone were the traces of the baby fat which earned him his nickname. His hair was shorter, darker even. There was a sardonic twist to his lips. His shoulders were broader, years of touring, lugging equipment and setting stages putting muscle and tone on his frame.
Gene just shook his head in disbelief at the sight before him. He shifted his guitar back to his shoulder and ran a hand through his short hair, trying not to twitch and give anything away.
“I’ve been well,” Gene said softly, “playing a couple shows.”
“Yeah, you’re playing with us tonight.”
“You’re touring with Flogging Molly?” Gene asked.
“Nah, Walt Hasser,” Babe said, “he’s signed to a friend’s label and I was asked to make sure the kid didn’t get into too much trouble.”
Gene shook his head. “God, you are an old hand now, aren’t you?”
“Over a decade in the business,” Babe agreed, “though nothing compared to you,” he said with a tap on Gene’s shoulder. “Loved the last album, by the way.”
Gene gave him a flat look. “That album was only supposed to be released in the UK and Ireland.”
“Jim Moray owed me a favor,” he explained.
Gene rolled his eyes. “I knew I was going to regret helping that upstart.”
Babe outright laughed at that one. “He’s not that bad.”
Gene let the silence answer for him.
“Are you going to the venue this early?” Babe asked.
Gene nodded. “I like to get a feel for a place.”
“I remember,” Babe said, “it’s spiritual with you. Almost like watching someone in Church.”
“Blasphemer,” Gene said.
Babe snorted. “I know for a fact that of all my sins, that one will be the least of God’s worries.”
Gene chose not to comment as they made the short walk to the venue. Technically you could take the Fenway stop, it was closer, but Gene always loved the quiet walks around the city and he knew Babe was the same.
“I know you’ve been kicking around the music scene all this time,” Gene said, “but anything else going on in your life?”
Babe shook his head. “Nah, just working where I can, when I can. Spent a lot of time in Brighton, last year, in England? They’ve got an interesting scene there.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get there before now.”
Babe shrugged. “I was kicking around Dublin and Brighton. And Luxembourg.”
“Luxembourg?” Gene asked. “I mean, they have some big festivals there, but really?”
“Centrally located for France, Germany, and Belgium,” Babe said, “it was actually pretty damn convenient.”
“And how’d you get around the language barrier?”
“My French isn’t that bad.”
“It’s beyond atrocious,” Gene said, “and your German’s not much better. I can’t imagine how you handled Luxembourgish.”
“With a shy smile and earnest eyes,” Babe said, “the old ladies took pity on me.”
“They always do,” Gene said.
He couldn’t help the fond smile that emerged. Back in the early days, when they were living in vans and off any bits of food they could find, they’d send Babe out to gather food from the other acts in their fancy tour buses. If any of the acts had their parents visiting, Babe usually scrounged up enough to last them a month.
A brisk breeze moved through, bringing the unique smell of an early autumn evening in the city. The bars were alight and alive, waiting to see if the Red Sox would make it to the World Series this year. The House of Blues was right across the street from one of Fenway’s entrances and that alone was motivation enough for Gene to arrive early. The streets were already full and most of the people for the show hadn’t even lined up yet.
He desperately tried not to laugh when Babe openly gawked at the crowd.
“You never played here before?” Gene asked.
Babe nodded. “Last few times I’ve been here, it was still closed. I know The Orpheum like it’s home, though.”
“Welcome to the modern age and the big time,” Gene said, “you actually get air conditioning here.”
“Eh, a little heat stroke is worth it for the ambience,” Babe said.
They entered in through one of the side doors, the venue already full of employees and stage crew setting up for the night. The place was full of the sounds of clinking glasses and the pull of electrical tape. It wasn’t near time yet for sound check, but Gene could still practice backstage.
“So, tell me about this new artist,” Gene said as they maneuvered the backstage labyrinth.
“Walt? Well, he’s one of those alternative country types, like the Avery Brothers. He’s too twangy to be rock and too garage band for mainstream Country. He’s got a spark though, Gene, you can just feel it with him.”
Gene nodded. It also felt like a gift, coming across a musician with true talent. Especially when you saw that they just needed a little coaching, a lot of patience, and a tough hand to bring them to their best. No musician or artist, no matter the talent, came into that first performance, song, demo, or album as perfect. All shows were practice runs on top of practice runs. It was just hell of a lot more enjoyable when you could sit back and watch the growth of someone with more than basic abilities.
“I’d love to have a chat with him,” Gene said.
Babe ducked his head and smiled. “He’s been dying to meet you for ages, Gene, you’re one of his inspirations.”
“Thanks for making me feel even older, Edward,” Gene said.
Babe punched him in the arm. “Take it for the compliment it is, you’ve been around for over a decade now, you’ve picked up a few acolytes along the way.”
“Somehow The Church of Gene Roe doesn’t make me feel any more accomplished.”
“You should see your Facebook group.”
Gene just shook his head. He’d never get all the social networking bullshit, he understood it’s value for promoting messages and music, but hell, give him old paper flyers and meet-and-greets any day. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew the music business had to change in terms of actual business, but kids were still in their parents’ garages making music just like before. Only now you could post it online and maybe get a development deal. It was still a-shot-in-the-dark for a contract, but no amount of YouTube videos or Last FM listens would ever take the place of stage experience.
Walt Hasser was clearly the type of young kid who knew that, if he’d tied himself to Babe and a Flogging Molly tour.
Gene came to the back room and set down his guitar. He took a deep breath and centered himself before he took off his jacket.
“I know you like to be alone when you warm up,” Babe said softly, “but can I stay, just this once?”
Gene looked over his shoulder at Babe and it was like seeing a memory full of wide dark eyes and messy red hair. The awe was still there, always under lawyers of swagger and a smart-ass tone. Babe still knew how to do reverence, let it shone from the bowing of his head to his hushed voice.
It had been a long time since Babe sat-in on a warm up, Gene couldn’t even remember the last time. Things had changed since then and Gene was far from the same man.
He nodded his assent and pulled out his guitar.
********
Walt Hasser looked at Gene the way Gene once looked at Ry Cooder and Gregg Ginn. He was still uncomfortable with that sort of adulation, never did find himself worthy of it, he was just a backwoods Cajun who knew a thing or two about Swamp Blues.
The kid could play and he had some stage presence. Gene could see why Babe was pushing so hard to develop him. Walt could be a major player, he had the the boyish good looks and welcoming smile that always did well among the Country music demographics. He still needed to work a bit on the stage presence, didn’t quite have the spiel and the casual chatter down, but that would come with time.
The hardest part was always getting your ass on the stage. Once you got past that, it was just a matter of trying not to screw everything up too hard and just keeping your wits about you.
“I really appreciate you taking the time out for me, Sir,” Walt said.
“No need to call me that,” Gene said, “Gene or Roe will do just fine.”
Walt nodded and seemed to stumble over his words for a minute.
“I really ain’t as important as you making me out to be,” Gene said, slipping into the Cajun accent that always soothed the nerves.
Walt laughed. “With all due respect, Mr. Roe, your music is what got me through middle school. There was just something about 506, the way you guys played, it just, spoke to something in me. Made me feel like there was some purpose out there I wasn’t finding before.”
Gene nodded. “Someone’s always got to show you the road,” he agreed, “but you’re the one who decides to take it.”
“Do you ever come down to Nashville much?” Walt asked.
“I have a few connections there, but it’s not a city I have roots in, not like Edward.”
“Edward?” Walt asked.
“Babe,” Gene clarified.
“He lets you call him Edward, wow,” Walt said.
“It is his name,” Gene said.
“Yeah, but everyone calls him Babe,” Walt said.
“Gene ain’t everyone,” Babe said, sitting down beside them. He turned to Walt. “You done talking his ear off?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Edward,” Gene said, “the boy ain’t causing no harm.”
“Gene, once you start talking about music you don’t stop for five hours. It’s like you got to get all your talking done at once for the rest of the month. Dave said something about you having a show tomorrow?”
“It’s only a small show, I’m playing Upstairs at the Middle East.”
“Which means you’ll probably play longer than your scheduled set, because the more intimate the crowd the longer you play,” Babe said.
“How long have you two known each other?” Walt asked.
“A fair few years but it’s been about five or six years since we last saw each other,” Gene said.
“It’s been seven,” Babe said, “the last time was Bill Jr.’s First Communion.”
Walt’s jaw sort of dropped. “Babe, how young were you when you first started touring?”
“Bill’s older brother had to act as my guardian, and his as well, but we were about fourteen on that first tour,” he said.
“The rest of us we’re all 17 or 18, so we had to watch ourselves around them,” Gene said.
“Ma Guarnere still blames you for all our bad habits,” Babe said.
“Clearly she needs to look to her own sons,” Gene said.
Babe nodded and looked at his watch. “We do need to head out though, need to get everything situated before driving down to Jersey.”
“Chuck going to stop by for a visit?” he asked.
“He always does,” Babe said.
Gene stood up and held his hand out to Walt. “Nice to meet you, kid, you ever need some help, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” Walt said, shaking his hand for a solid five minutes. He blushed when his brain caught up to his actions and quickly hurried out of the room, mumbling about breaking down the stage.
Babe watched him go with a shake of his head. “He’s a good kid, just still gets star-struck.”
“We all do,” Gene said.
Babe pulled Gene into a hug. “You don’t fucking disappear on me for seven years again, you hear?”
“I was always around,” Gene said.
“But you weren’t here,” Babe said. He pulled back and folded his arms across his chest. “I got your itinerary from Anna. I will hunt your ass down if you pull this bullshit again.”
“I’ll be prepared,” Gene said.
Babe nodded and started to walk out of the room.
“Hey, Edward,” Gene called after him.
“Yeah?” Babe asked.
“I missed you too.”
Title: Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gene Roe, Babe, Walt. Gen.
Summary: It’s been a long time since Gene Roe and Babe Heffron shared the same space. Nashville ‘verse, first of the 506-focused fics.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title and cut-text from The Gaslight Anthem’s The ’59 Sound.
A/N: Unbeated. Tiny background story ficlet.
506 split up eight years ago, but the band and its crew still got together for an annual cook-out. There was no bad blood between any of them. Ron Speirs had to leave the band to raise his kids, and there was no 506 without Ron Speirs at the mic, leading them off. Gene Roe had few regrets from those years long past, he got to live the dream of touring stadiums around the world and playing to sell-out crowds, but he quite enjoyed his life now. The crowds still sold-out, just in much smaller venues. The music was softer, the entourage miniscule, the lyrics darker and sadder. It was usually just Gene and his guitar these days, and whatever mixed bag of touring musicians he could find.
Ron went off with his kids, took them from Tennessee to New York to Los Angeles and back. He was starting an art gallery, something to keep the kids grounded in the here and now and keep Ron from going insane. Ron needed art and its expression more than anyone else Gene ever met. The whole Speirs family was much the same and Gene prayed they could find what they needed on the streets of Music City.
Chuck Grant was their frontman. Ron sang the lyrics, but Chuck was the wordsmith. He played the bass like his life depended on it and wrote straight from the heart. Chuck settled in Brooklyn after the break-up, thought he was going to be living on the edge and moved just in time for the urban renewal. He still liked it though, even if he bitched about overpriced coffee and hipster kids, Chuck was one of the best music mentors out there.
Bill Guarnere was their drummer. He could play fast and hard, though he learned through jazz and classic rock records. There was something timeless about Bill, he was an old soul who had a swagger few could match. Bill didn’t stick around the music scene much longer. Well, that wasn’t exactly fair to say. He went back to Philly and taught band classes and gave private music lessons. He worked by a barter system for the private lessons. It drove his wife Fran a little insane, but even she couldn’t deny that it was nice always having some newbie guitarist mowing their lawn in exchange for some lessons.
Bill was the one who brought Babe Heffron on board as their guitar and drum tech. Babe was this fresh faced kid at the start of high school when 506 started touring. He was the same age as Bill, but somehow just seemed years younger. Babe still worked the music scene; he was a lifer, just like Gene, never able to escape the allure of the business. And with Babe, hell, he alone held at least 85% of Gene’s regrets from that former lifetime.
Gene could be closed off, he could be cold. He was always there for his friends and family, always there for the show, but the constant toll of the road took something out of his soul. The years when 506 broke into the mainstream weren’t good for his peace of mind. He was never quite comfortable in his own skin, playing those stadium shows, with pyrotechnics and flashing lights. He wasn’t okay with the interviews that seemed far too invasive and everyone who wanted just a little bit of his time until they took it all. So when Babe came to him, young and confused and desperate for something the kid really didn’t fully understand at the time, Gene turned him down and turned him away.
And Babe never said boo about it. He kept his mouth shut and kept up his fool’s façade, but Gene could always see that rejection, lurking somewhere in those wide eyes of his, only there for a second before it was gone with a small joke and a forced laugh.
When 506 was done, so was Gene’s time with Babe, but that didn’t mean he stopped looking out for him.
Gene couldn’t always connect with people on a personal level, he just had to keep to himself for sanity’s sake, but he had no qualms about sharing his music, knowledge and skills with anyone who came by looking. It kept Gene on the road for most of his life now, but he didn’t mind much. He had little calling him home, except a few relatives and childhood friends. Gene knew some of it was avoidance, the refusing to settle down, to think about what he lost, but it’s not like he didn’t feel the loneliness, sleeping in a cold hotel rooms and choking down another continental breakfast. Gene was well aware when he went to bed at night and when he woke up in the morning just what he lost. Even if it was hard to lose what you never really had in the first place, it didn’t mean you forgot the ghost of the opportunity.
So while he traveled the globe working for various bands and consulting companies, he kept his ear to the ground. He made sure Babe wasn’t working for any bands, managers, and labels known for shady deals. He tried his hardest to get him job opportunities on the tours where the hardest drugs were booze and pot. He did his damnedest to try to get Babe settled as a studio musician in New York, but apparently Edward Heffron had a wanderer’s soul too. Babe never stayed anywhere too long, unless it was home in Philly for the holidays. Still, Gene wanted to do what he could. He had no right to, he knew it was wrong of him to even make the assumption and change Babe’s employment opportunities, but out of all the 506 people, Gene was the only one still active in the business from a global perspective. Chuck and Shames, their old manager, really had no friggin’ clue what was going on in Munich’s music scene much less Sydney’s.
Everything was going fine, quietly, just like it was supposed to until one September night in Boston. Gene was in town to play his own set at the Middle East in Cambridge, but first he was doing an opening gig at the House of Blues for Flogging Molly. The last minute job was a personal favor. The second opening act just dropped off the tour and the first opener was some green kid from Virginia by the name of Walt Hasser. When Dave King called in a favor, Gene couldn’t say no. Not after he kidnapped Bridget and Nate last year for some help on his solo record.
He was just getting out of the Kenmore Street Station when he ran into Babe coming out of the 7-11. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in real life and Gene was so surprised he almost dropped his guitar.
Babe reached his hands out, grasping onto the case in reflex.
“Shit, Gene,” he said, “if you still got your Martin Sunburst in here, I’m going to kill you.”
“It’s a Taylor,” Gene said, “I left the Martin with Chuck.”
Babe’s eyes went wide.
“In a locked display case which only I have the keys to,” Gene quickly explained. Chuck was an amazing musician but he had the worst luck with instruments and Gene’s old Martin was a classic style they no longer produced.
Babe laughed and took a step back. “Christ, Gene Roe, how the hell have you been?”
Babe’s smile seemed genuine and there was a peace about him. He still had that manic energy under his skin, Babe never could sit still for long, always had to fiddle with something or talk to someone, but he’d grown up. Gone were the traces of the baby fat which earned him his nickname. His hair was shorter, darker even. There was a sardonic twist to his lips. His shoulders were broader, years of touring, lugging equipment and setting stages putting muscle and tone on his frame.
Gene just shook his head in disbelief at the sight before him. He shifted his guitar back to his shoulder and ran a hand through his short hair, trying not to twitch and give anything away.
“I’ve been well,” Gene said softly, “playing a couple shows.”
“Yeah, you’re playing with us tonight.”
“You’re touring with Flogging Molly?” Gene asked.
“Nah, Walt Hasser,” Babe said, “he’s signed to a friend’s label and I was asked to make sure the kid didn’t get into too much trouble.”
Gene shook his head. “God, you are an old hand now, aren’t you?”
“Over a decade in the business,” Babe agreed, “though nothing compared to you,” he said with a tap on Gene’s shoulder. “Loved the last album, by the way.”
Gene gave him a flat look. “That album was only supposed to be released in the UK and Ireland.”
“Jim Moray owed me a favor,” he explained.
Gene rolled his eyes. “I knew I was going to regret helping that upstart.”
Babe outright laughed at that one. “He’s not that bad.”
Gene let the silence answer for him.
“Are you going to the venue this early?” Babe asked.
Gene nodded. “I like to get a feel for a place.”
“I remember,” Babe said, “it’s spiritual with you. Almost like watching someone in Church.”
“Blasphemer,” Gene said.
Babe snorted. “I know for a fact that of all my sins, that one will be the least of God’s worries.”
Gene chose not to comment as they made the short walk to the venue. Technically you could take the Fenway stop, it was closer, but Gene always loved the quiet walks around the city and he knew Babe was the same.
“I know you’ve been kicking around the music scene all this time,” Gene said, “but anything else going on in your life?”
Babe shook his head. “Nah, just working where I can, when I can. Spent a lot of time in Brighton, last year, in England? They’ve got an interesting scene there.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get there before now.”
Babe shrugged. “I was kicking around Dublin and Brighton. And Luxembourg.”
“Luxembourg?” Gene asked. “I mean, they have some big festivals there, but really?”
“Centrally located for France, Germany, and Belgium,” Babe said, “it was actually pretty damn convenient.”
“And how’d you get around the language barrier?”
“My French isn’t that bad.”
“It’s beyond atrocious,” Gene said, “and your German’s not much better. I can’t imagine how you handled Luxembourgish.”
“With a shy smile and earnest eyes,” Babe said, “the old ladies took pity on me.”
“They always do,” Gene said.
He couldn’t help the fond smile that emerged. Back in the early days, when they were living in vans and off any bits of food they could find, they’d send Babe out to gather food from the other acts in their fancy tour buses. If any of the acts had their parents visiting, Babe usually scrounged up enough to last them a month.
A brisk breeze moved through, bringing the unique smell of an early autumn evening in the city. The bars were alight and alive, waiting to see if the Red Sox would make it to the World Series this year. The House of Blues was right across the street from one of Fenway’s entrances and that alone was motivation enough for Gene to arrive early. The streets were already full and most of the people for the show hadn’t even lined up yet.
He desperately tried not to laugh when Babe openly gawked at the crowd.
“You never played here before?” Gene asked.
Babe nodded. “Last few times I’ve been here, it was still closed. I know The Orpheum like it’s home, though.”
“Welcome to the modern age and the big time,” Gene said, “you actually get air conditioning here.”
“Eh, a little heat stroke is worth it for the ambience,” Babe said.
They entered in through one of the side doors, the venue already full of employees and stage crew setting up for the night. The place was full of the sounds of clinking glasses and the pull of electrical tape. It wasn’t near time yet for sound check, but Gene could still practice backstage.
“So, tell me about this new artist,” Gene said as they maneuvered the backstage labyrinth.
“Walt? Well, he’s one of those alternative country types, like the Avery Brothers. He’s too twangy to be rock and too garage band for mainstream Country. He’s got a spark though, Gene, you can just feel it with him.”
Gene nodded. It also felt like a gift, coming across a musician with true talent. Especially when you saw that they just needed a little coaching, a lot of patience, and a tough hand to bring them to their best. No musician or artist, no matter the talent, came into that first performance, song, demo, or album as perfect. All shows were practice runs on top of practice runs. It was just hell of a lot more enjoyable when you could sit back and watch the growth of someone with more than basic abilities.
“I’d love to have a chat with him,” Gene said.
Babe ducked his head and smiled. “He’s been dying to meet you for ages, Gene, you’re one of his inspirations.”
“Thanks for making me feel even older, Edward,” Gene said.
Babe punched him in the arm. “Take it for the compliment it is, you’ve been around for over a decade now, you’ve picked up a few acolytes along the way.”
“Somehow The Church of Gene Roe doesn’t make me feel any more accomplished.”
“You should see your Facebook group.”
Gene just shook his head. He’d never get all the social networking bullshit, he understood it’s value for promoting messages and music, but hell, give him old paper flyers and meet-and-greets any day. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew the music business had to change in terms of actual business, but kids were still in their parents’ garages making music just like before. Only now you could post it online and maybe get a development deal. It was still a-shot-in-the-dark for a contract, but no amount of YouTube videos or Last FM listens would ever take the place of stage experience.
Walt Hasser was clearly the type of young kid who knew that, if he’d tied himself to Babe and a Flogging Molly tour.
Gene came to the back room and set down his guitar. He took a deep breath and centered himself before he took off his jacket.
“I know you like to be alone when you warm up,” Babe said softly, “but can I stay, just this once?”
Gene looked over his shoulder at Babe and it was like seeing a memory full of wide dark eyes and messy red hair. The awe was still there, always under lawyers of swagger and a smart-ass tone. Babe still knew how to do reverence, let it shone from the bowing of his head to his hushed voice.
It had been a long time since Babe sat-in on a warm up, Gene couldn’t even remember the last time. Things had changed since then and Gene was far from the same man.
He nodded his assent and pulled out his guitar.
********
Walt Hasser looked at Gene the way Gene once looked at Ry Cooder and Gregg Ginn. He was still uncomfortable with that sort of adulation, never did find himself worthy of it, he was just a backwoods Cajun who knew a thing or two about Swamp Blues.
The kid could play and he had some stage presence. Gene could see why Babe was pushing so hard to develop him. Walt could be a major player, he had the the boyish good looks and welcoming smile that always did well among the Country music demographics. He still needed to work a bit on the stage presence, didn’t quite have the spiel and the casual chatter down, but that would come with time.
The hardest part was always getting your ass on the stage. Once you got past that, it was just a matter of trying not to screw everything up too hard and just keeping your wits about you.
“I really appreciate you taking the time out for me, Sir,” Walt said.
“No need to call me that,” Gene said, “Gene or Roe will do just fine.”
Walt nodded and seemed to stumble over his words for a minute.
“I really ain’t as important as you making me out to be,” Gene said, slipping into the Cajun accent that always soothed the nerves.
Walt laughed. “With all due respect, Mr. Roe, your music is what got me through middle school. There was just something about 506, the way you guys played, it just, spoke to something in me. Made me feel like there was some purpose out there I wasn’t finding before.”
Gene nodded. “Someone’s always got to show you the road,” he agreed, “but you’re the one who decides to take it.”
“Do you ever come down to Nashville much?” Walt asked.
“I have a few connections there, but it’s not a city I have roots in, not like Edward.”
“Edward?” Walt asked.
“Babe,” Gene clarified.
“He lets you call him Edward, wow,” Walt said.
“It is his name,” Gene said.
“Yeah, but everyone calls him Babe,” Walt said.
“Gene ain’t everyone,” Babe said, sitting down beside them. He turned to Walt. “You done talking his ear off?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Edward,” Gene said, “the boy ain’t causing no harm.”
“Gene, once you start talking about music you don’t stop for five hours. It’s like you got to get all your talking done at once for the rest of the month. Dave said something about you having a show tomorrow?”
“It’s only a small show, I’m playing Upstairs at the Middle East.”
“Which means you’ll probably play longer than your scheduled set, because the more intimate the crowd the longer you play,” Babe said.
“How long have you two known each other?” Walt asked.
“A fair few years but it’s been about five or six years since we last saw each other,” Gene said.
“It’s been seven,” Babe said, “the last time was Bill Jr.’s First Communion.”
Walt’s jaw sort of dropped. “Babe, how young were you when you first started touring?”
“Bill’s older brother had to act as my guardian, and his as well, but we were about fourteen on that first tour,” he said.
“The rest of us we’re all 17 or 18, so we had to watch ourselves around them,” Gene said.
“Ma Guarnere still blames you for all our bad habits,” Babe said.
“Clearly she needs to look to her own sons,” Gene said.
Babe nodded and looked at his watch. “We do need to head out though, need to get everything situated before driving down to Jersey.”
“Chuck going to stop by for a visit?” he asked.
“He always does,” Babe said.
Gene stood up and held his hand out to Walt. “Nice to meet you, kid, you ever need some help, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” Walt said, shaking his hand for a solid five minutes. He blushed when his brain caught up to his actions and quickly hurried out of the room, mumbling about breaking down the stage.
Babe watched him go with a shake of his head. “He’s a good kid, just still gets star-struck.”
“We all do,” Gene said.
Babe pulled Gene into a hug. “You don’t fucking disappear on me for seven years again, you hear?”
“I was always around,” Gene said.
“But you weren’t here,” Babe said. He pulled back and folded his arms across his chest. “I got your itinerary from Anna. I will hunt your ass down if you pull this bullshit again.”
“I’ll be prepared,” Gene said.
Babe nodded and started to walk out of the room.
“Hey, Edward,” Gene called after him.
“Yeah?” Babe asked.
“I missed you too.”