Page 94 of The Music Demon

“Cool.” Doo shrugged as his eyes drifted over the guitars on the wall again. “What do you want to hear?”

With a chuckle, she said, “You’re ready, huh?”

“I’m always ready.” He wiggled his eyebrows and immediately regretted it for two reasons. First, because he was afraid it would make him seem like a douche. Second, because he wasn’t sure wiggling eyebrows was a thing in 1967.

“We’ll see about that,” she said, taking the innuendo in stride. “Somebody pulled an amp out back this morning. We don’t get days like this all the time. We can go out there. Switch it on.”

She was half interested in finding out if there was anything to work with and half interested in seeing his reaction to the prospect of auditioning in front of other musicians. He didn’t flinch or hesitate or reveal the tiniest sign of anxiety. That was a good start.

“Grab one of these,” she gestured toward the guitars on the wall. “Any one you want. But if you’re not what I’m looking for musically,” she was careful to add that last word, “I’m not giving back the ticket.”

“You don’t have the ticket,” he replied.

“I have numbers on my side, enough people in the house to hold you down.”

“Either you really want to see them play tonight or you’re a lot to handle for a short redhead.”

“I pick C. Both things are true.”

“Well. It’s not worth arguin’ over. ‘Cause Iamwhat you want.” With a lopsided smile, he pointedly added, “Musically.”

Doo didn’t know who owned the house, but he did know the guy had a bankroll. He felt like he was in a private museum with the most complete collection of legendary guitars imaginable. All in mint condition. As they would be. Since they were brand new.

“Awesome,” he said as he got to his feet.

He indulged in a slow walk along the wall. Past Rickenbacker, Mosrite, Epiphone. In the end it came down to the 1963 Fender Stratocaster and the 1959 Gibson SG, favorite of John Cipollina, Quicksilver’s lead guitar. It wasn’t really a contest. Playing in a backyard with no backup, maybe mixing in a tiny bit of Stevie Ray Vaughan influence, the best choice was the Strat.

After watching two attempts to reach for the Gibson with a reverence Cass couldn’t begin to understand, she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Ah. I’ve just never had an instrument like… this.”

“It’s just a guitar. Grab it and let’s go.”

“The owner. Of the house? Musician or record exec?”

“Record persona.” She looked around. “This is a perk for scouting talent. I’ve got an eye. Or an ear I guess you’d say.” She moved her mouth back and forth. “Well, eyes and ears. TV changes the equation. Know what I mean?” Doo nodded absently without taking his eyes off the guitars. “Maybe you’ll turn out to be a superstar and I’ll get a nice, um, bonus.”

Doo was listening, but couldn’t take his eyes off the prize in front of him. It was hard to be cavalier about a guitar that was rock’s version of the Holy Grail, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t future boy anymore. That guitar didn’t cost $28,000 in 1967. In 1967 it wasn’t thought of as a sacred relic that, in the right hands, could make the lame walk and the blind see. It was just a good guitar.

So, he took a deep breath, grabbed, lifted it off its hook, and found that it didn’t feel like tomb raiding. It felt as familiar as familiar can feel.

He turned to Cass. “I grabbed. Let’s go.”

At one point he started to ask about bothering the neighbors, but remembered that in 1967 there was no one in the Haight that would report electric music being played outside.

Cass grabbed a folding lawn chair and set it right in front of the mic. Doo was glad he was getting to audition with electric. He wouldn’t have passed up the chance if it had been acoustic, but this was better by a mile.

Some of the people in the yard glanced over when Cass said, “What are you going to play for us?” She sat down, crossed her legs, and appeared to be getting comfortable for a concert, not a song.

“I guess if you want to know that I can write, I should give you an original.”

“The stage is yours,” she said.

He tuned the guitar, without the convenient luxury of an electric tuner that clips onto the neck and responds with a satisfying, lightning-fast, digital readout. It was a good thing he knew tuning old school. He checked the volume and reverb on the mic. It wasn’t studio-perfect, but it would do.

Without fanfare, explanation, or an absurd preamble about being nervous, Doo launched into a bluesy rock song that checked all boxes. It was a fresh sound that resonated to the marrow. It was edgy. It was raw. It was sexy.

Looking around, Cass noticed that everybody had stopped what they were doing. They hadn’t just paid attention. They’d paid rapt attention. Even the guitar kings were looking at Doo Darby like he was a god.

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