Page 7 of Feuds and Interludes
In all the times that Shane Butler and I had faced off, he’d never gone speechless like that, and all I could think about was how to make him do it again. Because never in all of our years inhabiting the same planet had Ieverwalked away from one of our arguments feeling like the victor, and tonight I did. Maybe it was my ego flexing because it knew I needed to be in rare form in order to perform for these people tonight. But it had to be more than that.
Ilikedknowing that Shane reacted to me. I’d touched a nerve.
All I’d wanted to do was let him know that I saw him. I saw how hard he worked, toiling away with his band, and I knew that with them, he’d peaked. He could be so much greater. He had a brilliance that could reach across genres and touch so manypeople if only he’d get out of his own way. He was a renaissance man like Trent Reznor, Dave Grohl and Jack White, living in an Emo world he should have outgrown by now. Those teenagers who grew up with his posters on their walls had moved on. Well, most of them, and he could be so muchmore.
I wanted to write with him. Create with him. But he hated me.Haaatedme. With a passion that started wars. He hated me the way Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships. And I couldn’t figure out why. I’d spoken highly of him in the press, I sang his praise every time I was asked about him. Our families hadn’t socialized often despite the fact that our grandfathers had been best friends at one point, but he was a constant presence in my life from the minute I picked up a guitar and the comparisons began.
Movement grabbed my attention, and I looked over to see Bruce stand up, shake hands with fellow musicians and move to the stage. I’d be playing with him in a few minutes, and I was ready. After my little sparring match with Shane, I wassoready.
“You’re going to be great, Boone.”
I turned to smile at my grandmother and kissed her cheek.“I know.”If I said it, I’dhaveto be great.
I wished I could get up and pace. It felt weird to just stand up and walk onstage, sling on a guitar and start playing.
The Cure finished their set, there was a lighting change, and then my grandfather’s face lit up the screen. His long sideburns and flowing locks identified the picture as from the late ’70s, which was just after California had broken up. A round of applause filled the place and the spotlight shone on Bruce Duncan as he ascended the steps to the stage. He waved as he took his place behind the microphone.
“John Boone was a lot of things to a lot of people. At different times of my life, he played different roles. My musical collaborator, my sparring partner, my nemesis, my best friend,my rival. He was the creative force behind a legendary rock band, and then had a solo career that was the envy of all of his peers.”
“Time to go,” my drummer Brandon said, and we all stood from the table to make our way down to the front. I shook out my hands on the walk and tried to center myself. I took a moment to say a silent prayer.
“Papa, if you’re listening, I could use a little of your magic right about now. I want to celebrate you in the manner you deserve, and I want to make this entire auditorium weep. I know that’s ambitious, but it’s what you taught me to do. Help me make you and Gran proud. I love you, old man.”
Bruce was still talking as we got to the foot of the stage, and I realized that actually, the committee had done a great job in choosing him to do the induction. Bruce knew my grandfather in ways I never would, the ways that counted to the people in this room. He was a witness to my grandfather’s greatest rock ’n’ roll moments, where I’d merely read the history books and heard second- and third-hand tales. Everything happens for a reason, and I had a warm feeling in my chest for the old man tonight. It was obvious how much Bruce cared for Grandpa Boone.
“Competing with John meant becoming a better songwriter. I never would have written a song like ‘Paisley,’ which remains my greatest accomplishment as a musician. He pushed me to be better in all aspects of my life, even when it meant losing the woman I loved. John, you may have gotten the girl, but the song is mine.”
Laughter filled the arena, along with applause, but my hearing had hollowed out. I turned to my band and they all gawked at me.
“Bruce and Vera Jean?” Brandon asked in awe.
“‘Paisley’ is about yourgrandmother?” my bass player, Brandon’s twin sister Annie, chimed in.
“Dude, this is epic! You could have been related to Shane Butler.” Brandon usually got a pass for being a dumbass, and thankfully Annie stepped in to handle her brother’s smartassery, because I was dumbfounded.
He wrote “Paisley” for Gran?
And then it was time to take the stage. I walked to my spot, took the guitar from the tech, nodded to Annie and Brandon to make sure they were set, and then I turned and looked at Bruce.
And he smiled at me like the damn cat who ate the canary.
Who the hell was this man to?—
He played the opening riff to “Too Late,” one of California’s biggest hits, and I nearly missed my cue to join in. When I did, I let everything fall away, looked out over the crowd and sang as though my grandfather was sitting in the front row. Forget the fact that it was actually the members of Def Leppard sitting in my line of sight. If I turned the other way, I’d see Janet Jackson…I did my best to channel her attitude and sang my fucking heart out.
Bruce was there to my right, watching me, keeping a furious rhythm. He played his Gibson hard. I imagined he broke a lot of strings on tour. Papa had always had a gentler touch when he played, and his notes flowed effortlessly. Bruce’s playing had a percussive quality to it that gave California that signature sound.
When it came time for his solo, he moved to the center of the stage and I stepped back, watching him in awe. For an old guy, he sure had that spark inside him. I was honored to be onstage with him, and I momentarily forgot that I was furious about his little revelation.
When it was time for me to pick back up with the vocals, I approached and he remained at the mic. We sang together, so close our guitars knocked, and I saw the sheer joy in his face to be singing the songs that he’d poured his heart and soul into. He could still hit the notes, too, with volume. The smile on my facewas just as genuine. I wished once more I could have been alive to see them play together back in the day.
The song ended, the applause was thunderous, and we launched into another California hit. Bruce and I traded riffs, and we fell into a rhythm I hadn’t been sure we could achieve together after he’d ignored me at rehearsal.
And then it was time for “Paisley.”
I handed my guitar over to the tech and returned to the mic. I brushed my hair back from my face and took a deep breath.
“Go up to the canyon, they said
