Snippet #2767907

Why did I expect otherwise, Lionel mused. Descent of the Fallen sounded like a good one, but anything from Carcass's 'gross-out collage' period would be...funnier? That was most likely the reason why he, upon starting up his amp and securing his earplugs, immediately turned the bass all the way up, switched to his neck pickup, and started on his best rendition of the only riff he remembered from that album...the first one. Probably not the right song, but it seemed funny to him. Admittedly, it would have been difficult to recognize as coming from that album, being approximately 40% cleaner even with his best efforts at mud.

He only played until he saw Ted roll his eyes into a low-intensity Ray directed at him. It wasn't exactly disapproval, just the general feeling of 'really dude?' Which was all he wanted, anyway. With a chuckle, he fixed his settings back to his usual saltine-cracker-crisp tone and waited for Ted's tiebreaker vote.

A NEW DAY

An oldish man stepped out of Caton Castle. He pointedly held his breath passing by the two smokers just outside. With measured steps he reached a spot of no importance other than his own whim and waited there, bright eyes twinkling in his plump dark face.

He did not wait long before spotting the mint-green car pulling in halfway across the parking lot. With a benign glare he watched its occupant struggle out, beat-up and decal-strewn black guitar case in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, waistcoat not yet buttoned. He gave no reaction as the younger man approached and passed him.

"Maurice," the youngster said, nodding but not stopping.

"Ted," the oldish man replied, his voice twangy but firm. Without missing a beat, he left his post to escort the guitarist past the smokers and hold open the doors into what some called the last traditional jazz club in Charm City.

-------

Thirty minutes of setup later, the Maurice Anderson Quartet gathered around a hearty meal of fried food, beer, and water. After a quick prayer led by Maurice, they tucked in.

"So, Ted," Maurice said between bites, "How's my nephew doing?"

"You should know," Ted deadpanned back.

"I want an alternate perspective," Maurice chuckled. "Last time we called he said you were goin' into the studio."

"That's right."

"Well?"

"Well what? We're still...recording. We got some demos down. Drums are going down tomorrow, I think."

"Just the drums?"

Ted rolled his eyes. "Yes, just the drums. We have to record them separately for the right sound."

The drummer cut in, "But how're you gonna get the bass and drums to lock in?"

"Clicks," the bassist said disdainfully before taking a sip of beer.

"Len," the drummer retorted, his question to Ted half-forgotten. "Why on God's green Earth do you think Ted would use a click?"

"Because he will," Ted murmured. "Look, Jack, Jack, Jack." The triple invocation silenced the drummer's ire. "Riddle me this. What's our fastest number?"

"Cherokee," Len piped in.

"Nobody asked you," Ted retorted.

"Cherokee," Jack repeated.

"Yep. How fast is that?"

"Hundred thirty-three," Jack replied, pointedly glancing at Len to ensure he didn't interrupt.

"Right. That's most of our songs."

Jack and Len shared a glance, then returned to their food.

Maurice smirked. "You guys still have to play live, though."

"There's more wiggle room there," Ted said with a shrug. "Studio's gotta be exact. We're sharing with another band, and they've done ten takes for some solos."

"Ten takes for the solos?" Now it was Maurice's turn to be surprised. "Kinda defeats the point of a solo, if you ask me."

"Maybe," Ted shrugged. "It's a different world."

"Doesn't mean there can't be crossover," Maurice said with a smile.

Now it was Ted's turn to return to his food pensively.

-------

The show was at 6 PM, which made sense at a place with food. Rick and Izzie agreed on a pickup 30 minutes before showtime, to allow for plenty of time to arrive and get settled before the music started. Cool jazz wasn't exactly something Rick pegged Izzie as enjoying, but he wouldn't complain. He always enjoyed watching a good contrabajista at work. Ray Brown had given him some ideas for Psychosis slams before—not that he ever told Izzie that.

He arrived at Izzie's home with a minimum of fanfare—and parking spaces. He put on his hazard flashers and shot a quick text.

"Waiting out front. No parking."