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"Do you have any relationship advice?" I asked. The cafe was quiet as the extras got out of the booths.
Melissa, who was eating a sandwich, said, "Ummm. How old are you?"
"21?"
She smiled and finished the last bite. "Just don't be an Andrew."
I nodded and she looked toward my bruised hands. "You know, it's just a job."
I mimicked Andrew's low, nerdy tone. "I'm gonna keep pursuing what I'm pursuing and because I'm doing that it's gonna take more of my time. And when I'm spending time with you I'm gonna think of drumming. So for that reason I'm gonna break it off clean because l want to be great."
She laughed. "Never do that."
We both chuckled and got out of the diner to shoot the last scene of the movie in Shaffer Conservatory.
J.K, who had a black blazer on, was stretching his face. I said, "This scene is gonna take the whole day."
He nodded. The last scene had a lot of cuts between Andrew, Fletcher, and the musicians, and had close-ups of each instrument, especially the drums. Everyone was at their place, and I sat behind the drum kit, ready to sweat the most l ever had for a scene.
Damien then gives us a thumbs-up to go ahead.
Fletcher says to the audience, "Thank you. For our final number we're bringing it back to Ellington. This is Caravan."
I inhaled for a second and then launched into a double-time Latin.
The rest of the band looks at me like, 'What the fuck?' But l beat the drums with all of my passion. All of the anger from my breakup, from my past, and most strongly, the anger at myself flows through me, and l forget the camera.
I say, "Follow me on four."
I nod in time as a count-off and the bassist joins in.
I mouth two words that only Fletcher can hear. "Fuck. You."
And l actually mean it after all of the pressure he put on me and slapping my face.
Fletcher caves in and the band begins to play "Caravan," and l match them beat for beat.
Fletcher leans in and says, "l will gouge out your eyes you motherfucker."
I drown him out with a crash cymbal hit and say fuck you again. I give everything and more and feel like a machine.
Damien, who looked at me the whole time, was about to raise his hand, but l nodded. He puts it down and the camera zooms in on me. I play a tricky fill and nail it. I play an off-beat hi-hat accent that tripped Andrew up in his first rehearsal and nail it again.
Damien, who was most nervous about the scene due to all of the different camera angles, was dazed looking at me play. In post-production, they would fix my mistakes—I was not a master drummer at all—but it was the rage and dedication on my face that was most striking.
It was like watching a master dancer, movements so fast yet precise, brash yet elegant, violent, frenetic playing, but there's something gorgeous about it.
The brass starts giving way to drum breaks and l make each break a stunner. All of my limbs are moving in a sustained frenzy, sweat splashing, mouth open, the whole set is shaking and looks like it's about to explode.
I launch into an extended solo and he says, "Andrew. Andrew."
"Wait for my cue."
I use whatever energy l have left and the sticks are whirling around, my head is bobbing up and down, but I make sure to hit every note right. I want the audience to trust me as a drummer.
I blow past 400 bpm and l see the genuine awe in Fletcher. 435, 440, 443, and my peak, 450.
My crash cymbal almost falls over, but a hand reaches to steady it. It's Fletcher. He motions his hands down and l take it back to the snare. The beat slowly simmers and there's a moment of silence, and l feel like J.K can hear my heartbeat.
I build up the pace slowly—right, left, right, left—and Fletcher stands there like a coach or a captain before he leads his troops into a battlefield.
The bass drum and hi-hat next, every part of the set joining, every limb and everything building up.
Sweat is pouring out of me like a waterfall. I choke the crash cymbal and there's a second of pure silence.
Fletcher looks at me and l look back at Fletcher, both of us with a half-smile. Fletcher raises his hand and cues the final note.
The whole band roars it out, horns hitting their highest C's, and l feel like I look like a madman, and the camera zooms in on my face as my eyes are about to pop—the next Charlie Parker—and right as the climactic crash of the cymbal hits, Damien raises his hand.
I, of course, don't see it and am too deep into it. I continue to play and feel like im going to pass out, but before that happens, J.K grabs my shoulder. I look up at him, both of us smiling, and he says, "Not bad at all."
I can't even say a word. Damien rushes up with a towel and says, "Holy shit."
He gives me the towel and l wrap it around my face. I put my face on the drum kit and J.K says, "A shame no one would see this."
I laugh, but it sounds more like a groan.
Damien says, "We only have the jazz club from 9 to 10:30."
J.K murmurs, "Last day."
I put my thumbs up and take a nap right there and then.
***
We sit in the dimly lit club with two drinks on the table and a bright singular lamp. I am still exhausted, but the dark set covers my baggy eyes.
Jazz plays in the background and Fletcher says, "I don't know if you heard I'm not at shaffer anymore."
I say, "I did hear that. Did you quit?"
"Not exactly. Some parents got a kid from Sean Casey's year to say some things about me."
I freeze and he continues, "Although why would anyone say anything about me other than peaches and cream to say about me is a mystery."
I laugh and he says, "That's a good laugh."
"Im sorry."
"I know I made enemies," he pauses. "im conducting a little, they brought the JVC fest this year and got me opening with a pro band."
I say, "That's great."
He looks off for a moment. "The truth is l don't think people understand what it is l did at Shaffer. I wasn't there to conduct. Any fucking moron can move his hands and keep people in tempo. No, it's about pushing people in tempo. No, it's about pushing people beyond what's expected of them. And l believe it's a necessity."
He pauses. "Because without it you're depriving the world of its next Armstrong. The next Charlie Parker. Why did Charlie Parker become Charlie Parker, Andrew?"
I nod. "Because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at him."
"Exactly. Young kid, pretty good kid on the sax, goes up to play his solo in a session, fucks up and Jones comes this close to slicing his head off for it. Cries himself to sleep that night. But the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And practices and practices. A year later he goes back to the Reno, and he plays the best motherfucking solo the world had ever heard."
I smile and he continues, "Now imagine if Jones had just patted young Charlie on the head and said, 'Good job.' Charlie would have said to himself, 'Well shit l did a good job' and that be that. No bird. Tragedy, right? The Shaffer Conservatories of the world, they want sugar. You don't even say 'cutting session' anymore, do you? No, you say 'jam session.' What the fuck kind of word is that? Jam session? Its a cutting session, Andrew, this isnt fucking Smucker's."
I continue to nod but zone out to the scene we did a few hours ago. He ends by saying, "Take it from me and every Starbucks jazz album only proves my point. There are no two words more harmful in the entire English language than 'good job.'"
Fletcher leans back and l respond, "But do you think there's a line? You know—where you discourage the next Charlie Parker from becoming Charlie Parker?"
He leans toward me. "No. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged."
I looked straight at him for the first time. "And you? Are you back to playing now?"
"Not really. Here and there. The playing never interested me. I never wanted to be Charlie Parker. I wanted to be the man who made Charlie Parker. The man who discovered some scrawny kid, pushed him, prodded him, shaped him into something great and then said to the world, 'Check this out. The best motherfucking solo you've ever heard.'"
I say, "Who's your Charlie Parker, then?" l pause. "Sean Casey?"
He shakes his head. "The truth is l don't know if l ever had a Charlie Parker. But l tried. And that's more than most people can say, Andrew. I tried. And even if l never find one, l will never apologize for trying."
The camera zooms out and Fletcher points to the pianist onstage. "He's a beautiful player, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
Fletcher nods and we let the scene breathe into its conclusion. Damien stretches his arms from side to side. "Its been a pleasure."
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