If You Were Me

MASH UP CHAPTER ONE

JACE

I step out of Will’s beat up white Ford truck. Our instruments are in the back and my boots crunch against loose stones as I walk around the cab of the truck. Dew hangs heavy tonight and I’m glad that we went with the hard-back covering over the bed.

This is one of the seedier joints we’ve played in. Even the small alley where we chose to park the vehicle yawns like a black void of doom. Our band has been traveling around Belize for nearly a year now and I still haven’t gotten over the fear of marching into gang

territory like this.

We are facing the side entrance of the bar. There used to be a light above the door in the exposed brick wall but even the light has shut down in fear. This place brings to mind the first set that we’d ever played as ‘

Dust and Ashes

’. I’d been scared out of my mind that night and eager to get the job over and done with.

“Hey,” I spoke to Trey as Will parked in front of the foreboding building with the picture of a half-naked lady on the door, “are you sure this is the place.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Trey nodded, twirling his drumsticks nervously. We got out and scrambled into the building.

The bar was a sleazy kind of place with half the patrons dressed in gang colors and the other half dressed in barely anything at all.

The lighting was dark and smoky. The sound of raucous laughter and the heavy beat of a dancehall song worked its way into my bones. The fast paced rhythm shook my heart. Not that my nervous wreck of an internal organ needed any help since it had been quivering all on its own.

“I hope we don’t get shot down the stage.” Trey mused, twirling his sticks around and around.

Will lugged his keyboard case on his shoulder and surveyed the crowd. Strange, almost hostile glances were hurled our way. The atmosphere surely wasn’t as inviting as I’d initially hoped.

Will grunted, readjusted his strap and muttered. “They may hate us ‘cuz we’re white. But they’ll love us ‘cuz we do good music.” With those words ringing in our ears we stepped on stage and played our first gig.

I have never forgotten the phrase and think about it before we hop in front of crowds no matter where we play.

It was the only pep talk we had for the next few weeks because our initial set brought less than raving reviews. At first our group was laughed off the stage. We got a cold reception at the next gig and at several other events. Though I was embarrassed the first couple of times, I understood the hostility.

We were white and though it wasn’t a big deal to me, it meant a lot to the people we were performing for.

The racial climate in Belize isn’t dangerous or tumultuous, but most white people keep their distance from the Creoles, Mayans and other cultures in this melting pot of a nation. I think it has less to do with skin color and more to do with ignorance and tradition.

Things have always been this way. People with pale skin are the managers, the hotel owners, the lawyers, the government officials, and the movers and shakers in our tiny little Caribbean nation. We owned the land, the businesses, and the banks.

The blacks owned the disintegrated families, the lack of opportunities, and the poverty.

But they also owned the music.

And they guarded their music with a pride that buoyed their spirits when the days grew long and the nights grew cold. Music gave people hope and hope was enough to survive in a grimy existence. We, white as the slave

massa

fresh off the prairie, were stealing that and it would take more than a good sound to convince our audience that we were worthy of this reggae honor.

I couldn’t blame them. The Creole community didn’t mix with the white. The Mayan community didn’t sit down to watch a game of American football with their landowners. The Garifuna with their drums and their

sere

entertained the white tourists and then went home to their dusty houses and hammocks. Our lines didn’t cross more often than that. It just didn’t happen.

There isn’t hate on either side, only a healthy respect for our differences that results in drawn lines and lots of ignorance.

Still, the racial divide couldn’t keep the three of us down for long, and

Dust and Ashes

soon gained a bit of a name as the “white reggae band”. Bar managers hired us as a kind of freak show side entertainment, but kept us on because we were good.

And we are.

I am 100% sure of that and the fact that we’re sort of getting a name for ourselves is proof.

“Thank God, they have a drum kit.” Trey twirls his drumsticks, a nervous habit. Even when his sticks are locked up somewhere, Trey uses slender, everyday items and turns them into instruments.

“They have pretty good speakers for a joint so…” I glance at the blue lights – sniff the stench of sweat, cigarettes, and bodily fluids – and try to find a word to describe it all.

“Rancid.” Will fills in for me.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Trey grins.

“Hey!” A voice calls to us through the crowd. We turn as one and greet a short Spanish man wearing a flower patterned shirt, khakis, and sandals. His wide, round cheeks are bunched high against his face as he observes us.

“Josè?” Trey addresses the guy.

Trey takes care of all our events. He’s got the time and the personality to deal with the bar managers and the business chops to fight for a fair price.

“Yeah,” Josè holds a brown beer bottle in his hands, “You the white boys?”

If we chose to be offended every time a manager called us “white boys” we’d never play another set.

“That’s us.” Trey hooks a thumb at his shirt. “You ready for us to get this place jamming.”

Josè smirks. He regards each of us slowly, starting from Will who is six feet three inches of pure, lean muscle to Trey, the stockier, dark haired brown eyed drummer and finally rests his gaze on me.

“Yeah,” He takes a swig of his drink, “Go ahead.”

We move quickly, allowing the DJ’s musical selections to cover our check of the mikes and instruments. We bring our own wires and speakers to every set. Visiting the ‘problem’ areas of Belize to test our sound didn’t rank high on our list of ‘Ways to Die’ so we usually pop two wires together a few minutes before our set and hope for the best. If the sound system at the event isn’t up to par, we make do with our own portable speakers.

It was a system that worked for us.

The stage is small and raised about six inches off the floor. Two huge monitor speakers are turned toward us while two more stand high on either side of the room.

Nice

.

I quickly unzip my guitar and plug it into the amp that I bought two years ago for my seventeenth birthday. I caress the smooth wood of my guitar and test the strings to ensure the keys are set.

I love this guitar. It’s a no-name brand that has a scar on the side from when I nearly bashed it into the gravel street after a gig back in December. The instrument has been with me since the beginning and though I would give anything to have a Gibson electric, I’m more than content.

“Yo,” Trey twirls his sticks and settles into the padding of the stool behind the huge drums, “those girls are totally checking us out, man.”

He nods toward a group of pretty older Spanish women. Their long, glossy hair curls around fair, thin shoulders. Their dark eyes are covered with makeup and their grins have the red kiss of dark lipstick. They are clearly inebriated. I am not flattered by their attention.

Drunk people fall in love with anybody.

“Focus.” Will orders the girl-crazy drummer.

Trey has been known to mess around quite a bit. He’s never allowed girls to get in the way of our band, so I don’t say anything, but his reputation at our sixth form starts with ‘ladies’ and ends with ‘man’.

I chuckle softly and adjust the stand holding the mike to my height. I’m three inches shorter than Will, but I’m not a small guy either.

“You guys ready?” I ask.

“Let’s do this thing!” Trey shakes his dark mane. He needs a haircut. Trey wouldn’t last one day with my parents. He’d be properly groomed, classically trained, and spitting A’s out of his butthole before the day was done.

I roll my eyes and nod. I feel the anticipation for a sweet pull of my drug coming on. It turns my body into a giant buzzing machine. I’m jittery and nervous, but calm and determined. This is where I am supposed to be. I grip the neck of my guitar and use my other hand to hold the mike.

“Good night,” I say confidently. I consider myself a shy person, everywhere except on stage. A few weak rings of greetings emerge from the crowd of about fifty patrons. Though the bright light of the overhead torch shines in my eyes, preventing me from distinguishing individual faces, I can feel the tension in the room.

And the hesitancy.

By the end of the night, the reluctance will fade. It’s a promise that I make to each and every person we play for.

I ignore the nerves frothing in my stomach and slide my hand over the neck of the guitar, holding my head up high.

“We’re

Dust and Ashes

, and tonight we’re going to rock your world just a little bit.”

That comment inspires laughter and some hooting sounds. Those originate from the drunken party at the front. I grip the guitar back even tighter and turn to Trey, nodding my head. My best friend taps the sticks in the beginning count.

One, two, three.

The bass and drums start out strong, crashing into the unsuspecting crowd with bombastic tenacity. I notice a few guys in the crowd standing straighter, tilting their heads and taking us seriously for the first time since we walked in. I smile.

Yeah, that’s right. These white boys didn’t come in here to play

.

I’m not ashamed of our sound. We worked on the set for hours, stitching up the show with a sprinkle of original songs mixed in with tried and true covers.

I grip the mike hard and sing. “

Every day I walked around thinking I was complete

.”

I wrote the lyrics to this song after a listening to a Tarrus Riley track. Reggae is smooth, perfect to sing of love and hope and dreams. I’ve never been in love, but I can imagine what it feels like and Trey’s hilarious attempts give me more than enough data to construct sound lines. As a song writer, I admit to stealing from poetry and music from the sixties. I bring the lyrics and Will and Trey brainstorm with me to figure out an original beat.

But I don’t think about that when I sing. I strip myself of all distractions and I immerse myself in the song. I sing the way an actor recites his script. Maybe I’ve never been in love, but I sing about it as though I’m head-over-heels, do or die in love with a girl. People may call me a hypocrite but when I’m singing those lines, I believe every word I say.

“And that’s why; I need you ba-bay.” I croon.

I see the dark shapes of figures swaying on the dance floor, being transported with me to a place where music connects us all. Will’s keyboard is heavy on the bass and thumps through the building, shaking the fake, gaudy chandeliers turned down to dim nothingness.

The atmosphere in the room has shifted. I know when we’re moving people and tonight, nobody is the same.

When we clear off the stage later that night, Trey collects our pay check. It’s a measly fifty bucks; barely enough to cover the cost of the gas we had to purchase to get here, but every transaction ignites a thirst in me and fans the flames of my ambition.

We don’t play for the money. In fact, we don’t need to be paid at all. All three of us have well-off parents who take care of our every need and purchase our instruments and speakers. We choose to play in smelly bars in front of half-drunk people, in seriously dangerous neighborhoods. We choose it because we love it.

Still, every payment proves that I can make a living from my passion and that’s what I’m about.

“You three, you’re something else.” Josè pokes a beefy finger at each of us in turn.

“We’re pretty awesome, huh?” Trey interprets the man’s words.

“You’re crazy.” Josè shakes his head, “Aren’t white people supposed to play rock and roll or something?”

Will’s lips thin, but he says nothing. It’s not every day that someone ticks off the big guy quite so easily. He must be having an offnight.

I answer for all of us, “We all love reggae. That’s what matters.”

His beady brown eyes focus in on me, “You’re a dreamer. I can smell it.”

I scoff. He’s bad news. I smell the stench of beer and desperation, but I’m too polite to point it out.

Josè imparts what he feels is a shock of great advice, “Dreams don’t get you anywhere, white boy. Don’t get you nothing but empty hands and shame.”

Nice to know

.

“Thanks, man.” I nod and accept the man’s words while internally, I throw it into the trash can along with my parent’s warnings and my piano teacher’s insults.

Josè turns to Trey, “I’ll keep in touch. I’d love to have you play again.”

Trey grins. “That can be arranged.”

We nod at Josè and grab our wires and speakers to load the truck. I feel empty but full. It makes no sense, but every time I sing, I know it’s what I’m supposed to be doing.

People like Josè can’t see what I can. I’ll bet on myself before I bet on him.