THE SCENE CHANGES
Google. (2026). Prompt: "beat up fender Stratocaster in a garbage can in a dirty alley" Retrieved from https://gemini.google.com
Fiction- guitarist in search of a Velvets vibe
by Jim Rader
(June 2026)
Once upon a rock 'n roll time, the club Louie Louie's became something of a Boston legend. Situated in a North End attic over a sporting goods store, the dive's upbeat vibe guaranteed a good time no matter who gigged there. Somehow, Louie Louie's held on to the spirit of the early '80s, a magical period that Terence dubbed "the good years."
A world class bassist, Terence was a sociable sort despite his rotund physique. We met in New York two years ago, my jangle band Blue Wicks billed with his Goth band La Bas, fronted by black-clad Natalie, the sister of Wicks co-leader Dan. Doubtless Terrence borrowed the name La Bas from an obscure decadent novel of the same name, his bandmates not as bookish. La Bas's state-of-the art equipment now seems quaint: Danny's electronic Simmons drums, guitarist Bob's rack. Despite his techno bend, Terrence dug my retro guitar style. Bob liked it too, and I politely returned the compliment, his effects-laden guitar hiding any talent he might have.
Though the gig went okay, I wanted out of New York and Blue Wicks, with Dan and I at loggerheads over the band's direction. Still, I attended Dan's post-gig party uptown. When a joint came his way, he pulled a face, yet took a hit to be sociable
In mid-'87, I moved to Boston in the hope of starting a new band. Natalie referred Mandi and I to a dirt-cheap boarding house in Cambridge. What a weird scene that was. Two months later Bob got us a decent apartment in Allston, an urban pocket between Boston University and Boston College. Bob was the super of two identical buildings opposite Herrell's Ice Cream and Ace Auto Parts.
Though La Bas had just put out their first album on Homestyle Records, Bob hadn't mentioned this success in our sole meet-up. His reticence baffled till I saw Homestyle's latest print ad: as the small indie label had signed too many new bands too fast, they probably hadn't received an advance.
But that wasn't it. One fair September eve, I took a stroll down Harvard Avenue, Mandi at her weekly Yoga Class in Cambridge. I passed by a double-parked Toyota full of noisy partying gals. "Hey Jim, over here!" one shouted. I turned around, it was Natalie, sticking her head through the shotgun window, a streetlight accenting her cocaine eyes and anemic pallor, her trademark crewcut replaced by a buzzcut.
"Hey Natalie, what's up."
"I heard you moved into Bob's building."
"News sure travels fast," I said, her friends laughing their asses off over something else.
"So how do you like Boston so far, Jim? Are you bored yet?"
"Yeah, I am, but New York got too exciting. I heard about your album, congratulations. What's next for La Bas?"
The carload stopped laughing. "Nothing," said Natalie. "The band broke up."
"What? Why?"
The gal behind the wheel revved the black Toyota's engine.
"Ask Bob," said Natalie, then the driver burned rubber.
Stunned, I hit Herrell's and ordered a malted vanilla shake. As I couldn't booze anymore, doctor's orders, I drank shakes instead.
As promised by Natalie, survival jobs in Boston were easily found. On her rec, I took a job in a Xerox store called Copy Cop. The pay wasn't bad, but the boss was a total asshole. Fortunately, I ran into Terrence in a used record store on Brighton Avenue.
"Cool seeing you again," he smiled. "How have things been going so far?"
"Not bad, but I need to change jobs. Any ideas?"
"Check out the temp agencies in Cambridge and downtown Boston. I lived off them for a year."
"Thanks, dude. Say, I heard La Bas broke up. What happened?"
"Well, it came out in the studio that Natalie is a weak guitarist. The engineer wanted to bring in a session guy to cover for her. She wouldn't have that, so we brought the guy in behind her back. Natalie didn't hear any difference 'cause her guitar playing is so basic. But when we hit Bunratty's to celebrate, Danny got so fucked up, he let it slip out. Natalie hit the ceiling. The master had already been sent to the pressing plant."
I laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, her brother played guitar just like her. So, who quit first?" "I did. Then Bob. Danny was on the fence for a week or so then he quit, too."
In a simpler world, Terrence, Bob and Danny would make up my new band. But it wasn't like they were The Three Musketeers, having met each other through Natalie. However convincing, Terence's explanation of La Bas's break-up merely scratched the surface. After one year on the club circuit, La Bas had come by an album deal, a premature success they likely couldn't handle.
To boot, Boston jangle bands Route 128 and Grey Leaves now played at a deafening level to fit into the trendy "noise rock" trend of Sonic Youth, Swans, et al, a feckless transition that smacked of desperation.
At Mandi's urging, I jammed with Bob and Terence---separately. Danny's recent hospitalization left him out of the picture, his jaw wired following a barroom brawl with three BC jocks.
I called Bob first: "Bob, you wanna jam sometime, see what happens?"
"Sure, dude. We can play as loud as we want in the basement."
When I told Mandi about the jam she clapped her hands, danced around. "Yeah, yeah, I bet you guys will sound great together!"
"Please, don't assume anything. Our styles are very different."
"Yeah, but who knows, you guys might come up with a new synthesis."
"We'll see."
Like many bassists, Terence stayed in the background onstage. Like most lead guitarists, Bob stood beside the lead singer onstage, his rockabilly look out-of-place.
Bob helped move my gear to the basement. We set up fast. He strummed an effects-laden G chord. I strummed the same chord, both of us already in tune.
"You know any Velvet Underground songs, Bob?"
"No, dude. I play my own way. I have my own chords."
"Your own chords, Bob? There's no such thing as your own chords. Say, let's play 'Heroin,' there's only two chords D and G."
I sang through his multidirectional mic. Right from the start, Mandi's "new synthesis" flew out the window, Bob's rack attack burying the song. We jammed for about twenty minutes, then I put down my axe.
"Bob, I'm sorry, it's just not happening. Our styles are too disparate."
"What do you mean 'desperate'?"
"No, no, dis-parate. It means we don't have much in common. By the way, you got any weed to sell?"
"Sorry to say I don't. I can get you some dynamite coke, though."
"Thanks, but no thanks. Cocaine makes me break out in hives."
He took this literally. "I hear you, dude. I'm allergic to red meat myself."
I got Terrence's number from Natalie. Interestingly, he'd been jamming with a free jazz saxist named Ahmed. The three of us jammed in Ahmed's Allston apartment. Terence brought along his cassette recorder and drum machine, a cylindrical thing that could've passed as a space heater. Alto saxist Ahmed looked like a jazz musician: close cropped hair, yellow turtleneck, casual suede shoes.
We improvised for an hour. Terrence played back a bit of the tape. As it sounded promising, we agreed to meet up again, but no specific plan was made.
Next day, Terrence phoned. "Ahmed and I listened to the whole tape last night. I think we might have something."
"I think so too, Terrence, but it's just too much of a switch for me."
"Okay, I understand. But should you change your mind, please act fast, I got to start gigging again soon or I'll go nuts."
My Boston connections played out, I put an ad in the alternative paper The Boston Phoenix:: "Indie singer-songwriter-guitarist needs a bassist and drummer for new band. Must be into The Velvet Underground."
The ad drew a young bassist named Jerry, a student at the Berklee College of Music. We jammed in his Fenway apartment. Jerry liked my songs and came up with parts just like that. However, he came off sheltered, a product of the suburbs.
"Let's take a break," he said. "I just bought these great stereo speakers. Wait till you hear The Velvets through them."
Jerry played the first track of The Velvets' first album, the spacey ballad "Sunday Morning."
"Sounds great, Jerry. You can hear everything clearly."
"Cale's viola is in the mix. It got buried in my old speakers."
"Oh, I caught that viola part a long time ago, when I was high."
"When you were high? On what?" he interrogated.
"Don't worry Jerry, it was just weed. Speaking of which, do you know where I can get some?"
"No, I don't," he snipped then his phone rang. "Yes, hello Wanda...of course I'll go, I'm still a big fan...okay, see you there." He disconnected. "Hey, you wanna go see Grey Leaves with us? They're playing Bunratty's tonight, in Allston. You can walk it."
"I don't think so," I snipped. "I saw the new Grey Leaves a few weeks ago. They're too loud now, they gave me a fucking headache."
Jerry looked hurt. "No harm in asking," he muttered.
"Sorry for being so blunt. You wanna play again, Jerry? How 'bout sometime next week?'
"I don't know, I'll have to check my calendar."
"Cool. Give me a call after you sort it out."
"Sure thing, Jim."
We played again in his place. The music still sounded good, but my parting shot didn't set well with the priggish Velvets fan. My hands shaking, I gave him a flyer that solicited drummers. "Here, you can post this one in Berklee. I already put some up in Allston."
Jerry read aloud the flyer's headline, "'Drummer needed for jangle band,'" then wearily gave the flyer back: "Jim, I'm sorry, but I really can't do a band now. I'm here to go to school."
"Then why did you answer my ad?"
"Look, I'm sorry. If it hadn't been for Wanda, I wouldn't have called you."
"What's Wanda got to do with it?"
"She's been bugging me to join a band," he confessed: "But don't worry, dude, you'll find a better fit sooner or later."
"Oh, shut up," I said, crumpling the flyer into a ball which I threw at his Converse hi-tops, slamming the door on my way out.
Though this fizz-out hurt it got Mandi off my back for a while. But I probably would've gone through the same wringer without her. Giving up rock was as hard as giving up drinking.
One evening, a local TV station ran a half-hour "special report" on Boston's crumbing club scene. A bunch of local indie stars performed, uniting as one for their rendition of the Kinks' oldie "Where Have All The Good Times Gone?"
"At least they're acknowledging the slump here," said Mandi. "That's more than you can say for New York."
"Mandi, the scene is not just in a 'slump', it is over. In '84, Dick Clark had PiL on American Bandstand. One year later, he had that shitty corporate band Cock Robin on his show."
"Oh, you're such a defeatist."
The phone rang. I picked up. "Hello, this is Jim."
"Hi dude, my name is Woody Johnston. I saw your flyer in Store 24 on Harvard Avenue."
"Huh, I thought they took it down."
Woody chuckled. "It was buried under another flyer."
"Oh. Are you a drummer or a bassist, Woody?"
"Neither. I play synth, sorta like Eno when he was in Roxy Music. Does Saturday work for you, say, around two?"
"Whoa, slow down. Did you read the whole ad? The Velvet Underground did not have a synth player."
"That's because synthesizers hadn't been invented yet, heh heh. Roxy had one, though. Did you know Bryan Ferry cited Lou Reed as a major influence?"
"Yeah, I do know, but he was talking about songwriting, not sound."
It went back and forth, back and forth till I caved. I had to play with the dude at least once or I'd never hear the end of it. The name "Woody" said it. Like that obnoxious cartoon character Woody Woodpecker, Woody Johnston kept pecking me.
Saturday afternoon, Woody showed on the dot, a tall lumbering dude with a classic preppy look: khakis, sockless moccasins, an old white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. As advertised, he played like early Eno, but too much so, copying his mentor's electronic whoops and screams to the letter.
During a break, he said, "You know, I ran into Terence Higgins the other day. He said you were too picky."
"Aren't we all. So, what's good ol' Terence been up to lately?"
"Didn't you hear? He, Bob Russo, and a guy named Lester have a new band called Repent Harlequin. Do you get that name, Jim? I sure as hell don't."
"It's the title of an old sci fi novel. Terrence reads a lot. So, there's no drummer?"
"No not just yet. For now, they're using Terrence's drum machine. It's mostly Lester's songs, typical gloom rock. His vocals aren't bad, but he copies Ian Curtis too much."
We played a bit more then Woody Woodpecker tried talking me into another jam. I said I'd think about it.
Two days later, Bob dropped by with Repent Harlequin's demo cassette. Soon as he split, Mandi played the demo, and Woody's mixed review came to mind.
"Hey, they're really good!" exulted Mandi.
"Be that as it may, they could do with a real drummer."
Repent Harlequin landed their first gig fast, a weeknight at The Rat, Boston's very own CBGB. As the gig drew near, Bob dropped by again, this time with two homemade hand puppets, a devil and an angel. He and Mandi fooled around with them for a few minutes.
"Is this your new hobby, Bob?" I asked.
"Sorta. I'm gonna do a little show for the kids in my church. I wanted to bring the puppets onstage, but Terence and Lester didn't go for it."
"You're going to church?"
"Yep, no more liquor or drugs for me. You should try it."
Bob then invited us to a Baptist church service in Brookline. He got a flat no. Soon as he was out the door Mandi said he'd gone insane.
On a brisk Wednesday night Mand and I took the Green Line to The Rat.
"Why so down, Jimbo?" she probed. "Do you feel left behind?"
"Quite the contrary, I'm glad things didn't work out with those two. The only reason they're doing this is to be in a band. I feel kinda sorry for Lester, it's probably his first band."
Repent Harlequin played for a handful of friends. "We should've known/ Our love was doomed," crooned Lester.
Their second and last gig took place in Louie Louie's. It was Saturday so they drew better or I should say Louie's drew better. A bunch of regulars went there for the dive's good timey vibe, a casual yet attentive audience. Tonight's bill made no sense musically, Repent Harlequin sandwiched between the punky Organ Doners and the acidic Vivisect.
On the ride home, Mandi said, "See, they were better tonight, weren't they?"
"Yeah, they loosened up. Still need a real drummer, though."
Soon, it was November in Boston. Our living room radiator erratic, I called Bob.
"It needs a new pressure cap," he huffed. "I can't go to the hardware store till tomorrow, too many chores. I'll bring up a space heater to tide you over."
"Thanks. Say, what's up, dude, you look bummed out."
"Oh, I had to quit the band. Lester's a lousy musician. Terrence shoved him down my throat."
"So, what's next?" asked Mandi.
"Like, nothing's next, at least on this scene. My pastor said I should check out Christian rock."
Later that month, Bob invited us to the debut of Brain Fever, Woody and Terrence's super-duo.
"Danny's gonna be there," he cheerily added. "He's okay now."
"Cool. 'Brain Fever,' huh? Only Woody could come up with a name like that."
"Yeah, it's his trip, alright. You know, he tried talking me into it. He's a good musician, but his personality was too much for me."
"So, why bother going to his gig?"
"For laughs, dude."
Smiling slightly, Mandi said, "That's not a very Christian attitude, Bob."
"Yeah, I know, I'm backsliding, but so long as I stay clean and sober, the Lord will let this one go. Get this, Terrence said they'll be wearing costumes."
"Costumes? Now, that I gotta see."
Brain Fever's debut took place in Louie Louie's attic venue, the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We expected slight turnout, but Woody brought in a bunch of yuppie friends. Mandi away visiting her folks, Bob, Danny and I stood far away from the stage, by the bar, savoring the sheer awfulness of first band My Mother's Dream. They wrapped up their last song "Don't Waste Time" with an endless synth solo, their Izod clad lead singer happily prancing around.
"A young businessman on the go," cracked Danny.
"Glad you're up and around, Danny," I said. "Is that a rum and Coke you're drinking?"
"No rum, dude. I quit drinking after the BC incident. I got so fucked up that night I called those jocks every name in the book. Yeah, I started it and they finished it. I heard you quit drinking, too." "Yeah, had to. It was running me down."
There was no hiatus between bands at Louie's. My Mothers Dream took down their gear then Brain Fever set up. Woody waved to his friends then he and Terrence rushed into the tiny dressing room opposite the stage.
"Oh brother, they're gonna make us wait," said Danny.
Bob: "Relax, they'll be out in a few minutes. They're just changing into their costumes."
Woody introed Brain Fever offstage, through an unseen treated mic that made him sound like a groggy alien: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight you will be blown away by the cosmic sounds of Bra-a-a-ain Fever." The groggy voice winded down like a phonograph caught in a power outage. On came Terrence, his massive gut emphasized by an off-white thermal body suit, his headwear two floppy papier mache antlers with toy eyeballs.
Bob and Danny giggled like bad little boys. I wished the floor would swallow me. Then Woody came on. Shamelessly stage-struck, he pulled out all the stops, playing the synth with his foot, his elbow, even his ass, warbling through another treated mic.
"Impressive," cracked Danny.
"De-pressive is more like it," I argued.
Now and then the music compelled, but two of Woody's friends, a young couple, left early, politely waving to Mr. Brain Fever.
"Wow, a walkout," said Bob.
"Yeah, and I'm next," I said. "I can't face Terrence after this."
I ran into Bob in Herrell's the next day.
"So did you stick around for the grand finale, Bob?"
"Aw, you missed it, Woody played the keyboard with his face."
