January 13th & 14th, 1972
Though it had been less than four weeks since we’d last been in the French capital, the Parisians had come out in droves to see Amoeba.
Dale's sister had also come to the venue— arriving moments before soundcheck— though she certainly wasn't here for the concert itself. I’d kept Sandra company with light-hearted chitchat, but we often paused to listen to the men’s banter as they fiddled with their instruments onstage.
The siblings seemed pleased to see each other, and had now been in another room down the hall for around twenty minutes. There had been a slight issue found during soundcheck that Cameron and Lee were now attending to, along with one of the equipment techs, so I kept myself occupied with the drinks table.
I’d just filled a paper cup with water when Colin’s loud laughter made me turn my attention to him, only to see Willie pointing at him menacingly.
“Careful,” the guitarist warned. “I might decide on some fun and garrote you with my spare strings.” Willie’s impish smile was bright with amusement as he pointed away from Colin and to one of his guitar cases.
Colin lifted his drumsticks and beat the air playfully. “Just say you’ll strangle me, don’t be fancy about it,” he retorted with a cackle.
I watched, very entertained by the show, but their antics were soon stopped by Harry. “Save it for that Irishman down the boulevard, you two. I was worried he’d grab our punters and I think he might have.”
“Which Irishman?” I chimed in, approaching the trio.
Willie spoke first. “Buchanan, the blues rocker. But his show’s only tomorrow, isn’t it?” he added, looking at Harry, who nodded.
“It is,” he replied, “but I’d bet there’s not too many Parisians who could afford his show and ours in one week.”
It took me a few seconds longer than I’d have liked, but the Irishman was still being discussed when I realized why his name was so familiar to me.
“Are you telling me that Peter Buchanan’s Roundup is playing a show tomorrow, a few blocks away?” I’d interrupted Colin, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, that’s him,” Harry muttered. “Why?”
“He’s good,” I replied. “I mean, for a white boy to be playing the blues like that…”
Peter Buchanan’s Roundup had gained popularity in the last year or so, but he’d been playing in one band or another for half of the last decade. His current band was a trio; their new album had come out recently and I’d quite enjoyed the energetic mix of blues, rock’n’roll, and electrified folk— I even wrote it in my journal, as an album to buy once we’d gotten back home.
“You think you could get tickets?” I asked Harry. “I don’t think Sandra’s had a Friday night out in a long time, and we don’t leave for Lille until Sunday, anyway.”
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Colin spoke up, dramatically indignant. “You would betray us like that, Emily? Really?”
“It’s not betrayal,” I retorted. “I haven’t seen a headliner other than you in a year, and I’d bet my little toe that Sandra needs a night out.”
Harry sighed. “I could likely manage to squeeze two tickets out of them.”
“Great!”
“Do me a favour, Emily, and get up close to them.” Willie leaned towards me, looking mischievous. “Real close, I mean. Then spit on 'em.”
“No!” I only managed that one word before laughing; Willie looked pleased with himself and his excitement passed to Colin.
“Oh! Maybe we could get her a slingshot and she could piss in a cup and fling it onto the stage!”
Willie had been listening intently. “That might just work.”
“What is wrong with you two!” I demanded, though I had to admit they were being funny.
Colin turned to me with a serious face. “We’re forward thinkers.”
“You’re fuckin’ idiots, that’s what!”
I was relieved with the lack of people backstage, and made myself comfortable on one of the couches. On this leg of the tour, it seemed that we couldn’t escape from the constant surge of people wanting to mingle with Amoeba and get in on the action.
Cameron walked over, sitting down next to me and offering his drink. “A sip?”
“Sure.” I took the glass from him and fought against a rising cough; it was stronger than I’d expected.
“Dale seems glad to see Sandra.” Cameron took the glass back and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply. “Quite a change from the last time.”
“I’d say so,” I mumbled.
At the moment, Dale was chatting enthusiastically with one of the venue’s staff, Sandra beside him providing periodic translation. Cameron and I had been the only two people to know the full truth of what had happened when Sandra last visited— during the Missing Persons tour— and it hadn’t been easy to juggle that situation with the many others we’d encountered in the tail end of 1970.
But now, seeing them during a time of peace between siblings, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the distance between me and my own sister. It had only been two months since I’d seen Liliane, and paraded her around with as much pride as Dale currently was with Sandra, and I found myself feeling as if I’d left her out of my life.
I knew that wasn’t really the case, but the physical distance between us couldn’t be ignored. I sent at least one postcard every week, if not two, and I called her as often as I could— granted, our time zones and schedules didn’t always match up.
I last spoke to her on Sunday. It was mid-afternoon and we’d just arrived at the hotel in Lyon, where I opted to stay behind when the guys went out for lunch. I was determined to keep calling until she picked up the phone; not only was it her birthday but I hadn’t yet told her that Cameron proposed to me three days earlier.
“Hey, sis, happy birthday,” I told her excitedly, the moment she'd said hello. “How has your day been?”
“Emily, hey!” Liliane sounded happy to hear from me, and I smiled despite the distance between us. “It's been good, thank you. How are things in Lyon?”
“Not too bad. There's a small issue of some sort but Harry's taking care of it. How do you know we're in Lyon?” I asked, wondering if she'd begun to write city names on her calendar.
Liliane giggled before giving a short explanation. “Lee told me.”
“He already called you?”
“An hour or so before you all left Marseille.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, doing the math in my head. “He beat me to it by eight hours?”
“Don't worry too much, Emily,” Liliane mumbled. “It was more of a regular call than just for my birthday.”
“You miss him too,” I noted quietly.
“I miss all of you,” came her reply. “But yeah, I miss him too.”
“Well,” I began, looking closely at the ring on my hand, “I have some good news and some bad news.” I couldn't resist a little toying, and decided to stretch out my announcement.
Liliane's tone barely flinched. “Bad news first.”
“You're going to have to take some time off work in a few months. Once the tour ends.”
“Why?” she asked slowly, clearly suspicious.
“Well, Lee can't go to a wedding without a date,” I scoffed. “That would just be embarrassing for him.”
“Whose wedding is he going to?”
“Mine.”
“You’re joking,” she muttered; though she quickly spoke louder. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I smiled widely, and heard the joy in my voice when I spoke.
“God, Emily, I’m so happy for you!” Liliane’s excitement wasn’t raucous, but the tone she’d used showed her sincerity. “I’ll be there whenever you want me to be.”
I was pulled from my thoughts when Harry shouted for the band to head onstage. Cameron finished his drink and stood up, pausing only to give me a fleeting kiss and his empty glass, before making his way over to the hallway the rest of the band had disappeared into.
The dressing room quickly emptied of people, with most having gone off to man their stations— whether that was lighting, the soundboard, or anything else on a long list of duties, I didn't know.
"Where's the fire?" Sandra asked in French, a chuckle following the question.
"On the stage." I set the glass down, then moved to the hallway entrance and beckoned her towards me. "I'll show you how I like to watch them."
"And how's that?"
I led Sandra towards the stage; we could hear the last-minute tuning and I answered her just as her brother's voice rose, greeting the crowd enthusiastically.
"Sidestage, my friend."
Harry did manage to get tickets for the Roundup concert— not that I’d expected anything less from him, he seemed to have friends everywhere— and hand-delivered them to me Friday afternoon.
Cameron wished us a good time, and let me know that he’d be in the hotel bar by the time I’d get back. “If you don’t find me there,” he reassured, “I’ll be in the room.”
Sandra’s knowledge of Paris came in handy, too, as her choice of restaurant for dinner was celebrating their “vendredi variété,” an evening of hot and cold finger foods and appetizers.
“I’m here once every week, now that I’ve moved.” Sandra brought a rolled slice of salami to her mouth and chewed. “I couldn’t stand being in that house any longer. At least a small apartment around here isn’t as much hassle, and the owner does all the maintenance,” she added.
“How are you finding it? The lone apartment life,” I wondered aloud.
“It took adjusting, that’s for sure.” Sandra shrugged, popping another crudité into her mouth. “It helps, though. That I don’t live in our house anymore.”
I nodded sympathetically. The date that would mark two years since Sandra’s husband fleeing with their daughter— and returning without her— was fast approaching. I could only imagine the pain that that had caused her, though sometimes, the shadow of grief was clear on her features.
“I’m happy you invited me out, Emily,” she said to me, perhaps sensing my own slight unease. “I’ve seen a few plays since moving to the city but no concerts.”
I smiled. “Well, I think you’ll like this one. Dale mentioned to me that you were a fan of The Blues Cut Quartet back in the day, and Peter Buchanan was the guitar player for them for a while.”
“Was he?” she asked excitedly. “I used to have their posters on my wall,” she laughed.
I nodded with a smile. “When he left them, he started up his own band and that’s Roundup.”
“I’m even more excited now,” she admitted with a laugh. “My brother might forget birthdays and appointments, but it’s just like him to remember something like that!”
“Oh, so forgetting appointments isn’t a new thing?” I laughed.
“No, not new at all,” Sandra told me. “That reminds me,” she added as an afterthought, “I wanted to thank you. When Dale and I had a chance to talk last night, he pulled out a scrap of paper with little notes on it and said you suggested it to him.”
Though she’d meant it as a statement, I could hear the silent questions she had. “I did, yeah,” I nodded. “He told me that he was worried about saying things properly. Being eloquent, you know? Having a little tact.”
“He can forget about the niceties sometimes,” she agreed.
“Everyone can.” I shrugged. “So I said it might help to write everything down and gather his thoughts, and there’d be no shame in having that letter with him.”
Smiling, Sandra thanked me again. “He’s a good brother, even if I want to smack him sometimes. And you’re a good friend, Emily. To both of us.”
We arrived at the venue just before seven o’clock and joined the growing line out front. Conversations popped up around us and we joined in a few, though once seven-thirty rolled around and the doors opened, most chatter stopped in anticipation of the show.
I had tied a very small waistpack under my shirt to keep a few things— namely an ID and bank card, cash— at hand, and lifted the hem of my shirt to reach in and grab our tickets.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice earlier!” Sandra gasped, taking my left hand in hers. She looked closely at the engagement ring and congratulated me. “I’m very glad for the both of you,” she smiled, “and you’ll tell Cameron too, that I wish you both the best.”
“I will, and thank you,” I told her, just as I handed our tickets to the man at the door. He used his hole-puncher on each ticket and handed them back to us. I thanked him and turned back to Sandra. “Come on, we’ll grab a good spot.”
“Whichever song is next,” I warned Sandra, “you’re dancing to it!”
She looked at the stage nervously, watching the three members of Roundup ready themselves for the next song. “I am dancing!”
“No, you’re not,” I laughed, taking her hands in mine and lifting her arms up. “You’re too stiff, loosen up!”
The musicians began playing and the rush of noise was impossible for me to resist. I knew Peter Buchanan’s concerts could last over two hours and a glance at my watch confirmed it was just past ten, but I’d had enough of Sandra’s near-mechanical dancing.
“Come on,” I shouted, though she couldn’t hear me if she wanted to. I grabbed her hand and led us through the audience, gentle prodding and zig-zag manoeuvres eventually landing us in the first few rows. “Watch me and do the same,” I yelled over the music, but added hand gestures to make sure she understood.
With my announcement made I started to dance, my movements dictated by the wail of Peter’s guitar onstage. Once I broke through Sandra’s shield and made her laugh, she started swaying more freely and by the end of the song we were both jumping around, dancing wildly.
I caught the bass player’s eye and grinned widely at him; he gave me a thumbs up and shook his hips as he played a few notes.
Buchanan stepped up to the microphone, drenched in sweat but smiling madly. “We’ve got one more number for you tonight and we hope you like it. This one’s a bee-cee-cue oldie!”
The last song of the main set was from his days in the Blues Cut Quartet, but proved to be far from the last song of the night. After leaving the stage, the trio returned for three songs and then another encore of two, before finally calling it a night.
“That was wonderful,” Sandra raved. “I haven’t had this much fun all year!”
“It’s the second week of January,” I pointed out, laughing. “The year’s just started.”
“The other fifty weeks will have something to live up to, then,” she shrugged.
An idea came to mind as she said that, and I pulled her to the side of the column of people leaving the venue. “Wanna tell him that yourself?”
“Who?” Sandra stared.
“Buchanan.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, no, I couldn’t possibly tell him directly,” she insisted.
“I’ll tell him for you.”
“What? Come back!” Sandra grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks. “Where are you going?”
“Backstage,” I told her simply, then felt the urge to relieve her of some worry. “I want to know where the bassist got his shoes, they’re funky as hell.”
With that, Sandra gave in, and followed me around the main hall into the corridors, where soon enough we found the band’s dressing room. I asked the first technician to pass by if the band was in a chatting mood and got the reply I wanted: “When doesn’t Peter want to chat?”
Without looking too worked up about it, I made my way over to the guitarist and thanked him for the show. “You guys put on a great show,” I assured him. “You can get that guitar to wail like nobody’s business!”
“I appreciate that,” he smiled, holding his arm out and shaking my hand. “Why don’t you two sit down and join us? We’re lingering here for a bit and you’re welcome to have something to drink.”
It was half past eleven when we took our leave and nearing midnight once the taxi arrived at our hotel. Sandra made her way upstairs to her brother’s room— Dale had made a point about having a room with two beds so he could host his sister— and I took a quick walk to the main floor bar.
“He left around an hour ago, I’d say,” the bartender told me, glancing at the clock to jog his memory. “Don’t know where to,” he added.
I knew, however, and after thanking the bartender I went upstairs to my room; finding Cameron there, just like he said he’d be.
“Hey, you’re back,” he greeted me with a smile. “Did you have fun?”
“Lots. It was a great show,” I answered, wrapping my arms around him and placing a sweet kiss on his lips.
“You taste like beer,” Cameron murmured.
“That’s all they had backstage.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You met them?”
I nodded, humming as I did so. “And I’ve got their manager’s number in my pocket,” I added, “but it’s for Lee.”
“Is it? Speaking of Lee,” Cameron said as he released me from the hug, “he gave me a letter for your sister.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. At least we’re here another night before we head north, that’ll give me enough time to write a letter for her too.”
Dale's sister had also come to the venue— arriving moments before soundcheck— though she certainly wasn't here for the concert itself. I’d kept Sandra company with light-hearted chitchat, but we often paused to listen to the men’s banter as they fiddled with their instruments onstage.
The siblings seemed pleased to see each other, and had now been in another room down the hall for around twenty minutes. There had been a slight issue found during soundcheck that Cameron and Lee were now attending to, along with one of the equipment techs, so I kept myself occupied with the drinks table.
I’d just filled a paper cup with water when Colin’s loud laughter made me turn my attention to him, only to see Willie pointing at him menacingly.
“Careful,” the guitarist warned. “I might decide on some fun and garrote you with my spare strings.” Willie’s impish smile was bright with amusement as he pointed away from Colin and to one of his guitar cases.
Colin lifted his drumsticks and beat the air playfully. “Just say you’ll strangle me, don’t be fancy about it,” he retorted with a cackle.
I watched, very entertained by the show, but their antics were soon stopped by Harry. “Save it for that Irishman down the boulevard, you two. I was worried he’d grab our punters and I think he might have.”
“Which Irishman?” I chimed in, approaching the trio.
Willie spoke first. “Buchanan, the blues rocker. But his show’s only tomorrow, isn’t it?” he added, looking at Harry, who nodded.
“It is,” he replied, “but I’d bet there’s not too many Parisians who could afford his show and ours in one week.”
It took me a few seconds longer than I’d have liked, but the Irishman was still being discussed when I realized why his name was so familiar to me.
“Are you telling me that Peter Buchanan’s Roundup is playing a show tomorrow, a few blocks away?” I’d interrupted Colin, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, that’s him,” Harry muttered. “Why?”
“He’s good,” I replied. “I mean, for a white boy to be playing the blues like that…”
Peter Buchanan’s Roundup had gained popularity in the last year or so, but he’d been playing in one band or another for half of the last decade. His current band was a trio; their new album had come out recently and I’d quite enjoyed the energetic mix of blues, rock’n’roll, and electrified folk— I even wrote it in my journal, as an album to buy once we’d gotten back home.
“You think you could get tickets?” I asked Harry. “I don’t think Sandra’s had a Friday night out in a long time, and we don’t leave for Lille until Sunday, anyway.”
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Colin spoke up, dramatically indignant. “You would betray us like that, Emily? Really?”
“It’s not betrayal,” I retorted. “I haven’t seen a headliner other than you in a year, and I’d bet my little toe that Sandra needs a night out.”
Harry sighed. “I could likely manage to squeeze two tickets out of them.”
“Great!”
“Do me a favour, Emily, and get up close to them.” Willie leaned towards me, looking mischievous. “Real close, I mean. Then spit on 'em.”
“No!” I only managed that one word before laughing; Willie looked pleased with himself and his excitement passed to Colin.
“Oh! Maybe we could get her a slingshot and she could piss in a cup and fling it onto the stage!”
Willie had been listening intently. “That might just work.”
“What is wrong with you two!” I demanded, though I had to admit they were being funny.
Colin turned to me with a serious face. “We’re forward thinkers.”
“You’re fuckin’ idiots, that’s what!”
I was relieved with the lack of people backstage, and made myself comfortable on one of the couches. On this leg of the tour, it seemed that we couldn’t escape from the constant surge of people wanting to mingle with Amoeba and get in on the action.
Cameron walked over, sitting down next to me and offering his drink. “A sip?”
“Sure.” I took the glass from him and fought against a rising cough; it was stronger than I’d expected.
“Dale seems glad to see Sandra.” Cameron took the glass back and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply. “Quite a change from the last time.”
“I’d say so,” I mumbled.
At the moment, Dale was chatting enthusiastically with one of the venue’s staff, Sandra beside him providing periodic translation. Cameron and I had been the only two people to know the full truth of what had happened when Sandra last visited— during the Missing Persons tour— and it hadn’t been easy to juggle that situation with the many others we’d encountered in the tail end of 1970.
But now, seeing them during a time of peace between siblings, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the distance between me and my own sister. It had only been two months since I’d seen Liliane, and paraded her around with as much pride as Dale currently was with Sandra, and I found myself feeling as if I’d left her out of my life.
I knew that wasn’t really the case, but the physical distance between us couldn’t be ignored. I sent at least one postcard every week, if not two, and I called her as often as I could— granted, our time zones and schedules didn’t always match up.
I last spoke to her on Sunday. It was mid-afternoon and we’d just arrived at the hotel in Lyon, where I opted to stay behind when the guys went out for lunch. I was determined to keep calling until she picked up the phone; not only was it her birthday but I hadn’t yet told her that Cameron proposed to me three days earlier.
“Hey, sis, happy birthday,” I told her excitedly, the moment she'd said hello. “How has your day been?”
“Emily, hey!” Liliane sounded happy to hear from me, and I smiled despite the distance between us. “It's been good, thank you. How are things in Lyon?”
“Not too bad. There's a small issue of some sort but Harry's taking care of it. How do you know we're in Lyon?” I asked, wondering if she'd begun to write city names on her calendar.
Liliane giggled before giving a short explanation. “Lee told me.”
“He already called you?”
“An hour or so before you all left Marseille.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, doing the math in my head. “He beat me to it by eight hours?”
“Don't worry too much, Emily,” Liliane mumbled. “It was more of a regular call than just for my birthday.”
“You miss him too,” I noted quietly.
“I miss all of you,” came her reply. “But yeah, I miss him too.”
“Well,” I began, looking closely at the ring on my hand, “I have some good news and some bad news.” I couldn't resist a little toying, and decided to stretch out my announcement.
Liliane's tone barely flinched. “Bad news first.”
“You're going to have to take some time off work in a few months. Once the tour ends.”
“Why?” she asked slowly, clearly suspicious.
“Well, Lee can't go to a wedding without a date,” I scoffed. “That would just be embarrassing for him.”
“Whose wedding is he going to?”
“Mine.”
“You’re joking,” she muttered; though she quickly spoke louder. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I smiled widely, and heard the joy in my voice when I spoke.
“God, Emily, I’m so happy for you!” Liliane’s excitement wasn’t raucous, but the tone she’d used showed her sincerity. “I’ll be there whenever you want me to be.”
I was pulled from my thoughts when Harry shouted for the band to head onstage. Cameron finished his drink and stood up, pausing only to give me a fleeting kiss and his empty glass, before making his way over to the hallway the rest of the band had disappeared into.
The dressing room quickly emptied of people, with most having gone off to man their stations— whether that was lighting, the soundboard, or anything else on a long list of duties, I didn't know.
"Where's the fire?" Sandra asked in French, a chuckle following the question.
"On the stage." I set the glass down, then moved to the hallway entrance and beckoned her towards me. "I'll show you how I like to watch them."
"And how's that?"
I led Sandra towards the stage; we could hear the last-minute tuning and I answered her just as her brother's voice rose, greeting the crowd enthusiastically.
"Sidestage, my friend."
Harry did manage to get tickets for the Roundup concert— not that I’d expected anything less from him, he seemed to have friends everywhere— and hand-delivered them to me Friday afternoon.
Cameron wished us a good time, and let me know that he’d be in the hotel bar by the time I’d get back. “If you don’t find me there,” he reassured, “I’ll be in the room.”
Sandra’s knowledge of Paris came in handy, too, as her choice of restaurant for dinner was celebrating their “vendredi variété,” an evening of hot and cold finger foods and appetizers.
“I’m here once every week, now that I’ve moved.” Sandra brought a rolled slice of salami to her mouth and chewed. “I couldn’t stand being in that house any longer. At least a small apartment around here isn’t as much hassle, and the owner does all the maintenance,” she added.
“How are you finding it? The lone apartment life,” I wondered aloud.
“It took adjusting, that’s for sure.” Sandra shrugged, popping another crudité into her mouth. “It helps, though. That I don’t live in our house anymore.”
I nodded sympathetically. The date that would mark two years since Sandra’s husband fleeing with their daughter— and returning without her— was fast approaching. I could only imagine the pain that that had caused her, though sometimes, the shadow of grief was clear on her features.
“I’m happy you invited me out, Emily,” she said to me, perhaps sensing my own slight unease. “I’ve seen a few plays since moving to the city but no concerts.”
I smiled. “Well, I think you’ll like this one. Dale mentioned to me that you were a fan of The Blues Cut Quartet back in the day, and Peter Buchanan was the guitar player for them for a while.”
“Was he?” she asked excitedly. “I used to have their posters on my wall,” she laughed.
I nodded with a smile. “When he left them, he started up his own band and that’s Roundup.”
“I’m even more excited now,” she admitted with a laugh. “My brother might forget birthdays and appointments, but it’s just like him to remember something like that!”
“Oh, so forgetting appointments isn’t a new thing?” I laughed.
“No, not new at all,” Sandra told me. “That reminds me,” she added as an afterthought, “I wanted to thank you. When Dale and I had a chance to talk last night, he pulled out a scrap of paper with little notes on it and said you suggested it to him.”
Though she’d meant it as a statement, I could hear the silent questions she had. “I did, yeah,” I nodded. “He told me that he was worried about saying things properly. Being eloquent, you know? Having a little tact.”
“He can forget about the niceties sometimes,” she agreed.
“Everyone can.” I shrugged. “So I said it might help to write everything down and gather his thoughts, and there’d be no shame in having that letter with him.”
Smiling, Sandra thanked me again. “He’s a good brother, even if I want to smack him sometimes. And you’re a good friend, Emily. To both of us.”
We arrived at the venue just before seven o’clock and joined the growing line out front. Conversations popped up around us and we joined in a few, though once seven-thirty rolled around and the doors opened, most chatter stopped in anticipation of the show.
I had tied a very small waistpack under my shirt to keep a few things— namely an ID and bank card, cash— at hand, and lifted the hem of my shirt to reach in and grab our tickets.
“I can’t believe I didn’t notice earlier!” Sandra gasped, taking my left hand in hers. She looked closely at the engagement ring and congratulated me. “I’m very glad for the both of you,” she smiled, “and you’ll tell Cameron too, that I wish you both the best.”
“I will, and thank you,” I told her, just as I handed our tickets to the man at the door. He used his hole-puncher on each ticket and handed them back to us. I thanked him and turned back to Sandra. “Come on, we’ll grab a good spot.”
“Whichever song is next,” I warned Sandra, “you’re dancing to it!”
She looked at the stage nervously, watching the three members of Roundup ready themselves for the next song. “I am dancing!”
“No, you’re not,” I laughed, taking her hands in mine and lifting her arms up. “You’re too stiff, loosen up!”
The musicians began playing and the rush of noise was impossible for me to resist. I knew Peter Buchanan’s concerts could last over two hours and a glance at my watch confirmed it was just past ten, but I’d had enough of Sandra’s near-mechanical dancing.
“Come on,” I shouted, though she couldn’t hear me if she wanted to. I grabbed her hand and led us through the audience, gentle prodding and zig-zag manoeuvres eventually landing us in the first few rows. “Watch me and do the same,” I yelled over the music, but added hand gestures to make sure she understood.
With my announcement made I started to dance, my movements dictated by the wail of Peter’s guitar onstage. Once I broke through Sandra’s shield and made her laugh, she started swaying more freely and by the end of the song we were both jumping around, dancing wildly.
I caught the bass player’s eye and grinned widely at him; he gave me a thumbs up and shook his hips as he played a few notes.
Buchanan stepped up to the microphone, drenched in sweat but smiling madly. “We’ve got one more number for you tonight and we hope you like it. This one’s a bee-cee-cue oldie!”
The last song of the main set was from his days in the Blues Cut Quartet, but proved to be far from the last song of the night. After leaving the stage, the trio returned for three songs and then another encore of two, before finally calling it a night.
“That was wonderful,” Sandra raved. “I haven’t had this much fun all year!”
“It’s the second week of January,” I pointed out, laughing. “The year’s just started.”
“The other fifty weeks will have something to live up to, then,” she shrugged.
An idea came to mind as she said that, and I pulled her to the side of the column of people leaving the venue. “Wanna tell him that yourself?”
“Who?” Sandra stared.
“Buchanan.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! No, no, I couldn’t possibly tell him directly,” she insisted.
“I’ll tell him for you.”
“What? Come back!” Sandra grabbed my arm and stopped me in my tracks. “Where are you going?”
“Backstage,” I told her simply, then felt the urge to relieve her of some worry. “I want to know where the bassist got his shoes, they’re funky as hell.”
With that, Sandra gave in, and followed me around the main hall into the corridors, where soon enough we found the band’s dressing room. I asked the first technician to pass by if the band was in a chatting mood and got the reply I wanted: “When doesn’t Peter want to chat?”
Without looking too worked up about it, I made my way over to the guitarist and thanked him for the show. “You guys put on a great show,” I assured him. “You can get that guitar to wail like nobody’s business!”
“I appreciate that,” he smiled, holding his arm out and shaking my hand. “Why don’t you two sit down and join us? We’re lingering here for a bit and you’re welcome to have something to drink.”
It was half past eleven when we took our leave and nearing midnight once the taxi arrived at our hotel. Sandra made her way upstairs to her brother’s room— Dale had made a point about having a room with two beds so he could host his sister— and I took a quick walk to the main floor bar.
“He left around an hour ago, I’d say,” the bartender told me, glancing at the clock to jog his memory. “Don’t know where to,” he added.
I knew, however, and after thanking the bartender I went upstairs to my room; finding Cameron there, just like he said he’d be.
“Hey, you’re back,” he greeted me with a smile. “Did you have fun?”
“Lots. It was a great show,” I answered, wrapping my arms around him and placing a sweet kiss on his lips.
“You taste like beer,” Cameron murmured.
“That’s all they had backstage.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You met them?”
I nodded, humming as I did so. “And I’ve got their manager’s number in my pocket,” I added, “but it’s for Lee.”
“Is it? Speaking of Lee,” Cameron said as he released me from the hug, “he gave me a letter for your sister.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. At least we’re here another night before we head north, that’ll give me enough time to write a letter for her too.”
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