Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

They play it again. It’s a victory lap, now that there’s nothing left to prove, no hard sell to put across. Doing so, they tear down the room once more, ensuring the crowd will dissolve into the night buzzing with the intoxication of this song. The second time, the listeners have begun to parse the lyrics, take them to heart—hey, this song’s about you and me and the dangerous way we feel sometimes! It’s about all of us! But it’s about me most of all, each listener thinks. It’s most particularly about dangerous me.

Now there’s no clamor for a further encore. The band’s played their perfect song for a second time, leaving nothing to wish for except disappointment, and who wishes for that? So, with no way to celebrate without getting silly, as the unseen hand behind the purple spotlights now shifts a single white spot to the mirror ball and the room is spangled, silly’s what the crowd gets. Old imperatives, seemingly shrugged aside by the tyrannical revelers, are now revived. Those who brought along headphones and tape players don them and begin dancing asynchronously in the zone before the stage, one guy with a crew cut and his eyes squeezed closed doing a James Brown strut, a woman with orange bangs and headphones big as earmuffs sliding across the floor as though shuttling on some great invisible loom. The interns move through those on the fringes of the dance offering the shopping bags full of tape players and headsets, making more than a few converts, though massing everywhere are dozens upon dozens of celebrants who’d never understood what was expected of them in the first place. These others fall to babbling, eating and drinking, and mocking the dancers. It’s Falmouth’s Aparty, sort of. No one’s quite so apart as Falmouth might have envisioned, and the artist himself may well have quit the scene in disgust.

The band’s not forgotten. The gathering seems specially arranged to leave their set ringing in listeners’ ears, nothing intruding on the echo of their chords but laughter and conversation and the mute, foolish dancing. Most feel it would be uncool to throng the band with an overt show of congratulations, so the four are left free to pack instruments and compare impressions, in their attempt to believe what’s occurred, the version of themselves that’s newly sprouted into existence. The band’s hardly oblivious, though, to the awestruck or lustful gazes of nearby audience members. Someone in range of their hearing indulges in a pretentious explication of the band’s influences. Another voice can be heard trying to sing the chorus of their momentous song. And the band will hardly be left to themselves for long. Wending through the mass of ecstatic dancers are several presences, calculating watchers on whom the band has made an impression. An evening like this brings them out of the woodwork.

they spoke in fragments, giving blundering accounts of what they’d felt onstage.

“You were so hot on ‘Canary’—”

“I was just listening to Matthew.”

“But I’ve never heard you play like that.”

“Did I skip a verse of ‘Nostalgia’?”

“Sure, but who cares?”

“We’ve never played ‘Shitty Citizen’ so fast.”

“It sounded good.”

“It sounded great. You finally really played a solo in that break, Bedwin.”

“I just sort of suddenly knew what to do. I was waiting.”

“You picked a good time to figure it out.”

Denise began to twist apart her kit. Matthew and Lucinda, taking her cue, began winding cord. Bedwin sat rubbing his eyes, as though he’d watched too much television or was trying to believe or disbelieve a dream. It dawned on them only gradually that their eggshell of privacy had been pierced. When no one was looking the lip of the stage had been approached by men of guile and influence, unyouthful men in youthful clothes. The impresario in his baseball cap and zipper jacket, Jules Harvey, flanked by two others, one in jeans and a cowboy shirt and a small gold earring, the other wearing an ostentatiously rumpled brown corduroy suit, each with immaculately trimmed sideburns. The newcomers matched Harvey’s rabbity intensity. They pitched forward on the balls of their feet as they waited for an introduction, eyes drilling side to side as if to defend their territories.

Behind them stood another man, older than the rest, and taller—taller even than Matthew—with a rocket of stone-white hair topping through a wide, scarflike headband. He bore a galactically sad, houndish expression on his eroded-cliff features, patiently waiting his turn. And too, floating through the crowd was yet another figure, one Lucinda would have recognized if she’d sighted him. She hadn’t, yet. The band gave an audience to the phalanx at the stage’s edge.

“You’re a very hard band to see,” said the man at Harvey’s left, the one in corduroy. He grinned and thrust his hand at Matthew. “Very off the map, in a manner of speaking.”

Matthew took his hand.

“It’s always an interesting sign when music people get mixed up with art people. There’s a good track record there. I can think of at least three or four very interesting examples that have made certain people who will go unnamed tremendously useful sums of money.”

“We’re not really mixed up with art people,” said Matthew. “We just did this one gig as a favor to Falmouth. We’re more our own thing.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the corduroy man. “Listen, in the next days, even in the next five minutes, a lot of people are going to be trying to shake this hand that I’m shaking, and I just hope you’ll recall I was first. Rhodes Bramlett. Considerable Records.”

“We should get going,” said Denise, tapping Matthew on the shoulder with a drumstick, offering fake smiles to the men at the edge of the stage. “Nice meeting you.”

“I’d like to be in touch in the next few days,” said Rhodes Bramlett, in a kindly, seeking tone. “Who would I be getting in touch with if I was?”

“We’ll find you,” said Denise. “Now we’re leaving.”

“Of course,” said Jules Harvey. “But let me introduce you to another friend of mine. Mick Felsh, this is Monster Eyes.”

“That’s not our name,” said Lucinda.

“No, of course,” said Harvey amiably. “What is your name? As your de facto manager, I ought to know.”

“We don’t have one,” said Denise. “And you’re not our de facto anything.”

“Pretty good name for a band, though,” said Bedwin to himself.

“No name, I like that,” said Mick Felsh, the man in the cowboy shirt. His voice was disarmingly nasal and high, a non sequitur to his garb. He spoke as if Bramlett of Considerable, inches away, were in fact a figment of a distant universe, impossible to perceive. “You people don’t need me to tell you this, but that was a dynamite set.” Felsh offered his hand to Denise, perhaps making a quick calculation of who among the players ought to be solicited, perhaps only hoping to put a brake on their departure. “I was telling Jules I’d love to help you guys demo some of that material. No need to worry about any kind of contract or commitment if it makes you guys uncomfortable. Just get into my studio and see how it feels. Get a document of the set you’re playing these days, sort of Monster Eyes circa now, before anything changes, because you’d be surprised.”

“Nothing’s going to change,” said Denise. “Except we’re going to get better.”

“It could be fun to record some demos, though,” said Matthew.

“I wouldn’t do anything without—” began Bramlett.

“One copy of the master,” countered Felsh, his hand raised like a Boy Scout’s. “You take it out the door with you.”