He was probably just going soft. He put down the guitar, picked up a notebook and pen, looked at them for a minute and tossed them back down.
All the surfaces and corners of Seth's narrow bedroom were piled with books, notebooks, sketchbooks, and various scraps of paper. For fourteen of his seventeen years—ever since his mother had taught him to read and write at age three—Seth had lived much of his life on paper. He wrote stories and made drawings for Mum. Made her smile, made her say she was proud.
Later, when she was going through what he and Dad thought was a difficult pregnancy, Seth sat beside her bed and read aloud to her. He was twelve. They'd gotten through most of Great Expectations before the doctor discovered that there was no baby growing inside her after all. An operation took place too late; Rosemary Grealy bled to death on the operating table before they had finished removing the fist of malignant flesh from her womb.
Though the door was closed, Seth could still smell the greasy smoke from the pan of chips his dad had burned earlier. Dad was gone now, almost certainly down to the pub, that was if he hadn't toppled into a ditch on the way. Seth smirked at the thought of his father's legs thrashing. No such luck, though. God looks after drunks and fools, and damned if old Oliver Grealy didn't qualify on both counts.
Usually the smell of chips, even his dad's burnt ones, made Seth hungry. Tonight he didn't have room for food. The leftover energy from the meeting turned him restless, wishing to do a hundred things but unable to concentrate on any. He'd gotten Peyton's number and wanted to ring him, but that would make Seth look queer as well as soft. He sometimes wondered if he might be a bit queer; the way he felt when he saw a picture of Elvis or James Dean wasn't the same as when he looked at a beautiful girl, but there was something sexual about it nonetheless. Something raw.
He wasn't queer for Peyton, though. Theirs was a meeting of minds. Minds and guitars: the two things Seth was betting on to get him out of Leyborough and into a real life.
* * * *
Peyton, upon their meeting, did not experience the twinge of sexual confusion that Seth did: his heterosexuality was so unambiguous that he'd never even given it a thought. He was clear-skinned and dark-eyed, girls liked him, and he accepted that with an uncomplicated enjoyment.
He was thrilled, though, for he too had sensed the possibility of a real partnership. He knew other boys at school who listened to American rock and roll, but nobody who knew the flesh and the lonesome bones of it as Seth did. Upon arriving home, he dashed around the house to annoy his parents and sisters, telling them again and again, “I've met a kid who knows more about music than I do, and we're going to have a band!” Even though Seth had said nothing today about forming a band, Peyton repeated this as if it were the gospel truth. As far as he was concerned, it was.
The family had heard plans for Peyton's bands before; they were only surprised at the admission that someone he'd just met knew more than he did. Peyton had always been a good-natured, polite boy, but his sisters often accused him of believing he was smarter than anyone else in Leyborough, and Peyton never denied it.
Finally, he went to his room and sat up late with his guitar, teaching himself a whole new chord that night. He knew he was good, but he had to get a lot better: for Seth, for the band. Seth only wanted out of Leyborough; he'd said as much. Peyton wanted everything.
* * * *
The following week, Seth reckoned enough time had gone by that he could ring Peyton without looking soft or queer. They met at Peyton's house the next day. Peyton answered the door holding his guitar. Seth's own was strapped across his back. It would not be quite proper to say they went to Peyton's bedroom like a pair of newly-weds approaching their honeymoon chamber, for they did not even know they were married yet. Later, though, they would both make the comparison.
They felt their way through a number of songs they both knew, just getting each other's rhythm: “Hound Dog,” “Maybellene,” “Twenty Flight Rock.” Then Seth played one he'd written himself. The words were mostly a lot of nonsense, but the tune, he thought, had a certain snarl to it.
“That's really good,” said Peyton. “You know, though, I think the chorus could be a little tighter—"
“It's not supposed to be tight."
Peyton just smiled and started strumming again, a tune Seth didn't recognize at first. Then he realized it was the one he'd just played, run through Peyton's filter. Later, the same thing would drive him to rage, but this first time he felt only fascination. To have someone—another musician—play his music back to him with a twist was weirdly intoxicating.
“Huh,” said Seth by way of acknowledgment. “Not bad. Written anything yourself?"
“Oh, yeah, lots of stuff. Listen to this.” He began another song in a chord Seth didn't even know. The lyrics weren't any better than Seth's, but it was beginning to dawn on Seth that this kid couldn't just play guitar, he could sing too. And their voices sounded good together. Maybe they could figure out some kind of harmony thing, something like the black girl groups did.
They played for hours, until their fingertips were reddened and grooved, until their throats were hoarse. Then they agreed to do it again the next day. When Seth had gone, Peyton sat at the old upright piano in his parents’ parlor and played one last song, not a rock tune but one that summed up his feelings perfectly: “It's Almost Like Being in Love."
iv
There was a musical revolution afoot in Leyborough in 1961. The problem was, Harold Loomis was the only man who knew it existed.
He'd seen the band play two weeks ago at a club called Blaggers, a filthy back room full of teenagers drunk on cheap ale and nascent rock and roll. They had heard the music of Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard; it made them feel isolated, hemmed in by the sea and the times. Now they were hearing similar music on their own soil, played by boys they'd grown up with. The atmosphere in the club was simmering, truculent yet elated, and most definitely drenched in hormones. Harold had listened to half the set and gone home early. But he knew the band was something special.
Apparently they'd been playing together for about a year. Harold heard of them through a friend, who in turn had heard of them from some piece of rough trade he'd picked up in Yardley Park. “They're fuckin’ brilliant,” the boy had supposedly said. “Every kid I know is talkin’ about them. If they was to put out a record, it'd sell a hundred fuckin’ copies."
The idea of selling a hundred copies did not impress Harold—he had worked in his father's record store for years—but the idea that the youth of Leyborough was talking about this band interested him tremendously. He was twenty-seven, but he tried to keep up with the kids’ taste in order to stock the store, and English music had been out of vogue for some time now. They wanted American rock and roll music. If a hometown band had captivated them, Harold wanted to know about it.
Most likely, he'd expected, they would simply be copying the American stuff. But they weren't. They had obviously been influenced by it, probably would not have existed without it, but they already had their own voice. The singer and lead guitarist, Seth Grealy, was a twenty-one-year-old firebrand: long and lean, with hair the color of rust and sly Satanic eyes. The second guitarist, Peyton Masters, was nineteen but looked closer to sixteen; with his fuck-me eyes and angelic harmonies, he could have been the schoolboy in a dirty old man's fantasies. (Not his own fantasies, Harold reminded himself; his interest in these boys was entirely professional). The rhythm section were nothing special, apparently a couple of Grealy's ne'er-do-well friends, but no matter. That was only one of the many things with which Harold could assist them.
He became absorbed in ideas of management, riches, world travels. So captivated was he by his fantasies that it took him two weeks to actually contact the band.
* * * *
“Sethy? Man wants to see you out front. Bit of a posh type, you know, wearing a suit? Says he, eh, manages records."
Seth nodded thanks to Mark, his bass player, not letting the t
race of excitement he felt show in his face. Mark was even younger than Peyton, and no matter how much Seth believed in this band, he couldn't allow these kids to get their hopes up falsely. He ducked his head to clear the low frame of the backstage door. If the front of Blaggers was a filthy hole, the back of the place was positively cavelike. Ducking dislodged the James Dean-style cap he wore, and as he came around the stage, it slid off his head. He was about to bend and pick it up when a man did so for him.
Seth was transfixed by the sight of this slight, well-pressed, altogether normal-looking man stooping to pick up his greasy black leather cap, actually brushing off the grime from the floor before handing it back to Seth with a slight nod. Seth nodded back, his eyes wary as he readjusted the cap on his head. No man had ever knelt before him.
“Seth Grealy? I'm Harold Loomis. My family owns Loomis Gramophones and Records, on Hill Street? You may know it—” Loomis paused as Seth burst out laughing.
“Sorry, sorry Mister Loomis, it's just Marky said you were a record manager and he must have thought you meant—well, and I guess I did too. Joke's on us, you see?"
“Perhaps not,” Loomis said rather prissily. “I do manage a record store, but I also have connections with radio stations and with certain people in London. I can't make any promises, but I think at the very least I could help you record a demo tape."
Seth wasn't laughing anymore. His keen eyes studied this man, searching for any hint of fakery. “Why'd you come to me?” he asked. “We're a solid group, you know. We're together for the long haul."
“Well, it struck me that you were the de facto leader of the group. Being the front man and so forth. Also, I'd heard that you were calling yourselves, er, Seth and the Silver Dreams at one point, before you shortened it—"
“Don't think much of our name, do you, Mr. Loomis?” It was the way Loomis pronounced the band's name, not quite mockingly but with no enthusiasm, that told Seth this. He'd wondered about it too; the name as much as anything else had to be perfect.
“It's Harold, please. And frankly, no, I don't. Really—the Silver Dreams? There are a hundred groups in England with names that sound the same, all trying to play American music better than the Americans. I think you're doing something more than that, and you should have a name to reflect it."
“Silver Dreams was Peyton's idea,” said Seth. “I'm not married to it. I suppose you've got a better idea, Harold?"
“I think so."
“Let's hear it then."
“The Kydds,” said Harold.
Seth blinked. “Kids?"
“K-Y-D-D-S. The unique spelling helps it to catch the eye, but the name itself is so very basic, so very rock and roll. Who buys rock records? The kids. Who can make you the biggest band in the world? The kids. This name shows that you're part of them."
“Part of who?” Peyton asked.
Both men turned. Peyton Masters stood in the shadows to the side of the stage, smiling slightly. Seth met his eyes and wondered how long he had been listening.
“Part of the Youth Revolution, Peyt. At least, this fellow reckons he can make us a part of it.” It seemed important to bring Peyton into the conversation, to prove Seth hadn't been having some kind of clandestine head-to-head with Loomis. “He's a sort of record manager."
Peyton stepped forward and extended his hand. As the nineteen-year-old introduced himself and shook hands with the man, Seth had a sense that Peyton had suddenly grown older than his years. There was nothing of the innocent schoolboy to him just now. Instead there was a confident set to his jaw, a subtle squaring of his shoulders that made him look as though he knew all about managers, demos, and deals. It was at that moment, Seth reflected much later, that Peyton had shown Harold Loomis who was really the leader of the band.
v
Blaggers didn't even know enough to renew their contract as house band after a year. Harold Loomis wasn't worried. By that time the Kydds’ name had been heard outside of Leyborough. Clubs in other cities wanted something fresh, a band that had made it big coming from a place where no band had a prayer of ever making it big. Their first single, Peyton's “Cry My Tears Away,” backed with Seth's “Dig Your Man,” climbed the English charts of 1963 like a carnival bell hit by a strongman's mallet.
“Cry My Tears Away” was the source of the first huge blowup between Peyton and Seth. They'd bickered amiably and not so amiably over the merits of various songs, sparred for the position of lead guitar, even once had a tussle that brought Peyton's mother to the bedroom door, knocking worriedly. That one had turned out to be about a particular Chuck Berry song they wanted to cover; Seth felt the vocals should be handled in a particular way, a way with which Peyton vehemently disagreed. There had also been a dust-up during which Dennis, their drummer, had had to pull them off each other—but everyone had been drunk that night. “Cry My Tears Away” was the first thing that nearly broke up the Kydds.
It was a pretty love song, a very pretty love song that would no doubt flutter the heartstrings of every little girl who heard it. It was catchy, almost too catchy, so that you'd find yourself humming it hours after you had vowed to put it out of your mind. (Harold told them there was a German phrase for this phenomenon, one that roughly translated as “earworm.") However—as Seth pointed out the first time Peyton played it for him, and never ceased to point out for the rest of his life—it had no edge.
Why should a band release as its first single a song that had no edge? What would prevent the Kydds from sinking traceless into the morass of sweet-ballad bands, bunches of nice boys who wrote love songs, damp-knicker bands as Seth derisively dubbed them? Why should they disappear before they'd even had a chance to start? Why not set out with an edge?
“Because no one who hears my song ever forgets it!” cried Peyton. They were in Harold's living room, where they could argue as loudly as they liked without parental interference. Harold lurked in the kitchenette, close enough both to eavesdrop and to keep an eye on his breakables. “No one will forget it once they've heard it on the radio, once they've bought the single, don't you see? And they won't forget us either, they'll buy the record and they'll listen to ‘dig Your Man,’ it's a great, great song—"
“Fuck you.” Seth made as if to walk out of the flat, but stopped when he saw that Peyton would not pursue him. “Your song is bloody unforgettable, my song's a nice addition to the record. How about, my song'll get us noticed because it doesn't sound just like a hundred others?"
“Neither does mine,” said Peyton, “and you know it. It sounds a little like the hundred others, but there's a difference, and everyone will hear it, and buy it."
“Shit."
“You know I'm right."
“I'm going out for a bottle."
It went on like that for days, and they said things they regretted (or Peyton did—it's difficult to know if Seth was ever capable of regretting his own actions), but of course “Cry My Tears Away” made the A-side of the single. Even more significant, Seth and Peyton discovered a formula that would get them through the next twenty-odd years: a great blowout of a fight made them appreciate each other even more afterwards. There was no one else in either of their lives to whom they could say those sorts of things, and certainly no one who would forgive them for it, even thank them eventually—for it could not be denied that, through fighting and cajoling and sometimes pure coercion, they improved each other musically. They honed themselves on each other. The more they saw of the music business, the more they realized how rare such a partnership was.
So “Cry My Tears Away” ate up charts and radio time, and critics praised the raw, edgy power of the flip side, “Dig Your Man.” The rhythm section made a perfect platform for the vocal harmonies: Peyton's voice all sweet turquoise velvet, Seth's reedy, woody, slightly hoarse, and the two woven together like a medieval tapestry. The Kydds became quite famous in England, played London and the European capitals, kept honing their chops.
Harold Loomis wasn't happy. He wanted America. He'
d closed the record store by now, goodnight dear old Papa, and become the full-time manager of the Kydds. He'd cultivated relationships with everyone from club promoters to disc jockeys, sound engineers to studio heads. That was how Harold liked to think of himself: as a cultivator. Hadn't he taken these four unpolished boys, young louts really, and nurtured them into a talented band with a number-one hit single? Now the label wanted an album. Harold wanted the label to send the Kydds on a tour of America.
And, no mistake, America was waiting. Its bands were too bland, too bloated, or too black; as always, it wanted something it had never seen before. Its appetite for the Kydds turned out to be voracious.
You've probably seen the newsreels: the teenage girls clawing their way through police barricades, the Kydds coming down the flimsy metal staircase of an airplane, trying not to let the fear of crowd madness show through their good-natured smiles. The Union Jacks everywhere, and the giant cardboard heads of Peyton, Seth, Mark, or Dennis, each little girl's personal favorite. Peyton laughed at it, was flattered. Seth raged, said he didn't want a bunch of mindless cannibal-bitch Lolitas for fans. Harold said the little girls were all right to start with. They had money and influence. The serious listeners would catch on soon enough.
Seth told Harold he was insane to believe prepubescent girls had influence. A week later, though, when the banner of The New York Times read “KYDDS CONQUER USA,” even Seth had to admit that Harold might know something he himself didn't.