KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE

KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE

My younger brother Alan was a kid who pursued interests with a passion unusual in most youngsters. His first interest was music. By age six, he‘d mastered all the finger pickings for the Spanish Acoustic Guitar. “By eight, I‘ll have nothing left to teach you,” his music teacher remarked in a proud voice tinged with sadness.

By twelve, Alan was crankin’ out his own riffs to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” in a garage band that won every battle of the bands in the county, and made teenage girls swoon. Couple that with a twinkle in his eye and a dry wit that could slay you like a saber while making you double over with laughter at yourself, and what you had was a barrel of monkeys with a guitar case.

Three afternoons a week I could be found leaning up against the outside wall of our cavernous garage as his band “Chrystal Ship” unknowingly drowned out my vocal accompaniment as they rehearsed their week's set list. I longed to sing in a band- a dream I vowed to make come true someday.

One Saturday, I worked up the nerve to ask them to play “Ticket to Ride” one more time before they broke down the drum set, and to let me sing it. Before the last verse ended, our mom’s face haunted the garage doorway, drawn there by the familiar Beatle’s lyrics being howled three octaves above the melody line. “What the hell’s going on out here?” she shouted, wide-eyed.

“We’re torturing cats” my brother deadpanned, “Here kitty kitty kitty” he crooned, holding my ponytail straight up in the air. First mom cracked, then the band- eyes fixed on their shoes, then even I succumbed to their gales of laughter. They never offered me the microphone again.

Still determined, I practiced in my room for months, my family taking turns pounding on the walls shouting, “Shuuut up! You‘re breaking our eardrums!” Alan never joined them. He alone understood my dream.

The second step along my road to broken dreams was overhearing mom tell my dad, “She sings so high she sounds like an amplifier feeding back. I don’t have the heart to tell her!” That night and many to follow, I sobbed inconsolably into my pillow .

Not a quitter, I next enticed my sister and some girls from my school chorus into our garage where we poured over a set list of oldies-but-goodies. For a year we sang our hearts out, inventing harmonies, arranging material, and twittering over cool funky clothing in psychedelic colors. We added players to the mix and after some sessions decided to go public in a live concert.

By now, Alan was well known for a weekly T.V. segment in an entertainment broadcast called “Night Moves Magazine” during which he reported on great music he discovered all over the city. He went by the name of “Al Dondi” a tongue-in-cheek reference to an utterly unknown movie character- an ancient family joke only I remembered.

Begging him to help us create a flyer, I shamelessly pulled the ‘family’ card to secure a promise of a plug under his famous name;

REMEMBER BOPPIN’ TO THE BEAT?

REMEMBER CRUISIN’ WITH YOUR FRIENDS ON A SATURDAY NIGHT?

Well, CRUISE ON BACK IN TIME WITH THE

*PINK SUEDE REVIEW*

You’ll flip over these four fabulous females and their sizzling’ band!

THEY’LL ROCK YOUR REEBOKS OFF WITH THEIR

ROCKIN’ * STOMPIN * ROCK N’ ROLL

THEY’RE DOO-WAPPIN’ THEIR WAY
INTO YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD!

ROCKIN’ STOMPIN’ FUN!

“They can’t get any better than this!” - Al Dondi, Night Moves Magazine


...Only much later, after re-watching the videos, did I understand his double entendre.


-by taree Belardes
©January 23, 2011
National Public Radio
Flash Fiction Contest
600 words
Story must include;
Someone telling a joke and someone crying.
Not necessarily related.

Side Note:
*Although the story above is a strange mixture of fact and fiction, the band "PINK SUEDE" was very real... and contrary to the storyline above came up with some pretty sweet harmonics and put on some crazy rockin' shows!

Pictured above are;
Top left; Me,
Bottom left; My sister, Diane
Bottom right; Melinda
Top right; Cheryl