“This is it?” Beadle asks.
“That’s it,” says Gillis.
“Make it sing!” says Guthrie.
Before long, the living room is alive, music in full efflorescence. The electric guitars are crisp and loud, the bass lines are fluid, and Beadle kicks up a propulsive and varied rhythmic racket with his limited means. (He makes especially good use of a tambourine, weighed down with a coin jar full of loose change and set upon a stepping stool.) At the computer, making sure the levels are correct, Guthrie smiles and nods. Kelley taps time on her thigh and snaps photos. Stella mills about, sniffing at the tiny drum kit while Smokey lies watchful on the sofa.
It’s a stroke of luck, Kelley tells me, that the landlady upstairs is not only hard of hearing, but sleeps in a soundproof room. Amazingly, even after more than three dozen performances, there have only been a couple of gentle complaints.
Guthrie casts a guilty, grinning glance at the ceiling. “Well, we might be hearing about this one.”
On the Web
“Band in Boston:” http://www.bandinbostonpodcast.com.
