Finding The Groove
The Reunion of Roger Steele & His Trio...
“For God’s sake, save it for the ‘and 2,’ not the 2 dead-on. It’s called syncopation for a reason!”
Slowly but surely, Agent Roger Steele had begun to regret recon work. Not for loss of faith in the cause, but because every time he came back from a mission, the band, “The Roger Steele Trio,” was sloppier than he left them. His drummer Bobby Bixby—a black-furred lieutenant from Moto Corp—could have pitched his sticks at the gray agent. Instead, he took a shot of bourbon and played the measure in question. Steele looked down his glasses with a smile.
“Knew you were still in there.”
The third member of the trio was Rick Talbot, a stout gray civilian who could play a mean upright bass. At least, he usually could.
“Talbot, I know it’s chromatic, but tune the fucking thing.” Steele shot down. “We don’t play quarter-tone jazz around here, they’ll string us up for that and I gotta be back in Haven in two months’ time.”
For this, Steele took a crack on the head from the bassist’s seldom-used bow.
“How about this,” Talbot shot back in a sharp tenor. “Would it kill you to play like a fucking musician and not a goddamn drill sergeant!? Y’all may got superiors, but I’m a fucking free hound, and I ain’t exactly on a good enough retainer to put up with your hapless ass. You’re the fucking trio, and yet you got no feel and you’re sloppy as shit going from the Rhodes to the upright piano.”
Steele looked down at the two keyboards as if it were his first time, he looked at the sheets before him and when he started playing, his ears cocked back and he finally saw the robotic dance of his hands across the keyboards.
“Shit, guess I’ll take that one on the chin.” he grumbled, fumbling through the measure over and over until he got his fingers moving in his more natural playing style. “Guess being with that many bots rubs off on a hound.”
“Anything you’d like to say to the rest of us?” Talbot pressed.
“Anything you’d like to tell me for flying off the handle that way?” Steele shot back. “Rick, you don’t act like this on even a bad day. I know I’m curt, but Jesus Christ, if you got something, spit it out.”
The gray bassist sighed, slumping down onto his stool. “Just been a long fucking week, man. Myra’s only back on her feet after the crash, it’s been two weeks of hell before you came back. Don’t know why this got caught in the craw, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what to do for dinner when I get back. Dumbest thing to get hung up on but…Jesus I’m just stressing about everything, that’s all.”
Roger got up, straightened his tie and patted the bassist on the back. “Alright, that’s double my bad for coming in like I’d never left. I might be the trio, but I ain’t exactly three hounds cloned. Sorry if I came off too hot.”
Talbot gave a courteous nod. “Just not able to throw and dish the same time right now.”
“Tell ya what,” Steele replied. “We’ll break for lunch, chop it up, and crack on after. Think a drink would help?”
Talbot scoffed. “Didn’t even think to ask.”
“You never gotta with me, pally.” Bixby chuckled. The black wolf rolled out from behind the drum kit on a stool and handed the bottle over. What followed the meanest swig both hounds had ever seen the stout gray player take.
“A’ight, let’s roll.” he winked.
Bixby chuckled. “Keeps me loose, and oughta keep you freed right up.”
“At this rate,” Steele chimed in, “We’ll have to slap a ‘Produced by Sam Houston’ on the record. Let’s blow the stand.”
With that, the trio got up, straightened their black ties and jackets, and strolled out of the rehearsal room. One good meal later, they were back and playing like a real trio. Steele found his soul, Bixby his rhythm, and Talbot his cool head.
Helped along by a few more swigs of the strong stuff, of course.