Our Fallen Tribute

Tommy “Holdout” Holdren first saw the classified ad in the Sunday paper. He read the newspaper every day top to bottom, preferring it to Internet or TV. The classifieds particularly fascinated Tommy. He’d read them almost every day since he was a boy. He loved the cryptic concision of the personals, job opportunities, what people were selling—all of it.

There were several columns in the job section devoted to casting calls and other showbiz-related opportunities. Occasionally there’d be an ad for the formation of a new tribute band. A good ensemble paying homage to some famous group could really cash in. State fairs, concerts in the park, conventions, tribal casinos—even Vegas and Atlantic City. Tribute bands worked year-round while still in demand and raked it in. No end of gigs, really. It amused him to see which iconic bands had finally reached this last, pathetic stop on the road to obscurity. His own band, in which he’d played lead guitar, had enjoyed a solid run several decades before on the Alt-Rock Chart. Their name came up occasionally as an influence for newbies, which was gratifying. 

It still pained Tommy to think of the band’s protracted demise, beginning with their front man/rhythm guitarist (Julius) OD’ing—okay, autoerotic asphyxiation, but drugs were definitely a factor. This left Tommy (himself, or Holdout as he was better known), bassist Quint and drummer Sergio to limp along for a time with a sad series of replacement lead-singers. First they tried a Julius-lookalike, then plugged in a recognizable lead singer from another well-known band. Nothing worked. The surviving members still owned the band’s name—which had definite brand value—but was too closely associated with the late, charismatic, hedonistic Julius to ever once again monetize in the old way. Without Julius, crowds booed and threw things at the stage. 

That seemed several lifetimes ago. Many changes since then: Tommy’s marriage ended amicably; he now lived modestly, alone, in a clean, rent-controlled apartment. Still had healthy, golden ears and made a living mixing and mastering other people’s recordings with a home setup. Once in a while he’d score a studio gig and lay down lead guitar for some indie project or film score. He’d co-written a couple of minor hits with Julius back in the day so every fiscal quarter he’d get enough in royalties to buy a nice dinner or—lately—a modest lunch. Mailbox money used to be an actual check, but for several years now it materialized as a quarterly e-deposit. Sometimes a song was licensed for a TV show, movie or national commercial. One of those commercials blew up, was played during the Super Bowl and he banked a rather sizeable payday. His son and daughter were both headed for college. The ex-wife was prosperous, an optometrist, but Tommy still wanted to contribute to his kids’ future. 

So when he saw his old band’s name there in the classified section, it didn’t quite register. He skipped right past it, then backed up and slowly took it in, letting reality assert itself. The news at first was not welcome; it sent Tommy into a little panic. Didn’t they need his permission? No, you don’t have to ask permission to pay someone a compliment, to pay tribute—at least he didn’t think so. His alarm soon gave way to self-pity, nostalgia… then something else entirely. 

What if… he could somehow—anonymously—audition for the role of himself? Even during the band’s heyday he’d been somewhat out of the spotlight, the quiet one. Front man Julius sucked the oxygen out of every motel room, music video, stage or interview—greedily feeding the flames of his own fame. It was all about Julius.

Tommy could answer the ad, use an alias, take it as far as he could. If someone made him, he’d deny it or frame it as a prank. Ha-ha. But… if he were able to fool them, he’d be in clover. A win-win either way. 

Tommy’s nickname, Holdout, was all about his famous reticence. Never photographed or seen without his distinctive shades: round with a flat bar across the top, utterly opaque. They actually contained prescription lenses so he’d been careful to never lose or misplace them—but no one knew that. Without mystique, you have nothing. It would serve him well in this scheme. 

Tommy mentioned to his daughter what he was up to and she said, “‘Tribute’? Like in The Hunger Games?” A dim memory of taking her to see a movie by that name flashed across his mind.  

“Yeah,” he said, thinking: Hungry Games. He swore her to secrecy.

After hanging up the phone, he looked in the mirror. The beard would have to go; on the other hand, it might help conceal his true identity. The beard would stay. If they wanted him to lose it, no problem. He’d grown a little soft in the middle, but that was to be expected. Splay of crow’s feet from the corner of each eye. Still had a few of the old shirts, trademark shades, same tats, hair recently dyed… he was pretty much ready. 

Then there was the axe: the yellow maple hollowbody f-hole jazz guitar weighed a ton and—in the wrong hands—generated a squelching feedback loop guaranteed to clear any auditorium or club. But in Holdout’s hands (and he was, once again, Holdout—no more Tommy) it became a sound bazooka, a rock ‘n roll RPG. Julius may have been the flamboyant focal point, but Holdout and that massive blond box were equally indispensable. Julius would swing his own seldom-played guitar around and aim it right at Holdout as a solo cue. The blond behemoth was strung heavy, telephone wires that never went out of tune. The only guitar Tommy played, though he owned several. The decals were distinctive. Hopefully their authenticity wouldn’t blow his cover.  

He looked forward to cranking it up again—something he couldn’t do in the apartment without headphones. It’d been a long time since he’d punished an open space. For too long he’d been like a free-range animal stuck in a cage. He wanted to run wild again. 

If he survived the audition, he’d make some much-needed money. If he failed, he’d… something. 

The auditions took place the following Saturday in a warehouse across town. All week he brushed up on the old repertoire. Not surprisingly, he’d forgotten some of his own lyrics and arrangements and had to go on YouTube to jog his memory. He hadn’t watched the band vids for quite a while—years, actually. In addition to vintage videos, there were tutorials on how to perform his own solos and licks. Some got it plain wrong, others gave him interesting ideas and alternative approaches he’d never even considered. He laughed a lot but also nodded, stroking his beard.

It occurred to Tommy that he might be up against players technically better than he’d ever been. Kids these days were scary good. But they weren’t Holdout—only he was Holdout. No one could sing like him, for instance, that husky tenor rasp. His harmonies were Autotune-accurate before Autotune had even existed. Only he had the essence of Holdout. Only he knew the band secrets, where the bodies were buried, so to speak. All those women—and some boys—who’d followed the band from town to town. The hungover motel parking lot dawns, bad road food… all proprietary mojo.

Then there was Julius. Who could possibly measure up? What would that be like? Would Tommy flash back to the ambivalent old days, the love/hate relationship? Maybe it would be too much for him to handle and trigger PTSD: Post Traumatic Stardom Disorder.

Not likely, he decided. There would never be another Julius. Those were big platform shoes to fill. 

It seems important to mention the car Tommy drove to the audition: one of those square jobbies, like a refrigerator on wheels. He once collected two-seater Alpines. But those all got liquidated in the divorce and, anyway, one couldn’t load several guitars and amps into an Alpine. The band had once owned a large box truck, something less than an 18-wheeler, to haul sound, lighting and instruments. The cube-shaped car he now drove was more than a station wagon, less than a van and, quite frankly, embarrassed him. It seemed beneath an ex-rock star. Ex-semi-rock star? Well, maybe it was fitting. Nevertheless, he parked it several blocks away.  

When Tommy arrived at the warehouse, it was clear the producers had already found their Julius. It was like seeing a ghost: the cocksure strut, signature mohawk, the sneer—this kid seemed to have it all. The true test would be the voice. They obviously had built the idea of a tribute band around him, which only made sense. With a credible Julius, one pretty much had the entire enchilada.

Tommy looked around, nervous. Yes, their Julius was a kid, compared to him. They were almost all kids, in fact, much younger. He tried to picture himself onstage with this facsimile and a few of the others. Hard to tell. Perhaps if he dazzled, or if the other Holdouts really sucked, they could shoehorn him in. What if they said yes, but only on the condition he “got some work done”—something surgical? Would he submit to that? Hell yes, he would submit to that as long as they were paying. A free trip in a time machine—what’s not to like? Oh, to be 25 again. 

What the hell was he doing…did he really want the gig this badly? 

Why yes… yes, he did. 

A lame cliché, but okay: it was personal now. Up to this point Tommy hadn’t realized how much the idea of reliving those days, no matter how phony the pretext, just plain excited him. The money would be useful, but how many people get to go back and reclaim their youth? He had wisdom now; he could find an actual soulmate. Do it right—have kids again! Older rock stars did it all the time.

Tommy had to get a grip. 

He was getting way ahead of himself. 

He signed in and sat down in the section marked HOLDOUT. 

The competition was… varied. He definitely had a shot. There were a couple of older guys, like him, so he didn’t feel completely out of place. Some were just ridiculous: wrong look, wrong guitar, a hundred pounds overweight. Wrong ethnicity—was there ever a time when he’d looked Asian? No.

The one guy who had him worried, though, was daunting. Young enough to be his son—wait, was it his son?! No. But definitely like staring at a publicity still of himself back in the day. The kid had the whole package: tats, maple hollowbody axe—a Japanese knockoff, but indistinguishable from a distance. He even wore those impossible-to-find sunglasses. 

Tommy felt like Jesus come down from heaven, incognito, to enjoy his own worship service. Or maybe his own funeral? He suppressed a chuckle. 

The two squared off, guitars in hand.

“Holdout,” said the kid, extending a confident, psyche-out fist bump. 

“Really?” said Tommy. 

“Yeah,” he said, all false modesty. “Ever since I can remember, that’s what they called me: Holdout.” 

“Cool,” said Tommy. “Patrick.” He’d cleverly (he thought) used his actual middle name. 

“Hey,” said the kid, “that’s Tommy Holdren’s middle name.”

“No kidding?” he said, moving away, searching for an exit. This was too weird for words. A mistake—

“Tom?” someone whispered behind him. 

It was Tooter, their old roadie/soundman. Tommy hadn’t seen Tooter in forever. 

“Tooter?” he murmured, pulling him out of earshot of the Holdout wannabe. 

“It’s Gene now. I always was Gene, remember? No more Tooter—no more toot.” He smiled and mashed a nostril with his thumb. “Gene: rhymes with clean.” He pulled out a 20-year chip from the condom pocket of his jeans, then replaced it. 

“Cute,” said Holdout. “I mean, good for you. Congratulations.” Holdout and the other band members had stopped using after Julius began to lose control. Tooter, however, continued to live up to his sobriquet. He looked better these days and Holdout made a point of adding: “You look good.”

“Thanks. They hired me as a soundman-slash-consultant,” said Tooter. “What the hell you doin’ here?”

 Holdout leaned in, earnest, his voice low: “Please, man. I really need this gig.” 

“NO. What?!” Tooter almost raised his voice. “No way, man. Get outta here.”

“Way.”

“You can’t be serious.” But then he saw that Tommy was quite serious. 

Processing, Tooter momentarily changed the subject to Quint and Sergio. Tooter was in touch with Quint on Facebook. Reclusive Tommy, of course, eschewed all social media. And everyone knew Sergio—the ultimate road warrior—reveled in a cushy gig drumming for some iconic crooner that kept him touring the world, just the way he’d always liked it. Tooter dropped a couple of ancient names including their last road manager, a man Tommy scarcely recalled.

“How’s—um,” Tommy delicately tilted his head, “Julius?”

“Back from the grave, man.”

“Really?”

“You’ll see. It’s creepy. Listen, I can’t allow this.”

“Come on, Gene. For old time’s sake. Don’t blow this for me.”

A brief display of muted, headshaking disbelief. Tooter sighed. “Okay. But man, this is effed up.” 

“Please,” Tommy said again. “Thanks.” 

“Good luck, I guess.”

Tommy took it as a good sign when they called on the lamest guys first. The producers were looking to rapidly narrow it down to the most likely candidates. Smart. They all went through the same three songs over and over, trying different personnel configurations, but always with their preselected Julius up front. And Tooter was right: he was creepy good.

All the Sergios used the same—amazingly authentic—drum kit. Quints and Holdouts plugged in their own axe. If the bass player wasn’t cutting it, for example, Julius would subtly signal the producers, Quint would unplug and another Quint would step in. Same with the Holdouts and Sergios. Eventually, the rejected Quint, Holdout or Sergio would get the hint, pack up and leave. In this manner, the cattle call herd was quickly culled.

The producers sat in the shadows, faces obscured. Tommy caught sight of Tooter’s backlit spikey hair in the ongoing huddle, no idea if he’d been betrayed by the old roadie. He hoped not. He really wanted a shot at those three songs. 

His ostensible rival also seemed to understand where this was going. From behind genuine Holdout sunglasses (Where the hell did he find those?!), a cocked eyebrow, followed by barely-perceptible nod and rueful half-smile.

Soon the producers had locked in Quint on bass, Sergio on drums and of course, Julius. 

Now it was down to the two last men standing for the Holdout spot. Each bore a close physical resemblance, carried the right guitar with accurate decals and sported the correct tats. Tommy was undeniably long-in-the-tooth and a little heavy but at least they were giving him a proper shot. He peered into the shadows and thought: Thanks, Tooter.

Rather than audition each of them individually, Julius suggested that these final two audition simultaneously. “It’ll be rad,” he said. “Holdout cage match!” He chunged a power-chord for emphasis.

The Holdouts looked at each other, grinned affably and shrugged. They donned their respective maple hollowbody f-hole guitars and stepped forward, pedalboards in hand. The younger Holdout took the existing jack. Tooter appeared with an additional cable, kneeled down and connected Tommy’s gear. 

“Break a leg, old man,” he mumbled and winked. 

“Bite me,” Tommy murmured through a clenched smile. 

Tooter unmuted the system and right away the two Holdouts began riffing and showing off under the pretense of tuning. Tommy deliberately let loose with a famous power-chord intro to a band hit not among the three officially-sanctioned audition pieces. The other Holdout responded with an exquisite, arpeggiated blur of scalework—what guitar sharpshooters refer to as serving up a lot of spaghetti. To their credit, neither player accompanied this showboating with any painfully amateurish mugging. Beneath matching sunglasses,  each wore the half-smile of practiced nonchalance. 

Julius, one knee slightly bent and guitar headstock pointed down, leaned against his mic stand, smiled and nodded. Then he looked over to the jury in the shadows. When Tooter had adjusted the mix and taken a seat, the lead singer looked to the newly-minted Quint and Sergio—who’d already assumed postures of entitlement—and counted off song number one. 

It was an up-tempo shuffle number, a fan favorite, often used as an opener. The real Holdout could do it in his sleep, as could the other. A signature song for the band and both of them mirrored each other’s chord changes effortlessly. Julius preened all the right moves, barely playing his own axe—as the actual Julius often had—leaving the bulk of the guitar chores to Holdout. 

Tommy tried not to be distracted by his rival’s faithful replication of his own facial tics and posturings that for him, the real Holdout, were instinctive. Exceedingly difficult not to feel self-conscious in this situation. Both Holdouts were ready when the time came to solo and more than willing to throw down. Julius aimed his guitar at both of them—the old cue. Tommy deferred, letting the competition go first, confident he could outshine whatever the punk had in mind. 

Holdout the younger opened with 16 textbook bars that sounded exactly like the record. Then he did 16 more with finger-taps and string-bends that Tommy would have never attempted back in the day. A bold move. Still, Tommy was perfectly capable of matching this kind of flash and obligingly one-upped the kid with 32 shredtastic bars of his own which included an 8-beat controlled harmonic feedback howl that drew a gasp and whoop from Julius and nods of approval from Quint and Sergio. 

It was on.

To cover all the bases, the band’s big power-ballad hit was sandwiched in the middle. It was one of the few band songs Tommy had regularly noodled over the years—a go-to song for his hands, loaded with comfort chords. One of many he’d co-written with Julius. His playing of it had evolved considerably since it peaked at #8 on the Alt-Rock Chart and over time he’d embellished the leadwork with strange, inventive intervals: sixths, ninths, inverted triads—jazzy voicings for which the f-hole hollowbody had originally been constructed. 

He realized, however, that he’d have to resist the temptation to exploit those techniques here. When each player remained faithful to the original recording it visibly pleased the arbiters in the shadows. Tommy reminded himself—with some disappointment—that this entire project was really an attempt to recreate a snapshot of an imperfect moment from his long-lost youth. Bad skin would have been an asset. He was such a better musician now; he’d cultivated restraint, vastly improved his technique. Those skills and that wisdom, sadly, had no place here. 

But… raw imperfection was what he’d signed on for and so Tommy adjusted things accordingly. He limited himself to only a few variations, trusting they wouldn’t seem inauthentic. He was, after all, the genuine article, the real Holdout. Perhaps they would intuit that. Or Tooter would subtly tip the scales in his favor? It was anyone’s guess.

More than once, when his rival executed a particularly spot-on Holdout move, Tommy found himself filled with secret wonder at what he’d wrought; that something he’d helped create years before was now being recognized and consecrated in a formal way. He also relished being on the inside, in disguise, prayed no one caught on and put a stop to it. He still felt it might go either way. Whether this was naiveté borne out of hopefulness or an objective assessment remained to be seen. 

The power-ballad required three-part stacked harmonies—Holdout, Quint and Sergio— behind Julius. Each Holdout took a turn and at one point, Tommy couldn’t resist adding a fourth during the other Holdout’s turn. The two raspy tenors complemented each other nicely—like brothers. When the song concluded with its famous guitar rave-up and crashing bass-drum-cymbals cold-end (boom-boom, boom… boom-biddy—BOOM!) everyone in the room—jury included—stood and cheered for a full minute. 

Now it was down to the final song. Driving, breakneck guitar intro, Julius shrieking like a raptor-banshee, Quint and Sergio in rat-a-tat-tat lockstep. Controlled cacophony, symphonic chaos. 

It took him back. Tommy felt the confusing presence of Julius; the anger, the joy. The floor beneath Tommy’s feet seemed to fall away; his soul took flight over a vast abyss of time. He had the sensation of leaving his body, unburdening himself. The aches and pains one feels with each passing day, the increasing difficulty of just getting out of bed—all gone. He soared. Kind, imaginary thermals keeping him aloft. He yearned to continue this climb, ever higher. May it never end! 

But then—just like that—back in the world.  

He realized now that they weren’t going to go for him. It didn’t matter. He’d been here for the rebirth, midwifed the reincarnation. Knowing this, he banished all restraint, any attempt to conform to the old stage picture. He was Tommy “Holdout” Holdren and as such had no limitations. Rock ‘n roll by its very nature, in its purest form, is a reckless celebration of arrested adolescence. He wanted Holdren-elect to see into that future; get a glimpse of just what his character was going to, or had, become in real life. Perhaps it would be useful for this pretender, this ponce, this aspirant, to momentarily behold such naked, manifest truth as the torch was passed. The kid knew all the old tricks. But they were Tommy’s tricks, goddammit, and they’d been improved upon. 

I’m giving you gold, kid—take it and run. 

Tooter stood on his chair, out of his mind at what was taking place. He so wanted to let the cat out of the bag. But Tommy caught his gaze and flat-out told him NO with a hard look and maniacal smile. Tooter clutched his head in gleeful frustration, pulled on his spikey hair. 

Sergio worked the drum kit as if this performance might be some sort of free-form, frenetic ballet; Quint on bass refused to miss a beat. 

And “Julius”—well, he was no longer an imposter. The ghost, spirit or whatever of Tommy’s old bandmate had completely hijacked the boy. Underneath the Spandex, Julius appeared to be either wearing a codpiece or sporting a colossal erection. (Expert casting: the late Julius was indeed famous for occasional in-concert displays of a well-endowed tumescence.) 

Tommy became a teenager again. Full-circle. Complete. The triptych of tunes had utterly undone him. He wanted to weep, longed to smash his sacred blond hollowbody guitar to pieces. But of course, he did not. And after the final power chord, as five sweat-drenched musicians exchanged awkward high-fives, the jury huddled. 

Tooter and the others, including a woman wearing an expensive pantsuit, emerged from shadowy deliberation after fifteen minutes. Tommy knew they were only simulating indecision. For him the outcome was obvious. While waiting he’d worked hard to affect a look of hopefulness. And when they came to him first, the unfortunate runner-up, he manufactured disappointment—even asked if they might give him another shot. That was a nice touch. They redoubled their efforts to let him down easy. 

“Sorry, Patrick,” said the woman. Tommy was confused for second—before remembering his clumsy alias. “Your voice was quite believable, the playing… almost too good.” 

“Yeah,” said a serious-looking man in a suit and tie, his voice barely audible. “We’re looking not so much for innovative flash as…”

“Verisimilitude,” offered the woman. 

“Yeah,” the man said. “Verisimilitude. Nothing to destroy the illusion.” 

“I understand,” said Tommy. His eyes even welled-up a bit. He should’ve been an actor. He looked over at Tooter, who subtly rolled his eyes.

A pony-tailed, scholarly-looking man with thick glasses, referred to a clipboard and added, thoughtfully and loudly: “And the look. You know, Holdout never had a beard and was, you know…”

“Younger,” said Tommy. 

They all nodded a little too quickly. 

“My man!” It was his rival, the new Holdout. “I did not think I had a chance,” he lied, pumping Tommy’s hand. “I mean, you had it down, the whole rig… are you sure you’re not really Holdout?”

In that moment, Tommy could’ve come clean and blown their minds. He dared not look in Tooter’s direction, but then couldn’t resist. Tooter’s look said, Well? 

Tommy grinned bitterly and said: “I wish.”

As he packed up, Tommy joked about his availability to fill in if Holdout had the flu or if they needed “an understudy”—then got the hell out of there. 

Despite being loaded down with gear, Tommy practically ran to his car. Though dehydrated and drained, he covered the distance quickly. The adrenaline of a narrow escape. 

The dusky weekend streets were empty in that part of town. There was a time in his life, long ago, when he was all too familiar with these alleyways and vestibules. Gentrification now made the area almost unrecognizable. He’d known exactly where to find what he needed to get by, how to hurt himself. He turned the ignition, hands on the wheel, cranked the AC and caught his breath. Now it was all one-way streets. He pulled out and circled the block before realizing the only way home required motoring this breadbox on wheels right past the very warehouse from which he was trying to flee. And of course there they were, on the sidewalk, most likely talking about him. 

Tommy was upset and a little ashamed. The snapshot they’d chosen was false, didn’t really capture the core of the band. But he understood it as the best representation of the most convenient mythology. 

A memory: bulletin board in a music store; dozens of 3x5 handwritten cards, crucified by pushpins. A drummer and bass player—not Sergio and Quint, some other long-forgotten hacks—had posted: NEED LEAD SINGER & LEAD GUITAR along with all the preferred musical antecedents. 

Tommy took guitar lessons from a functional junkie in the back room of that music store; an old beatnik with greasy hair, long-sleeve black shirt and dark shades. This teacher often dropped the names of long-forgotten be-bop players. Because of him, Tommy had already developed a fondness for ancient, cumbersome f-hole guitars and something approaching actual technique.

Julius had been dropped off at the drummer’s house for the audition by his mother. After he and Julius won their spots in the band, they hung out on the side of the garage and got high. 

Tommy and Julius—the nucleus; chemistry crystallized from day one. Within weeks they had taken over and were already plotting to dump the drummer and bass player. They knew what they wanted, soon found Sergio and Quint. After that they were unstoppable. They went from playing high school dances to opening for famous arena bands. They toured in an ever-widening arc. With record deals and modest success came the egos. He and Julius fought over everything. Creative friction, like hot sex. If Julius hadn’t been strangled by his own belt, Tommy’s hands would’ve eventually done the job.

Ah Julius, you magnificent jackass.  

Tommy sped past the warehouse, waved. 

They were talking about him. Was it…? Couldn’t have been… There he goes! Man, look at that crappy car. 

Tommy checked his reflection in the rearview. Those shades—hadn’t worn them in years. Need to update the prescription, everything blurry around the edges. He had to get home and catch up on all the work he let slide over the last week. He’d pull an all-nighter and crash at dawn, just as the Sunday paper hit the door. Musician’s hours. 

“I knew Holdout,” said Tooter. “No way he’d be caught dead in a ride like that.”

END