"Who we gonna get to play bass and drums?" Steve asked, fiddling with the reed for his saxophone.
"I can play bass, for the time being," Dennis said. "With Cool on guitar, Billy on keys, and Steve on sax, all we really need is a drummer."
"What we need to do, is hit the streets and check the clubs where we might get work and then we can decide on the mindset we want behind the drum kit," Cool stated. "We have the talent to play virtually any kind of music we want, we just might not want a head-banger on drums if we're doing country."
"Makes sense to me," Billy Joe threw in. "Besides, I have an idea for a drummer, but I'd like for you to hear her play, with the group she's with now, before I approach her to make a change."
The four men made plans to drive into Ormond Beach on Friday night to hear Billy's friend's band.
Gerald drove the big Fleetwood limo, while the four Ellis musicians rode in the back. Billy directed Gerald to the Playera Sands Hotel, on the beach in Ormond. They pulled up under the awning and the bellmen made a mad dash to open doors on both sides of the long car. The four men had all worn the same shirts and slacks, giving them the appearance of an organized event of some description, arriving at the hotel.
They stalked into the hotel, stood in the lobby and waited for Billy to point them to the lounge. The lounge was on the far left of the lobby, at the end of a wide corridor, which housed an array of hotel shops. The thump of loud rock and roll music could be heard far up the corridor as the men approached.
Entering the dimly lit lounge, the music became decidedly louder. Cool stood just inside the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A short bar stretched to the right and forty or more tables sat scattered about the room. Hannah's Lounge smelled of stale beer, cigarettes and years of salt air.
A low stage spread across the far left corner of the room, from which emanated the heavy metallic sound of the all female band of punk rockers.
Dennis staked out a table for them and ordered a round of drinks. Steve and Billy joined Dennis at the table, while Cool lingered near the bar listening to the music. Billy Joe had been correct in his assessment of the statuesque, platinum haired drummer. She was tight. From the bar, Cool approximated her to be at least ten years older than her associates, and a whole lot more professional in her stage presence. She reminded Cool of Old Waylon's drummer of ten or twelve years ago.
Shifting his attention to the diminutive bass player, he was impressed with her methodical rhythms. She had undoubtedly been playing for a long time. Barely five feet tall, her Fender Jazz Bass was almost as big as she was. But she had all the right moves.
The guitar player was mediocre, at best, and the keyboardist was piss-poor. Another heavily made up chick, with endless tattoos, was attempting to sing punk songs and did a fair job, considering she had obviously consumed more alcohol or drugs than she needed.
The room was nearly deserted.
Cool drifted around the outside of the wide room and made his way over to the tables to sit with the others.
"Where you know the drummer from, Bill?" Cool asked his son.
"She's a friend of a friend, sort of," Billy answered. "Marie introduced us a few years ago. I've caught her with a couple of other groups and she's pretty versatile."
"I like the chicken on the bass, too," Dennis added.
"Absolutely," Cool agreed. "The guitar player stinks."
"All guitar players stink, after playing with you!" Dennis declared.
The punky females finished their set and Billy jumped up to greet his drummer friend.
"This is Carlene," he introduced them. "And this is Brenda on the bass, Crystal and Blaze on guitar and keys and Holly singing," as they moved up to the table.
They all stood and shook hands back and forth. Brenda and Carlene pulled up chairs and the other three girls headed for the bar.
"This is drudgery," Brenda announced, as the others moved out of earshot. "Holly is toasted and the other two are right behind her."
"Whose the hunk, Billy?" Carlene asked Billy as she reached her hand up and brushed a long curl from Cool's eyes.
"This, My Sweet, is none other than Virgil Ellis," Billy said with pride. "Branded The Tall Cool One, and the smoothest guitar picker on the planet. And our dear old dad."
"So, Honey," Carlene, cooed, "would you like to sit in with us next set?"
"You and thumper, not the others," Cool said. "Loose the bimbos and we'll give you an audition for a real gig."
Brenda leapt to her feet and quickly strolled over to the bar and asked the others to sit out the next set. They agreed and Cool sent Steve to the limo for his horn and stepped over to the stage to peruse the guitar he would be playing. Junk! A quick phone call and in five minutes, Blackie strolled into the club with a battered old Gibson case hanging in his hand. Marty was hot on his heels.
Cool checked the tune on the vintage Les Paul and thanked Blackie for the loan.
"I wouldn't miss this for the world," Blackie answered breathlessly. "Marty, pay attention. This guy's about to show you what I've been trying to accomplish for over forty years."
Marty just smiled and batted her overly made up eyes.
Billy climbed up behind the rack of electronic keyboards and switched a few toggles and started to play a soft riff in A-minor. Brenda followed on the bass and Carlene slid in on the drums. Cool hurled into the fracas with a long screaming turnaround on the guitar and steered the makeshift group into an old blues standard called Summertime. Dennis let them play for a few minutes, and then he picked up the punker's guitar and stepping up to the mic, he sang a soulful rendition of the famous song.
The tired looking waitress and bartender abandoned their posts at the bar and moved up closer to the stage. Dennis finished a verse and turned to Billy, who immediately threaded his way through a long improvised lead bridge, leaving all those in attendance spellbound. Steve wailed on his sax for several minutes, and then Cool eased in with a huge lead bridge of his own and they ended the piece with a tremendous crashing of cymbals.
