Struts & Frets Read Online Free PDF Page B

was sure none of that was going to happen, he sat down and started shoveling food in so fast I couldn’t believe he had time to swallow.
    â€œThat damn McCarthy was here again today,” he said between bites.
    â€œAgain?” I asked. He’d recently been talking about this guy a lot. Senator Joseph McCarthy was some freaky congressman in the ’50s who went around trying to prove that artists, actors, and musicians were all communist spies for Russia. No matter what I said, Gramps refused to believe that the guy died in 1957. At first it had been weird the way he always went on about him, but after a while it got kind of fun. So now I played along with it.
    â€œDo you think he’s on to you?” I asked.
    â€œHa! I’m no commie, and certainly no spy.” He stirred his beef stew around a little bit, then looked back at me fiercely. “I’m a socialist! But the distinction between a commie scum and a thoughtful socialist is far too difficult for an ignoramus like McCarthy to grasp.”
    I couldn’t really figure out the difference either, but I still played along. “That’s the truth,” I said.
    Gramps was getting more worked up now. “Last I checked, this was still a free country!”
    â€œI don’t think you have to worry about him, Gramps.”
    He placed his fork on the side of his nose and gave me a wink. “Damn right.” When he took the fork away, there was a blob of gravy on the side of his nose. Then he frowned. “What about you?”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œHave you covered your tracks?” he asked, looking worried. “I can’t have my own grandson in prison!”
    â€œGramps, I’m not a commie
or
a socialist.”
    â€œHa! You think that matters to scum like McCarthy? He and his kind despise musicians. They can’t comprehend living a life of creativity and individualism! They try to turn anything you do into some kind of anti-American statement.”
    â€œReally, Gramps,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a problem.”
    He didn’t look very convinced. Finally, he said, “Well, tellme what your set list is right now. That’s usually where they start looking, to see what kind of songs you’re playing.”
    I told him the set list we were working on.
    â€œI don’t recognize any of those songs,” he said.
    â€œThat’s because I wrote them.”
    â€œWrote?” He blinked in confusion. “Why? Can’t you play anyone else’s songs?”
    â€œSure we could.”
    â€œThen why are you writing your own? Only people who can’t play the standards have to make up their own songs.”
    â€œThat’s not how it is anymore, Gramps. Most people play their own music.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous! Are you telling me that at your age, you’re writing better songs than the Duke? Than Bird? I love you, kid, but somehow I think you’ve got a few more years before you’re ready for that.”
    â€œGramps, nowadays you only play other people’s music if you can’t write your own.”
    â€œAn entire generation of arrogant hacks.” He sighed. “Let me tell you something, kid. In all my years in clubs and bars, on cruise ships, and in festivals and concert halls, I was never forced to play anything that I had to
make up
.”
    â€œI know, Gramps,” I said. There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing with him. He wasn’t even listening.
    â€œSo.” Gramps gazed balefully down at me, his old eyes wide and a little wild. “When are you getting married?”
    Like clockwork. Music and girls. The only things he could think about.
    â€œGramps,” I said, “I’m only seventeen.”
    â€œSO WHAT? When I was your age I’d already met the love of my life. Your grandmother. Vivian . . .” He sighed and his eyes went unfocused. “You don’t remember her, do