The Boy Who Cried Freebird Read Online Free

Amsterdam and Shecky Green.”
    Sid crumples the unpaid invoice and tosses it toward an overflowing garbage can where it bounces off the rim and lands on the floor. He pauses for a quick slurp of hot coffee and burns the roof of his mouth.
    â€œShit,” he mutters. “I’m telling you, Manny, all I can do nowadays is book these crazy rock-and-roll acts for a living. I don’t even know where half of them come from. Every single region of the United States has more Beatles and Stones imitations than you can shake a stick at. These pimply-faced kids, most of them aren’t twenty years old andnever even been laid! They think they’re so frigging clever with their ‘secret’ drug lingo—one look at them and you know they’re smoking more reefer than all of the jazzmen in Harlem. And the clothes! One group came onstage wearing electric suits, no less. Most don’t bother wearing matching outfits—except for the ones dressed up like colonial soldiers. And I’ve never seen so much long hair since Flossie and I drove Bobby to college out in Berkeley, California.”
    Sid moves an empty pizza box from his desk and spreads out the mail.
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe some of their gimmicks,” he laughs. “I swear, one group has a kid that blows an electric jug, and another bunch wear capes just like Dracula. They all look completely ridiculous! I’ve booked two different bands that actually had a guy with a hook for a hand.”
    Sid plops back in his chair and says, “At least some of the kids have a sense of humor, or their managers do. I got one bunch an entire week in Boston on the strength of their single, ‘Are You a Boy or Are You a Girl?’ These groups each have one hit single and then fade back into the suburban garage oblivion from whence they came. Honestly, most of them should stick to teen dances and stay away from the big time; they’re just not ready. I canceled one tour because some parents decided that their kids needed to go to summer school! Can you imagine?
    â€œYep, three weeks of music lessons and they all think they’re going to be stars. Of course, some get so scared when they first see an audience that they piss themselves. Occasionally, I’ll recognize one or two kids from the last big dance craze—they think that just because they’re wearing bangs now or singing with English accents that no one will remember what snotty punks they were.”
    Sid Garfinkle counts the cash in his wallet and places a bank depositslip in his breast pocket. “All this talk about psychedelic music doesn’t mean anything to me—it all sounds pretty much the same. Well, at least somebody’s buying something. I’d be totally screwed without these bands.
    â€œYou know,” Sid says. “The funny thing is that almost every rock concert I’ve been to has one moment that stands out from the rest. Most of these groups have the sense to wait until the end of their show before playing their hit song; otherwise, the crowds would go home long before they’re finished. Anyway, the audience is there for the song they’ve heard on the radio, and when the band finally plays their hit single, the room goes wild. The band is so cocksure that they bear down on their instruments, and for one brief instant everything falls together. The crowd adores the band and the band gives every bit of intensity they’ve got right back to the audience. I hate to admit it, but the music sounds magical in a freaky, ominous kind of way. It feels like I’m being pulled into a strange cult ritual of a very secret society.”
    Sid Garfinkle rises slowly from his chair. “I have to head over to the bank, Manny. If I don’t deposit some money quick, every check that I wrote this week will bounce from here to Akron. Hey, don’t forget to say hi to Gladys for me and I’ll catch you at the pinochle game next