“Hey, Sally Anne.” I called her in LA where she was doing internship at Paramount.

“Hey, girl. How you doin’?”

“We found rhythm section!”

“The fuck!”

“Two dark skinned, black haired identical twins . . . with striking blue eyes.”

“Oh, my God! Just like you and Mickey!”

“Well, the eyes part, yeah. Anyway, they’re Cajun and speak form of French that even I had difficulty understanding at first, and when they speak English . . . it isn’t much easier. But, what the fuck, we all speak music.”

“Right! They must make up for it in other ways . . . did I mention I’m between boyfriends . . . and horny as hell?”

“Hmm . . . Bobby Ray on drums and Billy Ray on bass. Arguably most dangerous rhythm section on planet.”

“On planet?” Imitating me.

“Fuck you. Both are multi-instrumentalists and play everything avec facilite. They have visceral, intuitive understanding of anything that they like. And they like, love, Misha’s and my songs. They worked over entire repertoire, retooling them, making them . . . I don’t know, more rhythmic, more sexual maybe. I think it’s Cajun-New Orleans thing.”

“I want to meet them.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.”

“No, they sound really interesting.”

“Did I mention they’re gorgeous?”

“You’re just teasing me now.”

“Seriously gorgeous, Sally Anne. And sexy as fuck!”

“You’re a bad person.”

                                                                                           ***

“Billy, this song sounds so sexy now?”

“I’m Bobby.”

“No, you’re not. You’re Billy.” I was never wrong. They didn’t realize I was empath until much later. They just thought I was so good at identifying them because of nonverbal tells.

“Alright, well, maybe the song’s just sexy.”

“You think Bad Alcohol is sexy?”

“Sounds sexy to me.”

Twins had been in town touring with band Max had subbed in on occasion so they knew each other, barely. He’d convinced them to stop by his apartment/warehouse to hear us. For them it was love at first hear. They were sold after five songs. We sat down and played through our entire repertoire, which by then was twenty songs. Next day they gave notice to touring band, moved in with Max, and band started rehearsing five nights a week. 

Whirlwind romance! We started gigging almost immediately.

“Max, where we playin’ ‘night?” asked Bobby

“Little club in the Village, Bitter End.”

“Cool name.”

“Wish we had better name,” I said.

Misha said, “Really, right? ‘The Other Band?’ God, that’s lame.”

“Look, if it goes well, we’ll find a better name. If not, no one will remember ‘The Other Band,’” Max said pragmatically.

It did not go well. It sounded like “Battle of Bands” but within same band.

“That was fucking embarrassing . . . God, I’m sorry, you guys. I know I was awful . . . I was so nervous,” Misha moaned. “I thought I was hot shit because of all the shows we played around Portland!”

“You were awful? What about me? I missed half chord changes. At least fucking half.” I moaned. “At least you guys and Max were fucking amazing,” I said to twins. I was feeling miserable.

“Y’all weren’t tha’ bad . . . shit Bobby and me played with some real bad playahs. Y’all ain’t even close.”

“We just need to play more . . . a lot more,” said Max.

We kept at it, playing gigs in Brooklyn and Bronx. After five gigs or so, Misha and I started to relax, and began to write again. Songs started to flow again, and I think, got better and better. “It’s Katy bar door!” I said to Misha while riding him. Our lives were once again sex and rock ‘n roll.

We woke up simultaneously, disoriented, reached for each other, then inevitable love making. Hungry and passionate.

“I love you so bad, Ri.”

“I love you worse.”

“I love you worse . . . infinity,” he countered breathlessly.

“I love you worse . . . infinity squared.”

“I don’t think infinity squared is even a number,” he said.

“You are arguing with a mathist?”

“Oh, right, yeah, play the mathist card. Nice way to win an argument . . . but I’m guessing that’s a really big number. I guess you love me worse.”

“Misha, there’s no shame in being Number Two . . . you know . . . like in Olympics. ‘We’re number two! We’re number two!’” I chanted, my hands waving back and forth over my head. I was still on top, riding him.

“Fucking East German judges!”

“Yeah, those fuckers!”

We climaxed, giggling. Lolling ensued in afterglow.

“Mmm, Mishonya?”

“Da, Ri.”

“You know I would do anything for you.”

“Of course I know . . . what?” He seemed little suspicious.

“Um . . . are you interested in . . . mm, I don’t know, exploring . . . any particular part of my . . . anatomy?”

“Let’s see, where did I put that lube?” He was searching in drawer in bed stand.

“You have lube? When did you get lube?”

“Pharmacy last week, when we went to pick up your birth control pills.”

“And why did you get lube? I think I’m always . . . pretty wet.”

“Well, you know, Boy Scout Motto, Be Prepared.”

“You were never Boy Scout.”

“Da, but I sat next to a Boy Scout in school and I read his Boy Scout Manual. Made a big impression. There it is!”

“How old were you?”

“Ten. Let me just put some right here.”

“Jesus, that’s cold . . . Before or after we met.”

“Uh, before . . . I guess I shouldn’t keep it in the refrigerator.”

“Feels like you kept it in fucking freezer.”

“They didn’t go over this in the Boy Scout Manual.”

“Oh . . . oh my . . . oh my goodness.”

“Am I hurting you, baby?” He was so tender and sweet.

“No, my angel. It just feels . . . different . . . but interesting.”

“It’s mmm, very tight.”

“Yeah, well look at the size of what you’re putting in there.”

“You know, gay guys do this like, all the time.”

“Oh, golly.”

“Should I stop?” he whispered.

“Uh . . . no . . . No, baby . . . don’t stop.”

                                                                                            ***

When band wasn’t rehearsing or gigging we were at clubs hearing other acts. Jazz, blues, R&B, rock, folk. Twins knew lot of musicians. They had played everywhere with everyone, being most dangerous rhythm section on planet. Band met Ray, Jimi, Neil, and had immediate credibility because of Billy and Bobby. Musicians tend to overlook behavioral issues with other musicians, especially when musicians in question kill on their instruments.

We started going to some very interesting parties. There were lot of overlapping scenes in New York. Artists, musicians, writers, Billy and Bobby knew many interesting people. Misha and I followed Twins around for while, then, like young birds, flew off on our own. Misha frequently consulted fannings. He tried to downplay it, but I could always tell. There was just this, I’m not sure what to call it, “gap” in his consciousness, or maybe, “discontinuity.” I wasn’t reading him. I didn’t do that with him. And I have no fucking idea how my empathic ability works. I’m just so tuned into him. And maybe that was not such good thing. But after our separation, after having my heart torn in two, I was serious about never leaving his side. Maybe this was side effect. I just knew he wanted to keep me safe. So he fanninged frequently.

Lot of artists had noisy, sexy, free wheeling gatherings which in past years had been called “happenings.” Everyone seemed to have their own house band and relatively stable entourage of other artists, musicians, actors, dancers etc. Drugs were in abundance. Weed, various psychedelics, cocaine among other harder drugs like heroin and opium.

Misha and I wandered through these parties mostly as observers. Euphoric, naked revelers danced, smoked various substances, fucked, and in some cases, acted out scripted and/or improvised scenes. We were very mature for our age and, at that time, not given to excess but we were seventeen and nineteen and, consequently, immortal, so we smoked various things, took unknown (advertised as “psychedelic”) substances, danced, fucked (only each other) and on more than one occasion awoke naked in some foreign apartment/loft/basement with morning light streaming through windows or skylights, wondering how we got there and groggily, hazily trying to come up with plan to get home.

“Hi, Sean Patrick. So nice to hear your voice.”

“Hi, Rivka. You sound happy. Are you high?”

“High on life, asshole.”

“There she is. Is my little brother around?”

“He went out for booze.”

“He’s like twelve?”

“According to his ID he just turned twenty-three.”

“Oh, you guys are smooth. How’s the band doing?”

“We’ve been playing all five boroughs. Playing shit ton of gigs. Just finished two weeks playing every night straight. Billy says we gotta play everywhere . . . shitty little dives, just gotta do it.”

“God, that sounds like fun. Any gigs outside of New York?”

“Philly, Boston. Max is booking us all over New England, and Atlantic states.”

“Wow, you must have paid attention in Social Studies.”

“Straight A student, motherfucker!”

“Ha!”

“What are you up to, Misha’s brother?”

“I am a Doctoral Candidate.”

“Get fuck out of here! . . . Women’s Studies?”

“Fuck you, drop out!”

“I’ll have you know I didn’t drop out. I’m just taking gap year . . . or two . . . no seriously, what in?”

“Poli-Sci, Psychology of.”

“Ooh, that sounds really interesting.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Sean P. I’m serious at times. You should talk to my mama. That’s one of her areas of interest.”

“Yeah, she says ‘Hi!’”

“Aaagh . . . ok, you got me.”

“I’m serious. I’ve been talking to your mom. She kind of guided me onto the path I’m currently traveling.”

“Woh, that’s awesome. Good for you, Sean P.”

“Hey, I gotta go. My adviser’s approaching. Good to talk to you, Rivka. Dasvidaniya!”

“Dasvidaniya, Misha’s brother!”

                                                                                              ***

Summer of ’68 we toured incessantly in 1961 Ford Econoline throughout Northeast. That summer was blur. Playing, tearing down, loading, driving, sleeping, eating, setting up, playing. Rinse. Repeat above. Max was booking. He and twins knew club owners in New England and Atlantic states, which is why Max and NOT TWINS were doing booking. But we were starting to feel like farm animals, yoked. We needed manager!

We were backstage at this club, Rocky’s Balls, in Rochester, and Max had gathered us before going onstage. “So, I know this guy, Abe Rabinowitz. He’s been in music all his life, as a fan, musician, promoter, and most recently, as a manager.”

“How do you know him, Max?” I asked.

“He knew my parents.”

I learned years later, working on Holocaust Project, that Sergeant Harvey Weinman, Max’s papa, and Corporal Abraham Rabinowitz served in 45th Infantry, 42nd Rainbow Division which liberated subcamp of Dachau on April 29, 1945. In years that followed neither man would talk about what they’d seen during those days except with each other . . . and with Greta Weinman nee Portman, Max’s mama, who’d been prisoner in that camp.

Max continued. “Something about the war. My parents never talked about the war, but that’s the only reason Abe agreed to meet with us. Because he knew my parents. He’s really super busy.”

The band’s meeting with Abe was seminal event in our lives. His office on 49th Street, close to Brill Building, was cramped, crammed with boxes, shelves stuffed with books, records and memorabilia. There was Grammy sitting beside jack-in-the-box with clown stuck hanging out of box. Chaos ruled. Abe was not what we expected. Certainly not what I expected. Walking into his office we found fiftyish, balding man, slight and little paunchy. He was wearing suit and tie meticulously knotted. He was possibly kindest, sweetest man I ever met. He shook hands with us, giving each one his complete attention. When we were all seated he sat quietly in his chair, his hands clasped, and began to speak.

“Max tells me you have a very good band . . . you have no demo. It’s hard to judge your music without being able to hear it,” he said slowly with definite Queens accent, looking evenly at each one of us as he spoke.

  “Sorry Uncle Abe.” We looked at each other like, What the fuck!? Uncle Abe??! “Mickey and I brought guitars and Rivka can play the piano in here. Is that ok?”

  “Of course, Maxie.” Maxie???!!!!! “You must be Rivka,” he said to me in very kindly fashion. “That is a beautiful name. Please just push those books aside and make a seat for yourself at the piano, dear.” I was completely enthralled with him. “I’m sorry we have no rhythm instruments or a bass.”

“Ah, tha’s no problem, Mr. Rabinowitz,” said Bobby. “We’ll make do.”

We played five songs for him in rapid succession, then turned to him. His eyes were closed. He opened them after few seconds, surprised. “Is that all you got?”

“No, no, no” said Max and we launched into another five, Bobby playing drums on his body and every other thing close to him, using a ruler as a drum stick and Billy singing skeletal bass lines, then again pausing and turning to him. This time he had big smile.

“Is there more?”

We played rest of our entire songlist, which then was thirty songs. Once again we turned to him.

Opening his eyes when he spoke, “Hmm . . . Who is the songwriter?” Misha and I raised our hands, like we were in class. “Hmm.” Still sitting, gently nodding his head, eyes closed again, hands still clasped in front of him resting on his desk. “You write as individuals or as a team? Or both?”

Misha nodded to me. I answered, “Mmm, all as team, sir.”

“Hmm . . .” More silence. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Those are really good songs.” We all smiled and exhaled, glancing at each other. “Tell you what. Make me a ten song demo. Any ten of those. You choose. Do that for me and I’ll come and hear you . . . now, get out,” he said gently with a smile. “Oh, one more thing . . . your name sucks. ‘The Other Band?’ Really? Get a new one.” 

We all thanked him and silently filed out. Max was last. Abe put his hand on Max’s shoulder, gently turned him around and kissed him. I overheard him murmur, “May her memory be a blessing,” his voice cracking. They embraced, kissing once more, then Max was out of door with rest of band. He sniffled and wiped tears from his cheeks. I hugged him, then we left building.