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Edson - Hardcover

Morrissey, Bill

 
9780679446293: Edson

Inhaltsangabe

After long and difficult years on the road, with a failed marriage, stalled career, and loss of self-confidence undermining his life, Henry Corvine, a once promising musician, returns to his hometown of Edson, a dismal New Hampshire mill town. A first novel. Tour.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bill Morrissey lives in Boston with his wife, Ellen. Since 1984, he has recorded seven albums for Philo/Rounder Records: <b>Bill Morrissey</b>, <b>North</b>, <b>Standing Eight</b>, <b>Inside</b>, <b>Friend of Mine</b>, <b>Night Train</b>, and <b>You'll Never Get to Heaven</b>.

Aus dem Klappentext

t first novel about the power of music and the resilience of the human heart. Edson, New Hampshire, is a typical New England mill town, where everyone knows everyone else's business, and people come of age with dreams of leaving. Coming back to Edson after 20 years, once-promising musician Henry Corvine is faced with two emotionally charged options: give up completely--or start all over

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Henry listened to Tyler's tape over and over while he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he'd done the right thing in turning Rachel down. Maybe McManus was right about putting his marriage behind him, finding somebody, anybody, and just having a randy old time of it. It didn't have to make sense.

Henry got up and brought his guitar and the new strings back to the bed. This was as good a time as any, he thought, to see how it sounded. He had to do something. Looking at his old Epiphone was like finding his high school yearbook up in the attic. There were nicks and sweat stains and beer stains and scrapes on its face, but it still was elegant like a beautiful forty-year-old woman with one tooth slightly awry. He remembered where each nick and scrape came from, though the beer and sweat stains had just seemed to happen when he wasn't looking. He picked up the guitar by the neck and held it in front of him. The G string was so shot and rusted it was unraveling.

He put the guitar down, slid the case from under the bed, and took out his electronic tuner. He flipped it on, but as he'd expected, the battery was dead. He tossed the tuner on the bed. Martello's was still open. He could get a new battery there, but he sure as hell could still tune a fucking guitar by ear, couldn't he?

Henry got up and poured himself a drink, then took it back to the bed, lit a cigarette, and unwound the bass E string. Something felt right and familiar, as if he was performing a long neglected ritual. He didn't even have to think about what he was doing. He kept Tyler's tape on as a reference while he changed strings. He knew she was tuned up to concert pitch, and he matched his guitar to hers. Once he'd changed all six strings and was tuned, he began picking along with the tape. After a while he realized that some of Tyler's chord progressions were things he'd heard her play years before, raw ideas she'd never been able to develop. This hadn't occurred to him while he was just listening.

Then the tape came up on the melodic fragment he'd been struck by the night before. He easily figured out what she was playing, but his fingers weren't fast or accurate enough anymore. Many of the notes buzzed against the fingerboard or came in a quarter beat late. Soon the fingertips of his left hand throbbed slightly and felt warm. He turned the tape off and played the fragment slower, by himself, over and over. He put a capo on the second fret, which raised the key a step but lowered the action to make it easier on his fingers. He didn't notice the empty bourbon glass and stopped only to take a drag on his cigarette or light another one. He inverted chords, changing accents and root positions, looking for an unexpected middle eight to break it up, but it was the kind of repetitious progression where the bridge could pop up anywhere.

The hotel was quiet for a Saturday night, but in strong gusts of wind it creaked like an old ship, and the electric light wobbled overhead. Henry played until his fingertips were swollen and burning. He knew the next day would be worse, but eventually the calluses would build up. When he put the guitar away, he left the plush-lined case open against the far wall so he would see it first thing in the morning.

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