“Is there a photo of your band up here?” Frank asked.

“Naw. Most of those are pretty old. But I can show you photos of the other members of the band. Here’s Mack and Joleen, when they were in Maggot.” He pointed to two people in a photo of a quartet. Everyone wore the pouting rebel expression that’s become a standard in band photos. The man Buzz pointed out was a bass player, about Buzz’s age, with long, thick black hair. The woman, boyishly thin, also had long, thick black hair.

“That photo’s about ten years old. Mack and Joleen were together then.”

“Together?”

“Yeah. You know, lovers.”

“They aren’t now?”

“No, haven’t been for years. But they get along fine.”

Q: What’s the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?

A: With a drum machine, you only have to punch in the information once.

“Over here’s a photo of Gordon. He’s a great drummer,” Buzz said. “He hates this photo. He said the band sucked. Its name sure did.”

He pointed to a photo of a band called “Unsanitary Conditions.” Buzz was right-I didn’t think too many club owners would be ready to put that on their marquees. The drummer, a lean but muscular man, wasn’t wearing a shirt over his nearly hairless chest. He had also shaved all the hair from his head. He held his drumsticks tucked in crossed-arms. He was frowning. It didn’t look like a fake frown.

Live, updated versions of two of the band members arrived a few minutes later. Gordon looked pretty much the same as he did in the “Unsanitary Conditions” photo. He was wearing a shirt, and he had short orange hair on his head, but the frown gave him away.

“Her royal-fucking-highness is late again, I see,” he seethed, then upon realizing that Buzz wasn’t alone, smiled and said politely, “Hi, I’m Gordon. Are you Buzz’s folks?”

Frank snorted with laughter behind me.

“Oh man!” Buzz said in embarrassment. “These are my friends. They aren’t that old!”

“Oh, sorry,” Gordon said. “Buzz, did you listen to that tape I gave you?” He broke off as the door opened again.

Pre-empting a repeat of Gordon’s mistake, Buzz quickly said, “Mack, these are my friends. Frank and Irene, this is Mack.”

It was a good thing Buzz introduced us. Mack was now balding, and his remaining hair was very short, including a neatly-trimmed beard. I judged him to be in his mid-thirties, closer to our age than Buzz’s, with Gordon somewhere in between the two.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, but seemed distracted as he looked around the small room.

“No,” Gordon said, “Joleen isn’t here yet. Shit, can you imagine what touring with her will be like?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mack said placatingly. “She’ll be very professional.”

Gordon didn’t look convinced.

“Uh, Buzz,” Mack said, “the house is starting to fill up. Maybe you should find some seats for your friends.”

I thought Mack was just trying to make the band’s in-fighting more private, but when Buzz led us back out into the club, a transformation had taken place. Taped music was playing over the speakers, a recording of frenzied sax riffs that could barely be heard above people talking and laughing and drinking.

There was an audience now. The man in the business suit had left the bar, and the place was starting to fill up with a crowd that seemed mainly to be made up of young…as I sought a word for the beret-clad, goatee-wearing men and their mini-skirted female companions, Frank whispered, “Beatniks! And to think I gave away my bongo drums.”

“Poetry and bongo drums?” I whispered back. “Did Kerouac make you want to run away from home?”

“As Buzz said, I’m not that old.”

Buzz wanted us to sit near the stage, but I knew better. I muttered something about acoustics and we found a table along the back wall, next to the sound man. Buzz sat with us for a few minutes, and I was pleased to see that Frank was starting to genuinely like him.

Buzz might not be sarcastic, but he is Irish, and he was spinning out a tale about learning to play the uillean pipes that had us weeping with laughter. Just then a woman walked on stage, shielded her eyes from the lights and said over one of the microphones, “Buzz! Get your ass up here now!”

Q: What’s the difference between a singer and a terrorist?

A: You can negotiate with a terrorist.

The club fell silent and there was a small ripple of nervous laughter before conversation started up again. The sound man belatedly leaned over and turned off her mike. He shook his head, murmured, “Maybe I’ll remember to turn that on again, bitch,” and upped the volume on the house speakers. I could hear the saxophone recording more clearly now, but I was distracted by my anger toward the woman.

She was thin and dressed in a black outfit that was smaller than some of my socks. Her hair was short and spiky; I couldn’t see her eyes, but her mouth was hard, her lips drawn tight in a painted ruby slash across her pale face.

“Joleen,” Buzz said, as if the name explained everything. He quickly excused himself and hurried up to the stage as Joleen stepped back out of the lights. The other members of the band soon joined them on stage. If Buzz had been bothered by her tone, he didn’t show it.

The group did a sound check, only briefly delayed while Joleen cussed out the sound man and proved she might not need a mike. The members of the band then left the stage with an argument in progress. Although I couldn’t make out what they were saying, Gordon and Joleen were snapping at one another, the drummer looking ready to raise a couple of knots on her head. Mack was making “keep it quiet” motions with his hands, while Buzz seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, ignoring all of them.

“I think I’m going to need a drink,” Frank said. “You want one?”

“Tell you what-I’ll drive home. Have at it.”

Frank spent some time talking to the bartender, then came back with a couple of scotches. He downed the first one fairly quickly, and was taking his time with the second when the band came back on stage.

Q: How can you tell if a stage is level?

A: The bass player is drooling out of both sides of his mouth.

The sound man turned on his own mike and said, “Club Ninety-nine is pleased to welcome The Wasteland.” There was a round of enthusiastic applause. Joleen held the mike up to her lips and said softly, “We’re going to start off with a little something called ‘Ankle Bone.’” Amid hoots and whistles of approval, the band began to play.

The music was rapid-fire and intricate, and quite obviously required great technical skill. Joleen’s voice hit notes on an incredible range. There were no lyrics (unless they were in some language spoken off planet), but her wild mix of syllables and sounds was clearly not sloppy or accidental.

The rest of the band equaled her intensity. As Mack and Buzz played, their fingers flew along the frets; Gordon drummed to complex and changing time signatures. But at the end of the first song and Frank’s second scotch, he leaned over and whispered, “Five bucks if you can hum any of that back to me.”

He was right, of course, but out of loyalty to Buzz, I said, “They just aren’t confined by the need to be melodic.”

Frank gave an emperor’s new clothes sort of snort and stood up. “I’m going to get another drink. I’ll pay cab fare for all three of us if you want to join me.”

Figuring it would hurt Buzz’s feelings if we were both drunk by the end of his gig, I said, “No thanks.”

Q: What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?

A: A guitar player.

By the end of the set, I was seriously considering hurting Buzz’s feelings. “Get outside!” one member of the audience yelled in encouragement to the band, and when the sound man muttered, “And stay there,” I found myself in agreement. The crowd applauded wildly after every piece (I could no longer think of them as songs, nor remember which one was “Jar of Jam” and which was “Hangman’s Slip Knot”), but long before the set ended, I had a headache that could drive nails.