Page 51 of The Girl with No Name
“Are they your favorite band of all time?” she asks, digging into her food.
“They’re up at the top for sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve been following them since high school. They were an early inspiration to me. Not too many bands get big out of Chicago these days.”
She squints for a moment. “I’m trying to think of rock bands that have come out of Chicago lately and gone mainstream. Wilco? They’re older though. Maybe Whitney?”
“Both great bands,” I agree. “But there’s something I admire about how the Lemons came up locally. Nothing wrong with going to Nashville or whatever to make it, though. I think it’s the Red Lemons’ story, too, that gets me.”
“Oh yeah? What is their story?”
“Well, back in the day, maybe four years ago now, they had a different lead singer, Johnny Donovan. His voice was like butter—deep and masculine and you couldn’t stop listening to it. But then right after their first big break—opening for The Next Best Thing on their huge tour—Johnny died from hydrocephalus.” I shake my head. “It was tragic.”
“Oh my God. That’s awful.”
“Yeah. Social media went crazy after that. How would they replace him? He just had this special quality to his voice.”
“So what did they do?”
“Well, Johnny’s girlfriend, Violet, started singing with the group. Now she’s the one singing all these love songs that were not only written from a man’s perspective, but were mostly songs Johnny had writtenabout her.”
Luna puts her fork down. “Okay, I’m invested. I had no idea.”
“The band broke up for a little while, then got back together…and then Violet and Henry Cooney—their lead guitarist—announced they were dating, which brought a whole new wave of attention and a brand new feel to their music. They started writing new stuff, but every time Violet gets on stage, she plays Johnny’s old guitar. It’s amazing to me how they’ve reinvented themselves, honored their past, and still manage to make amazing music.” I pick up my fork. “So that’s why I like the Red Lemons so much.”
She nods and circles the Red Lemons on her schedule. They’re playing at seven thirty tonight. “Well, we’d better not miss them, then. I know a few of their songs. They’re catchy. Good for shower singing. But it’s cool how passionate you are about them.”
The waiter comes by to check on us, and we ask for the check.
“So when do I get to hear your songs?” Luna asks.
“Whenever you want,” I tell her.
“No time like the present,” she says. “The rooftop at our hotel is nice. I went up there and checked it out this morning.”
“Right this second?”
She shrugs. “You said you were going to play last night and then you didn’t. You’re way overdue. I want to see what you’ve got, Walker.”
We takean Uber back to the hotel and wave to Randy on the way through the lobby.
“Do you think he suspects anything?” Luna asks once we’re in the elevator.
“Oh yeah,” I say, chuckling. “I’d say we’re highly suspect.”
Back in the room, we look in on Dunn, who’s still breathing deeply on the bed. I get the feeling he’s going to be passed out for a while.
“All right. Ready?” I grab my guitar, Luna makes us another round of coffees, and we head up to the roof of the hotel, which overlooks downtown Lexington.
She leans back against a concrete ledge, with big sunglasses on, sipping her coffee. “What do you got for me, Walker?”
“This first song is called ‘Blue Horses’.”
“I like it already. Where’d you get that idea?”
I shrug and don’t tell her about the painting in my apartment for some reason. Maybe I’m tired of being the one sharing all the time. Or maybe I just want to let the song speak for itself. “It was from a dream, mostly.”