Touring rock bands, a father searching for his daughter, and a haiku master. Below is an exclusive excerpt from the novel Uncle Joe’s Senpai by Micah Thorp.

Chapter 1
Uncle Joe’s Band

We’re Uncle Joe’s Band screamin’ out loud
We’ve got a rockin’ metal sound
And a big rowdy crowd
—Uncle Joe’s Band, The Black Album

Uncle Joe’s Band was modestly successful. Able to play in modestly large venues, modestly filled with modestly interested patrons, they counted themselves successful, modestly. Three years after their breakout album had sold enough copies to garner some intermittent radio play, they achieved enough notoriety to open for more famous rock bands, attend various music award shows, and endorse an occasional household cleaning product.

The band’s sound was both deafening and lyrical. A combination of explosive guitar riffs, driving bass, and combustible percussion, combined with strangely insightful, if not poetic lyrics, made even the most uninterested listener raise an eyebrow and wonder who had decided that band’s music should be on the play list.

Once headquartered in a squalid house in Vallejo, California, their modest success had allowed the band to find more opulent quarters inside a renovated San Francisco loft complete with a small sound studio, bedrooms, an unused kitchen, and a large gathering space. Adorned with a combination of replica fine art and framed concert posters, the living space was comfortable. A silver refrigerator was kept well stocked with locally sourced organic meals, a variety of healthy vegetable drinks, and the occasional bottle of kombucha.

The band members could best be described as the human equivalents of refurbished mid-century furniture, once decrepit in the way things that have been overused are quickly worn out, now rebuilt to highlight the scars of their earlier years. Decades of excesses, late nights, drinks on the house, inebriated fans, and a virtual pharmacy of readily available illicit substances left the quartet with cirrhotic livers, emphysematous lungs, and sclerotic vasculatures. But despite their accumulated infirmities, the group maintained a creative spark, one that seemed to grow with time, such that when they recorded an album or took the stage for a show their collective presence allowed for the creation of something that seemed far in excess of their physical capabilities. Worn though they were, stirring the spirit and imagination of listeners occurred on more occasions than not. They had matured, both as people and as a musical ensemble.

Yet even in their greatest moments of creative triumph, the band, both individually and collectively, sought something else, something both ephemeral and permanent. Something that might sustain them when their own artistic passions had begun to fade. Something that might engender a sense of completeness, of whole, beyond what they could find in the invention of music.

And so, Uncle Joe’s Band played on, night after night, in venues large and small, ever in search of a thing they could never quite articulate, ever seeking but never quite fulfilled.

__________

As if on cue, three of the bedroom doors opened and the remaining band members spilled out into the living area, disheveled and still somewhat somnolent, despite the late hour of the day.

Ian, the least sleep deprived of the group, was already dressed, a long-sleeved black tee and black jeans covering his long, thin frame. Wearing round Lennonesque sunglasses he appeared as though he might have just returned from clubbing or an evening ride on his Indian motorcycle. Yet in contrast to his eyewear, he held a porcelain cup in his left hand as though he were interrupted during his midday tea. “Bloody marvelous,” he cooed with his usual wisp of Cardiff and Cockney. As the band’s lead singer, he was the very embodiment both in the voice and manner of an English rock star, despite his upbringing in rural Western Michigan.

As Ian sat on the couch, Rick and Rod stumbled into the living space, each disheveled in their own unique way.

“Where is she?” Rick mumbled, his straw-colored hair falling over the black concert T-shirt he’d clearly been wearing for more than a day. As the Uncle Joe’s Band’s bassist, he exuded an odd confidence, despite his deep-set eyes and milky white skin, which under the best of circumstances gave him the appearance of a concert T-shirt clad vampire just arisen from his coffin for the evening.

In contrast to Rick, Rod’s brown hair and round face was both uninteresting and average, the visage of someone who while unkempt, his appearance differed little from when he was well coiffed. Despite his bland appearance the group’s lead (and only) guitarist was clearly excited. As he stepped near the couch where Ian had taken roost, his leg became caught on the coffee table and he fell headfirst into the floor. As if on cue, the door opened and Allison stepped into the room.

“There she is!” Steve shouted, throwing his tattooed, muscular arms around her, giving her a big bear hug. Allison hugged back.

Rick and Ian hugged her next, Ian carefully doing so while retaining hold of his cup of tea.

Rod pulled himself to his feet and practically bounced up to Allison as though he hadn’t tripped and fallen on his left knee, now throbbing. “You look great! Any problems on the BART? How’s school going? Are your grades good?” He paused to take a breath.

“Thanks, no, good, and yes.” Allison kissed Rod on the cheek. “And it’s good to see you too, Dad.”