Spiral

as in ‘just right.’”
    ”Exact-a-mundo, John. Even quality bands like—that accent, you’re from Boston?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Okay. Bands from up there—J. Geils and Aerosmith-were monster-big in the early seventies, but even they struggled against the tide. And it was like Spiral forgot how to swim.”
    That brought back an image of the Skipper’s pool, and Veronica Held. But I wanted more background from Eisen before asking him about the birthday party. ”You were the band’s manager from the beginning?”
    ”Yeah. In fact, they wouldn’t have had the little name recognition they did, wasn’t for me.”
    ”How so?”
    ”I came up with the name. I mean, can you imagine? A lead singer in seventy with the same first name as Nixon’s veep?”
    Spiro Agnew. ”You changed it to ‘Spi’?”
    ”No. No, he’d already done that himself, running away from home and all. But I’m the one came up with ‘Spiral-Spi tends to remember that different, but the idea was mine. ‘Spi,’ lead singer of’Spiral.’ Get it?”
    ”Catchy.”
    ”Subliminal signature.”
    ”Sorry?”
    ”It’s like an actor does, make a role his own by some kind of little mannerism or bit of business. I figured to get positive name bounce from the jazz-fusion group Spyro Gyra, then have ‘Spi’ and ‘Spiral’ and even the logo”—he pointed to the tornado symbol on his T-shirt—”reinforce each other subliminally in the fan’s mind, follow me?”
    ”I think so. Is that why you thought the band could make a comeback?”
    ”No,” said Eisen. ”No, I was the one thought they couldn’t.”
    ”How come?”
    ”Back to that difference between CHR and AOR. It’s the same today, John. The album-oriented stations that never played Spiral’s old stuff wouldn’t play any new music they came up with, and the contemporary-hit stations never heard of them.”
    ”So why did Spi Held think the comeback would be a success?”
    ”Boils down to one word. Very.”
    ”Meaning his daughter.”
    ”Meaning Lolita with a mike in her hand. You ever see her live?”
    I didn’t think Eisen meant ”alive,” but I still shifted a little in my chair. ”No.”
    ”Wait a sec.” He started shuffling through a stack of unboxed VHS cassettes on the corner of his desk. ”I think I got one of their—yeah, here it is. Watch.”
    My day for videos. ”What’s that?”
    Eisen was already pedaling his chair over to a VCR under the monitor on a side table. ”Dry run for a music video. Unedited, which is probably how I’d want to see it, I was you.”
    Eisen picked up a remote device and pushed some buttons before inserting the tape. ”Okay, John, fasten your seat belt.”
    The screen came alive with color, a kaleidoscopic background constantly shifting shape and shade. Then some yelling offstage, and the camera zoomed in on Veronica Held and her cornrowed hair. There was some blurring of the men in the background before the camera operator caught on and evened out the range, Spi Held and his band members becoming clearer.
    That’s when Veronica said, ”What is this bullshit? Like, the fucking camera’s supposed to be on me, right?”
    Eisen’s breathy, grunted laugh. ”Lovely, isn’t she?”
    Not the word I’d have used. Veronica Held was dressed in a spandex outfit again, at least below the waist. Above it, bare midriff, a gold ring through her navel, and a leopard-skin bikini top that did its best to give her thirteen-year-old chest some cleavage.
    I shook my head.
    ”Wait,” said Eisen to me. ”It gets better.”
    Veronica stomped over to her father, him letting the big, flashy guitar sag against the strap around his shoulders.
    She said, ”The fuck did you get this clown? The cunt doesn’t even know who’s the star?”
    Spi Held said, ”Very, honey—”
    ”Fuck you. She goes, or I’m like gone yesterday.”
    The screen went to snow.
    Eisen said, ”This next take really captures her.”
    When the picture resolved again, there was no doubt who ”the star” was. Veronica Held fondled a bulbous portable mike between her hands, the fingers looking delicate, even fragile against it.
    Until she began to sing. Or wail.
    As with the party tape, the voice wasn’t a schoolgirl’s. Nor were her hand movements on the mike.
    ”Lolita,” said Eisen. ”Crossed with her namesake.”
    ”Her namesake?”
    ”Janis, Very’s middle name. After Janis Joplin. You know, Big Brother and the Holding Company, then—”
    ”I remember