“When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, or turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
Then Frank appeared beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Two other men stepped into the frame, the same friends I’d seen in the photographs.
“We’ve got his back, buddy,” Frank said.
Dad smiled faintly as his old bandmates joked about needing a new guitarist.
For a moment, he looked like the man in those old recordings again.
Then he turned serious.
“These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that, too.”
He looked directly into the camera.
“One last thing. Open the drawer under the mixing desk. There’s something in there to help you get started.”
