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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Maxine Superstar (MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Wed,  3 Sep 2003 07:10:08 -0400
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Maxine Superstar (MF)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared stunningly illustrated by Brett Empty 
under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 80 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------


I never did get married, and neither did Maxine Miller. But 
that's where the comparisons stop, because I never went on to 
have much of a life, while she's stacked up more life than a 
lucky black cat.

When will I see you again? I asked when she left in 1994. I'll 
never forget you, she said. But she was scarcely paying 
attention, so far down the path of away and gone that she was 
only a speck in my eye. She even forgot to kiss me goodbye.

I mentored her, you know. Taught her the look and the style 
that so many admire. Taught her how to dress, how to project 
herself, how to sing a song with more than her voice. She was 
barely anybody when she left me. Now she's Maxine Miller. 
You've seen her, heard her. Everybody has. Even if you don't 
know her name immediately, you know who she is. Oh, right, the 
sexy jazz singer. The one with the black hair, the long black 
gloves, and those, red, red lips. The one on all the big 
television shows. Yeah, a class act. She sings to slit your 
guts open. 

In the summer of 2001 I gave up the uncertain life of the 
professional musician and started selling power tools. The 
money came in every Friday, and I never had that before. After 
eight months I'd saved enough to buy a new keyboard, and I 
never had that before, either. At least, I never had it 
without owing a credit company more than I could raise on it. 
I still play with a band on weekends, and sometimes on Friday 
nights. Just a laidback little quartet, smooth enough, sweet 
enough, and way more polished than we need to be for the 
venues we play. No more sessions playing. No more making other 
guys sound good and getting paid a pittance for it. It's just 
for fun now. Pocket money. Sometimes I even manage to have a 
good time.

/Long ago and so far away
/I fell in love with you before the second show

Superstar. Maxine Miller rescued that song from the 
marshmallow heap where The Carpenters left it. A sad song by 
Leon Russell sung first by Rita Cooledge but made sugary-
famous by Richard and Karen. Maxine put the desolation and the 
agony back into it, and she made it her own gut-wrenching 
signature song.

/Loneliness is such a sad affair
/And I can hardly wait to be with you again

I found that song and taught her how to sing it. More fool me. 
It always did tear me up inside, but not like it does now. Now 
I can't bear to hear it.

Ah, Maxine. I fell in love with her before the second show, 
loneliness is such a sad affair, and it was long ago and so 
far away.

She was eighteen and the year was 1993. I was in a pub on a 
Sunday night, and I heard her before I saw her. She was 
singing fairly badly, and flat at that, at the karaoke. It was 
as dismal a performance as any other, but she sang the song an 
octave lower than she might have, and her voice had a fetching 
hooky and husky snag to it. Intrigued, I broke away from my 
conversation at the bar and went around the corner to look at 
her.

She looked pretty much like a young scrubber. She was with 
other young scrubbers, male and female, and they'd drunk too 
much, and they were getting boisterous and untidy. She was 
about as pretty as any other scrubber her age. Yeah, she was 
pretty, but not really. You know what I mean.

"You ever thought about singing?" I asked her as she edged 
past me.

She stopped and frowned suspiciously. "You trying to pick me 
up?"

"No."

She continued to frown. "You think I can sing?"

"No, but I think you could learn."

I could see she was dubious, so I gave her one of my cards. 
"Call me if you give a shit," I said, and went back to my pals 
at the bar.  

Back in 1993, it felt like I was on the threshold of something 
good. I was twenty-six and I had a cool little band that had 
drawn good reviews. I was on the lookout for a singer. It 
seemed like the next step, maybe the one that would make the 
difference. There were singers around, but I wanted somebody 
with an off-angle look and feel about her, something special.

She rang me the next day. I recognised that ragged little 
catch in the way she spoke. "You serious, mister?"

Good question. But, you see, the voice got to me, the night 
before at the karaoke and again that day on the telephone. She 
said she could make it over to my place after she finished 
work.

I rented a property on the town's outskirts. It had a big barn 
where you could make a lot of noise. Musicians often stayed 
with me, hung out, used the barn, but at that time there was 
only me.

She turned up wearing a far-from-spotless blue uniform, and 
her hair was tied back. She had a job as a hospital cleaner. 
Her hands showed she was nervous, but she looked me in the 
eyes boldly. "What do I have to do?" she asked.

"Just sing for me," I said, taking her across to the barn. 
"Just you. Not anyone else. No karaoke, no mimicking the 
voices and styles of other singers. I want to hear the 
undressed voice."

I switched on the lights, the keyboards, the mike system. 
"Gee, you really are a pro," she said, looking around.

I dug out a sheet of music and handed it to her. "I can't read 
that," she said, crestfallen.

"Just read the words. It's a simple melody. I'll play it 
through for you first."

"What is this song? Superstar? I never heard of it."

"It was a minor hit before you were born. I keep rearranging 
it and waiting for the right singer to turn up."

I played and sang the song myself. "Gee," she said, when I 
finished. "You sing pretty good."

"Support and backup only," I told her. "I don't have what it 
takes to lead."

"You think I do?"

"I don't think anything yet. We'll take it a verse at a time."

She concentrated fiercely on the words and got them in the 
right place. She missed notes, she scooped because she was 
flat, and she sang with all the emotion of a dead cat. I 
played and she sang, we went over it many times, and for 
nearly an hour I said nothing. She got to know the lyrics, but 
she didn't really improve.

"Take a break," I said.

"I'm no good," she said.

"You have a long way to go," I admitted. "I don't even know 
your name."

"Maxine Miller."

"You want to be a singer, Maxine?"

"You ever cleaned hospitals?"

I made coffee and talked to her about music and singing. I 
told her about enunciation, shaping the words with precision, 
interpreting them. For the singer I wanted, the lyrics were 
everything. A singer is an actor. The musicians play the 
music, the singer plays the crowd. 

We tried again, and she was better. "Gee, it's a real sad 
song," she said.

Bingo, and thank Christ for that. "When can you come back for 
another session?" I asked. Nearly four hours had passed.

"Tomorrow, same time," she said. "That's if you still want 
me."

There was so much she didn't know, but under all that 
ignorance, buried like a hibernating animal, was the voice.

We worked together for three nights running. She was 
disappointed we came back to the same song. She wanted to try 
something else.

"But we haven't scratched the surface of this one yet," I 
said. "Trust me. This is your song."

We worked on her scooping problem, on hitting the note just 
right and not five per cent under, on breathing, spacing, and 
delivery. I explored her natural range from contralto to 
soprano. It was quite remarkable. She certainly had a gift, if 
she could learn to use it.

I had to go away for a week on tour with the band. When I 
returned she had left a dozen messages for me on the answering 
machine. She'd been working on what I taught her, she said. 
She sounded excited.

She came over and sang the song. Quite nice. No scoops, good 
spacing. Technically adequate.

"What do you think?" she asked, eyes shining. "Good enough?"

"Much better," I said. "But still not nearly good enough."

Her shoulders slumped. "Fuck," she said. Clearly she had been 
expecting higher praise.

"You sing without drama," I said. "You're not making me cry."

"Fuck," she said again, bewildered. "Do I have to do that?"

"Each and every time."

She bit her lip. "I don't think I can."

"Drop the guard," I said. "Singers should have no shame. It's 
all about exposure and exhibitionism. You have to let 
everybody see you naked. You want them to see you naked."

"Oh, fine," she said, laughing. "I'll just take off my 
clothes."

"Metaphorically, yes."

"Metafuckit," she said, suddenly gravely serious. "I'm doing 
it."

"What?"

She was undoing the front buttons of her blue uniform. "I was 
ready to do this anyway."

"Maxine, what are you doing?"

"I have to sleep with you, Eddie Peters."

"No, you don't. That's not part of the deal."

She had the dress off and on the floor, and she was sliding 
the bra down her arms. "You may have been to music college and 
you may know lots about music," she said, "but you don't know 
much about women." 

The bra was on the floor, and she bent over to slide her 
panties down her legs. "You get inside my head and muddle me 
about so I don't know who I am or what I want," she said. "You 
fill me with hopes and dreams. You're the teacher, the maestro 
who can get me out of this town. Everything I am is in your 
hands. You think you can get away with not sleeping with me? 
No way, buddy."

She stood naked, facing me, hands by her sides. "I'm going 
crazy not sleeping with you," she said. "I have to have you, 
and that's just the way it is."

Stunned, I looked at her body. Her very good body. I hadn't 
realised. Apart from the night at the pub, I'd only seen her 
in that drab uniform. Great legs. Great tits. She was 
fabulous.

"What are you going to say?" she asked in a soft voice. "Not 
good enough? Try harder, Maxine?"

Not good enough? Jesus. She was the best-looking woman I'd 
ever seen.

She walked up to me slowly, came around behind where I was 
sitting on the stool at the keyboards, put her arms around my 
neck, and leaned her breasts against me. I was shell-shocked. 
Didn't know what to do.

"Too much music and not enough love, Eddie," she murmured. Her 
warm breath in my ear gave me goose bumps.

Dream-like, I found myself on the battered old couch with her, 
and she was undressing me. I hadn't had much luck with women. 
Nothing ever stuck, and I knew I lacked confidence. Other guys 
got the girls and I made music.

She understood my near-paralysis, knew it for inexperience, 
and led me all the way. She was aggressive and eager, knew 
what she was doing, had her legs around me, guided me with her 
hand on my cock, told me where to go and what to do. Invited 
me into her home. Told me to take my time and stay a while.

Bliss. Locked inside her, my body trapped by her legs, my face 
down at her breasts. Nerves tingling, but comfort and 
sanctuary, and there was no better place.

"Got you, Eddie Peters," she whispered, stroking my head. "Now 
you belong to me."

I might have liked to stay locked inside her forever, but 
muscles, hot blood, and primitive forces compelled me to move 
my hips, and once I started I could not stop. I thrust and 
ground. Panting, I spasmed and shot into her with no warning 
at all. It barely started before it finished, and I grieved 
for the loss of those warm and still moments.

"It's okay, Eddie," she said, hands fluttering on my back. 
"You had a lot to let go."

Sheepishly, I withdrew from her and started to get dressed. 
She padded off to the small bathroom, and returned still bare 
naked. I marvelled again at her body. She was beautiful.

"That's gotten rid of a lot of tension," she said. "Let's try 
the song again."

In languorous mood, I played the intro a little slower than I 
had been doing. It sounded good. On impulse, I flicked my left 
hand across to another keyboard and simulated a cello, sighing 
and moaning under the melody line.

/Long ago and so far away
/I fell in love with you before the second show.

Jesus. Maxine was searing and glorious. Voice cracking, 
catching, the words brittle and pure, the timing superb.

/Your guitar, it sounds so sweet and clear,
/But you're not really here,
/It's just the radio.

No guitar. Cello. The cello was exactly. Maxine was exactly. 
My heart broke with the pain and the joy of it.

She sang it through without a hitch, and I tied it off with 
just the cello sound. I looked up at her and she was smiling.

"Eddie, you're crying," she said.

So I was. "Gee, it's a real sad song," I said, dabbing at my 
eyes with my sleeve.

"Suddenly I worked out this singing thing," she said. "It's 
all about sex."

It was? Yeah, maybe it was. "You're going to be a great 
singer," I said. "You're going to be so good I'm scared."

Maxine junked her cleaning job and moved in with me. She was 
one of six children, the youngest but one. Nobody would miss 
her for more than three minutes, she said. I never met her 
family. Didn't even know where they lived. Still don't. Maxine 
moved on from them, just as she later moved on from me.

I taught her two more songs, and she learned them easily. Note 
perfect, word perfect. She'd cracked it. Then I brought the 
band to the barn and introduced Maxine. I handed out the 
arrangements, and we played and she sang her three songs 
straight through, one after the other.

In the silence I waited for somebody to say something. Then 
Jimmy, the drummer, started laughing, and we were all 
laughing. It was as easy as that. We laughed because it was 
great. They knew we had found a front and centre singer.

Maxine had become a singer with no shame. I never knew the 
word "naked" meant so much until she moved in with me. You 
couldn't get any more naked than Maxine. She exposed it all.

I taught her music better than she taught me sex, or she 
learned better than I did. I was a nervous lover, watchful, 
uncertain, never able to wallow in it like she could. I 
watched in awe as she sucked my cock gleefully. Mostly I did 
what she told me to do. She sat on my face, laughing 
hysterically while I clumsily poked my tongue into her 
crevices. I tried hard to please her.

She had an earthy, easy approach to sex. She'd been sexually 
active since the age of eleven, which shocked me deeply, 
because at eleven I'd been a barely visible stick boy who made 
model aeroplanes and played the piano. By the time she got to 
me, she'd had dozens of lovers, big and small, men and boys.

I tried hard to please her, but it was never going to be good 
enough.

It didn't come to me that I was most hopelessly in love with 
her until the night she gave her first public performance. I 
had planned to nurse her stage appearances carefully. The band 
would play, get the audience settled, and then we'd bring her 
on for her three-number set.

Well, all that went out the window on the first night. I 
brought her on stage without introduction and she sang 
Superstar. The previously polite audience went crazy. Then she 
sang the old standard, My Funny Valentine, to a breathless 
silence. They went crazy again. She finished up with my jazzy 
rework of the bitter Abba hit, The Winner Takes It All, and 
people were standing, cheering, crowding the stage.

She stood there, beaming. She looked wonderful in the long 
black gown, the long black gloves, with her black hair 
tumbling around her bare shoulders. I had tears in my eyes. 
She was sensational.

I took the microphone. "Her name is Maxine Miller, and that 
was her stage debut," I said. They whistled and cheered, and 
called for more. I signalled to the boys and sat down to play 
the intro to Superstar again. I was going to have to teach her 
new songs in a hurry.

That was the night Maxine began to become a great singer. It 
was the night I began to realise how much I loved her. It was 
also the night I began to lose her.

She didn't come home with me that night. Somehow I managed to 
get left on my own. Eventually, not knowing where she was, I 
drove home alone. I got out of bed in the morning and found 
her, still dressed in her long black gown, sitting at the 
kitchen table.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "I'm still so excited."

Maybe I should have asked where she'd been. Maybe, if I had, 
the pattern would not have developed like it did. Maybe, but I 
doubt it. She had a sly, evasive look in her eye, and it was a 
look I would come to know too well.

I don't know who she fucked that night. It doesn't matter, 
because in the end she fucked just about everybody. All the 
band, certainly. Others, certainly. Maxine sang sex on the 
stage, and when she got up on that, she wouldn't come down. 
Maybe she's changed her ways these days. Maybe, but I doubt 
it.

I got used to it. She lived with me, learned her songs with 
me, and slept with me on nights when she wasn't performing. 
When she sang on stage she'd fuck another guy. I got used to 
it, but it always hurt.

Life got busy. There were always new songs to add to Maxine's 
repertoire, and the band stopped playing solo because it was 
Maxine who drew the crowds. I was refusing bookings because we 
had so many. I trebled our price, and we still had too many 
bookings.

In the barn, just me and Maxine and a songbook that kept 
getting bigger, she sang so beautifully I couldn't stop 
forgiving her.

/Yesterday's gone,
/And now all I want is a smile.

"Eddie, you're crying again," she said.

"That's because you nailed it," I lied. "Gee, now that's a sad 
song."

A smooth agent stole her away from me one night after a show. 
She went with him, and she didn't come back for three days. 
When she did, he was with her.

"I understand Miss Miller doesn't have a contract," he said to 
me in my kitchen.

Maxine stood behind him and looked at the ceiling.

I turned away and went to the barn. It was all over.

The next day, she came to see me on her own, and to collect 
her clothes. Then she was gone.

She never did come back. She was too good for a little band 
like mine. I know that. I knew it from the moment she first 
hit the stage. She was too good for a guy like me, and I knew 
that from the first moment she took off her clothes.

I have survived the time of Maxine Miller. Life, such as it 
is, goes on. I just wish the hell she wouldn't keep singing 
that song.

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie.

Maxine Miller's songbook: 

/Superstar (1971) Leon Russell and Bonnie Bramlett
/My Funny Valentine (1937) Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart
/The Winner Takes It All (1980) Benny Andersson and Bjorn 
Ulvaeus
/ Love On The Rocks (1980) Neil Diamond and Gilbert Becaud

* Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at 
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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