Part 49 (2/2)

what difference does it make how good we are, if they scream through

every b.l.o.o.d.y concert? We're just a commodity, an image Pete's polished

up to sell records. I hate that.” He stuffed his frustrated fists in

his pockets. ”Sometimes I think we should go back to where we

started-the pubs where people listened or danced when we played. When

we could reach them. I don't know.” He pa.s.sed a hand through his hair.

”I guess I didn't realize how much fun we were having then. But you

can't go back.”

”I didn't know you felt this way. Why didn't you tell me?”

”I didn't know myself really. It's just that I don't feel like Brian

McAvoy anymore.” How could he explain that the feeling he'd revived at

Woodstock had stubbornly faded in the year following it? ”I didn't know

how frustrating it would be not to be able to go out and have a drink

with the lads, or sit on the beach without people swarming around,

wanting a piece.”

”You could stop. You could pull back and write.”

”I can't stop.” He looked down at Emma, sleeping peacefully. ”I have to

record, I have to perform. Every time I'm on stage or in the studio, I

know, deep down, that this is what I want to do. Need to do. But the

rest of it ... The rest of it sucks, and I didn't know it would.

Maybe it's Hendrix and Joplin dying the way they did. Such a waste.

Then the Beatles breaking up. It's like the end of something, and I

haven't finished.”

”Not the end.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, automatically kneading

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