captainband

[captainband]

reynolds // stop, children! what’s that sound?

“You’re sure I can crash here?”

The question was a shallow one, seeing as though there were already bags on the hardwood of the New York apartment, but Paisley felt like she needed to ask anyways. The little apartment on the corner of 36th and 4th smelled like fresh roasted coffee, and she just about groaned from the smell she’d missed so much. Those dinky little Holiday Inns barely even gave her a properly cooked egg. “I mean, I’m not imposing —right?”

“How long are you planning on staying, again?”

The disfigured voice, coming somewhere from what Paisley was sure was the kitchen, only sounded slightly irritated. Although, that was pretty common for her younger cousin. A habit learned from her mother, who chose to showcase anger instead of drinking it away — like Paisley’s own mother. Her eyes searched for a night cap at the reminder of her mom, but she brushed the thought away when the younger blonde came out of the other room with her smile light and attitude just slightly breezy — like a nice spring day back home. With two mugs in her hand, piping hot and teetering on the edge of spilling, the older blonde was happy to help and take the mug she knew was hers. (It’s slightly cracked edges and faded paint didn’t mean a lot, but the hands that held it previously meant everything).

“Just until I can figure out what to do next.”

Ah. Freya suppressed a comment on just how long that would be, since she had a pretty good idea it would last more than a month (just like last time. In fact, if her counting skills were correct — cousin Paisley had stayed for a grand total of 3 months and 6 days.) “And what will that include?”

“Oh, you know — maybe I’ll follow Sledge. Did you know he’s putting together a band — as though the first one wasn’t enough?”

Her brows furrowed, lips just on the edge of the ceramic cup she had made a few weeks prior — Leo’s idea. “Who told you that?”

Paisley followed her action, raising her own mug up to the chapped lips, recovering from the cold New York wind. The coffee tasted better than anything she’d had in years, and it was easy to remember why’d she came back. “Remember the letter I sent you from New Mexico — the one about the bar fight?”

Freya took a good shot of her drink and nearly burned her throat in the process, but she raised an eyebrow for the elder to continue.

“Moody Blue’s guitarist was there, and he told me about it himself. He’s going to be in it.” One of her prouder moments, getting drinks with a man she only wished she could play with was somewhere near the top of the list. His nimble fingers and easy attitude were practically begging her to melt, but the stage barrier had kept her from doing so. Yet, when he locked eyes during one of his solos and she got access backstage later on— that just about did it. She had to pace herself, and what was a better mood breaker than some bar fight? Maybe not intentional, she considered it a solid from whatever God existed as some retribution for everything in the last few years.

“Why was he in New Mexico?”

“Beats me.” She scoffed. If she was being honest with her cousin, then there was barely a moment of the traveling that she remembered beyond the rush of adrenaline and the music. Maybe some of the people she met — but they weren’t supposed to matter in the long run. Places got jumbled in the haze and — “Oh, wait! Maybe that happened in California?”

Patience was a virtue and Freya was pretty sure the amount she exercised on her ‘older’ cousin would gratify her a spot past the golden gates of heaven. “Did Looking Glass even play in California?”

“They had to. I don’t know how I ended up there, otherwise.”

“And how’d you end up Oregon, then?”

That was a good question.

Past the various highways and old cars she found herself in, Paisley couldn’t remember her directions. She had to base her whole sense of direction off of which way people went for gold. They went West? That means California. So, Freya asking how she got from one place to another was practically asking a Penguin if they knew they were in a zoo exhibit. “I think that guy who I traveled with in Oklahoma offered it, so why not?” Like she said — sometimes she remembered the men.

“And you came back because of Elton…”

Paisley scoffed and gently rolled her eyes; just enough to seem playful without looking hurt. Although, there was a gentle pang in her chest. Did Freya think she was as self centered as her mother? “To see you!”

The look on Freya’s face was one of suspended belief.

“Maybe to see Elton, a little?”

Belief hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“Have you even been invited to this secret show?”

Freya had a general curiosity to all the ‘wonderous’ items Paisley got herself involved in. She’d almost think the other blonde was blind to the world around her, unless it was about music. As soon as something involved a beat, Paisley’s eyes opened in such a brilliant way and there was a sense of awe that overtook her every muscle. Secret shows just managed to unlock the extra bit of excitement for her love for something new and unknown. As though she needed to feel like she was in the middle of a problem.  

“Not yet…but I might know someone.” Paisley replied as she finished off the last her her drink. When she got up to put it away, her spare hand grabbed the mug that Freya held out.  Bare feet padded across hardwood into the kitchen, and there was a small clatter as the dishes hit the sink.

“Oh?” Freya replied when Pai’s head peaked out.

The rest of her figure appeared from behind the wood beam that separated the rooms, “Remember that one producer that flirted with me at Blair’s before I left?” As she reentered the room, there were two new steaming cups, Paisley’s tea strained clattering against the ceramic.

She vaguely remembered the man, with a swagger that could cut down entire armies if he wanted. She remembered wondering why he didn’t get enlisted, but then she saw the watch on his hand and figured it out. “The one with the good facial hair—thing?” While Freya wondered aloud, Pai plopped back down onto the worn couch.

“That’s the one!” She wasn’t sure if she took a long sip to build up some anticipation, or if there was some genuine thirst involved. Maybe it was both, but Paisley wasn’t sure how tea was going to help her now.  “He saw me cruising past some coffee house, had to follow me, I guess? We talked, he asked why I was back. I told him the show, because we don’t need to get super personal. And he said he might be able to snag a ticket or two.”

“And you’re okay going with him?”

“Of course. He can get me in, and I might get to brush elbows with Elton.”

His name dripped with excess — which caused Freya to wrinkle her nose. She couldn’t help herself when she rolled her eyes, it felt involuntary. “And what do you plan to do with that? Ask to be his drummer?”

“Maybe. You never know.” The shrug said everything, and Paisley didn’t even have to try. She needed another job — some sort of income — if she was going to get out of New York again.

“Why don’t you just come work with me?”

There was an involuntary jerk on her head as she almost gagged at the offer. And over her tea? Why would Freya say such a thing and nearly ruin the mood? “And sell out to some record company? No thanks.”

“It’s a job, Paisley. You’re not some indentured servant.”

“I’ll just take some jobs at Billy’s. He lets me drum how I like, not in 3/4 time with a Lennon-Wannabe trying to tell me that I’m off tempo.”

“That guy was a prick — get over it.”

“There are plenty more of them, trust me.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Freya would never really consider actually kicking her cousin out, but in moments like this, she was pretty close to it. Sometimes she couldn’t take how much Paisley thought she was the wiser of the two, just because she was more of a traveler. Traveling across a single country means just about two shits if she doesn’t get anything out of it. (Which Freya was pretty sure was the case).

“Oh, you know. You just won’t let them get to you because you’re so much better at pretending like you aren’t compromising your artistic integrity.”

“You’re a real prick, Pai.”

“Maybe so. I’m fine with that; I don’t let myself doubt that I’ve got more talent than the next Joe on the corner.” She practically downed another cup, and as she finished it off and a bit dribbled down her chin — it was Freya that went to wipe it off.

“You do, but you’ve got to use it somewhere.”

They shared a look for a second, and Freya’s gentle smile just about broke Paisley. But, she wasn’t going to surrender the first night, and there was still a lot to do for the evening.“I’m gonna head out for a drink, you wanna go?”

“Gotta start early tomorrow.” Freya waved the offer off as she staggered up from the couch. Sometimes she wondered if a new one would keep them not so near to the ground. “You go on out, just make sure to lock the door when you get back. The key’s in the bowl by the door.”

--

The danky lights in the bar down the street provided little guidance to the bar top on the at the other end of the room. While some doo-op song played from the jukebox in the corner, Paisley made sure she headed as far away from there as she could. Who knew what kind of song another tourist would pick for themselves; they all thought they were quite edgy, plopping a quarter through the slot and playing something as silly as Tom Jones. She thought they were just plain stupid. (In an attempt to give herself some chance of a good resting place, she tended to revise her thoughts and believe in the former).

Setting herself down at the end of the row, she met eyes with the older bartender. With crows practically nesting in the corners, and the sense of dismay that shone through — she didn’t know whether or not she wanted to talk. She had to order a drink at some point, but the option to ask him specifically proved to be daunting. Maybe she’d wait for her company to arrive. From the pictures he sent her over the last few years, he could handle the guy.

She could see the reflection of the door from all the glasses against the bar top, and the clock on the other wall showed that the second hand only hand to make five trips around before he showed up.

As her head whipped around and she got her first good look at Steve Rogers in two years, she almost fell backwards. Paisley had to grab ahold of the bar top just to get herself together. “Steve,” she clambered as his eyes found her finally. Her lips were ready to movie again when he spoke first.

“Good to see you too, Pai.”

He gave her that smirk that haunted her dreams for the last two years (as though she needed nightmare fuel in the middle of traveling — picturing him with that smirk as he laid dead in the wet greenery of Vietnam made sure she did). Yet, this time it was almost a relief, and she couldn’t help herself as she closed any space and gave him the tightest hug he’d ever gotten. As his arms came to hold her, he heard her whisper something close to his ear. “It’s good to have you back.”

“I think it’s good to be back.” He replied, giving her just a squeeze before letting go. Her feet dropped about an inch when she hit the ground, and she hadn’t even realized he had her airborne. “The kids downtown made me regret it it a bit when I got off the plane — maybe I should have stayed there.”

The spectacle of students protesting down in at Idlewild made her laugh. “They’re just hippies; they don’t get it.”

“Maybe they do?”

“Steve.”

“Pai, I’m just saying that I know better than anyone how shitty the whole thing was.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the right. They’re just chanting because they can. None of them had the courage to go over there.” She could see how little he wanted to talk about it, so Paisley knew it was time for her to shut her mouth. He offered her the same chair she’d been using at the bar, and he took his supposed seat. A small smile was sent her way before he waved down the bartender, and rattled off the drink she used to get from memory. When he looked over for a some approval, she didn’t tell him she didn’t really like Gin and Tonic’s anymore.

There didn’t really seem to be a point.

She didn’t want to tell him she’d changed — not like everything else had.

[captainband]

page//genesis pt. one

WATSON: Who would you say inspired your group most?

PAGE: Queen.  I really had a thing for Freddie, and Paisley had a thing for Brian.

BARNES: I think all of us had a thing for Brian.

[Laughter from the group]

WATSON: And you got to tour with Queen in ‘76.

ROGERS: Oh yeah. Really awesome moment for us. Arguably one of the best tours in our career.

REYNOLDS: And we performed for Live Aid with them, didn’t we?

BARNES: Hell yeah we did. You know, I think being there with all of those famous names was really how we knew we’d made it.

PAGE: Definitely. We’d just recently gotten back together when we performed there. Great concert, and great cause too.

WATSON: So, how did Captain begin?

BARNES: What, our origin? Well, we all had different circumstances that kind of brought us together.

WATSON: What was that like?

[Cue “Tiny Dancer”]

FEBRUARY 29th, 1972.

Tucked away on a forgotten corner on Park and 18th street lived an old, craggily man who owned a musical instrument repair shop, run by his most hated yet most affordable employee, Mr. Terrell Smith, who made it his line of work to get back at the racist Mr. Donahue in any way he could. What this meant was letting the new girl in town test all of the guitars and pianos herself before he deemed them ready to be released once more to their owners. Around three o’clock every single afternoon, the lonely yet lovely Ms. Terrance Paige Marsh came to the shop, found her place at the base of the piano, and began playing Elton John’s greatest hit thus far: Tiny Dancer. She’d barely gotten a chance to hear it before she was already practicing and mastering it, taking advantage of what records they had there to play it over and over again until the poor thing had just about snapped in half, along with the record. Mr. Terrell’s least favorite song--in fact, least favorite artist--would forever be Elton John’s Tiny Dancer. Nonetheless, the plucking of recently tuned piano strings made the streets buzz a little more for that single hour each day, springing to life from the drab and rusted parts of forgotten city. Business was surely booming from the talk about the city of a simple country girl having real talent. She’d barely been here a month, and already, the people were in love.

Yet, every single day, Terrie was greeted with the same response from Mr. Terrell: “You again? Don’t you have something better to do? How ‘bout starting with getting a real job?”

“Working on it, Mr. Smith. I’m getting close. Just have to wait, until.. You know, women can actually get a man’s job.” Her hair was wildly long—it fell down past her hips, tapering off into dull, splitting ends she was desperately trying to rejuvenate through various experimental home remedies she’d only heard of. Dark, heavy strands cascaded downward in uneven waves across her shoulders and her face, partially obscuring her left eye and casting shadows that got people shooting quick second glances in her direction and nothing more. Heavy makeup lined her face, foundation covering every imperfection, blue eyeshadow drawing attention to her eyes, bright lipstick making men fantasize in passing moments as she walked by. The origins of this makeup were questionable at best, but with no proof or evidence, she may have very well bought them this time. A better question would have been where she was able to apply makeup every day, but Mr. Terrell knew better than to ask. He could leave it to his imagination, seeing the way she worked, the way she could hustle her way into an establishment to use their bathroom, steal some food, even bathe. He could take a few guesses as to where she slept too, but he hoped he was wrong.

“You know that ain’t never gonna happen. You’ve more luck getting famous as a piano player.”

“I could be working here, you know,” she retorted, shooting him a glance before positioning herself once more at the piano.

“No. Girl, we talked about this. Mr. Donahue won’t be wanting nothing from you. Nothing but bad news. A harlequin.” Mr. Terrell shook his head just imagining, seeing the smart, young girl wasting away as some colorful prop for a useless man. Too many women ended up like that nowadays.

Terrie, jaw dropped, stared at Mr. Terrell until he turned to notice, then she scoffed and turned away once more. “I am not a harlequin. I don’t sleep my way to the middle.”

“No, you sleep your way out of homelessness.”

She rolled her eyes, placing her hands again on the familiar keys, prepping herself. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m still homeless.”

“That ain’t right.”

“Shit yeah, it’s not right,” she said, emphasizing with a determination that kept her up most nights.

“No, Girl, I mean sleeping around like that. I mean, shit, most women doing it anyways, but you’re better than that.”

She watched her hands, hesitation beginning at her fingertips, creeping their way up into her hands. “Obviously not,” Terrie muttered, and with a quick shake of her hands, the hesitation was shoved away momentarily, the quiet, dim interior reminding her no one was around. The melody was simple enough--sweet and elegant, the way most classic pieces she’d learned were. Her eyes would momentarily close, her shoulders relax, body becoming one with the piano and its gentle embrace. Mr. Terrell would be fiddling with another broken string, one tightened too much by the careless owner--easy fix--that could take minutes yet get hours worth of profit, and he’d watch her from the corner of his eye, seeing the way her movements coalesced with the music itself, a fusion between man and musical instrument which made the world a little safer in their one hour of power. Mr. Donahue wouldn’t wake from his scheduled nap for another forty-nine minutes, so the store was hers, so long as the slowly greying Mr. Terrell could work.

“You know what you making me think, Girl?” Mr Terrell said, now wiping the counter off with a partially dusty drag. “You gonna marry a music man. I can feel it.”

With a soft, almost voiceless laugh, Terrie twisted her body and her shoulders to move enough of her locks across to her back. “Yeah, right.”

“That’s what Mr. Elton John tells you. Yes ma’am, a rich, young music man. Best goddamn smile you ever seen. That’s who you’ll find.” And to Mr. Terrell’s surprise, he was absolutely right. The perfect music man just hadn’t walked through those doors yet.

Most often, customers never came in, or if they did, it was to get just a glimpse at the young girl making music great again, before leaving the store once more, uninterested in its contents and Mr. Terrell. Apart from the occasional jingle of the bell which unwillingly slammed against the door with each shift and opening, the room was quiet, and Terrie could block out the entire world, practicing and playing, praying that one day she could perform on stage. She didn’t want much, as long as it could afford an actual house, with an actual window looking over the city from the top instead of the bottom. She wasn’t even particularly fond of the city--no, she wanted freedom to travel the world, to see the seven wonders, to live an adventurous life with the imaginary man of her dreams. If she was extra lucky, she could play guitar around the world, get a record deal, find herself overcoming every single person who knocked her down as a kid, making sure she knew only the male artists were going to make it anywhere. There had undoubtedly been some inspirational women in her lifetime, yet it simply was never enough. Most women were content with what they had--whatever that was--but Terrie never was. Most days she spent wishing she weren’t a woman at all, but being a woman also had its perks.

The door jingle alarm system sprang, although Terrie didn’t particularly notice. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone popped in for a glance, and Mr. Terrell’s silence typically meant they weren’t really a customer.

But oh how it feels so real,

She was singing softly, something she only let herself do when she really got into the music, eyes half-closed to avoid seeing the room and remembering another person was nearby, listening to every single tune of hers.

Lying here with no one near.

“Goddamn,” she could faintly hear Mr. Terrell, suddenly empowered by his words of amazement. Energized, she fell away into her own world with each passing second.

Only you, and you can hear me.

The tempo begins to slow down, bringing the tension of the next words to their most literal sense.

When I say softly, slowly--

Tiny Dancer is cut off with the huff of the first word escaping her mouth, the movement of the keys halting to a dead final beat, as a man stands, looking over her curiously. Tall, handsome, and carrying a partially damaged guitar, still clutched in one hand, the man stares down at her for what feels like hours, and not even Mr. Terrell will save her.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice, you know how to play. I mean, really play. Granted, your singing was god awful, but your skills as a pianist.. They’re definitely something. You’ve got potential, Sweetheart.”

She was struck with fear, paralyzed with shock, and the lower half of her body went numb despite the active upper half screaming at her to run. She had just been crushed and also lifted up, wondering if only for a moment if Mr. Terrell had some possessed fortune telling skills that allowed him to predict her very own music man walking through those doors. This man certainly was both young and rich, and his eyes weren’t leaving her body for anything: not even Mr. Terrell’s not-so-subtle, “Speak, Girl.”

She started strong with a stutter, not sure if she was beginning with “I” or just stuck on vowels, lost in a skipping record “uh” sound, pulling her gaze slowly from the man to look again at the keys she once controlled so effortlessly.

“Whose piano is that, anyway?” the man asked.

Finally, Terrie could speak. “Mr. Garrison’s, I think. He left it a week ago.”

“Yeah, and if he ain’t back by tomorrow to pick it up, it’s Mr. Donahue’s piano,” Mr. Terrell remarked, coming from behind the counter now to meet up with the handsome intruder. “I take it one of your prospective new talents did that,” he said, pointing toward the guitar now.

The stranger hardly seemed to remember he’d brought in a guitar. Funny thing, Terrie noticed about the guitar: Gibson SG, newer model, nice polish. This wasn’t a poor man’s guitar, not in the slightest, and while the damage was reversible with enough time, a seriously incapable person must have placed their hands on that thing. This was more than just your average overly-tightened string. “What do you mean?” she asked, staring inquisitively at the guitar, trying to tear her eyes away despite being glued. In all her life, all her time in Mr. Donahue’s shop even, she’d never been this close to such an expensive beauty.

“That’s Mr. Grant Ward, Terrie. The Mr. Grant Ward,” Mr. Terrell said.

“I work for a talent agency that recruits aspiring musicians to hydra records. Only the best, really,” Grant added.

In a slow and dazed, almost drugged motion, she lifted her head again to meet the eyes of the talent agent. “You.. work for.. A record studio,” she said softly, processing.

“I work for the record studio.”

For the first time in the last several minutes, Terrie managed to crane her neck to meet the stare of Terrell, who only made it seem less real by mouthing, “See? I told you so.” No, there certainly was no way her music man had walked through those doors to give her a job like that, maybe even more.

“What was your name again? Terrie..?”

“T-Terrie Marsh.” Still terrified, she watched him turn his head, suddenly lost in thought.

“You got a middle name?” Grant asked.

“Yeah, Paige. Why?” She couldn’t think to do anything but stare and ask questions--she had a million questions, and not enough oxygen left in her lungs to express half of them.

“Yeah, you know what? That’s a whole lot better. Terrie Page. It’s catchy like that.” And Terrie wasn’t particularly coherent enough to complain that a talent agent had just come in and insulted both her singing and her name, more so lost and dumbfounded to the point that nothing seemed real anymore. She was beginning to think a name change was the least of her worries; hell, she could be coming back from a bad trip any minute, and she wouldn’t even know.

“Now wait just a minute,” Mr. Terrell said, finally interjecting to save Terrie. “You gonna do business or not?”

Without tearing his eyes from the young girl, Grant pushed his hand into the pocket of his suit, loose twenty dollar bills spilling out to send Mr. Terrell and Terrie both into a deeper, more permanent stupor. With a few twenties into the sweaty hands of Mr. Terrell, the guitar was handed over, the transaction was complete. “I’m sure that will cover it.” Neither of them could recover from what they’d just seen.

“Yessir.” Mr. Terrell returned to his safe haven behind the counter, eyeing the guitar closely now, another, “goddamn” being muttered from his direction.

She couldn’t seem to stand, pinned to the bench which kept her by the piano, the only current means of her existence. Grant’s expression was tense, eyes lost in some deep form of thought, before finally, “Do you have a job, Terrie Page?”

From behind the counter, Mr. Terrell laughed. “Does she have a job?”

A dark, deathly stare from Terrie met his eyes. “Shut up.”

Grant seemed intrigued by the display. “Well, Ms. Terrie Page, you happen to be in luck. I’ve been looking for a decent pianist for weeks. You see, I’ve got guests over almost every day. Parties, meetings, you know how it is.” She most certainly didn’t. “I’m looking to add a little atmosphere. And who knows, maybe it could lead to something more further on down the road. Something like that interest you?”

With nothing to say, apart from an audible gasp, Terrie remained silent, bewildered, and frozen. “Well, Girl, you gotta say yes!” Mr. Terrell yelled from the counter, his voice just high enough to catch her attention and return her to the real world. She’d definitely need a lot more money if she was meant to be playing so often at a rich man’s house--she’d had maybe three outfits left from home.

“I.. I’m not sure I can. I can barely make it here every day.” With that, Terrie finally came to her senses, slowly turning from the man to stand, grab her tattered book, and walk back toward the entrance.

Only for a moment or two did Grant watch her, letting her walk on, perhaps wanting to see how determined she was to walk away. Before she reached the door, he quickly made the distance between the two, grabbing her bicep and positioning to meet her gaze once more. “Now wait a minute.” With her finally looking into his eyes, he seemed to have her attention. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I..” She glanced away, still tethered by his grip, but now ashamed and embarrassed to be this close to a rich man of any kind. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

With a quick nod from Grant, the atmosphere began changing slowly as again he became entranced in his own thoughts. “Well, since you would be playing so often, it would only make sense that you lived there.” With her eyes suddenly wide, Grant added, “Only if you wanted, of course.”

But how could someone like her refuse?

[captainband]

PUBLISHED JUNE 19th, 1999.

Narrator and Interviewer: MJ Watson of The Daily.

WATSON: [NARRATION] It isn’t every day you get to sit down with rock legends. When I was given the opportunity to interview Captain last fall, I thought I must have been dreaming. To be able to interview the collective four piece, which included singer Buchanan Barnes, bassist Steve Rogers, drummer Paisley Reynolds, and guitarist Terrie Page. The last of the four, who penned most of their greatest hits through the 70’s and 80’s, was a quiet force throughout the interview. Mrs. Reynolds seemed like the more boisterous of the two ladies — seemingly making sense when looking at their roles within the group. In fact, for most of the Seventies, fans were unsure of who penned the songs as the band took credit together.

In fact, the issue had even become a running joke as to who penned their breakout hit “Who’s Gonna Save Me?” . A fateful interview in late ’79 showcased the slip. It was Rogers that was gushing over Page when he let it slip about her songwriting abilities. Generally, fans had believed it to be her, but the confirmation of such a theory proved most helpful to their rise in fame.)

The interview was posed as something intimate in preparation for their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame that spring. With audio tapes rolling, and the four situated comfortably — I figured I had to break the ice.

WATSON: So, do you have your speeches written for the induction?

BARNES: To be honest — no.

REYNOLDS: I’m more worried about bumping into Paul McCartney and not knowing it’s him.

PAGE: Do a few scribbled words count?

ROGERS: I think they count.

WATSON: Do you know what song they’re using as our intro?

REYNOLDS: Is that how they’re gonna do it? [She laughs] I know what song they’re not using.

PAGE: Don’t say it.

ROGERS: Paisley—

REYNOLDS: “Winter Solider”…

BARNES: Hey, I thought it was pretty good.

REYNOLDS: It’s up there with “Octopus’ Garden” — the greatest of the greats.

ROGERS: You aren’t being funny.

PAGE: Yeah, if you’re going to talk about Bucky’s greatest hit, it’s “Civil War”.

[Laughter from the group]

BARNES: I get it, I get it. I didn’t pen the song that got us in, but I wrote some pretty good ones.

ROGERS: You wrote “’41”. That’s a great one.

BARNES: Yeah, yeah…What song was it anyways for our intro?

WATSON: Uhm it’s from your album in 83’.

PAGE: That was when we went #1 on Billboard for 8 weeks, right?

BARNES: Yeah, I think so.

REYNOLDS: What song was it for again? “Letter to Brother” or “Avenge”?

PAGE: “Avenge”, I think.

WATSON: And this was after the accident?

WATSON: [NARRATION] The topic was a sore subject; I watched as Bucky turned to the drummer while she just smiled. I wasn’t quite sure I felt so anxious — they brought it up in interviews quite often; the blonde drummer being able to laugh off her disability like she wasn’t blinded from a horrible accident. Had I crossed a new boundary? Nevertheless, she gave me a tight smile. This was common for an older Reynolds, who seemed to have moved away from the brash and vibrant drummer decades earlier.

REYNOLDS: Yeah, it was. I actually think that the accident really got us famous. We were already popular among the younger ones, but I think once the news hit — that’s when people started looking into us more.

BARNES: We were household names like, what, six months later?

ROGERS: Three, maybe.

BARNES: That was why we were #1 for so long — well, the accident and because of Terrie’s abilities.

ROGERS: More so because of Terrie than anything else.

[Gentle fade out, and a return after a brief moment showcasing the song in question.]

WATSON: [NARRATION] For most of the interview, Reynolds hair sat slightly in her line of sight — or therefore lack of — when she spoke. Only a few times in the taping did her husband come by to sweep the hair out of the way. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s her husband; despite hours of research, the bands on their fingers have no paperwork to back them up.  Obviously a habit of the man, he’d give the others a nice smile while Mrs. Reynolds would reach up for him after brushing away her hair. In return, he’d take her hand and give it a squeeze before heading away for the group to have their quiet. When I commented on the fact that he was quite fit for his age, Mrs. Reynolds laughed. [Soundbite of her laughter]

REYNOLDS: Is he?

ROGERS: She always had a knack for finding the good looking guys.

REYNOLDS: It helped that I knew him before I lost my vision.

WATSON: [NARRATION] Between the four of them, there was a healthy amount of laughter thrown around throughout the interview. Despite the countless years (and stories) covering their careers, the four managed to keep themselves in good spirits and always together. Unlike other bands that have fizzled out throughout the decades — they’ve kept themselves together by what Barnes refers to as [sound bite of Barnes saying] “sheer force of will.”

ROGERS: Well, and none of us have decided we hate each other.

BARNES: There was one point in the 70’s we though it was all going to be over.

REYNOLDS: That’s a little dramatic.

PAGE: Are you talking about—

BARNES: We figured out that Terrie was writing almost all her songs about Steve.

WATSON: And this was an issue for what reason?

BARNES: Because they weren’t together! I thought it was going to be a Buckingham/Nicks sort of problem. He’d find out, they wouldn’t last, and we’d be teetering on the edge of breaking up.

PAGE: You’re too dramatic, Bucky.

REYNOLDS: It was only a little Fleetwood-y. Terrie here is such a good songwriter that I don’t think Steve knew the songs were about him for a long time. And even If he did, he would have been too scared to say anything anyways.

ROGERS: For my say in the matter, I didn’t know. At least, I don’t think I did.

WATSON: [NARRATION] [THE SOUND OF ONE OF CAPTAIN’S HITS FADES IN SLIGHTLY] For more on the interview with Captain, tune in on Friday night to the Daily’s music hour — presented by Microsoft.