Best Of Everything (18 page)

I only show up for the last hour, after lunch, because my voice is a little too distinctive to pass for an unknown in a crowded area. All it takes is one person to recognize me and the game’s over, whereas the band is unknown – and besides, they’re the ones who need the immersion in street performing. I’ve had more than enough practice.

However, in spite of my efforts to fly under the radar, a girl about my age spots me after twenty minutes, and within no time there are dozens of onlookers. I finish a final song and thank everyone, and take one request before bailing – John Cougar Mellencamp’s “Jack & Diane.” It’s an awesome moment when I’m singing the catchy refrain and the spectators are singing it with me. There’s this connection I can’t describe, an intimacy that’s really personal.

When I’m done, the applause is heartfelt, and I remember again how good it feels to have people enjoy what I do. The tour and the coddling is nice, but it’s this sensation I’ve been missing and want to create when I walk onto stages – that of a small gathering of like-minded, enthusiastic friends.

I thank everyone and then duck around the corner into a coffee shop, where I hide in the bathroom for five minutes before sneaking out the rear and hailing a taxi. Back at the apartment I putter around a bit before I’m drawn back to the diary, which I’ve managed to forget about since Melody put in her appearance.

After a few hours of light reading chronicling my mother’s self-destruction, I call Terry, who left a message earlier. When she gets on the line, she’s all business.

“You asked about road managers. I’ve got one that comes highly recommended. Amber Reed.”

“Have you ever worked with her?”

“No, but she’s been at this for years. We can give her a shot and see how she performs.”

“Some of Sebastian’s friends recommended a guy who just got off a European tour with a name act.”

“I don’t mind talking to him. Get me his number, or do you remember his name?”

Crap. No. Wait. It was Nicholas…Niger…

“It was Nigel something,” I say, frustrated at my forgetfulness.

“Nigel Riggs?”

“That’s it!”

“Well, he’s good, but he may be out of our price range. He’s more of a headliner-level talent. We’re on a budget until you become the next big thing.”

“Oh.” I’ve never given any thought to costs or salaries, and have no idea what a good road manager makes, much less one that works for big names.

“Don’t worry. We’ll try Amber and hopefully she’ll do well. Can you come in and meet her this afternoon?”

I look at my watch. “I have rehearsal tonight at 7:00, but other than that…”

“Let me see if she can make it here at 5:00. Will that work?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Terry. Have you got the tour dates finalized yet?”

“I do. I’m afraid you’re not going to have a ton of free time. They’ll be working you like a dog for the first five weeks.”

“And then Derek joins the tour?”

“Correct. Eight shows over ten days.”

We’d discussed more. “So no progress on stretching that?”

“I’m afraid not, Sage. He’s an unknown. Once his record’s released, we’ll have a better chance of shoehorning him in somewhere else along the way.”

Later in the afternoon I meet Amber, who seems competent if a little fake cheery, and give Terry the go-ahead. We review the tour dates, and my hopes of long weekends with Derek fly out the window – I’m scheduled to perform every other day with only a couple of dates with two days off in a row. Terry promises to send me a copy of the itinerary, which I’ll send to Derek – hopefully his schedule will be a little more relaxed and he can get away to see me, even if I’m a moving target.

Rehearsal goes well, even better than last time, and I can sense the anticipation in the band. While our first shows are supposed to be low-key dry runs, we all know that the concept of performances that won’t be noticed is a relic of the old days. Jay’s reminded us again and again that we can expect our shows to be uploaded before we’re off stage, and he speaks from experience. No, when we go out, it’s either sink or swim.

We don’t have much longer to find out which it’ll be.

Chapter 24

The club has distressed wood siding made from planks that are intended to look rustic; apparently the prior motif was country bar before the place transitioned to bikers and bad boys.

It’s 11:00 on a Wednesday night, and groups of half-drunk smokers are polluting the air along the side in the designated cancer area. Seven or eight Harleys are clustered near the entrance. The rest of the lot is a mix of lifted four-by-fours and economy cars with creased bumpers and balding tires. It’s not hard to guess which ones are the girls’ rides as I sit with the band in our rental van. Our amps are already onstage as the opening act bludgeons its way through a country-rock set.

Jay checks the time and takes a sip of a Coors light, one from the case that’s our payment for the night. According to Terry, the club maxes out at four hundred people, and if it’s over a quarter full I’d be surprised. The notes of “Sweet Home Alabama” drift to us along with the tobacco smoke and something a little more pungent, and I sigh.

This is so not how I envisioned our first gig. I’ve taken some snaps and sent them to Melody, and she’s dying laughing as she messages me snarky texts asking me to count how many teeth the front row boasts and daring me to open the show by screaming, “Skynyrd!”

“So, you know how to stretch ‘Free Bird’
for forty-five minutes?” I ask Jay, making conversation.

“The short version, huh?” Doug asks.

“Seems like a lively crowd, don’t it? Bloody lovely bunch. Hope me drums don’t get stolen – or vomited on by anyone but me,” Simon quips, and we laugh. Simon’s sense of humor is completely deadpan, delivered with a Manchester accent that’s thick as taffy. I was ambivalent about him when we started rehearsals, but I’ve come to appreciate his cynical wisecracks as we’ve done the street performances. He’s completely fearless and doesn’t care what anyone thinks, an attitude highlighted by his mohawk and the tats running down both arms.

“These are our people, Simon. Have a little respect, would you?” Bruce says, his long, somber bass player’s face cracking into a rare smile.

We’re supposed to play for an hour, starting at midnight, our tour set plus a handful of standards. Any visions of stadiums teeming with thousands of fans has quickly died, and after a fifteen-minute sound check overseen by a hungover man with nineties long hair and a face that looks like it took a direct hit from a shotgun blast, we’re counting the minutes till we go on. My stomach is twisting – not from the prospect of performing, but doing so in an armpit like this.

Yells and a woman’s drunken scream cut through the night by the entrance as a scuffle breaks out, the third of the night. Apparently the mating ritual for the crowd involves taking a swing after knocking back a half bottle of meanstreak, and whoever’s left standing gets the girl.

The women are a mix of biker mamas, hair dressers, clerks, and party girls looking to bridge hump day with a few shots or toots, and maybe a little romance with their sweaty counterparts. I’d rather be staked naked to an anthill than spend two minutes in the place, but a gig’s a gig, and Terry was adamant that this was a rite of passage.

When my phone vibrates, I check the screen and then punch it to life with my thumb. “Yo. Losing big time,” I say.

“Wow. And I had to fly home before all the big fun? I likes me a big man. That one you took a snap of is what, 350?” Melody asks.

“He’s definitely got an appetite. You’d be right at home. Oh. Wait. You don’t eat. Or do anything else, right? Or have you tossed your vows?”

“Nope. Pure as the driven snow. But let’s talk about your prison show. Did you lose a bet?”

“I think my manager hates me.”

“Seriously. Can you even walk in there legally? Isn’t there some kind of molester map of SoCal or something with alarms going off?”

“Nobody’s checking restraining orders, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, good luck. You dressed like a hillbilly tonight?”

“Jeans and a T-shirt. Five Finger Death Punch.”

“That’ll go over well. I hope the hospital staff’s on the ball.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“My pleasure. Text me once it’s over.” Melody pauses. “Am I going to have to fly down to ID the body?”

“You can cry all over Sebastian. Make the most of it.”

“Seriously – break a leg.”

“Thanks.”

I return to the van. Two friends of Jay’s are our road crew for the night – and the only ones in the van getting paid. I sit down in the sliding side door gap and reach for my water bottle. Any buzz of adrenaline has been worn down by the four hours of waiting since the sound check, and now I just want to get it over with and go home.

Other than the talent contest, I’ve never done an actual concert. Talk shows are different – it’s a song after the crowd’s been watching for an hour, so you’re just the trained monkey dancing for end-of-show entertainment. This is a new experience for me; and so far, not one I’m warming to. I’m silently praying that the tour isn’t going to be a string of these, because I’ll be hanging from a lamp by week two. I mean, I know it won’t be – we’re playing huge venues – but there’s a part of me that’s worried.

After an endless wait, the howl of the live music ends to a smattering of applause and whoops, and then our roadies are on their feet to set up our gear. We’re traveling light, the amps small combos, the biggest equipment Simon’s drums, but there are guitars to tune and knobs to twist.

One of the roadies worked on the road with Jay as his guitar tech on his last tour, and the other is Simon’s roommate, who knows his drum kit cold. Doug goes in with them – until we’re on tour there’s no budget for a keyboard tech, so it’s do-it-yourself time for him, which he’s accepted like he seems to deal with everything else in life.

He returns to the van after ten minutes and nods to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“What’s it like?” I ask.

“Imagine an ultimate fighting ring, but without the humor or smarts,” he says, and I shake my head.

“Tell me there’s some good news.”

“We still have seven more beers credited to our tab.”

“I don’t drink.”

We troop in, and it’s actually not as bad as I expect. Mostly dudes trying to pick up the females draped along the bar or arguing with each other, killing time. It’s like every keg party I ever went to in high school, only it’s not in the woods somewhere.

I sit by the side of the stage as the band does its final checks, and then a portly guy in a Hawaiian shirt that’s stretched across his gut to the bursting point mounts the stage and introduces us.

“Ladies and gentlemen, shut the eff up. This here’s a special treat. We got a band people are gonna be payin’ fifty bucks to see in a week, right here, right now, so put your mitts together for Sage and her band, Streetwise!”

The lights dim and I take a deep breath, then tromp up the three stairs to the stage and position myself in the center, the microphone still in its stand. Jay strums a chord on his acoustic guitar and the buzz of conversation dims in the room, and then I let loose with the first notes of a song Billie Holiday made famous: “Summertime.”

I make the first word last a good thirty seconds of tortured vocal – just my voice. Bruce’s bass note seeps in about halfway through as he rolls the volume on his guitar up so it seems to creep like a tide. On the last syllable, Simon crashes down on the snare at the same time Bruce cuts the note, and you can hear a pin drop.

Jay strums another chord, this time picking each note, and I sing the first words of the verse, and then the band kicks in behind me. Somebody whoops, and when I end the first chorus and Jay noodles on his guitar, I almost can’t hear him. People are screaming like the roof’s falling in, and I feel like Janis onstage at Woodstock, with the stars aligned and magic in the air.

By the time we finish the song, even the drunks in the crowd realize they’re seeing something special, and the applause is deafening in the small space. I can’t help but smile, my lucky hat pulled down low over my brow, and I wave a hand at the band.

The rest of the set goes like we rehearsed it. When we play the last notes I can feel the floor shake from the stamping feet, and male voices are yelling and demanding more.

We do two encores, and by the time we leave the stage, there’s no doubt in my mind we’re ready. I understand Terry’s reasoning in a flash: if we can win over this crowd, which doesn’t know us and couldn’t give two shits who we are, we can do it anywhere. She deliberately stuck us in the toughest place she could find, and when I look up as I make my way to the exit, I’m not surprised to see her standing by the bar, smiling.

She joins me outside and puts her arm around my shoulder. “That opening? Sweetheart, I’ve been doing this forever and a day, and that made my heart skip a few beats. You keep doing it like that and you’re going to be a household name before you know what happened.”

I look at her face, normally so serious, and I see the excitement, the vitality, that must have drawn her into this business in the first place. That thrill of being there first, of seeing it before anyone else does, of being on the inside as it happens.

I pull off my hat and wipe my brow with the back of my hand, then seat it firmly back in place and nod.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

She laughs.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Chapter 25

Our week of small shows goes by quickly, and with each one I feel the band is getting more comfortable, developing a natural rhythm and style. We’re still doing the street performances for a few hours every day, and have decided we’ll do them in whatever city we’re in, to keep our edge and bring us down a peg if we’re feeling too big for our britches. There’s nothing like being passed up by fifty people before one thinks you’re good enough for their pocket change to keep it real.

We’re only three days from our first coliseum show with Bruno Sears, at Staples Center, and I’m at the record company’s offices every day for hours as the PR effort spins into high gear. I’m doing a dozen interviews a day in preparation for the record release party the night before Staples, and the journalists have all heard advance copies of the album – and to a person, proclaim themselves blown away. The questions are predictable, and I’m getting used to answering them with polished answers. Thankfully nobody seems to much care about the earlier drama with Derek, and there are no probes about our relationship.