Authors: Josh Farrar
Rules to Rock By (22 page)
“When do you think Don’ll kick us off?” Darren asked.
“Whatever,” Jonny joked. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “That’s it!”
I almost threw my guitar down, rushing to get the pad and paper from my backpack.
“Whoa, Cabrera, what’s the rush?” Jonny asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to get some lyrics down. I think I might have finally figured out how to finish my song!”
“You go, girl,” Jonny said as I scribbled words down so fast that to anyone else but me it would have looked like some strange Martian language.
Rock stars don’t get mad. They write songs.
By seven o’clock, the chairs were starting to fill up, and not just with Federal Hill people, either. A lot of hipster-type college kids and art students came, all mopey-looking bangs and eyeliner. And most of the guitar geeks I saw every time I showed up at Don’s were there, some of them practicing licks on invisible guitars while they waited in their seats. The revamped formation of Raising Cain sprawled on a few chairs to the side of the stage. Cory, the new drummer, might not have been as old as Darren had described him, but he was definitely massive. He was dressed head to toe in denim and leather, with mutton chops that met at his chin. Jackson looked as relaxed and above it all as usual, lounging about as if he expected a lowly servant to sidle up at any moment to pop a couple of grapes into his mouth.
Don Daddio took the stage.
“All right, rockers, who’s ready to get down to business?” Mild cheers from the audience. “Who’s ready to tear the roof off and kick out the jams?” The cheers were getting louder, but they were still pretty weak. “People, this isn’t some indie rock show where you show your appreciation by sitting on your hands and crying into your beer. This is a battle of the bands! Who’s ready to WAGE SOME WAR?” A real cheer this time, some screams. “This is the Sixth Annual Minor Threat Battle of the Bands! Remember, you’re the voters, and you’re going to vote with DECIBELS. The trophy goes to the band that gets the rowdiest ruckus, so lemme hear you make some noise!”
This time, the audience stood up and really screamed. Don Daddio turned back on one heel and smiled as he watched the crowd go absolutely nuts. A bunch of boys from the back started chanting “Raising Cain, Raising Cain” at the top of their lungs.
“Good segue, people, because as last year’s champs, Raising Cain is going to kick things off for us tonight with a three-song set of their pulverizing brand of take-no-prisoners rawwwwk ’n’ rollllll. Let’s give a hand to Jackson and the boys!”
The crowd roared in approval as Raising Cain sauntered onto the stage with a lazy confidence. At least half of their magic came from the fact that they looked like they just didn’t care. The bassist plugged in a black Music Man bass with an MDC sticker on it. Jake had told me about them. The initials stood for Millions of Dead Cops, or possibly Multi-Death Corporation depending on who you asked, but either way it was creepy and weird. Cory looked half asleep and droopy eyed, but warmed up with lightning-fast fills on his snare drum and tom-toms. And Jackson strutted around on the stage, twisting the mic cord in his hand like a whip he was about to uncoil on the audience. The crowd murmured expectantly.
Finally, Jackson put his guitar strap over his shoulder, plugged into a vintage Marshall combo amp, and kicked off the vicious first number of their set, “Raw Power,” another Stooges song. The band sounded absolutely awesome. The bassist and the drummer were totally locked in as Jackson’s sneering vocals and crunchy guitar leads pierced the air. It was an aggressive, rude sound played with clarity and precision. Raising Cain took petty cruelty and turned it into art. Everyone in the audience was on their feet throughout the song, and when it ended, they erupted.
Jackson put his hand out to quiet the crowd, tuned his guitar for a moment, and approached the microphone. “Thanks so much, everyone, for giving us the chance to shine on.” His voice sounded as greasy and slick as the goop he used to plaster down his hair. “It feels good to kick it out a little … So, for the next two songs, I’ve got some dedications. This first one goes out to all the … well, all the little people at Federal Hill. They have been supporting me, literally, all year, and it’s been a pleasure to make so many new friends. It’s truly a humbling thing to be part of a community.”
Man,
I thought,
the guy is really pushing it to the limit.
“Okay, sorry to get all mushy. This is a Slayer tune. They are the godfathers of speed metal. We now pay homage with our modest and lowly version of ‘Mind Control.’ ”
How many synonyms for “humble” does Jackson Royer know?
I thought. How like Jackson to play the politician—he really did sound like a candidate for something, with all the fake claims to modesty—and then toast his scrawny victims with a twisted anthem about bullying and torture.
Still, I couldn’t deny Raising Cain’s power. You’d have to be deaf to say they were anything but terrifyingly great. Jackson’s guitar rose above the tight interplay of bass and drums, cutting into the crowd like a knife. And his deep, rumbling speaking voice transformed onstage into the bark and growl of a true metal screamer. The audience was in a kind of trance. They banged their heads in time like ancient worshipers. When the music stopped, they howled yet again.
“Okay, folks, it’s been fun,” Jackson said. “We’ve got just one more for you, and this one I’d like to dedicate to a girl who’s a fledgling rocker herself.” His voice was as sweet as syrup, and he faked an innocent smile that stretched tightly across his face. “She’s a major Beatles fan, so I thought we’d do a little Paul McCartney tune for her.” His tone of voice wasn’t fooling anybody. He made it clear he hated my guts. “Her band’s playing later, so all the luck in the world to little Annabelle Cabrera!”
Jackson turned his back to the crowd and tuned up, tossing his head back and arching his spine like a panther. The Raising Cain guys were at the ready—they looked like chained dogs, frothing at the mouth and set to spring on the next passerby. Then they lit into an unbelievably heavy version of “Helter Skelter,” probably the hardest-rocking thing Paul had ever written. I had always liked the song, but I was almost afraid of it, too. It wasn’t the Paul of “Blackbird” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” In “Helter Skelter,” The Beatles sound like absolute maniacs. I had never really understood the lyrics before, but today, listening to the words, listening to Jackson’s dominating voice, I got the idea.
Superiority, destruction, control. Who knows what Paul McCartney meant when he wrote the song, but Raising Cain made it sound like a declaration of war. Leave it to Jackson Royer to take the thing I loved most in the world and turn it against me.
Raising Cain wasn’t just a very good band. They were an impossibly
great
band, especially for three kids who were just eighth graders. They sounded as good as the bands they covered, and the crowd let them know it. It was all Don could do to get the audience to calm down long enough for him to thank Raising Cain and invite the next band to start setting up.
Darren put his hand—the one connected to his one fully working arm—on my shoulder. “They suck, huh?” he said. It was the first time Darren ever touched me. Yikes.
“Totally,” I said with a weak smile.
Crackers looked awestruck by Raising Cain’s awesomeness, and Jonny was looking at his toes.
The Bungles,
I thought to myself.
What a perfect name for this band. We are going to get laughed off the stage.
After two quick months of practice, there was no way our band could even come close to being as tight, as fierce, as overpowering as the band we’d just seen. I was four foot ten, Crackers was a snack addict, our drummer had one arm, and our guitar player was an emotional wreck. After just one performance, Minor Threat may as well have been over. Raising Cain would win, hands down. They’d come to Federal Hill tomorrow and be treated like heroes. And Jackson Royer would keep on exploiting all the kids who couldn’t fight back.
The next three bands were a joke: underrehearsed, unpolished, and lacking in any talent whatsoever. Even worse, they were attempting to turn Top
4
0 music into rock ’n’ roll. Try as hard as they could, they couldn’t turn Beyoncé and Usher songs into bass-drum-guitar workouts. And the dance moves they copied from the videos? Beyond lame.
Even Mad Unicorn, the supposed riot-girl band of Federal Hill, was disappointing. They played a hit by one of those Simpson sisters—I can’t remember which one—even though those Simpson chicks wouldn’t know a riot if an entire city was burning at their feet. Mad Unicorn sounded more like four gossip girls on a joy ride to the mall, cranking the radio and singing along.
Don Daddio took the mic. He told the audience there was only one more act but that he himself had heard this new band practicing and they were amazing.
“What’s he talking about?” I said. “Has he even heard us once?”
“Just some words of encouragement, I guess,” said Jonny.
“This is going to be a disaster.”
I took a deep breath, and the four of us squeezed through the crowd toward the stage. Just as I was about to climb the steps, someone grabbed me by the arm.
“Good luck, Annabelle,” said my mom, catching her breath. Shaky Jake and X stood just behind her, both smiling.
“Mom! What are you doing here? What about the gig? What about PJ Harvey?”
“Your dad’s— Well, we decided he’s going to do this one as a solo show. As soon as we got to the theater, I started to think, Who needs me more, my kids or Benny and Joon? So Jake and I took a cab to the train station, and here we are.”
“I didn’t want to miss it, either,” Jake said.
“Is Dad mad?” I said.
“Yup,” said Jake.
“Sweetie, don’t worry. I’ll handle that,” my mom said. “We’ll work it out. Just go up there and play.”
“Okay, Mom.” I went in for a hug, swiveling into my mom’s left side while X grabbed on to the right. I couldn’t believe my mom had shown up, and I really did want to make her proud, but I squirmed away and let X take the bulk of the sugary smooching.
Rock stars’ moms do not hug and kiss them before a show.
“Go on now, get up there,” Mom said.
“Give ’em hell, guys!” Jake called out.
“Mom,” I said, “I don’t want to move back to Brooklyn. I want to stay in Providence now. Don’t make me leave, okay?”
“Of course, Annabelle,” she said, hugging me again, tighter than before. “And I want you right here with me. We’re going to make this work.”
I kissed my mom on the cheek, then turned and ran up the stairs. Crackers and Jonny had already been checking cords and amp levels for a minute.
“You’re all set,” Jonny said. “Everything’s ready to go.”
I looked over at Jake, who gave me the thumbs-up sign. Then I called the band over to a corner of the stage behind the drum set. We formed a circle, and I put my hand out.
This is how Ronaldo would do it,
I thought. It felt cheesy, but it also felt right. Jonny, Crackers, and Darren put their hands on top of mine.
“This is it, guys,” I said. “Everything we’ve been working on for the last two months comes down to the next ten minutes. This is the biggest stage we’ve ever played. I’m glad you guys are my friends, and I know we can do this. Let’s let them know who we are.”
“The biggest losers in school?” Jonny said.
“Exactly,” Crackers said. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Don’t sweat it, Belle,” Don whispered to me, putting his hand over the mic so he wouldn’t be heard. “Raising Cain is just a good cover band. You, my friend, are a songwriter.”
“Thanks, Don,” I said as he turned back toward the audience.
“Ladies and gentleman, rockers and metalheads, dorks and dweebs, please give a warm welcome to … The Bungles!”
After a smattering of applause, I took my place behind the mic and a spotlight hit me right between the eyes. I could make out Crackers on my right, and Jonny and Darren right behind me, but I couldn’t see anybody in the crowd. I started to panic, just like I had when Egg Mountain had opened for Deerhoof. Throat-sewn-shut syndrome again. I looked over and saw Christine holding her hand to her forehead like a visor, trying in vain to shield her eyes from the blinding light. My palms were sweating like crazy.