All Strings Attached

39. Zak

Forty minutes wasn’t a very long time.

When Zak had worked at Salt Surf, or her other brief restaurant stints, the last forty minutes of every shift went by in a blink. Forty minutes meant she would be headed home soon. Forty minutes of songwriting meant she might scribble five verses and only keep one line.

But the forty minutes that went by while they were off-stage—waiting for the other bands to finish performing before they returned for the winner’s announcement—was an eternity.

Zak could do nothing but lay motionless across the loveseat in their dressing room. None of her friends had much to say either, but in the tense waiting there was still an air of pride. They had played their hearts out. No one needed to acknowledge it to feel its truth. The only sound in those forty minutes was the voice of a PA at the very end, coming to collect Saint of Spades for the final QA session.

Their footsteps echoed like distant lightning strikes all the way back to the main stage. Up the unseen steps of the rollable staircase, where, on the same floor they had performed, the PA positioned them at center stage between the two other bands.

All the lights blinked on in rapid succession, fifty radiant white suns, and then the cameras were rolling again.

Zak had to force herself to smile, not because she was miserable, but because smiling wasn’t her default expression. Especially when she didn’t know what to expect. This experience had been life-altering, and in fifteen minutes, it would be over.

“Now, we know you’re all just as excited as we are to find out who the very first winners of Amped will be…”A pause for applause. The emcee went on to remind viewers at home to call the number on the screen and cast their votes for one band to win the recording contract and international tour. “…but first, let’s hear from the talented musicians themselves who made it to the top.”

There was a series of three questions for each band, which they had all rehearsed their answers to in advance.

Starting with: “What inspired the theme of your set tonight?”

“Summer is my favorite season, and with the days getting shorter I was thinking of ways to keep the spirit alive,” Izzy answered first. “We were toying around with a few ideas, maybe something more upbeat and dance-club inspired, or something beachier with ska influence, and then Bobby remembered that summer is fair season. We’ve always had a more avant-garde take on metal, and a carnival theme fit in perfectly. These songs were all ones that we wrote to invoke images of absurdities, oddities, curiosity, but mostly we wanted to have fun out there during our last performance.”

Bitter Scandal’s rhythm guitarist and lead singer, Ron, answered next. “I got my start in music as a classical violinist and have taken inspiration from many different orchestral suites when working out the guitar parts for our songs. These three were a nod to The Planets by Gustav Holst, which might not seem obvious at first, but if you isolated the instrumentals, you might hear the influence of ‘Mars’, ‘Jupiter’, and ‘Neptune’.”

Chase held the microphone up to answer for Saint of Spades. He had pushed hard for someone else to answer the interview questions, but the production team insisted on only hearing from each band’s figurehead. Zak told him not to worry about it, as the rest of them weren’t. That was how things worked. Singer equaled spokesperson, no matter who crafted the words and notes.

“Rock music has always been associated with the occult, and, like most bands, we get a kick out of the speculation and the crazy, convoluted ties people draw. But we write about life, not about the afterlife, and that freaks people out because the duality of heaven and hell is easy to understand. Existence—morality, philosophy, purpose—isn’t so black or white. Our set was both a tribute to all the blood-drinking devil-worshippers that came before us and a parody of the negative press this genre receives,” he answered the way they had practiced, but then kept going with a brash grin. “After all, we know all about negative press.”

Sergio’s team did not find that last-minute addition nearly as entertaining as the audience did. Zak hid her smile behind the palm of her hand, and, accidentally, made eye contact with Scott. Who also seemed amused.

The emcee quickly cut to the next prompt: “Why should the audience vote for your band?”

“We’ve been the most consistent band throughout the competition,” Ron answered. Zak knew from their run-throughs that he would say it with that pompous look on his face, directed at them, but it still pissed her off every time. “With us, you know exactly what to expect. Good, meaningful music. Something different than the vapid, earlier generations of rock.”

Izzy blinked rapidly. It probably wasn’t easy to see through sweat and clown makeup. “As you can tell by our performance tonight, we aren’t just about putting out solid albums, we want to put on a show. And we’d love to have the chance to go on tour and continue doing that for all of you.”

Then Chase’s turn. A group of people dressed in black and wearing headsets stood by, waiting for him to go off-script. Which he did. “Honestly, I think this is the only question I’m qualified to answer up here tonight. Because over the past six months, I’ve had the chance to work with a group of the most creative, talented people I’ve ever met. It isn’t just rock ’n’ roll to us, it’s everything. You should vote for us not just because of our music, but because of the people standing up here with me. We’ve fought against impossible odds to be here today. And we’ll keep shattering ceilings if you give us the chance.”

No one hauled him away yet. While these weren’t their pre-scripted responses, nothing so far was damning enough to justify interrupting a live production, so the cameras kept rolling. Little did they, or anyone else, know that when asked the final question: “You all looked great up there tonight. How did you bounce back from the personal issues that have followed Saint of Spades throughout the competition?”—Chase would turn over his shoulder and hand the mic to Alex.

“There was nothing to bounce back from.” Alex tightened his fist around the microphone. “My sexuality isn’t a personal issue for me, so it shouldn’t be one for anyone else either. It has nothing to do with my character, it isn’t a choice, and neither is addiction.”

The whole thing happened so smoothly that Zak wondered if the two of them had hatched this plan together beforehand. Alex said a few more words into the microphone that no one could hear because the sound team had finally shut their mic off. She gave him a hug around the waist as they waited for the other two bands to make their parting remarks.

Fan voting shut off.

Three bars popped up on the big screen behind them and the viewing monitor in front of them, which would fill according to who received the most votes. Zak held her breath as the bars rose higher and higher until, somehow, theirs was the tallest of all.

Fifty-six percent of viewers had voted for Saint of Spades to win, but Zak couldn’t focus on appreciating that figure because all she could think of was her father’s vow to make sure they didn’t. All this victory meant was that Bitter Scandal, the least popular by vote, had been eliminated. It was up to the judges to determine the final winner.

She stopped looking at the viewing monitor. Stopped feeling the celebratory pats, hugs, and high-fives from her friends and from Izzy’s band. Scott Lee sat in the center chair between Kennedy Dylan and Neil Pritchard, and his eyes were cold and remorseless through the entirety of the commercial break.

Please, she mouthed. Hating herself for begging him to be honest when he should be the one begging her to forgive him. Don’t.

She knew he saw her, but he didn’t respond.

When the break ended, the emcee announced that it was time for the judges to cast their final votes for who should take home the grand prize.

“This is such a difficult decision.” Kennedy looked back and forth between two sheets of paper as if she had written anything on either one of them. “But there can only be one winner, and I have to follow my heart on this one. My vote is for Abstraction.”

That was because, at heart, Kennedy cared about her image. She wouldn’t be caught dead supporting anything controversial. Still, Zak clapped along with everyone. The benefit of being up against a friend was that she knew Izzy deserved the recognition every bit as much as they did. She could be happy for her, but if she was going to lose, she wanted it to be fair.

“There are nine incredibly talented musicians and songwriters up there, but at the end of the day, I have to cast my vote for the band that best exemplifies this genre. Its meaning, its history, and where it’s headed.” Neil crossed his arms on the table in front of him. “I think our viewers know as well as I do, that band is Saint of Spades.”

Crowd noise pierced through Zak’s noise-canceling earpieces. People chanted for them, for Abstraction. The entire room spiraled into sports-like chaos with those Amped T-shirts like jerseys creating a sea of motion for each side.

“I agree with Neil that Saint of Spades embodies everything we all love about rock. Songwriting that questions and challenges. Punchy, memorable instrumentals.” Scott’s voice into the microphone rose above the white noise. He nodded to Zak. “A lead guitar that stands out like a shining star. You all have thought outside the box and created music like I’ve never heard before, and I want nothing more than to see what else you can come up with. But—”

It was like being dropped from ten thousand feet. The room was an airless vacuum. Spinning.

“—you also embody everything wrong with this industry. I cannot, in good conscience, glorify drug abuse and condone petty, unprofessional conduct by voting for Saint of Spades. Handing you a recording contract at this stage would be like handing a child the keys to a Maserati. And for that reason, my vote is for Abstraction.”

A pop sounded.

Zak shielded her eyes from the blinding reflection of stage lights off gold and silver confetti. Beyond the ringing in her ears and the outcry of the audience, she saw the aftermath in the viewfinder of one of the cameras. Abstraction’s geometric logo lit up the screen behind them.

Izzy stood at the center of the frame, tears glistening in trails down her smiling cheeks like the metallic streamers caught in her hair. She deserved the win, and Zak was happy for her.

But equally, and simultaneously, she was crushed.