12. Fueled with Rage
Fueled with Rage
MARY
“That was the best recording of that one,” I admitted, “but I don’t think it’s ready.”
“It’s brutal. Stripped down. I love it,” Alicia said. “You will never think any of these recordings are good enough, Mary.”
I fussed with my hair and rolled my sleeves nervously. “I dunno. What do you all think.”
“Put it in the can. It’s ready,” Barry confirmed. “And I think we should record ‘Blue Jetta’ if we’re going to do anything else.”
“I agree. Let’s rage,” Clarice said.
We wrote “Blue Jetta” on a tour bus the day after we recorded the final, studio version of “Justice”.
It was a song about a guy who fucked with Clarice’s head, completely mispresenting what they were.
We channeled the rage from every breakup we ever had.
What she didn’t know, perhaps, was that my rage in writing that song wasn’t just girl power solidarity.
It pulled from my own pain and realization I’d been strung along, too.
“We wrangled studio time for “Wayside”, and I’m not fueled with rage, right now,” I admitted.
“So what is eating at you?” Clarice asked.
“It’s melancholy. That girl from the other night broke her heart,” Alicia teased. “The one Leah knows.”
I rolled my eyes. “She did not. It just didn’t work out. She’s not anything serious. It was fun.”
In truth, I sat on a text from Betty I hadn’t answered—the one I kept coming back to since she sent it yesterday.
BETTY
I’m in Florida. Where’s my ride to New York?
She knew where we were. The goal was press and to meet with our label. We’d played them the four songs we had. I couldn’t bear the thought of texting her back in any real way. I composed a retort so many times.
I know who you are and this won’t work.
I know it’s cruel, but this is silly.
Why didn’t you tell me who the fuck you were?
So, you want to continue your little experiment?
I didn’t hate her. Perhaps, I never could, but instead of channeling anything into a text, I did what I always had. I put it in my notes app in a hotel room and worked through my issues in private.
“Well, what about the thing you wrote last night?” Alicia asked.
I glared. “It’s super-secret and none of your damn business.”
“Oh, what is it?” Barry ribbed. “We want all your emotional turmoil over that Betty girl, Mar.”
“Don’t say her name!” I rubbed my temples. “I just want to move on.”
“The only way you know is to do the song.” Clarice goaded. “Is it a fuck you song? If so, I’m ready!”
Truthfully, I knew the song had legs, that I could give it a proper life, and that they’d be supportive. It’s just that I wasn’t in the mood to do it. I wasn’t there yet.
“It’s raw and in no shape. I don’t even have any real music down. It’s mostly just a few verses I strung together,” I admitted. “And it’s not so much a ‘fuck you’ song as a ‘why the fuck’ song. It’s not about rage. It’s more like missed connections and wanting something you cannot have.”
“I’m interested,” AJ said.
“They said we needed another ballad, right?” Clarice asked. “So why not shoot from your hip, Mary?”
I relented. “No one judge me. It’s still cooking. In fact, it’s barely even mixed ingredients.”
I freestyled at the piano. The riff I heard in my head was where I began, playing it for a few bars. It was delicate and vulnerable.
Five years I waited.
Waited and pined
I watched their reactions, realizing they weren’t poking fun. Secure in the safety of the space, I continued.
All the while thinking
You were gone in the night
Never to make it right
I talked through the first verse before playing quietly through the words with the simple cords laid beneath. “The fear of waiting leads me astray. Leaving me desperate that one day. She’ll come down from her balcony. To finally see me, min fina.”
“Min fina?”
“My beauty,” I said. “It’s what my Swedish grandfather called my grandmother. It’s old fashioned, but it felt right and it worked in the song.”
“Alright. A little flair for the Swedes,” Alicia encouraged.
“Yeah, I got you. Do the chorus.” Clarice grabbed her acoustic guitar and strummed along.
“AJ, get this!” Alicia called.
“Got you,” he buzzed.
Barry picked up the sticks and hammered out a quiet, steady rhythm.
With a beat, I began again with more melody. More comfortable, I settled into the way I thought I heard my first verse. And then, I let Clarice take over to play through the bit before the chorus. She came up with something I never would have considered.
“I like it,” I said as she played through it again.
I picked up the chorus, fully comfortable with the words.
You sit in your ivory tower.
Far away and out of reach, but in between your thighs, I make you paint in new colors.
A fact no one can know
“Oh fuck!” Alicia hooted. “That is… dirty.”
“It is… not what I expected,” Barry admitted.
“I could… tone it down?” I winced.
“Nah. Keep it,” Alicia said.
“The label will hate it, though. That’s a little bit of anger coming through. I can tone it down.”
“It’s not anger. It’s raging against societal norms,” Clarice observed. “Which the whole album has a theme of—feeling things because you can’t control everything and hating that loss of control.”
“But it’s gay as fuck.”
“Mar, you are gay as fuck!” Barry laughed. “Don’t censor yourself.”
“Given the request for me to grow my hair out to look more ‘feminine’ from December plus the fun comment that they liked the ‘new look’ yesterday, I don’t think that’s what they’re looking for.”
I hated the demand that I lean into femme with my whole arse. It wasn’t me. If male rockstars could be androgynous, why couldn’t I? They didn’t know what to do with an aging female songwriter cum reluctant popstar.
“You get one song. Okay. We get one controversial B-side, don’t we? A deep cut that only super fans will demand at every fucking show,” Barry said.
“I like it. I say we work on it,” Alicia said. “Let’s get banned in Ireland!”
I snickered.
“Uh, guys,” AJ buzzed. “I think we should do it at Miragelite.”
“As if!” Alicia laughed. “You have high aspirations.”
“No, I don’t. We’re going to go do the bit of press in Trondheim with the doc crew and then I just got you in as a replacement band. Someone got cancelled.”
Miragelite. That was the biggest stage. A band knew they made it when they got invited.
It was big like Glastonbury, but more glamorous.
I never played a venue like that. My palms grew clammy thinking about it one moment, and then a shiver down my spine made my heart swell.
My little band with our weird ass name was about to play the world’s best festival.
Still, I wouldn’t act too excited. I was sure we were playing on a side stage somewhere during midday.
“Oh, brilliant,” I sighed. “My Scandinavian ass sweating in Palm Springs on a little stage in the middle of the afternoon.”
“Mary, can you ever just be happy?” Barry groaned.
“You’ll be doing it on the main stage in the evening,” AJ confirmed. “When I said they had a cancellation, I mean it was one of the big acts.”
All of us stopped, unable to speak.
“We’re playing Miragelite on the main stage in the evening?” I needed confirmation. “In front of all those people?”
“I mean, you are musicians. I’m trying to sell a stadium tour. And the documentary crew is desperate to follow,” AJ said. “Is this a problem? I thought you’d be over the moon!”
I looked at the band, needing a redundant confirmation.
“It’s fucking amazing!” Alicia said. “Get out of your funk, Mary. Isn’t it the home of American elder gays? You’ll probably fit right in.”
Her humor cut through my astonishment. “Oh my god! Stop being a bitch!” I laughed. “Obviously, I will do it, but I hate the heat.”
I had no idea what I got myself into.