Chapter 10 Way Back When #2
“You’ve got the dark, wavy hair, the blue eyes, the perfect skin.”
“I can’t hold up the eagle breastplate,” Jace joked, waving her hands in front of her minimal boobs.
Paloma halted the foot massage, her expression crafty. “Do you have the costume somewhere? Because if you put it on, I will definitely make it worth your while.”
Jace laughed. “Anyway, I know I wouldn’t have become a talent manager if I hadn’t seen you perform that night in Ann Arbor.”
“I was such a mess, and you’re such a perfectionist, you couldn’t stand by and let me screw up,” Paloma said with a sultry wink.
Jace grunted as Paloma’s thumb pushed into the arch of her foot.
“I’ll never forget watching you on stage for the first time.
It wasn’t just that you could break out of the Midwest and be known nationwide, which I knew as soon as you started playing.
You were exceptional. Like one of those storms that charges the atmosphere; you changed the air I breathed. ”
“Wow,” Paloma said, reddening a little. “That’s deep.”
“Honestly. I couldn’t believe you’d want to talk to me, much less make out in the car after I drove you home.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Paloma purred. “For one thing, you’ve never been on the receiving end of one of your smiles.”
“Like this one?” Jace said, pouring all she had into what she hoped was a flirty grin.
“Ooh, just like that: going from low beam to high beam. I won’t be able to stand up now. And you have sexy wrists.”
“I…what?”
“Strong yet sensitive, like you could throw a punch just as easily as you could hand me a bouquet of flowers.” Paloma kissed the top of Jace’s left foot before moving it off her lap to pick up the right one.
“You also have this way of standing that says you had everything under control and no one is going to mess with you or anyone you’re with.
Confidence is such a turn-on.” She ran her fingernails lightly across the back of Jace’s naked calf then stroked the back of her knee.
“That feels nice,” Jace said on a sigh. She watched as Paloma kissed her way up her shin.
She looked up at Jace with hooded eyes before licking the inside of her thigh. “I want to see what you’ve got under that robe,” she murmured, “even if it’s not a Wonder Woman costume.”
Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She stood and led Paloma back to the bedroom, their fingers laced together.
Jace wondered if there was enough time in the universe to spend with Paloma. She wanted all of everything. To see her on stage. To gossip over coffee. To hear her snore and be happy that she was finally able to fall asleep.
To watch Paloma slip her clothes off before giving Jace a little push onto the bed, telling her to lie back and relax because she was in good hands.
Later that night, Jace was in her spot next to Louis at the back of the Artemis Club, her palms slightly damp as the opening notes of “Detroit Dancing Days” played and the crowd noise went up a few notches.
The regulars knew that was the signal the show was about to start.
Jace looked over to the space they’d cordoned off for the Seal-Eye reps, with high-top tables and a minibar, hoping they appreciated the effort.
She scanned the space to see if any of the typical problems had started to surface, like drunken spats over who claimed what part of the standing room, drug dealing in the wings, or people being assholes for no good reason. So far, so good.
Sabine sidled up to her in the near darkness. “Have a good show, Jace.”
“Thanks,” Jace said automatically, her eyes fixed on the screen that was taking up the majority of the stage.
The song faded, and the room went dark, prompting cheers and whistles as the screen blazed with white light, and a block of black text appeared in the bottom left corner:
Paloma Doralle
“Wreckage”
Cutie Pie
Seal-Eye Records
A churning guitar riff played as the light faded and a tight shot of Paloma’s face sharpened into focus.
She’d been reluctant to have the camera come in that close, sure that her pores would look like craters, but she shouldn’t have worried.
Even without any extreme makeup, she looked extraordinary, like a haunted porcelain doll with her wide cheekbones and full lips taking up almost the entire screen, her eyes enormous and chilly.
She lip-synched the first verse, her voice wary:
I can’t have friends
And that’s okay.
I’m all I have.
That’s all I need.
So don’t get close.
Just run away.
Can’t help myself.
I’ll make you bleed.
The camera pulled back to reveal Paloma playing her guitar in front of Mary and Colin, all of them dressed in industrial black clothing roped with chains that glinted in the lights as they thrashed through the song.
The backdrop was the interior of what was left of Detroit’s Michigan Theater.
If Miss Havisham from Great Expectations could be a building, this would be it.
Once an opulent movie house seating more than 4,000 in the 1920s, it fell out of favor and had its last gasp as a rock-and-roll venue in the ’70s as the Michigan Palace before being slated for demolition.
In a quirk of architecture that seemed like it could only happen in the Motor City, the owners weren’t able to tear it down to install a parking lot because the theater’s walls were essential to the structure of an adjoining building.
Instead, the seats were ripped out, the auditorium gutted, and the chandeliers evicted to turn the formerly grandiose space into a parking deck.
The ornate ceilings and plasterwork were left to degrade, their bright colors clogged by exhaust; the elegant archways and vaulted stairways led to hallways tangled with rebar and blocked by broken bricks.
The site was gorgeous and ghastly at the same time: a haunted house that was once the temple of the American Dream.
At least that’s how the director had explained his vision for the music video, which meshed well with Paloma’s chorus:
You’ll be lost in the wreckage
Broken in bone,
Crushed by a heart
That’s made out of stone.
Lost in the wreck
Of a life on my own.
Lost.
Intercut with the images of the band performing were shots of Paloma against the crumbling walls of the structure, her pale eyes looking skyward.
Details from the aging trim in the corners of the garage—children dancing, a face jutting out of a sconce—conveyed an overwhelming sense of loss.
Views through the arches out toward the street, cluttered with cars and melting snow, made Paloma look even more trapped.
Jace had been on set when the video was recorded as the crew rushed to complete all the shots during the one night they could afford to pay for the garage to stay closed.
Since she had only done live shows, where the sound was more important than the staging, Paloma had needed several takes before she could relax into the style the director needed for the camera.
The whole evening, Jace had a sinking feeling that there were too many takes, too many moving parts, and was certain that the video was going to be a jumble of artsy ideas that did nothing to promote Paloma or her single.
Watching now as the song moved into the second verse, though, Jace couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been.
The gritty visuals added heft and context to Paloma’s spare lyrics and aggressive tempo while revealing a vulnerability that she’d never shown to audiences before. It was cinematic and personal.
Paloma was in close-up again for the final frames, singing the last lines of the chorus as the blinding white light enveloped the screen once again.
I want you here with me.
I’m scared on my own.
Lost…so lost.
The last note sounded, and the Artemis went utterly bonkers.
This wasn’t just a friendly crowd cheering on a local favorite.
They were yelling, stomping, calling Paloma’s name.
Jace’s heart swelled into her throat, relieved and proud that all that work, and money, had paid off.
She caught a glimpse of the Seal-Eye guys, who were grinning and nodding their heads, before Sabine hugged her around the shoulders and kissed her cheek.
“She did it!” she yelled. “You both did!”
A couple of stagehands raced to take the screen away, revealing the drum kit, bass, and a black-and-white Stratocaster at the ready.
The cheering rebounded as Mary and Colin took their places, and it scaled to new heights as Paloma made her entrance.
She wore an oversize black T-shirt belted like a dress and emblazoned with a full-color print of the album cover art, which had Paloma Doralle and Cutie Pie arching over a photo of the back end of a turquoise 1959 Cadillac Series 62 Coupe with fins like missile launchers and a Michigan license plate saying DEEETRT.
Silver lace tights peeked out above her white go-go boots, and her blond hair, sporting an intentional stripe of dark roots, was pulled off her face with an accordion headband.
Paloma looped her guitar strap over her head and slung the instrument across her hips.
“Thanks, everyone. Thank you so much!” She motioned for them to quiet.
“We’re going to play you some highlights from our new album, after which we’ll all wanna get shit-faced, so I want to do my thank-yous now.
First, thanks to Mary and Colin here for being the best rhythm section ever invented.
” They waved from their spots on stage, and once the applause crested, she pointed toward the back corner of the room.
“Thank you to my label, Seal-Eye Records, and the crew at Sound City for bringing Cutie Pie to life. You guys are the best.” The reps clapped and saluted her.
“We also have Rich Feldman, our incredible video director, in the house with some of his crew. Get a good look at them now before they win an Oscar, folks!”