Not That Long Ago
Jace pulled up in the city parking lot a half block from the Artemis Club and waited until the Buzzies’ “Super Tan” faded out completely before turning off the ignition and unplugging her phone.
After mourning the loss of her iPod for more than a year, she’d accepted that while the click-wheel era of portable music was over for good, she could take advantage of the dazzling breadth of obscure, weird, and phenomenal music via streaming anytime, anywhere.
Even better, she could continue to turn her unquestionably good taste into playlists to foist on her friends.
It was time to evolve instead of complain. She wasn’t going to dwell on the past.
Jace walked through the main doors and stood at the back of the empty performance space.
The bartenders were pouring bags of ice into tubs and filling garnish trays with maraschino cherries and lime wedges while the technicians tested the light cues.
Everyone was focused but having fun, joking around as they prepped for a sold-out crowd that would undoubtedly give them plenty of stories to tell their friends the next day.
Anyone who worked at the club night after night, from the security guards to the cleanup crew, knew they had jobs other people envied.
They were like astronomers, witnessing stars before anyone else caught a glimpse.
And the music—fresh, raw, and honest—bonded the freaks and nerds and good-timers and troubled souls together in ways they never could with their blood relatives.
They’d found their people at the Artemis, and if they ever moved on, they were always welcome to return.
Thanks to the success of the benefit, Sabine had paid off her debts in full, including the fee for Jace’s production team, and still had enough left over for some additional upgrades.
Compared to when Jace first walked into the joint, the Artemis was practically a palace.
Framed posters from nearly a hundred years of public performances were hung gallery-style in the lobby.
The original light fixtures had been restored and rewired for energy-efficient light bulbs.
The main floor was easy to keep clean; the bathrooms had automatic air fresheners and high-powered hand dryers.
The HVAC aggressively controlled the temperature so that even when the floor was packed and the patrons were dancing their asses off, it was rare that they’d break a sweat.
Baskets of individually wrapped pairs of foam earplugs had been installed at the main doors, and water coolers lined the back of the performance space to keep everyone hydrated for free.
Risers ran along the sides of the main floor lined with rows of seats for those who wouldn’t or couldn’t stand for the duration.
And the rickety merch table had been replaced with a long, polished counter, offering band swag at one end and Artemis gear at the other along with the music of local artists on vinyl. Again.
The bar menu—and it was remarkable that there was a menu after decades of yelling drink orders at whoever was pulling the taps—illuminated the flat screens on the wall and featured options that would have been the stuff of fantasy when the Artemis opened: local craft beers and hard seltzers; specialty cocktails and mocktails inspired by the acts performing that evening; and along with the traditional bags of popcorn, meat- and vegetable-forward tacos that were available every night, not just Twednesdays.
These days, Eau de Artemis Club smelled delicious.
Sabine was experimenting with the programming, too.
In addition to the typical weekend slates of three bands playing long after midnight, she’d had success in hosting “School Night Specials” on Thursdays that were guaranteed to wrap by nine p.m. and featured local bands whose members were juggling kids and day jobs and appreciated getting home at a decent hour as much as their fans.
“More music and more musicians for more people” had become her business model.
Thankfully, Sabine wasn’t trying to handle it all by herself anymore.
In addition to the office assistant and house manager she’d brought on to run the day-to-day, she’d also hired a promoter who had an ear for music, an eye for talent, a brain that could anticipate every aspect of producing a show, and a love of chaos.
Starting next week, Jace would be back on the Artemis payroll.
And it was da bomb.
Function Fest was still in operation, but Jace had been downshifting over the past several months, trimming her client list to focus on a handful of events for organizations that truly gave her joy.
One of these was Adoption Academy, which had survived an embezzlement scandal involving the former CEO and his buddy the board member.
Thanks to recently appointed CEO Madeleine Grady-Poole, the organization had returned to its original mission, and thanks to Madeleine’s sincere apology and generous donation to the benefit, Jace agreed to put them back on her roster.
Based on Jace’s advice, Madeleine ditched the black-tie bullshit to put the “fun” back into “fundraiser.” The planning committee for the upcoming Holding Hands event included some of the kids supported by the charity, and it was shaping up to be epic: a picnic with a rock-and-roll theme offering instrument demos, karaoke, dance-offs, face painting and spray-on hair color, and a G-rated sing-along led by a grizzled punk guitarist calling himself Grandpa Slamdance.
As delightful as planning this sort of event was, Jace knew it didn’t scratch the same itch as the live music business, especially when she was surrounded by people she loved.
“Hey there!” Sabine had materialized at her elbow, decked out in a charming black-and-white checkerboard frock, her silver hair in two braids studded with black velvet bows.
“Hey, boss!” Jace said, greeting her with a hug.
“Boss? Oh, right. That’s me!” Sabine giggled as she adjusted the delicate chains around her neck so that her spiked heart pendant was front and center. “Are you hungry? I have pizza. Want to join me?”
Sabine keyed in the code to the door lock for the office and Jace followed her in, walking past what would be her desk starting Monday.
Sabine had attempted to clear out some of the ephemera to give her more elbow room but hadn’t made much of a dent.
Jace really didn’t mind. Her laptop wouldn’t take up much desk space, and every scrap of paper preserved a priceless memory.
She helped herself to a corner slice of veggie and sat across from Sabine, who had settled behind the metal monstrosity of a desk that she refused to upgrade. “Did you get a chance to see Jerome’s rough cut yet?”
“Yes,” Sabine said, flustered. “I love what he did to capture all the performances, but I’d be happier if I was never on screen. God, I look so old.”
Jace took in the lines radiating around Sabine’s dark eyes and gave her a sly smile. “If that’s what old looks like, everyone should be so lucky. You’re flawless, my friend.”
“Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“Besides, that documentary is documenting you and your club. You’re supposed to be front and center.” Her phone buzzed with an incoming text, which she read and responded to. “Livvy said she just parked and is walking over.”
“How’s the research going?”
“She doesn’t like me to ask about it, but I think it’s going well,” she said, finishing her last bite.
“She spent the last few days in Stone Beach following Paloma around, recording her stories. Livvy’s biggest complaint is that Paloma has so much material and so little time to talk about it, now that she’s back in the recording studio.
At least the album will come out with the memoir so she can market them together. ”
Sabine chewed thoughtfully. “Are you really okay with her ghostwriting Paloma’s biography? She’s going to learn a lot about your personal history from Paloma’s point of view, and as we know, that was not always a pretty sight.”
“Livvy asked me about that before she signed the contract,” Jace said. “I told her to be fair and compassionate. Paloma and I did a lot of things we aren’t proud of now, but we were often fucking amazing, and we can’t share one side without the other.”
“Hello, ladies,” Livvy said as she entered, holding up her laptop case. “Sabine, could you please store this in your safe? I’m not lying when I say there’s fifty years of Paloma’s life on that hard drive.”
“Sure.” Once Sabine had locked up the computer, she picked up a manila envelope. “Livvy, I’ve been meaning to show you these. Jerome scanned them to use in the documentary, and there may be some Paloma will want to include in her book.”
Inside were a couple dozen black-and-white eight-by-tens, some antiques in cardboard frames, others more recent with borders riddled with staple holes.
“Oh wow, I remember these, Sab,” Jace said, sitting next to her niece.
“You had them up in those glass cases on the hallway walls. It was like a living history lesson.”
Livvy flipped through the older photos, careful not to damage them: a photo of the Artemis exterior taken by the Detroit Chamber of Commerce in the 1920s; a close-up of the Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt soon after the club opened, regal and unblemished; the club’s founder Stavros Galanis, silent-movie-star handsome with his wavy dark hair and keen mustache, standing in front of the venue entrance, nearly bursting with pride.
“Your great-uncle Stavros would be so proud of all you’ve done here, Sab,” Jace said.
“I’d like to think so.”
Livvy held up a slick photograph of Sammy Sinister, head down and right arm raised and ready to swoop in for another explosive guitar lick. “I didn’t know he played here.”