Chapter 11
Over the next week, I sensed some unease within the band. At first, I’d thought it was because of the publicity about Braden and me—but we soon discovered the tension was coming from Cy—and it had nothing to do with our relationship.
The first cracks appeared during another group interview over Zoom with a freelance reporter hoping to sell a story to an underground paper in Denver.
The guy didn’t look like a lot of reporters we’d worked with.
He was pale and wore a black trilby hat and a sport coat over a t-shirt.
It started out nice enough—the guy mentioned how many albums we’d sold so far (more than I’d realized), how well our singles had charted (not as high as I’d thought but still respectable), gave us a quick sum-up of our tour, and his thoughts about our first album—all positive.
I started to wonder when we’d get to the questions.
But then we did and I regretted wishing for that moment. The next thing he said was something we’d already heard ad nauseum: “With an album this good, everyone’s expecting a sophomore slump.”
Zack had apparently heard it one too many times. “That’s so much bullshit. People say that just so if they’re disappointed when a band does something different, they can blame it on the band instead of their shitty taste.”
I wanted to slink into my chair. Where had all that vitriol come from? My guess was Zack had reupped his drinking game.
Cy, of all people, spoke next. “I think what Zack is saying is that if everyone is expecting us to fail, they might get what they expect—because that’s what they expect.”
That wasn’t what Zack was saying at all, but Cy saved it nicely.
The interviewer seemed to regain his composure even while Zack was giving Cy a side-eye without contradicting him.
“That seems a fair assessment. It reminds me of that Henry Ford quote—you know, ‘Whether you believe you can or can’t, you’re right.
’ Maybe the same goes for fans’ expectations. ”
I wasn’t about to correct him—but my Senior English teacher had told us many well-known quotes were misattributed to famous people, and that was one of them. I couldn’t remember who had actually said it, but Henry Ford wasn’t the first.
And letting my mind wander made me miss the next question, but the answer caught my attention.
Zack said, “Yeah, it’s different. You can still tell it’s us, but we didn’t want to play the same old stuff.
We get that fans will want us to play ‘Where I Belong’ every time we get up on the stage, but not all our songs are gonna sound like that, and everybody needs to get used to it. ”
To his credit, the interviewer wasn’t letting Zack’s brash answers ruffle his feathers. “It might take a third album for that to really sink in. But tell me about your new album. I’ve read that you’re doing something pretty different. Tell me in your words what’s new.”
Zack told him about our new blues-infused sound and I practically fell asleep—but then the interviewer asked Cy what he thought about it.
Cy said, “I like that it’s daring and unusual.
There are a lot of musical treats for people who love the way music is crafted.
I don’t think our problem is with the songs themselves.
I think our problem will be when we get into the studio. ”
“How so?”
“Last time, we spent an inordinate amount of time there, retooling, picking at little things, trying to make everything perfect instead of realizing it was good enough.”
Well, that was a dig at Zack if I’d ever heard one—and why was Cy choosing to air this particular grievance in public?
The interviewer hadn’t picked up on it. “Was your producer going for something specific?”
“No.” At least he had the smarts to not go any further.
But the interviewer continued to press. “So what was it?”
“That’s Cy’s way of telling me he doesn’t appreciate my efforts or vision,” Zack said, his voice all but booming.
“No, that’s my way of saying I want us to get in and out of the studio instead of spending weeks there.”
Both men glared at each other for a bit, a festering feud I hadn’t seen coming. After several moments of awkward silence, the interviewer said, “That reminds me of a quote by Voltaire.”
“I’m sure it does,” Zack said, turning his face back to the camera.
“The bottom line is we’ll give our fans a solid album that sounds like us—but not like our first album.
We want to grow and evolve. No one wants to listen to the same old shit all the time, and I trust that our fans are smart and sophisticated enough to appreciate where we’re going. ”
The interviewer raised his eyebrows so that they almost disappeared under his hat. “All right then. Noted.”
Strangely enough, from that point forward, the interview went much like many others—until the end.
As it was winding down, Zack said, “Tell your readers not to get comfortable with us. We are always going to be exploring our artistic limits and trying new things, and anybody who doesn’t like it can fuck off. ”
When the interview ended, the tension in the room felt thick and muggy, much like it did in June the morning after a heavy rain.
I was already nervous about what this interview would look like in print, and I imagined receiving another email from the publicist asking us to clarify what the hell was going on so they could write a press release.
After slamming down the lid on his laptop, Zack stood, turning to Cy. “Apparently, you have a beef with the way I head this band. Why don’t you get all that shit out now so you don’t have to talk about it in an interview?”
Cy also stood and, even though he was shorter than Zack, I could hardly tell. Both men’s egos filled the room, and I could sense by the way his back straightened and how he leaned forward that Braden was ready to get up and pull the two men apart if needed.
“Don’t mind if I do. Yeah, I don’t want all our fucking royalties eaten up by a ridiculous amount of studio time. We need to get in and get out and we need our songs tight so we can do that.”
“That’s why we’re practicing, dumb ass.”
“Fuck you, Zack. Maybe try to take a little constructive criticism.”
I said, “He might be able to if you weren’t so hostile about it.”
“Stay out of this,” Cy hissed at me.
Zack didn’t even look over at Braden and me. “What else? Get it all off your chest.”
“We need to pick twelve songs. We keep practicing fifteen when we know goddamned good and well that they don’t want that many. We’re wasting our time practicing them all.”
Finally, Zack turned to Braden and me. “You guys feel that way too?”
“I’m still having trouble deciding on twelve,” Braden admitted.
I said, “You know how I feel about wasting money. I agree with Cy—that we need to get in and get out. If we need more time perfecting the songs, then maybe let’s practice more.
” Although the idea of more practice soured my stomach, I knew we needed more time to sound cohesive.
We could get away with playing all fifteen songs on a stage right now—but the record was the permanent sound people would always hear…
so I knew we all wanted to get it right.
Zack was pissed—but not completely irrational. “Fine. Let’s anonymously vote on the songs we think we should leave off the album—and we’ll just include them in the setlist. Can everyone agree on that?”
Braden asked, “What will the label say?”
“I don’t give a shit. For all I care, they don’t need to know. And then maybe someday we can release a deluxe version of the album or something.”
“Or,” Cy said, “we could include the three on different albums.”
“No. They won’t fit. Each album’s gonna have its own unique sound and I want someone to listen to the song and just know where it belongs, even if they don’t remember it exactly.
Before I shared all these songs with you guys, I told Dani about it—and we talked about Korn’s dubstep album.
If you heard any one of those songs playing in the middle of a mix of Korn’s catalog, you’d know exactly where that song belonged.
That’s how I want all our albums to sound. Like us…but ever evolving.”
Cy’s expression softened, and I imagined he had a modicum of respect for Zack’s perspective. Braden, however, shot me a glance and I knew exactly what he was thinking: why had Zack talked to me about the music before the rest of the band?
More than that, he was asking the question he’d asked me more than once: do you still love him?
But I squeezed his hand, hoping he’d understand that all was good between us—and then we voted for the songs we would kill.
Something I’d longed for—in addition to love—was a best friend, and Roxy was quickly earning that spot in my life. Our second summer festival happened the last week of July, just before we were getting ready to enter the studio.
It turned out that picking the songs to axe off the album was easier than we’d thought.
Two were easily agreed upon via “secret” vote—but how secret was it really when you recognized all your friends’ handwriting?
Unfortunately, the third song was a bit more difficult to choose, because we all had different ideas.
But when Zack suggested we get rid of “Don’t Let Go,” Cy pressed for us to instead cut one of the bluesiest songs.
His argument was that “Don’t Let Go” sounded a lot like our old stuff and at least one of those would help our old fans give the album a try.
We were all tired of arguing that day and agreed—so we finally narrowed it down to the twelve that would stay.