Chapter 13 #2
And I knew our new album would resonate with our fans.
Despite a lot of the press we’d talked with doubting a new direction was a good idea, that was one thing Zack seemed to have dialed in: he understood what our fans wanted.
He knew what music would resonate with the masses, how to touch them emotionally through his music.
Our first album had mostly had fun and loud, rage-y songs, but this one had soul.
There was a mournful subtext that carried throughout its entirety, the bluesy mood Zack had hoped to embody.
And he had. The three of us had learned it, absorbed it, and had managed to riff on the foundation, building on the songs to make them our own.
I was proud of what we’d created. Zack, of course, was the impetus, but it was all of us that had made it come to life.
For this first leg—five weeks—we were once again the third act…
but I knew we’d have old fans coming to see us, and I couldn’t wait.
We’d be returning to a lot of places we’d seen the year before, even some of the same venues, but we had a few new cities on our itinerary.
The single and video had dropped two weeks earlier and the album went live the day we hit the road.
And, as we all talked on the bus about what was coming up, roadies included, I knew we were all excited to be back here again, but this time we were ready for the pressure of the road.
Our destiny had arrived.
We hadn’t even been on the road for a week before Zack was back at his usual antics: drinking too much, being belligerent, taking various substances, acting like a “rock star.” At least this time his womanizing was out in the open.
But his partying was over the top, like he’d been in a cage for the last six months, finally let loose and allowed to do whatever his heart desired.
What made it worse was that the headlining band had after parties every night, and we were invited to them all.
We’d just played to a sold-out crowd in Sacramento, and we’d definitely had reason to celebrate. When the headliners invited us again, of course, we went. It was a great opportunity to mingle with people who loved our music.
Braden and I had been talking with some fans at the after party but when they’d moved on to mingle, we witnessed Zack doing coke.
Two young women flanked him beside a table where he was using a debit card to form lines on his phone screen.
He snorted one line and then made another that he promptly snorted.
“Should we say anything?” I asked Braden.
“No. Not here.”
But that didn’t stop Cy, who’d been nearby and caught it all. The volume of the room was high and noisy, so we couldn’t hear what he said.
Zack, though, we heard loud and clear. “Fuck off!”
Again, Cy said something we couldn’t make out, but this time, Zack pushed him, telling him to back off.
Cy, not one to be ignored, seemed to stand taller—and what made me imagine our history as primates, both men faced each other, and their chests seemed to be puffed out as if attempting to look more intimidating.
Where the hell were the roadies?
Who was I kidding? They were here but they were partying too. We might have had a job entertaining a crowd, but they were key to that experience running smoothly. After all, most of them did a lot of physical work and also deserved a chance to unwind.
But already I was feeling like this was the worst way to do it.
Cy and Zack started shouting at each other, poking and pushing, neither one willing to back off—and even though Zack was a couple of inches taller, it didn’t intimidate Cy at all.
Finally, I could hear what they were saying. Cy was yelling, “You always do this shit, man—and you wind up making us all sound bad.”
“You wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
It wasn’t until Braden began trying to talk to them that I realized he’d left my side. One of the roadies joined him, attempting to help—but it looked impossible. Both men looked primed for a fistfight, as if they’d been holding back for months.
The only thing I could think to do was find Mick.
Although I wasn’t sure where he’d be, I had a good idea of where to start looking.
I knew he had to do all the money stuff with the venue but I was sure that would already be done, so Mick would probably be at the bus waiting for us.
But, as I made my way to the exit, I worried that maybe he would have had the driver take him to the hotel.
If Mick wasn’t here, I didn’t know what I’d do.
But I felt overwhelming relief when I spotted the bus driver standing outside the bus smoking, talking to Mick. The air was much cooler than inside and I thought maybe we should have just dragged our guitarists outside to blow off their steam.
“What’s up, kid?”
“Zack and Cy are about to beat the shit out of each other.”
“And you got a room full of big guys who can pull ‘em apart.”
“All those big guys are drunk off their asses. And I don’t think Cy or Zack will listen to anyone other than you.”
Mick frowned, his voice grumbly. “All right. See you in a bit, Chuck.”
“I can come help.”
“No. We need you in good shape to drive the bus.”
As we entered the venue, Mick asked, “What the hell are they fighting about?”
“I have no idea. We just saw them getting in each other’s faces.”
“Dumb shits.” He sighed as we neared the green room where the noise was spilling into the hall. “I think it’s time to retire.”
I was pretty sure I’d heard him say that before.
When we walked in the green room, I expected to see Cy and Zack on the floor in a scuffle, much like I’d witnessed a time or two back in high school—but they were still facing in each in much the same place, but they were now being held back by two guys I recognized as roadies for the other bands, and most of the room was focused on them.
“Knock it off, you two,” Mick said as he shoved his way through the crowd to the two men. “What the hell’s going on?”
But both Zack and Cy ignored him, because they were still yelling at each other. Cy said, “We’re all sick and fucking tired of your ego—like you’re the only one in this band.”
“This band wouldn’t exist without me!”
Mick finally just wedged his broad body between them, daring them to take out their anger on him—and, even though for a minute it looked like they were going to tear through him, they didn’t. Instead, they continued glaring at one another as if Mick wasn’t even there.
But Mick put one hand on Cy’s chest and then the other on Zack’s and said, “If you can’t handle your alcohol, you get cut off. Now you can either get along right now or I’ll do something you both regret.”
Zack said, “What would that be exactly?”
Oh, shit. Zack’s defiance communicated not just to Mick but to all of us that he was full of himself and his stardom.
Mick had probably seen it all throughout his career, because he wasn’t fazed at all. “I could have you carted off to spend a night in jail. How’s that sound? You’ll probably get some press from this, but imagine what they’d do knowing you spent a night in the clinker?”
“It’d do wonders for my reputation.”
“I’m sure it would—but your party would still be over.” Even though Mick had dropped his hands off both men’s chests, they remained in place. “You can’t really celebrate in a cell.”
“I can have a good time wherever I am.”
“Then let me make the call.”
Braden said, “Zack, come on, dude. You don’t want to do this.”
“I sure as hell don’t,” Cy said and turned.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mick asked.
“To the bus.” As he left the room, three women followed him out. I realized that most of the party was ignoring all of us again—even the roadies who’d been holding the guys had backed off when Mick had taken over.
Zack, for his part, had calmed down some. “This shit wouldn’t happen if people would just leave me the fuck alone.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you here, Zack,” Mick said.
“I don’t care. I’m sick of this shit.”
“Okay, then tell me exactly what has you pulling this shit?”
“I just want to party, man. Is that such a bad thing?”
“You know as well as I do that it can be if you overdo it—and you tend to overdo it.”
“It’s my right. You only live once and I’m gonna enjoy myself.” To emphasize his words, Zack took a drink from one of the women who’d been hovering around him.
“Fine—but don’t make beating up your bandmates part of it.”
“Then tell Cyrus to stay the fuck out of my face.”
Mick sighed—and the expression on his face filled me with dread that maybe he was ready to retire thanks to us. “I won’t do that. You guys need to work it out tomorrow—when you’re sober.”
But the problem was that they didn’t. When we all boarded the bus later that night, the two men didn’t speak.
And they didn’t talk the next day, either.
In fact, it became clear to Braden and me that they didn’t plan to.
I wondered how they could even get along in the hotel room if they refused to communicate.
At least they weren’t trying to kill each other.
Other than their mutual silent treatment, this tour was much like the first time—we were on the same kind of bus, went to the same sort of hotels. The only thing was different music and more crowds who seemed to know us.
But at the end of the first leg, Zack did something very different and it made me worry even more about the future of our band.