Chapter 20 #2
When we got on the bus, Gabi was there, kissing Zack and crying. He’d told her she could come with us, but she was taking summer classes and only one was online; the rest were on campus at the community college.
We headed out toward Phoenix, and I was glad we wouldn’t be there in the middle of summer. Something I hadn’t expected was that our crew was on a separate bus and, for the first time ever, we had lots more of them. About the only thing they wouldn’t do was wipe our asses.
Because we didn’t know them all yet, we met for lunch the next day before our first sound check. Mick had one of the crew pick up several buckets of KFC chicken and a bunch of sides, and we met in a park, immediately realizing that it was summer hot already.
But Mick stood and covered a lot of basics while the rest of us ate at tables under the shade of some trees.
Once we were all introduced, Mick laid out his expectations, and I wondered how many people he’d had to manage at one time in the past. His usual gruff no-nonsense persona was on full display.
As always, I knew we were in expert hands—and I was grateful that he hadn’t retired.
After Mick was done barking out directions and sat down to eat an extra crispy breast with mashed potatoes and gravy, the conversation grew lively amongst all of us.
Like with our second tour, the first-few-days energy was high and electric.
It didn’t hurt that our crew consisted of mostly younger (and less chubby) guys than we’d had in the past—and they were fans of our music; in fact, we only knew two out of all of them.
When we were almost done eating, one of the youngest ones said, “That review on Ferocity was fucked up.”
Cy asked, “What d’ya mean?”
Zack said, “We try not to read our reviews. We’d rather hear what our fans think during our shows.”
“Oh, shit. Sorry.”
But Cy said, “Was it bad?”
The guy shook his head, his eyes wide as if he’d put a curse on us. Zack said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll kick ass tonight like we always do.”
And did we ever. The crowd was on fire, and it was one of the best shows we’d ever performed.
It was clear that the audience loved the new material and, just as I’d imagined, the women lost their shit when Zack sang “Sweet Love.” It didn’t hurt that he let Cy play guitar and Zack took his off for just that one song, walking up and down the stage.
When he’d sing certain dreamy lines, like “I’d give up everything for just one night with you,” he’d point to one particular woman who’d look all swoony.
The after party was equally amazing. A few fans were there and we signed autographs and rubbed elbows with the people who loved our music. Everything seemed fine.
But the next day, the four of us in the band and Mick met for lunch. We were in Tucson, ready for another show that night. Zack looked tired, the worst I’d seen him in a while—but I knew he hadn’t been drinking, at least not where any of us had seen.
After we placed our order, I said, “Are you feeling okay, Zack?” Maybe it was just that he hadn’t been able to sleep or maybe he felt like he’d overdone it.
He shook his head, a frown on his face.
Oh, shit. Maybe he was missing Gabi—I hadn’t even thought of that.
Mick tilted his head as if examining our frontman. “Will you be up for performing tonight?”
“Yeah,” Zack said, closing his eyes and shaking his head again.
“So what’s going on?” Braden asked. “Is it Gabi?”
For a brief second, I wondered if Gabi had told him she couldn’t stand to be apart from him and was with another guy. It would serve him right.
Immediately, though, I took it back. I didn’t want to wish that kind of ache on anyone, not even the man who’d inflicted it on me in the past. As we put more and more distance between now and the time we’d been together, I’d been slowly settling in to realizing we had just never belonged together.
We were like oil and water, never destined to become one.
Back then, I’d hoped we were yin and yang but it was clear that the only reason we’d ever been together was because of me.
And I had to fucking get over it already.
In answer to Braden, Zack swiped his phone and handed it to him. Oh, God…it was Gabi.
I was wrong, though, and I knew as soon as Braden started talking. “When the world heard Once Upon a Riot’s self-titled debut album, we’d had no idea what had been missing from our lives. That first effort contained party anthems, youthful angst, rage against the system.
“And then, just as they’d found a place in our hearts, they switched things up. Throwing blues into the mix with The Grind was a risky move, but Zack Ryan and crew made it work. We fell in love with the fusion, even while Riot was veering into another lane without any forethought.
“That’s why we had such high hopes for Voyage.
We thought Riot could do no wrong—but we were sadly mistaken.
Once again, the band has careened off the road and we’re not sure where they’re going, but it’s definitely in the wrong direction.
The crap contained on their newest venture is best left for the sewers. ”
Zack actually winced at the last sentence. I kicked Braden under the table and he turned his head to me. I widened my eyes and barely tilted my head to Zack, hoping my fiancé would get the fucking clue that every word he’d read was like pounding a nail into our frontman’s heart.
Quickly, I said, “This is why we don’t read reviews. We won’t ever be everybody’s cup of tea.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the only one,” Zack said, shaking his head. “I haven’t found a single positive review. Why the fuck don’t people like it?”
And then it came to me. Holy fucking shit. Was it because we’d collaborated? Was it because our crowds loved Zack’s work and Zack alone?
Mick said, “Son, everybody’s a critic nowadays. All you need is a phone, two thumbs, and a mediocre grasp of the language, and you can write whatever you want.”
“That was from Ferocity, not just some asshole blogger with nothing better to do.”
“It doesn’t matter. You guys listen to any songs by The Black Crowes?”
I hadn’t, but Zack said, “Yeah.”
“Their album Lions got a lot of bad reviews—but the fans ate it up. Critics are mean girls, Zack. That’s how they sell their shit.
They’re not the ones buying your album. Your fans are—and I saw ‘em last night. It was pretty evident that they disagreed with what this particular basement-dwelling mama’s boy thought about your music. ”
Braden said, “Yeah—he’s missing out.”
Cy nodded. “Nobody reads that shit anyway.”
While they continued pumping Zack up, I took his phone from Braden and read more of the review—out of morbid curiosity, perhaps, but I wanted to know if there was something in particular that had gotten into Zack’s head to bring him so far down.
Back when we’d first started playing, Zack had had enough confidence for all of us.
In particular, I would never forget when, at our second ever “concert,” he’d told us we needed to rock the audience so hard, they’d roll into the next week.
I scanned the first three paragraphs and started reading.
“Take, for example, the title track, ‘The Voyage.’ It’s fairly easy to read between the lines to realize that Ryan likely did have a drinking problem and went to rehab.
The lyrics all but scream it—but that doesn’t make it a good song.
Far from it. Even the guitar solo, combined with Cy Gilliam’s mournful notes, can’t salvage it.
“You’ve no doubt heard ‘Sweet Love,’ which has been playing ad nauseum everywhere.
That one is almost good, so close that most undiscerning listeners will like it, because it hearkens back to the band’s first album.
It’s a lively tune, but it’s obvious that the insipid lyrics were written with one reason in mind: to make women hot and bothered for Ryan as he croons them from the stage. ”
I scrolled to the bottom to see just how long this asshole ranted and raved and to see if he found any redeeming qualities in this album—but I had to agree with Mick’s assessment. Had the guy even given any of the song’s a real listen? I noted his name in case I ever saw him in person.
“Dani?” I looked up at Zack’s voice. “Can I have my phone back?”
“Oh, yeah. But you should close that window. That guy’s obviously got a problem.”
“Dani’s right,” Mick said. “Don’t make me take your phone.
” Zack rolled his eyes and tried to soften his features—but I could tell this had hit him hard.
After emptying his glass of iced tea, Mick said, “I wouldn’t do that, but I’m tempted.
You’re gonna go out there and play tonight, and when you’re done, I’m gonna ask you what the audience thought.
They’ll let you know. If half the crowd leaves to fill up their beer, then you’ll know they hate it—but if they wait till intermission and then buy all your t-shirts, you’ll have your answer. ”
“Yeah, okay,” Zack said without an ounce of conviction in his voice.
“Critics are called that because their job is to be critical—and they don’t give a shit if they’re accurate. It’s their opinion. Every asshole’s entitled to one.”
At that, we all laughed at the way he’d twisted the old saying…and I hoped that was the end of it.
But, as always with all things Zack-related, I was dead wrong.