Chapter 13
Wednesday morning, before the sun had fully risen, Zack and Braden escorted two groups of crew members up to the top of the building and through the broken door to the roof.
A few people had to make multiple trips to get everything there, but we’d already taken our instruments upstairs before they arrived.
While they were setting up, they sent Tanya, our makeup and hair woman, to hang out in our apartment to get us camera ready.
She hadn’t said a word at our group dinner the evening before, but by herself she was a chatterbox.
First, she touched up the guys’ faces with a little powder and enhanced their eyes with touches of makeup, as well as adding some kind of gel to Cy’s hair now that it had grown out so it looked mussy and sexy.
Then she devoted the rest of her attention to working on me.
“Your makeup’s okay, but it needs to be darker. And I’m going to add a little more curl to your hair.”
While I didn’t mind being fussed over, I quickly grew tired of all the stories she told me about this and that celebrity. Clearly, she felt like their fame had rubbed off on her. I wound up closing my eyes except for the times she needed me to open them, and I tried to tune her out.
From the waist down, I wore what I usually did on stage—an old pair of jeans with a hole on one of the knees and black combat boots.
My top, though, was an old t-shirt I’d found at a thrift store on their clearance rack the week before: red, sleeveless, with big white letters on the front that said SUCK IT.
Tanya had finished gluing false lashes on my eyelids when there was a knock at the door. One of the crew members popped his head in and asked, “You guys ready?”
Zack looked over at Tanya and me at the kitchen table, and she said, “Yep.” Quickly, she held a mirror up to my face, and for a moment, it felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. I hoped she was right and that I would look more like myself on camera, but I barely recognized myself.
As the rest of us made our way to the door, I half expected Tanya to stay in our apartment, but she gathered together her rolling kit and up we all went.
The sun was just starting to come up, changing the light from soft to bright.
Our “stage” had been moved. We’d placed our equipment in the middle of the roof, but they’d moved our setup to the west edge.
Through the buildings, they could film glimpses of the Front Range.
Fortunately, there was an even taller building to the east, so it might keep the sun out of our eyes for a while at this particular spot.
David slapped Zack on the back. “This is a great location. If we can get away with being here all day, I want to grab three takes at four different times today: morning, noon, afternoon, and night.” That explained the light poles all around the equipment.
Anyone watching the video would see so much missing: there were no amps, no pedals for the guitar—just our instruments and a couple of mics in stands.
There was a solar-powered generator with cords plugged into it so they didn’t have to tap into the apartment building’s electric but the band was completely unplugged.
Several of the crew members chatted with Cy and Braden while Zack and David talked more—and I felt a little awkward.
Tanya was sitting cross-legged over in a corner while the gaffer was adjusting one of the light poles that we didn’t need at the moment.
Because I was just behind Braden and Cy, I got a little closer, wanting to feel less left out.
Finally, David said, “We’re gonna film you first walking out of the door and toward your instruments. That’ll be the intro to the video, slowed down slightly—and we’ll have you walk away tonight as the end.”
I thought that was cool but wondered where the concert footage that would be filmed the next night would fit in.
“We’ll get a couple of takes of that and then film you playing.”
Heading back to the stairwell, we lined up on the steps and, when we heard “Action!” we filed out, Zack leading us out and over to our “stage.”
But then David said, “No. Let’s do it again. The drummer needs to come last.”
The drummer? Was that all I was to this bigshot director? Had he forgotten my name or did he just not care? Although I felt angry, I tamped it down. After all, I couldn’t remember the names of everyone in the crew, and some people weren’t good with names at all. I was probably overreacting.
After filming that scene four times—with us coming out of the door and walking to the set, the guys picking up their instruments and me sitting behind the drum kit—we were ready to begin playing the song.
Just like we’d practiced, I knew the flow was entirely dependent upon me.
The night before, Cy had suggested pulling up the song on his phone and playing it while we mimicked it, but we didn’t have the mixed version yet.
We’d already practiced unplugged for a couple of days by this point, so we knew we’d look all right, because the audio for the video would be the mixed track that would go on the album anyway.
We just had to look good.
Finally, they had us get in our places where we would actually play our instruments, and even though we wouldn’t be heard well, it didn’t matter. This was all for show.
Still, I decided to take it seriously. I wanted our new fans to see that I was a solid drummer who could keep up with the boys, and during that first take, I gave it my all.
I might have known the director would take issue with it.
Again, though, his words made me feel like I wasn’t valued.
“That’s nice what you’re doing back there,” he said, clearly talking to me but still not using my name, “but you look like you’re trying way too hard.
Just relax. You’ll look better that way. ”
What?
“Again,” he said, before I could even counter his direction.
As we played the song a second time, I gritted my teeth, fighting to find a spot somewhere in the middle—not “trying too hard” but also not wielding my drumsticks as if I were dusting a shelf.
After playing through it a third time, David said he wanted to view the playbacks.
It wasn’t until he and his Director of Photography and another guy whose name and title I couldn’t remember huddled around a monitor on a table behind the doorway where it was shaded.
Meanwhile, one of the assistants brought around cold bottles of water, offering one to me and the other three band members. Zack wandered over to the monitor to see what they’d filmed but I wasn’t interested. If I found that I hated my performance, I’d lose my mind.
Although I wasn’t going to walk across the roof where the rest of the band was headed, I did want to stand and move a bit.
I took several sips of the water while the gaffer taped down a loose cord.
When she stood, she made eye contact with me and, for just a second, I thought maybe I had an ally.
“You look a little stressed out. David’s right.
You should relax. You guys are getting your big break. ”
“Yeah, I know—but I feel like he only cares about the guys.”
“Don’t take it so hard, kiddo. You look pretty, and that’s what your fans will care about.”
I could practically feel my face turning red—not with embarrassment but anger—and I just shook my head, deciding to join the guys after all. But, by the time I got there, they were done viewing the playback and the director wasn’t interested in asking if I wanted to watch.
And I wasn’t about to beg for it.
“Let’s do it one more time, guys, and then we’ll break until around noon.”
This time, I didn’t think about playing—I just banged my drums, probably with more ferocity than I should have, but it was more socially acceptable than punching a few of the people here.
Although I’d spent much of my short life feeling like I was invisible, that had been my choice when I was younger.
With Ava, sometimes it was simply that she overshadowed me, and I’d accepted that… until I could no longer tolerate it.
Right now, I felt like I had to play nice to support the band…and the way I could do it was to keep my mouth shut and take it all out on my poor drum kit.
But in the middle of the song, David said, “Cut. Cut!” When we all stopped playing, he looked straight at me. “Why are you playing like a maniac again?”
Once more, the heat crawled up my neck, but I’d had enough. Standing up, I said, “This is how I play, and I refuse to play it whatever nonsense way you’re expecting me to. If you don’t like it, you can get one of your fucking crew to play it instead.”
The hush on the roof on that warm summer morning was almost palpable. I expected David to dish it right back to me.
But he didn’t.
“Oh. Feisty, are we?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Again, before I could respond, he said, “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
He talked a good game—but I also saw the way he raised his eyebrows at the Director of Photography.
Still, I felt like I’d won a mini victory that day. I learned that no one else was going to stand up for me, so I’d have to stick up for myself.
Although it would be a few days before we could see the completed video, I was hopeful.
They’d captured our entire concert the next night and then packed up, with David assuring us that we’d have an “amazing first video.” When they’d filmed our concert, I tried to pretend they weren’t there, playing like I normally would—but it was hard not to forget how David had condescended to me, treating me like a second-class citizen.
The label had hired a local photographer to take promo shots—and we were under the impression that one of them might also be used in the CD jacket. The label told us that we’d be given clothing to wear there. Relaying the information, Zack said, “They want us to look edgy and sexy.”