Chapter 13 #2
When we showed up at the photographer’s studio in south Denver, I was pleasantly surprised to see that Tanya was our makeup and hair person again.
Once more, she spent a little time with the guys, just making sure their faces were matte and unblotchy, and then she gave me the rest of her attention.
And it was welcome after the filming of our video.
As she was finishing up my hair, the guys congregated around the makeup table.
They looked fantastic—leather jackets, ripped jeans, plain, solid color t-shirts.
Braden wore sneakers while Cy and Zack wore boots—all black, of course.
Whoever had picked out the clothes had nailed it, and I could hardly wait to see what I’d be wearing.
The photographer’s assistant, Ian, showed up in that corner of the warehouse-like studio and looked us all over. The man was thin and tall, constantly pressing his hands together as if in silent prayer. He asked Tanya, “How much longer?”
“Actually, we’re all done.” She turned my chair so I could look in the mirror. “That is, if Dani’s happy.”
Smiling, I felt like I could have hugged Tanya for thinking of me and not worrying what someone else thought. Again, the makeup was way heavier than anything I would have applied myself, but I didn’t look awful. “Yep. I’m good. Thanks, Tanya.”
“All right,” Ian said. “Then let’s get you dressed.
” He started walking toward the rooms where the guys had gone to change, and I hopped out of the chair, almost running to catch up with him.
“You can choose between these two outfits,” he said, holding out two hangers: one held a red cropped top that would bare my belly.
The other was a lacy black push-up bra with a black leather jacket.
And that was all the choice there was—which wasn’t a choice, as far as I was concerned.
Draped over a chair was a leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings (which Ian said I didn’t need to wear unless I wanted to. Gee, thanks!), and high heels.
What the fuck.
Before I could object, he was out the door, leaving me in that stark room with a black stool, table, and two outfits laid out on the counter.
For a bit, I toyed with the idea that maybe looking a little sexy might be okay.
After all, I would have been a liar if I’d said I’d never lusted after the guys in the bands I loved.
It wasn’t just the music or the lyrics. It was because of the music and the lyrics that I’d felt like I understood who they were underneath it all.
But, of course, I didn’t. It was just a sense, and, as I considered it more, I realized just how foolish it was. I didn’t know the people in bands except for what they shared with the world, and that could have been a carefully curated image.
Flipping that idea around on myself, I knew I wouldn’t like being objectified in that way—like the time the guys and I had had a conversation about women in music videos being treated like nothing more than meat. Did I have a double standard?
Conflicted, I sighed and then settled on the bra-and-jacket combo, figuring it would be easy enough to pull the sides of the jacket together for less skin exposure.
But, in an act of defiance, I left on the faded jeans and black boots I’d worn.
It was my way of telling the photographer or record execs or whoever the hell had decided that my only contribution to the band was that I had boobs that I actually had far more value.
I was the person keeping the beat, driving the rhythm, and I was an integral part of the band.
As I fastened the bra, I smiled, because it wasn’t too long ago that I’d had doubts about my abilities and had only done it because of my loyalty to Zack.
Now it was far more than that.
The bra was a little snug but not painful, except for the underwires.
Not only that, but the way it was padded made my boobs look at least one cup larger.
I’d always been fine with the average size of my breasts, because I didn’t really want to show them off, but here they were, practically served on a platter for all to see.
I reminded myself that I was one of four. The camera wouldn’t just be on me.
Despite the discomfort, I left the dressing room and walked across the cavernous space to where the guys stood.
What had been a white background was now a green screen against the wall, and the area was surrounded by lights, tall and short, including one that looked like an umbrella, and the guys stood to the side.
Meanwhile, the photographer was adjusting something on a camera on a tripod.
When I walked over to the guys, Zack said, “Isn’t this what you always wanted, Dani?”
“What?”
“We match.”
As I glanced at the guys and then down at myself, I saw that he was right—the jackets, the jeans, and the boots were all coordinated. We looked like we belonged to an old-fashioned 50s motorcycle gang. The only thing missing was the slicked-back hair. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
It was only then that I actually met the photographer for the first time. Bothering to look up from what he’d been doing, he said, “Why aren’t you wearing the skirt?”
Already, I disliked him. “Hi, I’m Dani,” I said, closing the gap with my hand extended.
It seemed to almost catch him off guard. He was of average height with a salt-and-pepper beard and smallish eyes, which made me wonder how good a photographer he would be. “Jonathan.” And he actually shook my hand before going back to his question. “Where’s the skirt?”
“It’s in the dressing room. I’m not wearing it.”
“I see that—but your label has a vision for what these photos should look like, and that includes the clothes we laid out for you.”
I tried smiling, but it felt more like a snarl—and why the hell hadn’t the guys come over to back me up? “That’s nice, but they didn’t consult with me. I’m wearing half of the outfit, so it’s a compromise. It shouldn’t reflect on you at all.”
Jonathan drew in a deep breath, acting like he was going to say something else—but then he didn’t, probably realizing it wasn’t worth the argument. “All right. I’ll report back to the label that you refused to wear the skirt.”
“That’s fine. They need to know right now that I dictate those choices.” Holy shit—I actually said that? Where was this newfound confidence coming from?
But I knew…it was due to all the misogynistic bullshit of late—from the assholes in the clubs we played who thought I was a groupie to the united sons of bitches at the video shoot and everything in between.
I was fed up with being devalued and only appreciated because of my gender.
And it was putting a burning fire in my belly to make things right.
Zack, still near the wall with Braden and Cy, raised his voice. “Everything okay?”
Turning around, I said, “It’s fine.”
Even though just moments ago I’d wondered why my bandmates weren’t coming to my defense, I realized that that tendency to want their help was a way I was devaluing myself. Only I could truly advocate for myself; only I could make my wishes known.
And I would.
I almost didn’t catch the way Zack’s eyes skimmed over my body—and when his eyes met mine, he gave me the slightest smile. Did seeing my skin remind him of our time together when I’d lost my virginity to him?
“All right,” Jonathan said just as Ian reappeared, “let’s have you stand in front of the screen. I want to see how you all look together and then we’ll rearrange you.”
Standing in front of the green screen awkwardly felt almost like we were part of a police lineup. When I glanced at Zack, he smiled—but I could see something underneath it. He was trying, but inside he was suffering.
But this, what we were doing right now, was leading up to everything we’d been working so hard for. And, in my mind, it felt like it was happening fast.
“Okay,” Jonathan said. “Cy, I want you there,” he said, pointing to the right side of the space where we stood.
“Zack, stand next to him. Then we’ll have Braden and then Dani.
” I wasn’t sure why we were ordered that way, but I knew he wanted Zack kind of in the middle as the frontman of the band.
That made sense. It wouldn’t be until I saw the photos later that I realized with Zack as the tallest, Braden and Cy, slightly shorter, made a sort of visual peak that tapered further between Braden and me.
That was why they paid the photographer—he had an eye for that sort of thing.
“Let’s just take a few practice shots to get you warmed up.
” And he did. Using a handheld camera rather than the one on the tripod, he took several pictures.
“That’s good. But I need you all to brood more.
Remember, this is the aesthetic we’re looking for.
Tortured moody band who can’t be bothered to smile. ”
That statement, however, almost did make me smile.
But it was easy enough to do. It was just a matter of thinking about how difficult our journey here had been—living in cockroach central where the shower turned cold after five minutes, laboring at shitty minimum wage jobs that made us feel unappreciated, then gathering our strength several nights a week to play for an audience that might not have been much unlike us.
My thoughts could get even more dark…thinking about how Zack didn’t want me, despite giving me signals sometimes to the contrary. Like today, when he’d seemed appreciative of the stupid getup I was wearing.
Jonathan employed Ian to move us certain ways or show us how to stand and all went well for several minutes. Using the tripod, he took several shots that would likely go on the CD jacket, but the other photos would be used for publicity.
Picking up his handheld again, he said to me, “Dani, I need you to pull your jacket apart more.”
“Why?”
“Show us your curves, baby. You’re gonna be so many teenaged boys’ wet dreams. Let’s give ‘em something to dream about.”
Yuck. Without looking at the guys, I could sense their tension, because they had to know how I would react.
But this was a fight I couldn’t back down from.
If I acquiesced here and now, what would be next?
Undervaluing me also undervalued my band.
We didn’t want to sell albums because my boobs were pushed out of a bra.
We wanted people buying our music because they loved it. “I think I’m good.”
“Actually, why don’t you lose the jacket? You’ll look great.”
“What?” Now I could feel the fury driving the blood through my veins, and it was all I could do to stop myself from yelling at this pig. “Really? You want me to take off my jacket, but the guys can leave theirs on. Am I understanding that right? That’s pretty fucking sexist.”
Jonathan dropped his arms so that his camera was at his side, allowing him to look at me without the lens.
“That may be, but that’s not why I’m asking.
This is the industry you’re getting into, babe.
Sex sells. If you want to be prude, you should be playing Christian rock.
Otherwise, you need to realize right now that your sex appeal is just as important—if not more so—than your ability to play an instrument in a band. ”
God…every word out of his mouth had been denigrating not just to me but to Once Upon a Riot as a whole—and to women everywhere. Did he get that way because of his time doing this sort of work or had he always been a chauvinistic asshole?
Well, I couldn’t take it anymore and my childish anger exploded out of my mouth. “What the hell would you know about the industry? You’re working in Denver, not L.A. or—”
His laugh was hollow but his eyes were on fire.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve worked with Crushed Velvet Records or other studios, for that matter.
I also photograph models frequently and I fly to red carpet events when I freelance for various publications.
Why? Because I know what I’m doing. I know what people want to see.
In your case, they want to see as much of your body as possible—and they don’t want to see the men’s bodies.
Why? Because your audience is mostly male. ”
Was that true?
But he continued. “They have a very specific idea in mind for what your band should look like. And it’s odd enough that you’re even in the mix, Dani—so why not give the people what they want? Especially if it’ll sell your album.”
I let his words settle in—and, because of my temporary silence, Jonathan thought he’d won the battle. Zack started to talk when I found my voice again. “I don’t believe that. Not for a second. They’ll hear us first—on the radio, on Spotify, on—”
“YouTube and TikTok where they’ll see and hear you. And didn’t you get to wear whatever you wanted for the video?”
How did he even know that?
“So I need you to cooperate here.”
Zack said, “Dani—”
But I cut him off, because if he was going to ask me to back down, I’d be angry with him too—and I didn’t want that. “Nope. If cooperating means degrading myself so you can get cheesecake pictures of me, then I’m out. I’m a drummer, not a centerfold model.”
And, with that, I walked toward the exit. Not the dressing room, not across the space where we stood, but out the fucking door to the outside world.