Chapter 24
For the rest of that tour, we continued giving it our all to make up for Bleak Viper’s bleak performances. At least their name warned the crowd.
But their roadies left us alone from that point on—and good thing, because we had an even bigger problem when the newer band, Ashen Retribution, a bunch of guys from Alabama with three albums under their belt, joined the tour after almost two weeks near the end of January.
We would remain as the opening act, but I was thrilled that we’d at least been in a huge venue in D.C. before they joined.
Again, we were coming off a huge high, having played to one of our biggest crowds to date.
We’d settled in and kept to ourselves—and I suspected Mick had had a word with BV’s roadies, but I didn’t know for sure.
We wound up avoiding the green rooms in venues altogether unless there was a party or something else going on so we wouldn’t be singled out.
And we were doing fine. After the first worrisome leg of the tour and the second exhausting one, this leg felt like a reward.
Except for the other bands.
At least Bleak Viper was just full of themselves. Ashen Retribution was something else entirely.
But we didn’t know that at first. We’d passed them by during soundcheck for the show in Charlotte, North Carolina, but they were busy talking amongst themselves and messing around. It wasn’t until after the show later that night that we got to find out what they were all about.
As Zack approached them, the rest of us following behind, he said, “It’s an honor to be playing some shows with you guys.”
Their lead guitarist, a guy with long brown hair and dark eyes, just nodded. Their vocalist, who didn’t look much different, said, “You guys got a good first album—but it’s all about the second. Can you do it again? Can you give the fans what they want the next time?”
Zack said, “We sure can.”
From that little exchange, I thought at first that we might have some allies. But as we headed toward the dressing room, one of them said, “You might want to lose the girl. She’d be better beating me off than beating those drums.”
Turning, I tried to think of a good retort, something that would shut up whichever asshole had said it—but all I could come up with was lame replies that would only make them laugh harder.
But Braden said, “Dani’s a hell of a drummer. I’d put her up against any man any day of the week.”
I felt a surge of pride that Braden had defended my honor—but it quickly faded. One of the other guys in their band said, “Women don’t belong in metal.”
“Says who?” It shot out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Women don’t belong on the battlefield or working as cops or firefighters or any shit like that. That’s why they call them policemen, firemen, service men. Girls are there to bear our children, suck our dicks, and cook us dinner.”
God…they were so disgusting, and I couldn’t even think of anything else to say.
Zack said, “You’re missing out if you think that’s all women are good for. Let’s go.”
And, with as much dignity as I could, I walked away with my band, holding my head high.
But after we were a little farther away, I heard one of them say, “I bet she’s gonna take all three at the same time. That’s why they keep her around.”
My cheeks were flaming as we made our way to the dressing rooms, especially when I remembered that time I’d been high on Ecstasy and had actually contemplated that in my love-addled brain.
When we piled inside the guys’ dressing room, I told them what the AR assholes had said, trying not to blush again as I repeated it. Pulling a half pint of vodka out of his backpack, Zack said, “Just try to ignore them.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Zack. They weren’t telling you you don’t belong onstage.”
“It has nothing to do with that. I’m asking you to not make waves. We gotta pay our dues.”
“You don’t have any fucking dues to pay.”
Braden said, “She’s right.”
“Stay out of this,” Zack said, taking a big gulp of vodka and setting it on the counter.
“Look, I know they’re singling you out because you’re a woman—but you’ll earn their respect when they see you play hard night after night.
They’re right—there aren’t many women in metal, so you have to prove them wrong. ”
“That’s bullshit.” And I wasn’t about to argue anymore. “I’ve already proven myself.” But had I? Worse than their insults and jabs, they’d made me begin to question myself. As I opened the door, I said, “I’ll be out in the bus.”
Braden asked, “You’re not coming to the party?”
“Fuck no. I’m not going to set myself up for more insults.”
Zack said, “That’ll just make it worse. If you want to be treated like one of the boys, you need to—”
I slammed the door so I wouldn’t have to hear anything else from him. It was bad enough being once again denigrated by misogynistic men in music…but to have my best friend, my boyfriend defend them?
I was furious.
And I decided that maybe I needed to exert a little creative independence once again. I wanted to show them all that I was far more than a piece of ass.
A much more confident drummer than I’d been in the beginning, I wondered if maybe part of the reason why I was being dismissed all the time had more to do with my skills and less with my being a woman…although the misogynists I’d encountered would have blamed my basic playing on my gender.
I loved Zack and, nowadays, I was grateful that he’d dragged me along, practically kicking and screaming—but I also felt stifled. How many times had he told me not to get creative?
Well…I couldn’t imagine playing the drums till the day I died if I didn’t get a chance to thrill the audience.
Sure, I’d been learning clever tricks like twirling my drumsticks between my fingers and tossing one in the air and grabbing it before the next beat—and I’d thrown in a few extra fills now and then in some songs—but I wanted to contribute more, something different musically all the time.
Most of our songs sounded the way Zack wanted on the album, but why couldn’t I play way differently when we were live?
That would be my argument.
So in the bus on our way back to Atlanta, I started watching YouTube videos on my phone and discovered there were way more drum fills than I’d ever imagined.
Several drummers said that the way to get good at them so I could improvise onstage was to practice them—with a metronome would be best, but I didn’t have access to my kit on the road until soundcheck or a show.
Still…so many of them were simple but could add a complexity and tension to the music that I’d felt was lacking from my corner.
The guitars, bass, and vocals all managed to add those creative touches all the time but my drumming was plain old boring.
A four-year-old could have learned the songs and played them as well as I could.
Too basic.
I wasn’t looking to outshine any of the guys. That wasn’t my intent at all. I was perfectly content sitting behind them while they wowed the crowd—but I could help make our music even better, and it wouldn’t take a whole lot to do it.
So I decided to practice one fill during the soundcheck later that day—and I’d keep practicing one at a time until I got good at it before moving on to another.
And that was exactly what I did in Atlanta—except something strange happened.
After practicing it a couple of times and then air-drumming while the sound tech would ask us to pause, I knew that although this particular drum fill wasn’t second nature yet, I could do it tonight—and I knew exactly where…
in the last verse of “Where I Belong” before the last line.
I knew Zack had started day drinking again, even though I hadn’t seen him doing it—another concern, because he was actively hiding it now.
But I knew because he gave me a soulful kiss before we went onstage that night—and I could taste fresh vodka on his tongue.
A lot of vodka, so much I felt like I could get buzzed from the kiss.
Oh, God…was he going to fuck up tonight?
But he didn’t. Although he still had the same old vocal problems thanks to drinking—cracking voice, inability to hit some of the high notes or sustain longer ones—the fans ate it up.
During this leg of the tour, “Where I Belong” was the last song on our setlist and I could hardly wait to throw in the new drum fill. It was just one and at the end of the show, so I suspected none of my bandmates would even notice—and then I could sneak in more and more as time passed.
When we got to the right spot, I did it—and nailed it.
It sounded exactly as it had in my head in all the hours between soundcheck and now.
The audience didn’t cheer for it, but that didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate it.
I thought of all those times my favorite songs had something unusual happen as the tension built or as the song wound up—like a vocalist singing the end of a line in the chorus differently from the first time he’d sung it at the beginning or a guitarist throwing in unusual riffs between the lines that were sung, building the song to its climax.
That was what I could do in the drummer’s seat—and it would all be fairly subtle but fun for me and, I hoped, everyone else listening.
So when we exited the stage, I was proud of myself, but I kept it inside, not wanting to draw attention to what I’d done.
But, of course, Zack had noticed. Even had he been near blackout drunk, I suspected he would have caught it.
We were barely in the hallway, could still hear the noise of the crowd as they began leaving the auditorium to purchase drinks, snacks, and merch, when Zack held my arm to make me stop walking. “What the fuck was that?”
I knew exactly what he was talking about—but I was going to make him say it. “What the fuck was what?”
“That burst you did in ‘Where I Belong’.”
“Oh, that,” I said, hoping I sounded innocent, but I removed my arm from his grip just the same and started walking back down the hall. “I was just trying a little something.”
“Goddammit, Dani. We’ve had this discussion before.
” I stopped because his voice demanded it.
I didn’t know that I’d ever heard so much anger coming out of his mouth—even Braden and Cy paused because of his tone.
Worse yet, all five guys from Ashen were heading down the hall to get ready to play.
“This is my band, which means you play the shit the way I told you to. If you want to play it differently, you should join another band.”
I didn’t know if I was angry, embarrassed, humiliated, or devastated—but I was probably all of those and then some.
On top of it, I felt shocked that he would lose his shit like that…
and so publicly. He knew the grief the guys of Ashen gave me all the time, and he was just painting another huge fucking target on my back.
I couldn’t help the goddamned tears that welled up in my eyes—but I could still try to save some of my dignity. “I just might do that,” I said and then stomped off, walking near the wall by Cy so I wouldn’t have to be near Ashen as I walked into my dressing room.
And, once there, I let the tears fall. Sure, I’d talked a big game in the hallway to save face, but I couldn’t imagine myself in another band. All this shit was hard enough with my best friends. What the hell would this business be like with complete strangers?
Still…when we were on the bus later, I couldn’t sleep—and late into the night on our way to Nashville, I turned around in my seat and watched Zack for a bit in the dim light. Had his outburst been thanks to the alcohol or simply fueled by it?
When I turned back around and rested my head on the pillow, I found my thoughts were too heavy for slumber. I was beginning to feel stifled in a way…trapped in a box of my own making. I was stuck.
If I were to go to hell, would this be it? Stuck in a bus…and trapped in a band that didn’t appreciate me…stuck with Zack slowly killing himself.
And smothering me.