Chapter 3
3.
This rider is absurd, Eddie says.
Sound check has just wrapped and we’re in the office. Tonight will be a long night: an indie band on the rise, then an after- party DJ’d by a somewhat Big Name. I’m hours early to work, trying to distract myself from thinking about Nick’s SNL shot tonight, his career about to break wide open while mine hovers somewhere between stagnant and nonexistent. One demo, no hook, that’s it.
—What do they want? I ask, my feet up on the couch.
—Forty-eight bottles of domestic beer. Nothing imported. Clean socks.
—Socks? What else?
Eddie shoves a piece of paper at me.
Perrier. Glass bottles preferably. No San Pellegrino.
Wheel of Camembert, baguette, Paolo Scavino Barolo,
Thin Dunlop Tortex guitar picks, orange.
Tanqueray No. 10, no New Amsterdam plz
Tennessee whiskey, something that makes you feel like a man (or woman!) in his/her sexual peak.
The list goes on for another full page, and I pass it back to Eddie. When I glance up, Julien is in the doorway. A Fleet Foxes song has come on overhead. Julien’s face has a faint shadow of scruff, making him look older than he did last week at the Bluebird. Technically, I suppose he is. I guess we both are.
—Hi, I say. You’re here.
—Hey there.
I’m searching his eyes for something when he asks:
—Did you get the car fixed?
—Still in the shop, I say. Sloane dropped me off.
—What happened to your car? Eddie asks. You need some work done? I got a guy. South Nashville. Gotta pay cash, but he can fix anything.
I don’t want to talk about my car. I want to get up and hug Julien. But instead I sit up, trace the outline of an Emmylou Harris record sitting on the coffee table.
—Well, welcome back, Julien says, a little awkwardly.
I hate the air between us, wishing for a fresher version of it—a breeze into the conversation, perhaps. I want to be back at the Bluebird, pulled into his chest.
—What happened to the car? Eddie asks again.
—I hit a deer, I say. The lie slips out easily.
—No shit. That’s kinda cool, Eddie says.
—Not really, I say, a little appalled.
Julien turns to leave. Eddie looks at the empty doorway, then at me, then back to the doorway.
—What’s the story there? he asks.
—Fuck off, Eddie.
Nobody tells you it’s not really glamorous. Some of these places don’t have greenrooms. They don’t even have a backstage. The bands don’t have riders. They sit in the bar, drinking their free drinks, smoking their cigarettes in the concrete courtyards of squat brick buildings, hanging out in the burger joints on Elliston until their set time. The venues are dirty, decades of debauchery etched into their walls. Whiskey soaking through the floorboards, spit and sweat, blood sprayed from the sliced fingers of the guitar players. The vans are even dirtier. The bands drive themselves; you don’t realize how much a bus costs. You have to be making a fuckton, and almost none of these bands are. The food is bad; the beer is warm. You could ask for wine, but you’d be silly to try.
When bands show up at a venue, they all want something you can’t give them. Sometimes it’s simple, physical—primal. A shower, a hot meal that isn’t from a drive-through, coffee that doesn’t taste like charcoal. A Band-Aid or a roll of duct tape, a bottle of water, a parking pass, the number for a cab company.
But then there are the needs far beyond what you can give them. Adoration, worship. A fix. A drink you can’t make, a song you don’t like. It’s transactional, even though you don’t always know what you’re getting. A moment or a melody in exchange for the attention or idolatry you give in return. Or maybe it’s all just noise, the kind you can’t live without until one day you have to—the day when you let the volume fade, let the signal fizzle out until it’s all just low low static.
Three o’clock turns to four, four turns to five, I sit in the dark of the second space with Andy’s guitar, singing my own songs over and over and over again, until a door creaks open and Julien appears. I stop playing.
—Figured I’d find you up here, he says. You don’t have to stop.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. They look new, nicer than usual.
—I mean, you do kind of have to stop, because doors are soon. But not, like, this exact second.
—No, I shouldn’t even be up here, I say.
—Oh, you’re suddenly concerned about following the rules here?
Outside, the sun peeks through the clouds and the shadows in the space shift dramatically, a beam of light crossing Julien’s chest.
—By the way, Andy told you we can use this space, right? Test-drive it.
—Really?
—Not for a full-on show, but something small.
His eyes are serious. I look at him until I can’t take it anymore, then look down.
—What were you playing just now?
—I finished a song, I say.
I run the guitar pick along the strings. A distorted, quiet fuzz.
—Well? Are you going to play it for me?
At the door, my phone is heavy in my hand. Doors open in five, and the hours ahead stretch out in front of us, taunting. Julien’s still fielding last-minute additions to the list. Nick has sent me a picture from the soundstage at 30 Rock. For several minutes I draft and delete, draft and delete, draft and delete a response to him. In the end, I ignore the text and click out of the app.
When I look up, Julien is looking at me.
—You know, I’ve never been to New York, I say.
—What made you think of that? he asks.
He’s got a deck of cards in his hands, shuffling them with his long fingers. He taps them against the stool, and then, the flutter of another shuffle.
—It’s weird. I’ve been to Africa, Central America, all kinds of other places. But never New York. Have you?
—Once. In high school, he says. With my dad.
—And?
—I like it better here, he says, as if it’s a simple comparison, as if Nashville has anything on New York.
My phone is still tugging at my focus. I twirl it in my palm.
—All good? Julien asks. I’m going to unlock soon.
—Do you think Contra is better than their debut?
I point up to the speakers, Vampire Weekend playing over the house music.
—Debut, Julien says. No question. Well, maybe a small question, but I think I prefer it to Contra.
—“A-Punk” is always the first song to come on when I get in my car. Alphabetical or whatever.
—I think mine’s much less cool than that, he says.
—I doubt it.
Feet walking up the sidewalk, the sound of friends piling out of a cab, slamming the doors. Another text from Nick: a shot of the band doing a final sound check. Instead of responding to Nick, I look over to Julien and say:
—This song always makes me think of you.
The list is too long. Does anyone have an adapter for this? I think the amp is blown. No, no, the one on that side. I heard Jake Gyllenhaal was there. I think Bonnaroo, maybe. Coachella. No stage presence. Is Losers still open? She got us guest passes, not artist passes. I don’t know who’s considered a VIP and who’s not. Was it the Knitting Factory? Or Eddie’s Attic? I heard he tattooed “Lobby Call” on his forearm with a line after it. Fill in the blank so he doesn’t miss it. You have to go in the back door, by the alley. Dave Rawlings not Dave Matthews! At the Rabbit release party. He doesn’t have a real job. Where’s the TM? I don’t know, somewhere in Brooklyn. He’s a dick, but he’s kind of the whole band. I don’t care if I’m invited or not. Whiskey, neat. Do you have any earplugs? Stolen, right out of the van, in Philly.
Jess comes through early—surprising me, because for once she isn’t on the list; she’s actually holding a ticket, one she hands to me instead of Julien.
—I thought you were just perpetually on the list, I say. I was starting to wonder if we should just print one off every night with your name and then add everybody else below.
She laughs so loud I flinch. Julien glances over and Jess blows him a kiss.
—Well, somebody was running a tight ship tonight, she says, rolling her eyes in Julien’s direction.
—Just doing my job, Julien says, and then mumbles: Somebody fucking has to.
But he says it with a smile, shaking his head. Jess and I both laugh and then she reaches into her bag and hands me a loose CD, the same way Sloane did the night of the flood.
—A JwK mix? I ask.
She grins and runs a hand through her hair.
—Sorry Jules, she says, but Julien doesn’t even respond; he’s busy checking IDs on a couple of oafish frat boys.
—Okay, I’m gonna go grab a drink, Jess says. Need anything?
—All good, I say.
She bounces up the stairs, bootheels clicking loudly on the linoleum. Julien glances over at me.
—So you guys are friends now? he asks. When did that happen?
—I don’t really know, I say.
He’s looking at me with that same straight gaze—I still can’t suss it out.
—I mean, do you know when we became friends? I ask.
—Are we? he asks.
I roll my eyes and ask:
—Jealous?
I prefer the demos. The kind of songs recorded in a garage, an unfinished basement, the back of somebody’s van while everybody’s taking a beat outside a venue. Where the singer is hungover, hoarse, maybe even full-on sick. No production, just the bare bones of a song and a voice, a slightly out-of-tune guitar that needs a string change. I want to hear it the way it was written, in all its lo-fidelity glory, before anybody was ever meant to hear it at all.
Everyone who comes through tonight thinks they’re someone. It’s always the problem with secret shows that aren’t secret at all. The set doesn’t start till eleven, but people arrive in droves for hours beforehand. The crowd is partying. Acidheads in Dead T-shirts and Tevas, high and happy to be there. Industry tools looking to get fucked up and be seen, taking up space that real fans could be occupying. Girls being ignored by their boyfriends, standing at the bar waiting on double vodka sodas. Actual cool kids like Sloane, who slides through the crowd like she created it. Clusters of guys in loose cotton tees on Molly, running their hands through their long hair. And then there’s me and Julien, too sober for this shit.
As the door finally starts to slow down, a guy in a leather jacket gives Julien a quick high five on his way up the stairs. He turns back and says: We’ll see you Sunday?
—Sounds good, Julien responds.
—What’s Sunday? I ask.
He’s folding the list up, sliding it into his back pocket. The murmur of a quiet, judgmental crowd pulses upstairs. A bead of sweat drips down my breastbone. Neon city night glowing out the door.
—Nothing, Julien says. Band meeting.
—A band meeting, I repeat. Did So Much Man reunite? I joke. Can you put me on the list?
Julien’s face flushes, peach radiating down his neck.
—I never should have told you that.
—But seriously. Are you playing with them? I ask.
My limbs feel suddenly restless, like they’re trying to carry a current.
—No. They have a band. I’m not in it. They asked me about tour managing.
—I didn’t know you did that.
Upstairs, the opening bar to a familiar, upbeat melody begins.
—I don’t. I mean, I haven’t.
The show is on now. Guitar feedback and the swell of reluctant cheering. Double bass drum, a thumping, heavy bass line.
—When is it? I ask, and he names a day that’s neither soon nor far off.
I ask how long the tour is.
—Which leg? Julien asks, twirling his ankle into the floor beneath the stool.
—Oh, I say, twisting at a tension throughout my neck that wasn’t there before.
—There’s a US leg and a European one. Europe is three months, he says.
A few meaty bros approach, smelling like cigarettes and lager, their party well underway. I stamp their wrists carelessly and they shuffle up the stairs, already bellowing.
—The US leg is only a couple of weeks. I haven’t decided if I can do both.
Faces at the door again, a big, drunken group crowding the atrium, six bodies between me and Julien now. When we finally clear them out and it’s just the two of us again, I say:
—That’s a long time.
At the after-party, Julien disappears. Sloane and Jessika and I get silly, slap-happy drunk—a pleasant, rolling buzz, like we’re skating through this disco-ball-blurry evening of LCD Soundsystem mixes and the sweaty pulse of drunk strangers. We dance until the music stops and then we dance some more. The crowd lingers longer than normal; it’s two in the morning on a Saturday and no one here has anywhere important to be tomorrow.
Finally the strobe lights flicker out and the lights go up—exposing the floors strewn with confetti like carnage, the room hulking like a sunken ship we’re all stranded in. I’m with Sloane’s crew from the station and friends of Jess’s from Red Light, and joints are lit and pills passed and bottles opened and emptied backstage and crashed into trash cans, and Andy is there, partying with us on a Saturday, because it’s not every weekend that a Big Fucking Name is in town, and when Sloane and I finally stumble through the front door of our place, it’s five in the morning and the sun is licking the lip of the horizon.
Up on the roof, we smoke menthols and watch the sunrise, even though it’s still cold out for spring. We’re still buzzed, but I think of the day stretching out empty ahead of me, until I have to be back at work, and a bit of sadness creeps back in. I try to swallow the mounting melancholy, the thought of Julien leaving for three months, as we watch people start to shuffle out of their homes and into their cars—doctors headed to rounds and teachers scurrying with messenger bags and travel mugs of coffee and baristas clipping their carabiners to their jeans, heads dipped into the six a.m. breeze as the smoke from our cigarettes curls up into the sky above, shaking off the night.