Chapter 5
5.
Just put the fucking headphones on and relax. We’re going to sound great. We’re going to sound better than great. It’s all happening, baby.
Sloane is in the sound booth at Lightning 100, after midnight on a Monday. Julien’s gone, off on his tour, and I don’t know how we’ve left it. We’re talking, of course, but I still don’t know what it means, what will happen now that we seem to be in that hazy gray of hooking up but not necessarily together. Where feelings are obvious, but not quite explicit.
Sloane’s boss has finally agreed to let her guest-DJ while all the other hosts are away, and she’s brought me along—partially to keep my mind off Julien, partially because she needs a cohost. We’re staring at each other, a little stoned, about to go on air. It’s a terrible slot, a one a.m. guest spot on a weeknight, but it’s still a slot. It’s still an hour of unearned airtime when we can play whatever we want to play, say (almost) whatever we want to say. It’s about time our year of playlist curation gets put to good use.
She barely knows how to work the boards, but we’ve spent the evening thumbing through demo CDs and crafting a new playlist that isn’t difficult to agree on. Because it’s going to be on in the middle of the night, I lean toward sleepier favorites: Sufjan and Iron she’s going upbeat with Taylor Swift and Kings of Leon. “Sun Hands” by Local Natives—a decidedly unsleepy song. The White Stripes, Steel Train, a rogue Metallica song. Prince. Kanye. A real fucking grab bag.
We end up with a playlist that’s way too long, and we talk way too much, but it’s still exhilarating, sitting in the booth with the headphones against our ears, the whole night’s soundtrack at our fingertips.
When the studio phone rings in the middle of “The Call of Ktulu,” Sloane is giddy.
—Oh my god, our first caller, she says. Look at us. We already have fans! We have a listenership.
She claps playfully before she picks up the line. Briefly I imagine it’s Julien, listening online from across the country. As Metallica fades out, Sloane starts the next track before picking up the call.
It’s her little sister.
—You’re playing dead air right now, Katy tells us.
—We’re playing “Manhattan” right now, Sloane says.
—No, Katy says, you’re playing nothing. It’s just static.
Sloane and I stare at each other. Our eyes scan madly across the board. The On Air button—the only button that should be lit right now—is dark. I place my hand over my mouth. For a moment, the studio is completely silent, like the second before a needle drops onto vinyl. And then we collapse into incoherent laughter. Katy is probably our only listener anyway—it’s nearly two in the morning. Sloane presses the button, and just like that we’re back on air.
The seeds from poplar trees float down to earth, whole notes cut from the outro of a too-long song. A memory: the indent of Julien’s hip, his comforter the color of milky coffee. Julien’s body pressed into mine, an LP crackling in the background. Our mouths dry, our damp palms pressed together.
The city empties out. Vanderbilt and Belmont students graduate and the city center briefly bloats with visitors. Students take their parents out to eat at the places we rarely go to: Sunset Grill and Morton’s, the bar at the Palm. And then, finally, quiet. Sloane and I spend our days sending emails, making playlists. The streets of Music Row are vacant.
What we want is to host a songwriting round—like at the Bluebird, but a little more rock and roll. Something we can broadcast during our one a.m. slot—low key and late night. We email our pitches to Andy, to Sloane’s boss, Billy. We reach out to several songwriters, mostly women. We start a back-and-forth with Jess, who knows everyone too—she’s maybe even more into the idea than Sloane and I are.
A morning run in tangerine daylight, the neighborhood radiant before the summer heat settles. I work out four chord progressions, follow them all the way down. Place a call to Izzy, to Clem, then to Izzy again. Scribble down more lines. Listen to learn: “November Blue,” Avett Brothers. “Elephant,” Damien Rice. “Pictures of You,” the Cure. Drive over to Marathon Music Works, then to The Venue, then to the 5 Spot, Exit/In. Send more emails. Polish the globe lights, wax the floors—slowly remaking the second space.
She wasn’t even at the party. They moved so many units that first week. They’re tearing it down, probably. Do you think they’re sleeping together? I mean, the chemistry. Their tongues were practically touching. His voice is insane. No hers is. At Douglas Corner Cafe. But in the most random places. Stockholm. Copenhagen. Strasbourg. Marseille. Whiskey soda. Double. They’re taking shots at the back bar. Never drink the water on the bus. You know they don’t sell liquor there. Flirtation Device. It’s a pun. I am a golden god. You can’t buy wine on Sundays, remember, you can’t even buy wine in grocery stores. Get there early. Nick, Alex something? The bartender, I think yeah, with Kesha. But when they sing together. They never even rehearse. Back at merch, you’ll find them.
Two weeks without Julien means two weeks with Eddie. Thursday. Tonight’s show is a band that had a bit of a moment in the early aughts, when their song was picked for the opening credits of a teen drama about rich kids in Southern California. People call them a one-hit wonder (nothing wonderful about that song, Eddie gripes), but I think that sells them a little short.
At the door, I’m staring at my phone during the lull while Eddie assaults me with a long diatribe tracing the story of modern pop country from Johnny Cash to Avril Lavigne, before taking a left turn to argue that Mark McGrath is an underappreciated rock talent. He’s sitting where Julien should be, in enormous combat boots with laces so long you could jump rope with them. I miss Julien’s red Chucks.
—Who’s your favorite band? I ask. If we talk about music he likes, I think, maybe he’ll be less insufferable.
—Unanswerable question, Eddie says.
—That’s a little dramatic.
—Nobody can have a single favorite band, he says. Who’s yours?
—Mazzy Star, I tell him, even though it’s probably Frightened Rabbit.
—Bullshit, he says, tapping his foot like he’s keeping tempo to a frantic beat.
—Okay, who’s your least favorite? I ask.
—Probably the Stones, he says, like he’s the first person who’s ever dropped the Rolling. Overrated, he says. Keith Richards plays like a pussy.
I nod, desperately wishing I were somewhere else.
—Do you play anything besides bass and guitar? I ask.
—I dabble.
Of course he does. I shove my hands into my pockets: a small nugget of weed Colt gave me last week wrapped in foil, a loose Valium from him that I’ve told myself I’m not going to take. Though Eddie is making it tempting.
—Bass, mostly, and of course guitar too, he says. Piano.
Tearing wristbands at their perforated edges, I try to let the steady rip of the paper drown him out.
—Pedal steel, he continues. Mandolin. Hand saw every now and then, when the mood is right.
—Sure, I say. The mood does have to be right for the hand saw.
This place blows without you, I text Julien, attaching a picture of Eddie chattering about “Sk8er Boi.” The lot outside is quiet; I have no idea what kind of crowd we’re expecting tonight.
—Anyway, Eddie says. You coming to the jazz night this week?
Every night at The Venue, there are bands that no one has ever heard of, that maybe no one will ever hear of. The kind who grind along for years—writing and touring tiny clubs, writing some more and touring slightly bigger clubs, then mid-level venues, the crowds not even crowds at first, just friends, family, the bartenders and the door girls, the college interns doing lights, doing sound, doing coke—and maybe, if they’re lucky, each time the band comes back to a city, the crowd grows. At first it’s barely noticeable. Negligible. Dozens, then something close to a hundred, then hundreds, and if they’re really lucky, maybe, someday, thousands. I’m rarely interested beyond that point. I like my bands like I like my men—that is to say: all to myself.
The set tonight is good, a bit grungy, but the lead singer is in it, leaving it all out there, draining himself dry for us. I send a video of it to Julien and make a joke about the TV show—we both admitted to watching quite a bit of it in high school. But he’s on the East Coast right now, and it’s late. He’s probably in a shitty hotel bed somewhere in Long Island.
Eddie takes off early. Andy offers to help close down for Colt. Sloane’s texting me about the radio show.
What do Mondays at 1 am at The Venue look like? she asks.
Closed, I say.
That’s perfect, she says.
I roll my eyes. The night cleaning crew is here, trash being emptied into bins, glass crashing throughout the space. When I go to clock out, a few of Julien’s comic books are on the coffee table. I slide one into my bag without thinking and when I turn around Andy’s in the doorway.
—How’s the space looking? he asks.
He’s got a mop in his hand, a baseball hat on. He reaches up to adjust the bill. A text from Sloane: Get your ass down here ASAP! I hear TAYLOR SWIFT is on her way.
—I swept, I say to Andy. But I still need to grab a few things—
—No no, your hideaway space, he says. Where are we at?
—Julien and I cleaned before he left, and I think he got most of the lights up. Window guy is coming next week?
Andy nods.
—Shall we put it to use?
If he’s not calling you he’s not that into you. I think we need to bring back the key change. Celine Dion, definitely. No no no. I don’t want to do karaoke. Should we do a J?gerbomb? It’s not like he was throwing rocks outside my fucking window. Get in, we’ve got school! It’s not worth your time. Don’t say you’re going to do it unless you’re going to do it. Over on Belcourt, I think. Power outage. If I hear this song one more time. I run into that dude everywhere! No way, that shit’s sketchy. He needs to get his shit together. Baby won’t you change your mind?
Sloane’s at the bar where the Incident took place. Normally, I’d tell her no. Suggest somewhere else and call it a night. But I resist the urge—she and Jess are right. It’s been forever. Those guys don’t even remember what happened last weekend, let alone last year. Plus, maybe Jess is right. Maybe fucking it up is my little Behind the Music.
I drive over, the moon hazy and high through my open windows, Mazzy Star’s “Halah” fading out when I turn onto Division. Thursday. Most of the bars quiet, college kids home for the summer. In the back lot, remnants of wilder nights—broken glass, stubbed-out cigarettes, a single sneaker. I pull out my phone and hum a melody that’s appeared in my head, like I’ve just recalled a dream. Two drunk girls stumble by, their phones glowing in their hands. The lyrics come next and quickly; I jot down the verse in the Notes app. A text comes through from Julien: What ya listening to tonight?
I send him the Mazzy Star song. And then, before I overthink it, the melody I just sang roughly into my phone. Want to help me finish this one? I text back. A petal from a crab apple tree floats down from a tree in the alley, a cab stalls out in the parking lot, the passenger door flung open. Inside the bar, someone’s covering “Iris.”
Sloane’s on the porch, smoking a cig, her vintage windbreaker sliding off her shoulder. Her face lights up when she sees me. She’s drinking a tequila soda, and a second one sits in front of the empty seat next to her. The air is dry, the night is lovely.
—My cohost, she says, smiling wide and taking another drag of her cigarette. I hold my hand out for one.
—Did you talk to Andy?
—Loosely, I say.
—Well?
—He did say tonight that we should put the space to use soon.
Sloane raises her eyebrows.
—I’d cheers to that, but you don’t have a drink yet. Oh. By the way, this is completely unrelated but: Do you want to renew our lease?
A song of Nick’s comes on overhead and I’m briefly distracted. But the voices of the bar quickly drown it out, and just like that it’s gone. The band inside has moved on to an Old Crow Medicine Show song.
—Hello? Sloane asks. Are you breaking up with me?
—Who the hell else would I live with? I ask. I think I’d have to live at The Venue if I moved out. So yes, I say. Please.
The sound of cowboy boots clicking across concrete. A train roaring in the distance.
—You look fucking famous right now, Sloane says, touching my jacket.
—No I don’t.
—Yes you do.
—I don’t want to be famous.
—Everyone wants to be famous.
The way she says it makes it sound objectively true. I shake my head.
—I just want to be me.
—That’s cute, she says, but it’s total bullshit. Go get a drink. I have a tab open.
Inside, so much cigarette smoke it’s like being smothered. Low, low lights, a mix of musicians and barflies and alcoholics. I get a Yuengling and take it back outside, but when I get there the seat next to her is taken by a woman with dark hair and a gray streak.
—Al, meet Esther. Esther, this is my roommate Al.
Esther turns to me and smiles, our eyes searching.
—Nice to meet—well, we’ve met, actually. I don’t know if you—
—Oh yeah! You work at The Venue, right?
—How do you guys know each other? I ask. I’m trying to catch Sloane’s eye, but she’s busy fending off a drunk guy in a flannel behind her.
—Sloane’s dad used to manage me, Esther says. Years ago.
I try not to show my surprise, but it does feel like someone should have mentioned this. Doesn’t Sloane know about Esther’s connection to Justin Wilson? This album, this person I’ve been talking about for months?
Sloane turns back around.
—Esther’s an absolutely insane songwriter, she says.
I almost say: I know.
—Here, you can sit, Esther says.
—Oh no, I’m fine, really.
—Al writes songs too.
—Really?
—Sloane, no—
—Yes, you do.
—Barely.
—What kind of stuff? Esther asks.
Sloane’s grinning idiotically. I take a sip of my beer and when I look down it’s nearly half gone.
—It’s, uh—
—Oh my god! Sloane says. You guys need to write together. And Esther—you need to come on our radio show. We’ve got a prime-time slot.
Sloane winks at me and laughs.
This is how it happens: Sloane, pushing, prodding, not shutting the fuck up. Asking me to play my songs for her, then play them again. Waking me up in the middle of the night to tell me an idea she has. Making calls to Billy and Andy and Billy again. Jess doing the same. They really are both so fucking annoying. Pulling strings and dropping names, but mostly just being Sloane, being Jess. Being friends, I guess.
I wonder, sometimes, about who gets the credit, who deserves the recognition for all the songs that float around this town and into my life. Was it Wilson’s voice that made that performance or Esther’s lyrics, her high harmony? Does it matter that he didn’t write the hook if he can sing the hell out of it? Probably not. Elvis didn’t write his own songs. Elton doesn’t write his own lyrics. Rihanna, Frank Sinatra. Celine Dion, Britney Spears. They could all kill you with a performance, though. But me: I want to see the scraps of paper, hear the melodies the moment they took form and sprang to life. I want to be in the room, want to feel the magic that happens that moment you turn nothing into something.
Clear azure spring sky. The neighbor walking a Jack Russell past the corner store on Tenth. Colt’s weed stinking up the whole living room. Movers lifting a piano into the second-story window of the house down the street. A Kurt Vile song, a Vampire Weekend song. I don’t want to miss anything else. I’m memorizing the chorus.
Julien, probably at the Southgate House in Cincinnati, looking at a clipboard, a checklist, answering a call from the drummer. Not responding to my text but answering the band’s. Does he want anything from Panera? Julien, checking his bank account on his laptop, wondering how much longer he can afford to make so little money. A show in Austin, Lawrence, Denver. Selling merch at the State Room in Salt Lake City, even though they have someone along with them to do that. The glow of the gas station on Colfax, across from the Ogden Theatre, a brutally cold Colorado spring day. Julien smoking a cigarette in Boise, a cigar in Spokane, a joint in Olympia. A missed call from outside the Fillmore.
Colt, trying to kiss me outside FooBar. Me, too sober to let him. By the time we stumble down Gallatin, closer to downtown, at the bar with the taxidermy fox, I’m buzzed, but still I push him away. A text message in my pocket.
In the end, it’s Sloane and Jess who really help tie up the loose ends for the live show. Billy and Andy already know each other, so they have no problem working out a deal to hold the round at The Venue after hours. But Julien knows nothing about all this. He’s driving down I-5 in Seattle, Nirvana’s Unplugged blaring out of the speakers, the sky stretched out before him as gray as Nashville. He’s on a stool at the Knitting Factory, drinking a Yuengling. The rocking chair on his porch empty. On a Tuesday I stop by his place and sit in it, the spring air still a touch too cold to be outside after dark. Singing under my breath while Sloane orders a martini at the bar at the Hutton, waiting for me. She wants to celebrate—Andy’s officially given us the go-ahead—I tell her I don’t know why.
If I called you blacked out in the suburbs, would you come out or just say I fucked up?
If I ran into you at the grocery, would you walk past and not even notice me?
I’ll pay attention, I swear I’ll listen
I’m almost there, but it’s the bridge of the song that I’m stuck on. Trying to connect the last verse back to the chorus, I can’t get it to open up. Across the street, an older couple looks at the magnolia tree in their yard, pointing up at it. The neighbor to the left is blasting Feist like it’s heavy metal. The day is warm but we’ll still turn the heat on tonight.