Chapter 6
6.
When I first understood how it worked, I couldn’t fathom the idea of giving your song away for somebody else to sing. But isn’t that why these people get onstage every night?
Maybe, I thought, writing a song for someone else was less about giving it away than about sharing it. After all, sometimes a song barely feels like a song until you’re singing it with someone else. Sure, you can play your guitar alone in an unfinished space, listen to the radio by yourself in your car, or with your headphones on. But something different happens when you hear a song with other people. The music transforms. That’s why we want a crowd: enough people to remind us that we’re not alone, no matter how low the lights dim, no matter how quiet the band gets. That collective comfort.
Late afternoon, then, at The Venue: Julien, stepping out of an unfamiliar car, a girl’s dark hair flapping out the driver’s-side window. He’s just gotten back into town today. Cornflower-blue sky, sun bursting through high, feathery clouds. I’m waiting for him on the balcony, an unlit cigarette in my hand as he shuts the car door, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. That fucking trumpet poking out.
Inside, at the entryway, he hugs me and I smell the distance on him. The hotels he’s stayed in, the floors he’s crashed on, the cigarettes he’s smoked, the Yuenglings he’s finished, the faces he’s flirted with.
—Welcome home, I say. How long do we get? Forty-eight hours?
—Not even, he says, his arms still wrapped around me.
For just a moment I remember walking into the office months ago, finding Julien and Jessika wrapped in a hug. Their arms swung around each other just like this, their bodies close. And then the memory is gone—a verse cut from a song—and it’s just Julien’s hand against my hips, his fingertips grazing my skin as I lean against his chest.
When he pulls away, the sun shifts and the entryway is dark.
—Who’s that? I ask, pointing to the parking lot.
—Who?
—Your friend who dropped you off.
—Oh. Lila.
—Lila, I repeat, like I’m swallowing the syllables.
The car in the parking lot is gone, but that glimpse of dark hair is still in my head.
—What? he asks.
—Never mind.
—She’s on the tour, he says.
—Cool, I say. What does she do on the tour?
—Merch, he says.
—Cute.
A look passes between us. At least she’s not in one of the bands. Merch, I can handle.
Maybe.
—What? he asks.
—Nothing.
—Al, come on.
He’s already sitting down, tearing off sheets of neon-green wristbands. He’s barely been here five minutes, and already he’s doing more than I am.
—I just didn’t expect you to find a tour girlfriend so quickly, I say.
He exhales.
—Al.
—Julien.
—She’s not my tour girlfriend, he says. She’s my—she just dropped me off.
—That was very sweet of her.
He laughs, sharp and lovely, mouth open wider than it needs to be. A glimpse of his tongue; I imagine it on mine. Upstairs someone’s playing “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.”
—You’re jealous, Julien says, glancing up at me, eyebrows lifted, eyelashes delicate.
—No I’m not.
He smiles and I look at my phone.
He’s trying to get my attention, holding The Venue stamp and looking from my eyes to my forearm.
—You are, he says, and then: I didn’t take you for jealous.
His hand is warm. I feel his heartbeat in the crevices of his palm. He starts to press the stamp into my forearm and then stops. I lace my fingers together with his and we stand suspended in time for a moment, a measure of rest.
Songs I listened to on repeat while Julien was gone, that will probably always make me think of him:
“Atlantic City” (Bruce Springsteen)
“Bring on the Ending” (Matt Pond PA)
“Go Your Own Way” (Fleetwood Mac)
“Call Your Girlfriend” (Robyn)
“The Gambler” (fun.)
“Thirteen” (Big Star)
“Ambling Alp” (Yeasayer)
“Mr. November” (the National)
“The Modern Leper” (Frightened Rabbit)
“For You” (Springsteen)
“Enchanted” (Taylor Swift)
“Written in Reverse” (Spoon)
“Airplanes” (Local Natives)
“See You Soon” (Coldplay [yes])
“Talking in Code” (Margot I could never get the rhythm down perfectly enough to sound like the original song, could never transform it enough to make it my own.
Plus, there’s something about covering someone else’s song that always made me feel like I was crawling backward.
Somehow, word about our show spreads. We planned for it to be small, especially this first one. We lined up a few songwriters, regulars at The Venue, people from the radio station. Jess got one of her up-and-comers, and Sloane insisted I follow through on my invite to Esther. I almost begged off—Esther is too intimidating, I told her—but she simply said No, she’s just the right amount of intimidating. What choice did I have?
We were supposed to be keeping it under the radar, relying on word of mouth, but Sloane’s been putting up flyers and Jess can’t shut the fuck up about anything. No wonder Denim’s been on the rise. I see flyers for our night on telephone poles down Twenty-First, at coffee shops all over the neighborhood. And when I walk upstairs, as the main show is wrapping up, she’s setting up a card table with Lightning 100 stickers, T-shirts, and more posters.
Dead Air @ The Second Space: A Songwriting Jam
Monday, May 20th—1 A.M. (FREE)
Seeing the date written out that way, I suddenly realize: it’s been almost exactly a year since Nick first showed up at The Venue the night of the flood. I don’t know what city he’s in tonight: Lincoln or San Diego, Seattle or Birmingham. It doesn’t matter. Whatever was between us is no more, even if I still stop when one of his songs comes on at the grocery store.
I fell for Nick—and all those boys in all those bands—the same way I fell in love with music: some combination of melody and chemistry, all of it crystallizing into sharp little memories over the course of days or months or years. The bands don’t ever love you back, of course. They say they do, but what they really love, mostly, is just that you love them.
Most of the bands will split up. In the moment, of course, it doesn’t feel that way—even though we know better, even though all the evidence points that way. No one does this shit until they die. The lead singers sometimes disappear completely; the guitar players join other bands, become session musicians, backup guitarists, producers. Others will thread themselves into a different fabric of the city, settle down as baristas or bartenders or graphic designers or stay-at-home dads.
But here, right now, it’s hard to imagine any of us ever doing anything but this.
Sloane’s applying lipstick behind the card table, straightening out her posters and stickers.
—I told you not to put these up around town, and you’ve definitely been putting these up around town.
—Well, did you want people to show up or not? Sloane asks. She looks to Jess, who’s going over some lists. You should be thanking us, Sloane says.
—She’s right, Jess says.
I roll my eyes.
—Are you sure about “the Second Space”? I say. Did Andy approve?
—I got that from you! Plus, it’s a play on The Second Sex, right? Because, you know, we’re feminists or whatever. That’s probably what you meant all along.
Not really, but she’s right—it’s good. Sloane is savvy like that.
—I just don’t know that anybody is going to pay ten bucks for a promo poster, I say, nodding at her merch.
—Well, they’re coming for free. You know that’s how bands make all of their money at first: merch, baby. Come on, Al—with all your BIBs, you should know that.
—BIBs? Jess asks.
—Boys in a band, Sloane says.
—I don’t have any BIBs anymore. Maybe BIB-adjacent.
—Julien’s not a BIB? she asks, winking at me.
I laugh and grab one of the posters, rolling it into a cylinder and tucking it under my arm. When I turn around, the space looks dreamy, I have to admit. The lights are strung haphazardly, but it works, dotting the space with a low, caramel-hued glow. Through the windows, the moon is full and bright. Izzy and Clem show up with a case of wine and start pouring it into plastic cups, handing it out. Andy’s talking to Esther and the other two songwriters in the back, before he starts shifting some of the small tables around the space. Our sound guy, Danny, is there, a loopy grin across his face, a case of beer tucked under his arm like a football. He’s passing out beers to strangers, greeting people like they’re family.
Eddie’s there, wearing a Suicide T-shirt, talking loudly at a goth-looking pixie girl on his arm. Colt is out of town—a nice coincidence we didn’t even plan for. A few dozen other people trickle in and the space is bustling and warm. Some of the songwriters start playing in the corner, just quiet little background riffs for now. The lights are low, only one mic, like they do at the Station Inn. No amps, pretty lo fi.
And then, finally, Julien. He’s just finishing up a late load-out downstairs, and now he’s looking around the space with a sheepish smile, like he’s just waking up from a good dream. He catches my eye from across the room and I smile. My heart is in my throat, my jaw, my temples. Julien’s lips on mine, his fingertips tracing the skin of my forearm.
Laughter in the corner from a group of Izzy’s friends. Mouths open, wine-stained teeth. The cracking open of a beer, the dribble of liquid into plastic. Jess, hyena-laughing in a corner and sucking down wine through a cocktail straw. The taut sound of a Martin being tuned up in the corner.
Julien weaves through the space, his eyes focused, taking it all in. I never told him what we were working on while he was gone. I wanted tonight to be a surprise.
There are still things I miss. Even when I’m sure I’m catching everything, when I’m certain I’m paying attention. The brewery by Sloane’s office, now moving to a new location on Division, a stone’s throw from The Venue. A photo flash: Julien reaching high into the air to snap a picture with a disposable camera. Driving down Twenty-First with Sloane, screaming along to the Strokes, our voices carrying out the windows as we pass all the recording studios. Julien’s porch, radiant spring light, a green Dunlop pick in my fingers, the back of his hand brushing mine. Broadway by daylight. Gibsons, Taylors, Martins pushed into the backs of trunks. Neon honky-tonks confused by the sun.
It’s quarter to one. Sloane grabs me by the hand, squeezing it in hers.
—I’m going to fire up the boards in a second and do my best to, you know, not broadcast dead air. Did you get a drink? Here, have mine. I think I’ve already had, like, a dozen, but they’re so tiny I don’t think it counts. You good?
—I’m fucking great, I say.
She laughs.
—That’s what I like to hear.
I take her wine and throw it back in one hot swallow.
Is there a bartender or is this BYOB? She got promoted at Vector. I don’t know anything about his sobriety. Malibu, recording I think. My feet were on a pile of soda cans. It’s pretty much the most self-indulgent thing you can do. Oh I’ve got the demos. They fired him. I think he’s going solo. Yes they are absolutely fucking. In Rolling Stone! Did you see it? It was at City Hall. Maybe in 2006. Do you want to go on Monday? Motown night or whatever? Yes, Ezra Koenig. Of course she knows him. Of course.
Julien doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s happening. I don’t know how we’ve managed to keep it under wraps this long, but when he puts the pieces together, the evening is pitch-black, and the only lights in the Second Space are the globe lights he and I strung together.
I don’t know what will happen when he leaves again tomorrow—but maybe I don’t need to. Maybe, for once, I can just keep living the life I have here rather than trying to constantly be somewhere else—wherever Nick is, wherever Julien is, whatever party is happening or bar is open that I’m not at. Even though it’s still a bit like sinking when I’m standing in one place, it’s good to have a place to stand.
There are the things I have to put here, to make sure I don’t lose them:
Julien, his leg against mine on my roof, rubbing his fingers across his forearm, a tiny bruise on his pinkie nail. Sitting on the hardwood with Sloane in our living room, trying to harmonize to a song we loved in high school. Sloane stubbing out the end of a joint on our porch. An unlit cigarette left on a sink in the men’s room. A Black Keys, Justin Wilson, LCD Soundsystem, Dead Weather poster, taped to the door of the bathroom stall. Yuengling, Four Roses, High Life. The Villager—lights up after close. Laced-up red Chucks, white rubber fading to black. Julien, a silhouette in a black T-shirt, a little smile on his lips as if a song he loves has just come on.
It’s too hot. Sweat is starting to form between my shoulder blades, in the crooks of my elbows. People move about the space quietly, huddled in clusters holding plastic cups and rolled-up posters and stickers. A hollow, nagging nausea lurks in the back of my throat. I walk quickly through the crowd toward the songwriters. At the card table I see Julien, holding one of our posters. His green eyes follow me as I walk over to my guitar, holding up my wrist with the cat on it. A look on his face like he wants to ask me a question. Izzy, hair glowing golden beneath the low lights, Clem’s arm in hers. Andy, smiling and talking in animated bursts with Danny. Sloane, headphones on, hair tied back in a short, blunt ponytail. In the corner, I pick up my own guitar; it finally seems to fit.
Andy lets out a shrill, deafening whistle and then cedes the floor to Sloane. She pulls her headphones down, the foam resting against her shoulders. I let her introduce the evening, because really it was her idea. She’s annoying, persistent, demanding, but of course I love it, because here we are. Dead Air, live. She talks briefly about the night—with a blistering amount of profanity—while I wait in the corner with the others. Esther’s next to me—she’ll sing harmony on my set, including a song we finished together—and with us are two other songwriters, recent acquaintances, maybe new friends. My whole body is numb. My wine is gone. I’m on my own.
Somewhere down the road, after the bands move on or give up or grow up, perhaps, they’ll do reunion tours or one-off shows, or maybe those four or five or eight people will never appear onstage together again. They’ll go gray and their voices will grow gravelly. Lots of them will die young. And when their songs come on years later, it won’t be them I think of, but—
Julien’s trumpet sticking out of his messenger bag, eyes flicking green and then brown and then hazel and then back to green. Sloane, her mascara on the kitchen island, her glance across a dinner table to let me know that she Does Not Have the Patience for This Person, her hair band left on a vinyl sleeve, her ponytail bouncing as she dances in the back row of a show. Sloane, again, blasting Owen, going fifteen over down Sixteenth Avenue, well after midnight, the stars stupid bright, the moon hovering like a ghost over the gleam of downtown, of The Venue, its sticky floors and constant scent of stale beer, menthols, whiskey, whiskey, whiskey, a little more whiskey. Of Julien again, his silhouette set against the skyline—the city small but bright, unassuming but scrappy. The kind of place you could fall in love with. The kind of place where you could fall in love.
Beneath shadows and celestial yellow light, Sloane puts us on air without another word. I sit down.
The Second Space is quiet. I am sure I can hear Julien’s breath from across the room. And then: applause, the vibration of dozens of high-pitched cheers and woos. He’s looking at me now, more questions scattered across his face. For once I know how to answer him. I dry my palms on my jeans and slide the capo onto my guitar.
—Hi. I’m Al. Thanks again for coming out tonight. I wrote this first song about somebody who’s in the room now. I hope you like it.