25 EVIE
E VIE
We’d all agreed on the vision: a combination of digital and analog that would tell the story of a band from the beginning of their careers and leading up to the release of their next album—which the label was expecting to be nothing less than a worldwide phenomenon that would catapult Mayluna into superstardom.
The film and the album would be released simultaneously. No pressure on any of us, of course.
Maybe something like the themes in Alan Yentob’s Cracked Actor , where David Bowie is captured in the throes of American culture on tour.
Though with less sparkle and pizazz, obviously.
Something understated that showed the band’s reticence about stardom as opposed to the chasing of it.
New footage would be filmed primarily in black and white.
We would intersperse it with Tommy’s grainy home movies that started from around the age of eighteen, with the band playing while sitting on mattresses on the floors of bedrooms or in the dormitory halls at university.
In cramped tiled bathrooms where they liked the acoustics.
But then we’d cut to live performances on tour with giant crowds.
From small recorders and home setups to fully produced studio time as they worked on their next album.
I was a ball of elated energy when I stepped off a plane at Boston Logan International Airport on a morning in late June.
I had a duffel bag of clothes and my gear.
A Canon Skoopic would give us the right amount of natural grit we were looking for in the black-and-white footage.
A new DAT recorder and microphone, courtesy of the record label.
A Bolex for the color footage we’d intersperse throughout.
It was going to be a low-budget kind of deal, which suited me just fine.
I knew the guys would be guarded if the setup was too big, and I could be both in the shadows and in the midst of things equally with a setup like that.
It helped that they were used to Tommy and his camera.
In the meantime, we had decided to keep our relationship as quiet as possible, with only the closest in the enclave knowing about us, everyone agreeing that it would overshadow the entire project if word got out that Carter and I were involved.
People on tour picked up on it, of course, but those on the road tend to stick to their own business.
I had planned to take a cab and meet Carter at the venue, but he surprised me outside the airport gate, standing about thirty feet away with one hand hooked in the pocket of his jeans and wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark sunglasses.
I paused in surprise for just a moment before I ran to him and dropped my bags at his feet.
I swear we did that thing they do in the movies where he lifted me up and I threw my legs around his waist amid the busy crowd around us.
Things like that really do happen sometimes.
We arrived at the venue not long after. “Let’s get you settled in on the bus.” Carter took my bag, and I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Well, I’m pretty sure they have me on a crew bus.”
He laughed, ignoring me, as if this were the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Seriously,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” And that was the end of that. I don’t recall spending a single night on that crew bus.
He gave me the royal tour, gesturing as I walked up the stairs toward the interior. “Evie, meet Miss Penny Lane, our bus, though it hurts her feelings when we call her that. Miss Penny Lane takes good care of us.”
I’d seen my share of tour buses over the years, and this one certainly wasn’t the plushest, but it was comfortable in the kind of way that happens when bands make the big graduation from their worn-out van.
It was appreciated and loved—never taken for granted.
The main living area featured dark faux-wood walls with a marble tile–like floor.
A line of tiny built-in lights bordered the ceiling.
“So here we have the living room.” He gestured like a docent.
Two built-in, cushioned gray leather benches sat opposite each other, in view of a large TV that was set into a wall that separated the living area from the driver’s seat.
It was surprisingly clean. So much so that I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d tidied up on my account.
A kitchenette featured a small sink, microwave, and various boxes of junk food, bottles of water, two half-empty bottles of vodka, a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon, a mix of glassware and plastic cups, and a dining table.
Carter poured a glass of amber liquid for both of us.
“It looks like the housekeeper has been here recently.”
He winked in response, gesturing again. “And there, we have six large, well-appointed bedrooms.” These were actually six cramped bunks, three stacked on both sides, each about the width of a twin-size bed, with a privacy curtain and a miniature TV screen in the distant corner of each.
I spotted a dog-eared copy of Kerouac’s On the Road in the back of one of them. “Yours, I’m guessing?” I pointed to the middle one on the right.
He nodded.
I lingered for a minute, imagining him resting there. “Cozy.”
A single bathroom wasn’t much larger than one you’d find on an airplane, though outfitted with more dark wood and faux marble and a tiny shower stall.
At the very back was another set of built-in sofas, with guitars and duffel bags throughout.
We took a seat, and he pulled me into his lap, kissing me.
“You taste good,” I said.
He smiled. “Do I?”
I nodded and kissed him again, tasting the sweet and smoky whiskey on his lips, along with the flavor of him. The aftertaste of both lingered deliciously. “So what do you think?” he asked.
“I like it. And I like it even better when I’m here in it with you instead of in another state across a phone line.” He pulled me closer and I curled into him.
As I understand it, it took them years to finally give up that bus; they loved it so much.
I think they were superstitious about it—like it was a good-luck charm of some kind.
But eventually they did, of course. Graduated to something more luxurious, until eventually, it was replaced by a private jet in later years when the venues became much larger and the dates on the calendar were more spread out.
But wherever it is now, I bet it could tell some good stories.