10. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The pot of coffee won’t brew fast enough. It’s these days I wish I could afford name-brand jug iced coffee or even a capsule coffee machine. I could just chug an energy drink, but I ran out yesterday. Red Bull isn’t cheap either.
Caffeine is a bad habit I can’t kick. I blame it on my shitty sleep schedule, which is not a schedule at all. It’s more like I clasp my hands together and pray the Sleep Gods grant me at least four hours of uninterrupted shuteye.
It’s to the point where if Tom Cobalt were an actual god and had the power to cure my insomnia, I would be kneeling at his feet every night.
That image is not what I fucking need right now.
I pinch and squeeze my eyes shut with rough fingers.
The coffee machine gurgles and steams. The longer it takes, the more likely one of my roommates will come in here. I am avoiding them.
Completely fucking avoiding.
They’re not pissed I’m joining The Carraways. It’s not like that. They understand that I want to play drums and they don’t have a spot for me.
They want gossip. What’s up with Tom? Why can’t he hold a drummer? Does he have anger management problems? Is he an orange juice or coffee guy? That last question was from Neil who, I didn’t know until yesterday, is obsessed with the Cobalt Empire.
I don’t have time or the energy to talk to my roommates, and as of three days ago, I’m legally bound to keep my mouth shut about Tom. And while I’d probably go to jail for any member of Nothing Personal, I’d rather it not be over what Tom Cobalt had for breakfast.
The coffee is taking forever. I eye the door warily.
Our cramped seven-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot apartment has four bedrooms and one bath. The kitchen is as small as my parents’ walk-in closet when I was growing up. And yet this shoebox of a place is home to five young and depraved musicians.
As the coffee brews, I snag the copy of Rolling Stone off the counter.
Not surprisingly, it’s opened to the one paragraph on Nothing Personal.
Neil and Steffi like to read it to each other on the daily as motivation to grind harder—and seeing as how they’ve been dating for four years (and breaking the golden rule of not fucking someone in your band), it’s starting to feel like their weird form of foreplay.
I don’t ask.
Holding up the magazine, I skim the article.
Nothing Personal has the potential to be one of the alt-rock greats.
Their sophomore album, Draconian, is a vision of all-out rage.
The choruses are perfect belting-in-your-car anthems, and their surprising rock ballad “Tragic Hold” delivers magnetic lyrics that reach a gutting depth.
It’s a shiver-inducing song that demonstrates the promise ahead for this four-person band.
Nothing Personal is an angrier, more volatile version of their pop-rock influences The Killers and Imagine Dragons. If they keep this momentum up, their next venture should be the eruption their growing fanbase are eagerly anticipating.
Pictured above from left to right: Vale Scalamonti (vocals), Steffani Mendoza (guitar), Neil Pincock (bass), and Phoenix St. Pierre (drums)
It’s not me in the photograph. Birdie stands next to the long tawny-haired, hook-nosed bassist.
I don’t mind it.
But things are different now. I should probably figure out what name to use in The Carraways. I can’t exactly use my legal one. On the chance we’re even marginally successful, I don’t want people asking why Birdie and I are both named Phoenix.
I set the magazine down and check my cell. Four in the morning. I click into my text threads, and the conversation with my mom is the last one I left on screen.
MOM
Jeremy called and told us you joined a new rock band. You really want to do this again? Call me when you get the chance. We can talk it over. Love you.
PHOENIX
I’m pretty busy right now. But will call when I can. Love you too.
She means well. My parents have nurtured my musical career since I could bang my tiny palm on a drum. All they want is for me to succeed and avoid mistakes along the way. She knows how badly things went down with Sophomore Summer.
It’s going to take hours, days, maybe weeks to convince her this isn’t an irreparable mistake. Yeah…I will be putting that off as long as I can.
Especially knowing I will be double-teamed. My parents are always in agreement. Rarely have differing opinions when it comes to what’s best for my future.
My phone pings in my hand. I relax when I see it’s a voice note from Tom.
He’s been sending me these all week. Nonstop. At random times during the day and at night. It’s like being a voyeur to his subconscious, and his brain is a constant churn of ideas for The Carraways.
I was wrong to think he wouldn’t be committed. He is overly committed to the point where I’m sure he pissed one or two of his bandmates off.
To me, the constant barrage of texts and voice memos means he cares, and I’d much rather be partners with someone who obsesses over the band than someone who couldn’t give two shits.
I click into the voice memo. The sound of water hitting tile is in the background. Did he…did he record this in the shower?
“Shower thought,” he says in the memo. Jesus Christ, he is in the shower. I hit pause on the recording just to give myself time to…breathe.
Setting my phone on the countertop, I grip the ledge into a half-lunge. There’s not enough room to fully spread out but just enough for my joints to untense. Do not picture Tom in the shower.
With my head dipped as I stare at the floor, I hit play.
“Digital organ pads,” Tom says. “They’d pair with the synth bass. We layer them into the songs to amp the moodiness. I mean, if we have to use the synth, we need to use it well. Right? Like let’s go full tilt on this shit. That’s it. Bye.” He abruptly hangs up.
I’m starting to think he just likes talking to someone even if that someone is going to listen to his morning ramblings over the phone.
I play the memo back again.
And again.
I’m honestly torturing myself at this point. I’m starting to think I love the sound of his voice.
And I can’t deny…it’s nice being involved in this part of the process.
I’m not just handing in some lyrics and calling it a day.
I get to be there for every step. With Nothing Personal, it was never equal.
When they let me join studio sessions, it was as a courtesy… as a friend. Not as a part of the band.
Instead of replaying the voice memo again, I check Tom’s schedule.
The coffee pot beeps. I fill up a cup with one hand and then send Tom a voice note with my other.
“First off, no more shower thoughts. Wait until after your shower to call me. Second, it looks like we’re both free tonight. Where do you want to meet up?”