Backstage is this fairly short hallway with four rooms on one side and a bathroom and employee room on the other side. Backstage is also packed and sweaty right
now. I don’t personally know anyone hanging out other than the band members and their roadies but as I’m slipping in between and around people, trying to get to
our room, I get stopped by numerous fans who are telling me how much they liked our album. How bad we shredded in this YouTube video from the Independent
when we played there with The Bronx a few months ago. These two eighteen year-old looking girls with black hair are like, “We love the new photos you guys
posted on your Myspace page.”
And, “Thank you so much for the add.”
And, “You are just like what we wanna be when we’re older.”
“Thanks.”
And then this dude with strawberry blonde hair, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and a black thermal underneath that, grabs my arm and
goes, “You’re fucking awesome! I saw you play with Lionhair and Massive Demons. You fucking rule.”
He’s snorts, “And the album you guys just released. Best album I’ve heard in the last two years. Easily.”
He says, “Without a doubt it’s that good.”
He’s like, “Fraid so.”
“I like it too,” I tell him, pulling my arm out of his hands. “I think it’s pretty rad.”
And it is.
Stop, Drop, and Rock ‘n Roll is an album that has so far received a ton of critical success becoming one of the best reviewed “Indie” albums of the year.
Mojo magazine gave it four stars, writing, “If not the best overall album of the year, easily one of the top two or three. Fusing together an electric mix of high
charged guitar riffs, thunderous bass lines, hard hitting yet groovy drumbeats, and insanely intelligent lyrics, Yaked Out delivers a twelve song chokehold more intense
than a lap dance from Roseanne Barr. In essence, this band not only defies genre, they turn rock ‘n roll on it’s head, slice it open, and bleed it to death, reminding us
why we fell in love with music in the first place.”
Buddyhead chimed in with, “Buy this shit, bro-hah’s and learn a thing or two about what it’s like to get thrashed by a real band.”
Even Vice magazine joined the love fest, cribbing, “Not only is this album just awesome, it leaves the listener staggering away from it like they’ve been drinking
Beam and Pepper and doing lines of coke off of the broken kindergarten picture of your retarded cousin all day in the backroom of your fat girlfriends trailer with the
rest of their rad fans. Buy this shit today!”
But all of this critical success hasn’t made shit in the way of commercial success and here we are in Chicago, and I’m just hoping to get to the stage on time and make
it through the full set of songs.
There’s like eight people in our room taking up all the space on the couches and all four six packs of Budweiser we had in the fridge have already been drank so I light
another cigarette and lean against the fridge and watch this one guy with a handlebar moustache, who Lane introduced me to, take a drink of beer and then puke it
up on his lap and pass right out.
Rad, dude.
This is when Michael busts up into the room. “There you are,” he says, grabbing my hands and pulling me up to him. “I got some friends I want you to meet.”
“I’m game.”
“You’ll love these kids.”
We weave through the hallway, past all these girls reaching out and grabbing for him, and end up in the Lamborghini Dreams room.
Like twelve kids are in here. Even that one dude with the strawberry blonde hair is hanging out inside. He’s sitting next to Thomas on this black leather sofa, cutting
up a huge pile of coke on this mirror lying on this coffee table, rapping like, “Here’s what I’m talking about, Thomas.” The dude scrapes up a line and does a gummer,
and goes, “The guy who plays guitar for Soundgarden, Kelly Thane. That guy is a guitar hero and he looks like Jesus. And you, man, you look like Jesus too. So
therefore you’re a guitar hero also.”
Everyone in the room starts cracking up. I’m standing over this kid, a huge grin on my face, asking him, “Who are you?”
And Michael goes, “That’s Titty Coke Montana. He’s one of our homey’s from the city.”
“So this is the famous Titty Coke you guys wrote the garage song about.”
“In the flesh,” Titty Coke says. Slapping his hands together, he goes, “So who’s in on this? How many lines am I cutting right now?”
“Ya know what? I’ll take one,” I say.
“Me too,” Thomas says.
“Yo, Titty. Here,” Michael says. He throws Titty Coke a half gram and goes, “Make enough for everyone.”
“Done, brah.”
Michael grabs me again and pulls me across the room and introduces me to some of his other friends.
This is Maggie.
Hi, Maggie.
This is Skylar.
Hi, Skylar.
This is Claire.
Whoa.
Damn.
Hi, Claire.
My eyes stay locked on this Claire girl for what seems like an hour. Because this Claire girl, she is fucking hot. Like top hottest girl besides me that’s been associated
with the tour so far.
Wearing this loose black silk top with thin, pink ribbon shoulder straps. This short, white and gray, cat print cotton skirt. This pair of black leather sandals with a floral
print headband wrapped around her shoulder length blond hair. Claire steps forward and throws her arms around me and goes, “Massive Demons. Fuck yeah! I saw
you play guitar with them three times before I was sixteen, bitch.”
“Awesome,” I grin. She is so hot.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I tell her.
“What the hell happened to the Demons? I remember you guys got pretty big for like a second and then the band was over. Done. Just like that.”
“Dude, our lead singer, Rolf, got his ass deported back to Norway.” Pause. “He’s actually still there.”
“Why did he get deported?”
“Well I should preface this story first by saying that the dude was a huge tweaker. Motherfucker was literally insane from doing crack. His visa had been expired for
almost two years so he figured the only thing he could do was fly home for a week and get another one. Just like that. But he couldn’t fly from the states ‘cause he’
d get nabbed by the feds so he decided to go across the border and fly out of Mexico City because he heard it’s way easier to get around the whole visa thing down
there, so he packed up and took a bus down. But the night before his flight to Norway, he got shitfaced at a bar and picked a fight with some giant Mexican biker
and got his nose broken. Of course, he’s some white foreigner so he got tossed into the slammer. A whole week went by and he got no medical
attention and when the week was over, the authorities decided to just get rid of him and sent him away. Only they didn’t send him back to Norway because they
couldn’t afford the ticket. They flew him to Lincoln, Nebraska instead, where he got arrested again and held for another two days before customs finally sent him
home and banned him from the States for twenty years.”
“No shit,” Claire laughs. “That’s fucking incredible.”
“I know. We were so bummed that we decided, fuck it, let’s just break-up. But the way I look at it now, it does leave the door open for an eventual reunion. I
mean, if Van Halen can get back together then anything in rock is possible.”
“There ya go,” Claire says. “That’s some pretty rad spin.”
“I know. And the thing is, you can use the Van Halen analogy for pretty much everything in life and it seems to work. You should try it. It’s fucking amazing.”
“Right on,” Claire says, as Titty Coke stands up and hands me the mirror and this straw that’s been cut in half.
“Have at it, Ms. Brown,” he says.
“Ooh, thanks. I like your moves, dude.”
Claire holds the mirror for me and I take a line and then she takes one and then Rex walks into the room carrying two buckets full of ice and beer.
“Just in time,” Claire snorts. She absolutely struts up to Rex. His jaw just drops and she slides a beer out and pets his forearm and goes, “I like your moves, Mr.
Hopeless,” before strutting her way over to Rodney.
“Hey, Rex,” I snort. “Give me a fucking beer.”
Rex snaps his eyes off of Claire and swings them over to me. “Got it.”
He sets the buckets down and pulls two PBR’s out and brings one to me, asking, “Who was that girl?”
“Her name’s Claire. Michael grew up with her.”
“Jesus Christ. What a fox. What an absolute fucking babe. A ten, Bailey. That girl is a ten.”
“She’s better than a ten, dude.”
“Yeah she is.”
I twist off the cap and knock my bottle against his.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No problem.”
Rex and I both take a drink and he goes, “So how are you doing, Bailey?”
“I’m feeling good tonight. I think tonight might be awesome.”
“I think so too,” he says. “I really hope that it is. Because tomorrow, when we play Iowa City, I guarantee there ain’t gonna be nobody there. Nobody goes to shows
out there. It’s gonna be a very, very empty venue.”
“That’s why I’m thinking we should all get fucked up together before we take the stage. That way, when we’re all seeing double, it’ll look like there are twice as
many people in the crowd.”
“That’s never seemed to be a problem for us.”
“I know it. Plus, it’s my fucking birthday show tomorrow.”
Rex takes another drink and says, “Thirty years old, Bailey. You’re gonna need a fucking walker soon.”
“Taste the walker, mothafucka.”
We cheers again and I take another drink while Rex pulls his ringing cell phone out of his pocket.
He answers, “What’s up, man?...How’d the recording go?...Really…Oh…Oh yeah…Awesome…Say what…Really…”
Pause.
Rex shoots me this strange, awkward look, and then goes, “Hey, hold on a minute.”
He turns around quickly and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
“Hey, Brown,” I hear, and turn around.
Titty Coke is sitting on the sofa behind me again, holding the mirror up.
“Round two,” he says.
I take a seat next to him and he hands me the straw.
“Will you be a dear and hold this?” I ask him.
“For you. Of course.”
I take a huge breath and plug my right nostril and slam another line for my neighbor.
My eyes close and I shake my neck and shoulders loose.
All the anxiety disappears.
All the stress and the worries simply tumble away and evaporate into thin air and I feel fucking good.
I feel like I just did blow for the first time ever.
Leaning forward, opening my eyes, I take another drink of beer, and look to my left at Titty Coke.
I watch him devour these three pretty big lines, then look at me and go, “Goddamn, and I thought I was good looking.”
“Oh, you’re cute,” I tell him.
And he goes, “Everyday I wake up and wish that it was Dave Navarro who died instead of Layne Staley.”
I start laughing and he’s like, “I’m being dead serious here.”
“I’m sure you are,” I sigh, then lean over and give him a hug and kiss on the cheek.
I say, “Thanks for the drugs, darling.”
“You’re welcome you stone fox.”
Lighting another cigarette, I watch Michael telling this chubby girl with short black hair and bangs cut crooked across her forehead, “Ya know what? Just because you
met me at a party once does not mean you fucking know me at all. So knock it off with this guestlist bullshit.”
The girl nods her head very obediently.
“Good,” Michael says, and I start laughing again and light another cigarette, and like two minutes later, a bunch of us go watch The Cherry Stealers shred it.
Like ten minutes before we’re ready to go on, Rex grabs me and Danny and Lane and says he wants to have a word with us in our room.
So the three of us follow Rex to the room and Bomb is in there doing coke with these two heavier girls who were on The Cherry Stealers list.
“Yo, Bomber, what the fuck, man? Go guard the merch table,” Danny snorts.
“What?” Bomb asks, lifting his face from the mirror.
“The merch table,” Danny snaps. “Get out there and sell some shit.”
“Oh, right,” Bomber says, scrambling to his feet, vacating the room.
The two girls actually sit there and stare at us for a few seconds until Rex goes, “You two need to get out of here right now.”
The girls quietly gather their things and walk out and Rex goes, “Whose idea was it to bring Bomb?”
“Mine,” Lane says. “And I’m really sorry about it. Every day I wake up on this tour and I see his sunken in, chapped up, speeded out face, munching on Pringles, and I
wanna throw-up in my mouth, swallow it back down, and throw it back up.”
“Dude’s given away more merch than he’s sold,” Danny says.
“But he has bought gas for us three times and he did get the tires and oil changed on the van before we left,” I say.
“Yeah. You’re right,” Danny laughs, holding up a PBR. “To the Bomber.”
“The Bomber,” we all say back.
Lighting a cigarette, Rex goes, “So I just wanted to say some things that haven’t been said on this tour yet.
Everyone in this fucking room knows that things have gone to shit so far and everyone in this room is at fault. No one in this band is exempt from any of the blame.
We’ve all fucked up multiple times since we since we left San Francisco. Right?”
The three of us nod our heads in agreement and Rex continues, “But I still think we can pull this shit together and have an awesome tour. We’ve got two and half
weeks and tens shows left to turn this baby around and at least make it worthwhile and fun. That’s the big thing, guys. We just gotta start nailing the live sets and
rocking the fuck out like we’re goddamn kids again jamming in our first band. No pressure. Absolutely enjoying it. So let’s reclaim the stage from everyone else on this
tour starting tonight and destroy the fuck out of Chicago.”
Pause.
“Fuck yeah!” Danny snorts. “Let’s blow these jokers off the fucking stage.”
“Let’s do this,” I say.
And all of us throw our fists together and I shed my jacket and then we leave the room.
A minute later, Yaked Out is taking the stage.
And goddamn it!
There ain’t a better, more intense feeling in the world than strutting your shit onto a stage in front of four hundred whistling and yelling motherfuckers who you
know are going to be eating out of the palm of your hand in twenty minutes.
The shit is unparallel.
You take the gnarliest, most awesome fucking you’ve ever done. Add the most amazing nights of drinking and drugging in your life. Plus the euphoric feeling of nailing
down the highest Metal Slug score ever at your local arcade. Then toss in the sweet adrenaline rush of out running the fuzz for the first time in middle school. All of
that shit together has nothing on how rad the get-off is of actually standing on a stage, strapping on a fucking guitar, and stroking a power chord that rattles the
entire joint.
Whether it’s in front of ten. Twenty. Fifty. Or a thousand kids. It doesn’t matter.
This right here, this is the greatest thing you’ll ever feel.
Grabbing my rhythm guitar, which has this blue, My Little Pony painted on it, I flip the pink furry strap over
my head and glance at the rest of the guys then begin tuning and tweaking the instrument.
I’m already sweaty. I hear dudes whistling at me and a couple of girls actually yelling:
“I love you Bailey!”
I even hear:
“You own my world, Bailey!”
Rex starts pounding the drums, going through his measures. My pulse is speeding way up. The butterflies in my stomach turn to blood thirsty vultures ready to attack
this thousand pound carcass of leather and black and flannel and beards on the other side of the stage.
Grabbing the bottled water on Danny’s amp, I take a swig and both Danny and Lane give me the, Let’s do this nod, and then Rex bangs out his measures once more
and mouths, “I’m ready.”
The mics sound great.
The instruments are tuned.
So now it’s showtime.
I set the water down and wipe the sweat from my face and then I turn back to the audience and stroll to My Fucking Microphone.
“Well, good evening Chicago.”
Everyone roars. People hold their drinks up. Some guy in the front says he’s in love with me. A couple of camera flashes go off.
“Goddamn,” I say, catching a quick glimpse of Michael standing off to the side of the stage with Claire. “Now this is what I call a reception.”
More screaming.
I say, “Are you guys ready to get Yaked Out?”
Even more screaming.
“Awesome. Let’s do this. We’re Yaked Out from San Francisco and this first song is called High Heels and Face Lifts.”
The song we open every show with.
Rex counts it out on his sticks and then we just fly right into the song. And it sounds so good.
So gnarly.
Danny’s fucking killing it.
Lane is nailing those bass lines hard.
And of course Rex’s thundering drumming is impeccable.
We’re destroying. It’s that simple. And right as I’m perfectly hitting those notes and singing the chorus line…
If it makes you feel better, than I really have no problem with it, if it makes you think your better, than you’re just a fucking idiot…
I know tonight is going to be special. I know that we’re gonna own this show. Own the rest of the bands. And own the fucking audience.
Case closed.
We blaze through the set. This band has never sounded better.
We play:
Che Guerva ate your Rabbit
Two Dollar Out the Door Blues
PussyReaper
The Way I See It-history lesson pt. 1
Your Cum is Brown
Gross Dude
Bad Bitch
And we close with, The Broken Condom Solution. But right as Rex is about to count off for the final time, Danny jumps onto his back-up mic and goes, “Since
midnight is only like thirty minutes away, I’d like everyone in the audience to help me, Lane, and Rex wish our beautiful and talented lead singer, the lovely Miss Bailey
Brown, a happy birthday. It’s her birthday in thirty minutes and I want everyone to help us sing Happy Birthday.”
And on Danny’s lead, the whole crowd sings me Happy Birthday. My heart melts. Over four hundred people singing me a song in unison. It’s unbelievable. It’s powerful.
When they’re through, I say, “You guys are the best. That was so sweet. I love Chicago.”
More cheering.
And then I go, “This is our last song for the night. Thank you so much for coming out. Lamborghini Dreams are up next!” And then we start burning through The
Broken Condom Solution, with a chorus that goes…
You knew it fucking broke before you even finished, so don’t take it like a joke when I ask you to help me fix this…
And that’s it.
We’re done.
I take my guitar off and wipe myself down with a damp towel that Bomb hands me and exit the stage.
Backstage again. Everyone is freaking out about how good we just were. How gnarly we just slayed it.
Charles from The Cherry Stealers is like, “Where the fuck did that come from? Jesus!”
Dave from Lamborghini Dreams snorts, “Why aren’t you guys headlining this shit?”
Matti from the Tight Black Holes, quips, “I’m so stoked we don’t have to follow you guys.”
Claire, the second hottest bitch ever, snaps, “I’ve never been wetter.”
It’s almost overwhelming. This band is so not used to that after three weeks of absolute bullshit.
The feeling is off the charts and I’m absolutely going to relish in it.
The four of us roll back into our room followed by Titty Coke who’s carrying a bucket with six beers in it.
And he’s all like, “Best thing ever! It was Big Business on steroids. Year Future twenty times more advanced and better. It’s who The Cows wish they could’ve been
growing up.”
“Awesome, dude,” Lane says, high-fiving him.
And Titty Coke goes, “Lets do some bumps.”
“Sweet, man.”
So the five of us pass the baggie around like three times each. We sip our beers and bullshit and listen to Titty Coke tell us about how he lost his mind two weeks ago.
He goes, “Ten days straight drunk. High on coke and X. On the tenth day, hanging out with this hot asian babe in my pad. But she’s not letting me touch her. I buy
all the alcohol and drugs and she’s like, ‘I just wanna be friends’ and leaves. So like an hour later, I’m sitting in my underwear playing on MySpace and I notice that,
Oh, she forgot her really nice jacket that she was bragging about earlier. So I took a pair of scissors and cut it in half. The next morning, I’m looking at what I did, and
I start crying and can’t remember how to put on my shoes. So I took little breather. I got sober for a week and I feel much better.”
“Dude,” I say. “We’re totally writing a song about you for the next album. You’re fucking awesome!”
“I know,” he grins. “I’ve been told that before.”
Rex cuts in. He says, “Titty. Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
Titty slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, and Rex goes, “Do you guys remember a couple of weeks ago when I went down to LA for the weekend?”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “You went down to talk to some people about the band.”
“Right, he says. “I also went down there and drummed a set for King Me and the Crown Jewels.”
I already know where this is going.
And Rex goes, “And Ronnie called me tonight and asked if I’d join the band full time.”
“What’d you say, man?” Danny snaps.
“I said yes.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lane snorts.
“So the San Fran show will be my last one with the band. Then I’m moving down to LA.”
Danny and Lane start for the door.
And Rex says, “Sorry, dudes.”
“Don’t be fucking sorry,” I say. “Congratulations, man. You made it.”
Grabbing the last beer from the bucket, I follow Danny and Lane and go watch Lamborghini Dreams play, noticing that exactly one minute ago, I turned thirty years
old.
…Happy Birthday to me.
It’s halfway through the Lamborghini Dreams set and I’m getting shitfaced. I’ve taken three shots of Jameson and am working on my third Vodka soda when Rex
walks up behind me and goes, “Let’s talk.”
“Get the fuck off of me,” I tell him, knocking his hands away.
“No, Bailey. Let’s talk.”
I spin around. “Fine, dude. Let’s go fucking gab.”
The two of us roll back to the Yaked Out room and I slam the door shut and go, “How could you do this to me?”
“I had to. Those guys are on huge label.”
“So what? How do you know we won’t get a deal?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? We played one good show so far. How long do you think it’s gonna be before this band starts self-destructing again?”
“I don’t know, Rex.”
“Exactly. I’ve fucking done this low-level shit for fourteen years and now I’m getting an opportunity to be in a band that plays in the big leagues. They play stadiums,
Bailey. That’s been my fucking dream since I was a little kid and started playing music. I mean, as much as I want Yaked Out to be that band, the one with the huge
fucking draw and the awesome deal and a bus and all that shit, we’re never going to be that band. I’m sorry.”
“So just like that. All we did together. All the songs we wrote, everything. You can just walk away like that and move to LA.”
“Yes.”
“What about, Penelope?”
“Oh, God, Bailey. What do you think? I’ll dump her like that.”
“Jesus, Rex.”
“You’ll find another drummer.”
“Fuck you for saying that, dude! You know this band is done. This was our project. You know I can’t be in a band with Danny and Lane without you. I can’t believe
you even said that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You are not sorry.”
There’s a long awkward pause.
From the stage, I can hear Thomas from Lamborghini Dreams singing…
“Titty Coke, has a mean garage…All your dreams, die in his mirage…”
I take the last, sweet swig of my drink and light a cigarette. And Rex says, “I mean, aren’t you at least a little happy for me?” “I am. You do deserve a chance like
this. I just wish it could’ve been with this project.”
“I know you do, Bailey. But I may never get another chance like this again. I’ve gotta see what this shit’s all about. I’d regret until I died if I didn’t. And you know you’
d do the same thing. You know you would.”
I take a drag. “I know, Rex.”
Popping open a baggie of coke, he hands it too me and I take two key hits, then hand it back to him.
He does a hit and goes, “But, man. We did destroy it tonight. I’ve never played a show that sounded so fucking righteous.”
“I know it.”
“And that happy birthday shit. How cool was that?”
“Pretty cool, Rex.”
“We killed it tonight, Ms. Brown.”
I take a drag and nod my head and he’s completely right.
But this is the toughest pill I’ve had to swallow yet.
At the hotel room, Michael and I split a bottle of Jim Beam. We have sex. We do some drugs. We have more sex. We watch Lethal Weapon on HBO. We do some
more drugs.
It’s only three a.m.
It’s only way too early still.
Slipping on this pink nighty I bought in LA, I grab the bottle of Beam sitting next to the bed and take a seat at the table next to the windows. I light a cigarette.
Then I pound two huge pulls and hand the bottle to Michael who’s
sitting in on the edge of the bed in a pair of sweatpants with red running shorts sewn over the top of them.
“This isn’t so bad,” I tell Michael. “Me and you fucking and doing drugs all night in a hotel room in Chicago. It’s not so bad at all.”
Michael takes a swig. “Like the best birthday I bet you’ve ever had, babe.”
“Yeah,” I slur, holding up the rock horns. “Best ever.”
Michael takes a swig and lines up a couple more rails on this mirror.
Like a second later, I get a text message from James that says: Captain Hipster: The only thing worse than being in a room with a She Wants Revenge fan is being in
a room with no mirrors. I’m high and I bet you’re surprised. Anyway, Happy birthday, sweetheart. I’m buying you dinner when you get back.
I roll my eyes. “Quit texting me, dude!” I shout. “It’s o---ver. We are o---ver.”
“Who was that?” Michael asks, rubbing a finger over his gums.
“Mr. Published Asshole. James Morgan.”
“I can’t believe you hate him that much. The dude is like my favorite author. Fuckin’ PieGrinder is like my bible.”
“Yeah, well that’s good for you, Michael. You’ve only been privy to his words. But the real guy sucks. He sucks.”
“How does he suck that bad?”
“The only thing he talks about is himself and when he runs out of cool shit to say about how he’s so awesome, he just starts ripping on everyone else about how
they aren’t nearly as cool as him.”
“So what?”
“You don’t even know, man,” I slur, lunging halfway out of my chair, waving a finger in the air. “He only wants to fuck you if you dress up like a chick character from
his book and let him call you by that name.”
“That’s awesome,” Michael snickers.
“Ya know what, man?”
“What, babe?”
Pause.
“Can I have a line?”
“Of course you can birthday girl.”
Michael sets the mirror on the table and goes, “Ya know he slept with Claire?”
“No way!”
“Yes way.”
I blow a line. “Really?”
“Yep. It was right after his book came out, and her, me, and my buddy, Kyle went to see him read and when Claire was getting her copy signed, he asked her if she
knew where he could score some coke.”
“Sounds like James.”
“So she gave him her number and he called later that night and came over to my buddy, Travis’s parent’s house to score from this Asian guy I’d invited over. He
ended up sticking around and did a ton of fucking drugs, and actually tried to score first with Travis’s girl, Laura, but she turned him down, so he went after Claire and
nailed the shit out of her at his hotel room, then kicked her out like ten minutes later.”
“That really sounds like, James. Was Claire pissed?”
“Claire was stoked.”
“Jesus,” I laugh. “That dude has fucked a broad that I know everywhere. That’s kind of his thing. In this order. Drinking. Doing drugs. And fucking as many babes as
possible.”
“That’s rock ‘n roll, baby.”
I roll my eyes and take another line and say, “How about we got off James Morgan for a minute.”
“I’m into that. You wanna hear something?”
“Sure.”
Michael grabs his jeans off the floor and digs out his wallet and opens it and pulls this folded piece of paper from it. “This is the new song I’ve been working on. It’s
called Unicorn Kingdom.” Grabbing my acoustic guitar that’s leaning against the bed, he starts fingering the strings and says, “It’s just one verse, but I want you to tell
me what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think about it, dude.”
“Bullshit, babe. It totally matters.” He says, “You’re an awesome songwriter. It matters. It matters a lot.”
“So let me here it.”
Michael grins and starts playing.
He sings, “There’s a place in my world that I think is super awesome, it’s a place that I’ve known since my strung-out days in Austin, it’s the place where I go when I
need to see some beauty, where the creatures are exotic and the kids are never moody, it a place in the sun where the special horses roam, it’s place in my head
even funner than my home, Unicorn Kingdom, my island in the sea, Unicorn Kingdom only place I wanna be.” He stops and looks at me. “That’s it.”
I throw my arms in the air. “Oh my, God! Yes! That was fucking amazing!” I say. “I loved it!”
“Thanks, baby.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard anything that cool in a super long time. Yes! Thank you!”
Michael gets up and walks in front of me and pulls me out of the chair, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“That sucks that Rex is leaving,” he says.
“It is what it is, man. I mean, it’s not the first time something like this has happened.”
“So what’s gonna happen when you get back?”
Pushing myself away from him, I grab the Beam, and start pacing. I say, “Well I suppose we’ll break up first. Then we’ll take no individual responsibility for our failures
and talk shit behind each other’s back at party’s and shows and blame it all on the bass player. And then we’ll start something new and claim to everyone around us
that it’s a way better situation than the previous project and everything happened for a good reason.”
“So that’s how it works, huh?” “Basically.” Michael steps at me and grabs me again and says, “You’ll be able to find another drummer.”
“Maybe.” I take a drink. “But that’s not really the point. Rex and I started the fuckin’ band. He’s the best drummer in the city. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’
t exactly get along the best with Danny and Lane. The Yaked Out era is over. It’s fucking done, man.”
Grabbing the bottle from me, Michael says, “Hey, ya know, whatever. I’m sure it happened for the best.”
I giggle.
Leaning into him, I kiss his neck, snag the bottle back, set it on the table, and slide my lips to his chin. Then I push him onto the bed and slip him out of his
sweatpants.
Straddling him, I say, “Maybe I can do some guest vocal work on the next Lamborghini Dreams album.”
“Maybe,” Michael says.
“If it comes down to that,” I say.
“We’ll see,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Happy Birthday.”
I kiss him and then we fuck again.
I don’t sleep well at all. The couple hours I do get are restless and full of images of Rex taking an axe to our tour van.
Michael on the other hand is having no problem. He’s huddled underneath all the blankets, snoring away. He even says a few sentences in his sleep.
He says, “Grimace is a purple faggot.”
He says, “Vince Neil stole my sandwich.”
Whatever, dude.
Vince Neil stole my fucking sandwich.
I roll out of bed and start looking for the cat that decided to take a shit in my mouth. My breath tastes that bad. My head feels ready to explode. It hurts so, so bad.
This is the most hung-over I’ve been since two days before we left on tour when I decided to start drinking bloody mary’s at Zeitgeist around nine in the morning.
From Zeitgeist, it was a twelve pack of PBR in Dolores Park with a couple of peeps, a boombox, and the Ice Cube, Predator tape. After that, it was cocaine and
mimosas at this dude Ryan’s crib in the Upper Haight. And then it was Heartless Bastards at the Hemlock. And this Speakeasy in the Marina.
I felt like total shit that next morning.
Just like I feel this morning.
I walk to the bathroom and run the shower.
While I’m waiting for the water to get warm, no hot, I lean over the sink and stare at the mirror. I look like shit. That prick out there left these gnarly bite marks all
over my shoulders and arms. He even tore my nighty down the left seam. On the far left side of the mirror it looks like I came in here last night with some dark red
lipstick and cribbed on it:
“Titty Coke Montana is the boss.”
I cribbed: “R.I.P. Yaked Out.”
That’s right. Rex told us he was leaving the band after the tour was over last night. Hence the dreams of him holding an axe to Danny and Lane’s throat. Hence the
visions of him shoving the axe handle up my asshole.
I take a deep breath.
The mirror is fogging up.
Wiping a path of steam away with my hand, I take one more look at me. I stare at my un-lovely but still rad face and watch as my reflection clouds to the point of
disappearing and then it’s gone.
Poof.
Just like my band.
I’m standing directly under the shower head, my hands pressed hard against the white shower tile, my head hanging down. I’m running through the number of times
I fucked Michael when this sudden memory pops into my head.
It’s this memory of the first time Yaked Out practiced together as a full band. It was about a year ago and at that point in time, Danny was going to school to
become a massage therapist.
To get your license in massage therapy you have to complete a hundred hours of practice on real patients.
So Danny shows up at that first practice with some beer and weed and a G ‘n R poster for the room. We were all kinda bullshitting while he hung the poster and
when he finished, he went, “Check this out.”
He said, “Two nights ago, I get all hung up on coke at Pop’s and end up doing the shit all night, into the next day. But the thing is, I got a class appointment at eight
in the morning. An hour session with this old bag, so I roll up in there with no sleep, looking like a motherfucking zombie, and I’m just like telling myself, get through
this and go home and go to sleep. That’s all I got to do. Just get through this hour. So I go into the room and things aren’t going that bad. I’m not on top of my
masseuse game, but I’m not blowing it either. Anyway, I’m standing there and I got my head tilted down, my eyes closed, when out of the blue, this ladies like, ‘The
new lotion you just put on me feels really good on my back.’ That’s when I come too. Like my eyes pop open and I look down and my nose is pouring out blood all
over this granny’s back and I’m just rubbing it in with my hands. So then I’m trying not to fucking lose it while I figure out what to do and that’s when she starts
screaming. She flips up off the table, her old titty’s flopping around and then my instructor and like three other classmates come barging into the room. And I can’t do
nothing. I’m just standing there with blood all over me and blood all over this naked old-timer who starts seizing out. They have to call 911 and by the time the
paramedics get there, I’m getting sent home.”
“Whoa,” I remember Rex saying. “That’s all that happened to you? You got sent home.”
“Oh, no,” Danny said. “I can never become a licensed massage therapist anywhere in North America. I’ve been totally shut out of that field. I got kicked out of school
and none of my tuition is refundable. But at least the old bag didn’t die.”
It was one of the best stories ever. The entire band was in tears.
And I practically am too right now. I’m laughing so hard that it hurts. My stomach is sore. Man, this band has had some good times. Some great times. I don’t think I’ve
been in a band where I’ve walked away with so many stories and outrageous memories. So I guess the thing is this: We’ve got two and half weeks and nine shows
left, so Fuck It. I’m gonna have fun with the boys and let loose and make the most out of the time we still have together as a band.
As of today, I’m jumping back into the Yaked Out van.
I call Rex around ten to tell him that I’m riding with the guys again and he sounds pretty excited. And then says, “Hey, turn on the TV right now and find a news
station.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” he says, then hangs up.
Turning the TV on, I flip to CNN and it’s like, Whoa. Shit.
On the screen is aerial footage from this news chopper of this apartment building in San Francisco. The same apartment building that Rex’s girlfriend lives in.
Police cars and Swat vans and FBI trucks have surrounded the entire block, and then the screen cuts to a photo of an Arab guy. It says, Amid Mojadeddi underneath
the photo, and then some voiceover says that he’s just been arrested on suspicion for the two recent bombings in San Francisco.
“Holy shit,” I say, jumping off the bed. “That’s where Rex’s girlfriend lives.”
“I still can’t believe that dude has a girlfriend,” Michael snorts. “He’s been slaying all sorts of vag on the tour.”
“Well he has one and that’s where she lives,” I say, while footage of Amid being taken away in handcuffs moves across the screen. The voiceover now saying how
the Amid dude may have deep roots in Afghan Islamic Totalitarisim.
Then the screen cuts to a reporter interviewing this dude, Sebastian, who says, “Dude’s from Afghanistan. He’s a terrorist. Period. We need to annihilate that country
with a nuke. The entire middle east actually. And just finish this crap once and for all. These Arabs are destroying the fabric of this city.”
“I know that guy too,” I snort.
“Jesus,” Michael says.
“Fucking craziness in the Co.”
“Sweet. I can’t wait to play there,” he grins.
Flipping off the TV with the remote, he says, “I still can’t believe you’re gonna jump back into the Yaked Out van. Who am I supposed to play MASH and twenty
questions and the license plate game with?”
“How about your best buddy, Dave?”
“Whatever, babe. I think he’s still pissed about me drooling in his Cheetos.”
“Oh, wow,” I laugh. “You are something else.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Me. I’m talking. And I’m telling you that we should plug in your Ipod real quick, flip on some Faith No More, and fuck one more time. It’s my birthday.”
“Done.”
We do all that and then we checkout.
The weather is absolutely perfect today. It’s sunny and really, strangely hot out and the sky is so blue it’s to die for.
It really is.
As Michael and I are nearing the Yaked Out van in our cab, that Replacements song, Left of the Dial jumps into my head.
Read about your band, in some local page, didn’t mention your name…The sweet Georgia breezes, safe, cool and warm, heaven up north, heaven up north…
Just thinking about that song, that band, makes me feel like a million bucks and I lean over and kiss Michael.
We pull up to the van.
“See you in Iowa,” Michael tells me.
“You will,” I say, and jump out of the cab.
Everyone is standing around, looking like crap and smoking cigs. The way it should be on tour.
Even Claire’s there, making out with Rex.
Rex, the big rockstar.
Rex, who has finally made it.
I light a cigarette and Danny goes, “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, dude.”
“I’m sure you’ll love what we did to the van,” Lane smirks.
“I’m sure I won’t be disappointed. Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”
The guys start loading in and Claire gives me a hug and tells me how awesome it was to meet me and then she turns to Rex, who’s just standing there rubbing the
back of his neck.
“Later, Sexy Rexy. It was a blast.”
“Yeah. I’m glad you had a good time.”
An awkward pause.
“So I’ll give you a call sometime,” Rex says.
“No you won’t, dude. But that’s totally cool. I don’t want you too. I just wanted to hook up.”
“Really?”
Claire pats Rex’s head gently and goes, “Yes. Really.”
Then she walks away and Rex shrugs and gets into the van which is completely full of trash-beercans-food wrappers-magazines-there’s some melted gummy bears I’ve
already stepped in.
Awesome.
We’re inches deep in trash and on our way to Iowa and I’m so happy to be back with these guys right now.
And as the van chugs it’s way out of the city, Lane produces a small birthday cake with a candle shoved into the middle of it, shaped into the number 14.
“No shit,” I grin. “You fuckers actually remembered.”
“Goddamn right we did,” Rex says.
And the whole big thing about 14 is that I was 14 when I lost my virginity. 14 the first time I heard Black Flag. 14 the year I saw Iggy live. 14 the year I started my
first band, Black Plague Courage.
Danny lights the candle and I make my wish, blow it out, and say, “That was cool, guys.”
Stretching my arms and legs as best I can, I lean back against my seat and go right back to humming my Replacements song because it makes me even happier.
Because the overall mood in here is actually kind of somber.
The underlying reality that this project won’t exist in fifteen days is very present. It’s like a sixth body in the van.
On one hand, I’m glad for Rex. He’s almost thirty- four. He’s been playing his whole life. And now he’s got a huge opportunity to play the big stages with the big
boys. Who wouldn’t jump at that? But I wish the opportunity would have happened with us. And although no one in the band wants to say it, we’re all thinking
about the about same things.
Picking up the pieces.
Moving on.
Trying once again to get ourselves off the ground with a whole new crew.
It’s tough. It always is. But all of us, except for Rex, will do it. We have to. Being in a band and making music are the only things we know how to do, the only things
that matter in our lives.
We’ll sacrifice relationships. We’ll lose friends and the chance at doing different things in life because we know that if we lose music, if we give up trying to do this,
then a huge part of us will die, and we’ll have to
live forever with the idea that we gave up on these dreams
and that’s something I for sure can’t cope with.
No way.
I’m in this for the long haul, and if I don’t ever get any other compensation from it other than the stories and the experiences and the body of music I’ve helped
create along the way, then so be it. There will be no tragic regrets from me.
Maybe a few could haves, should haves, what if this, what if that, but if you’re not willing to push through the bullshit and accept the bad breaks that come with this
kinda territory, then you have to question why you’re really in it in the first place. And I know my answer to that question.
The band is two hours outside of Chicago when Danny starts bitching about the heat and slides the side door open because the air conditioner broke in Austin.
Something about lemon juice and sour patch kids.
Tying his belt into a knot around one of the amps so he won’t fall out of the van, Danny sprawls out next to me and taps me on the arm and goes, “It’s all cool. At
least we have our looks.”
I nod and I say, “Agreed, dude.” Then I look out the window next to me and stare at the endless miles of cornfields and farmhouses and I smile.
I can’t help not to.
I smile because tonight we’re playing a show at Gabe’s Bar in Iowa City Goddamnit. And I intend to play my fucking heart out.
[home]
now. I don’t personally know anyone hanging out other than the band members and their roadies but as I’m slipping in between and around people, trying to get to
our room, I get stopped by numerous fans who are telling me how much they liked our album. How bad we shredded in this YouTube video from the Independent
when we played there with The Bronx a few months ago. These two eighteen year-old looking girls with black hair are like, “We love the new photos you guys
posted on your Myspace page.”
And, “Thank you so much for the add.”
And, “You are just like what we wanna be when we’re older.”
“Thanks.”
And then this dude with strawberry blonde hair, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and a black thermal underneath that, grabs my arm and
goes, “You’re fucking awesome! I saw you play with Lionhair and Massive Demons. You fucking rule.”
He’s snorts, “And the album you guys just released. Best album I’ve heard in the last two years. Easily.”
He says, “Without a doubt it’s that good.”
He’s like, “Fraid so.”
“I like it too,” I tell him, pulling my arm out of his hands. “I think it’s pretty rad.”
And it is.
Stop, Drop, and Rock ‘n Roll is an album that has so far received a ton of critical success becoming one of the best reviewed “Indie” albums of the year.
Mojo magazine gave it four stars, writing, “If not the best overall album of the year, easily one of the top two or three. Fusing together an electric mix of high
charged guitar riffs, thunderous bass lines, hard hitting yet groovy drumbeats, and insanely intelligent lyrics, Yaked Out delivers a twelve song chokehold more intense
than a lap dance from Roseanne Barr. In essence, this band not only defies genre, they turn rock ‘n roll on it’s head, slice it open, and bleed it to death, reminding us
why we fell in love with music in the first place.”
Buddyhead chimed in with, “Buy this shit, bro-hah’s and learn a thing or two about what it’s like to get thrashed by a real band.”
Even Vice magazine joined the love fest, cribbing, “Not only is this album just awesome, it leaves the listener staggering away from it like they’ve been drinking
Beam and Pepper and doing lines of coke off of the broken kindergarten picture of your retarded cousin all day in the backroom of your fat girlfriends trailer with the
rest of their rad fans. Buy this shit today!”
But all of this critical success hasn’t made shit in the way of commercial success and here we are in Chicago, and I’m just hoping to get to the stage on time and make
it through the full set of songs.
There’s like eight people in our room taking up all the space on the couches and all four six packs of Budweiser we had in the fridge have already been drank so I light
another cigarette and lean against the fridge and watch this one guy with a handlebar moustache, who Lane introduced me to, take a drink of beer and then puke it
up on his lap and pass right out.
Rad, dude.
This is when Michael busts up into the room. “There you are,” he says, grabbing my hands and pulling me up to him. “I got some friends I want you to meet.”
“I’m game.”
“You’ll love these kids.”
We weave through the hallway, past all these girls reaching out and grabbing for him, and end up in the Lamborghini Dreams room.
Like twelve kids are in here. Even that one dude with the strawberry blonde hair is hanging out inside. He’s sitting next to Thomas on this black leather sofa, cutting
up a huge pile of coke on this mirror lying on this coffee table, rapping like, “Here’s what I’m talking about, Thomas.” The dude scrapes up a line and does a gummer,
and goes, “The guy who plays guitar for Soundgarden, Kelly Thane. That guy is a guitar hero and he looks like Jesus. And you, man, you look like Jesus too. So
therefore you’re a guitar hero also.”
Everyone in the room starts cracking up. I’m standing over this kid, a huge grin on my face, asking him, “Who are you?”
And Michael goes, “That’s Titty Coke Montana. He’s one of our homey’s from the city.”
“So this is the famous Titty Coke you guys wrote the garage song about.”
“In the flesh,” Titty Coke says. Slapping his hands together, he goes, “So who’s in on this? How many lines am I cutting right now?”
“Ya know what? I’ll take one,” I say.
“Me too,” Thomas says.
“Yo, Titty. Here,” Michael says. He throws Titty Coke a half gram and goes, “Make enough for everyone.”
“Done, brah.”
Michael grabs me again and pulls me across the room and introduces me to some of his other friends.
This is Maggie.
Hi, Maggie.
This is Skylar.
Hi, Skylar.
This is Claire.
Whoa.
Damn.
Hi, Claire.
My eyes stay locked on this Claire girl for what seems like an hour. Because this Claire girl, she is fucking hot. Like top hottest girl besides me that’s been associated
with the tour so far.
Wearing this loose black silk top with thin, pink ribbon shoulder straps. This short, white and gray, cat print cotton skirt. This pair of black leather sandals with a floral
print headband wrapped around her shoulder length blond hair. Claire steps forward and throws her arms around me and goes, “Massive Demons. Fuck yeah! I saw
you play guitar with them three times before I was sixteen, bitch.”
“Awesome,” I grin. She is so hot.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I tell her.
“What the hell happened to the Demons? I remember you guys got pretty big for like a second and then the band was over. Done. Just like that.”
“Dude, our lead singer, Rolf, got his ass deported back to Norway.” Pause. “He’s actually still there.”
“Why did he get deported?”
“Well I should preface this story first by saying that the dude was a huge tweaker. Motherfucker was literally insane from doing crack. His visa had been expired for
almost two years so he figured the only thing he could do was fly home for a week and get another one. Just like that. But he couldn’t fly from the states ‘cause he’
d get nabbed by the feds so he decided to go across the border and fly out of Mexico City because he heard it’s way easier to get around the whole visa thing down
there, so he packed up and took a bus down. But the night before his flight to Norway, he got shitfaced at a bar and picked a fight with some giant Mexican biker
and got his nose broken. Of course, he’s some white foreigner so he got tossed into the slammer. A whole week went by and he got no medical
attention and when the week was over, the authorities decided to just get rid of him and sent him away. Only they didn’t send him back to Norway because they
couldn’t afford the ticket. They flew him to Lincoln, Nebraska instead, where he got arrested again and held for another two days before customs finally sent him
home and banned him from the States for twenty years.”
“No shit,” Claire laughs. “That’s fucking incredible.”
“I know. We were so bummed that we decided, fuck it, let’s just break-up. But the way I look at it now, it does leave the door open for an eventual reunion. I
mean, if Van Halen can get back together then anything in rock is possible.”
“There ya go,” Claire says. “That’s some pretty rad spin.”
“I know. And the thing is, you can use the Van Halen analogy for pretty much everything in life and it seems to work. You should try it. It’s fucking amazing.”
“Right on,” Claire says, as Titty Coke stands up and hands me the mirror and this straw that’s been cut in half.
“Have at it, Ms. Brown,” he says.
“Ooh, thanks. I like your moves, dude.”
Claire holds the mirror for me and I take a line and then she takes one and then Rex walks into the room carrying two buckets full of ice and beer.
“Just in time,” Claire snorts. She absolutely struts up to Rex. His jaw just drops and she slides a beer out and pets his forearm and goes, “I like your moves, Mr.
Hopeless,” before strutting her way over to Rodney.
“Hey, Rex,” I snort. “Give me a fucking beer.”
Rex snaps his eyes off of Claire and swings them over to me. “Got it.”
He sets the buckets down and pulls two PBR’s out and brings one to me, asking, “Who was that girl?”
“Her name’s Claire. Michael grew up with her.”
“Jesus Christ. What a fox. What an absolute fucking babe. A ten, Bailey. That girl is a ten.”
“She’s better than a ten, dude.”
“Yeah she is.”
I twist off the cap and knock my bottle against his.
“Thank you, sir.”
“No problem.”
Rex and I both take a drink and he goes, “So how are you doing, Bailey?”
“I’m feeling good tonight. I think tonight might be awesome.”
“I think so too,” he says. “I really hope that it is. Because tomorrow, when we play Iowa City, I guarantee there ain’t gonna be nobody there. Nobody goes to shows
out there. It’s gonna be a very, very empty venue.”
“That’s why I’m thinking we should all get fucked up together before we take the stage. That way, when we’re all seeing double, it’ll look like there are twice as
many people in the crowd.”
“That’s never seemed to be a problem for us.”
“I know it. Plus, it’s my fucking birthday show tomorrow.”
Rex takes another drink and says, “Thirty years old, Bailey. You’re gonna need a fucking walker soon.”
“Taste the walker, mothafucka.”
We cheers again and I take another drink while Rex pulls his ringing cell phone out of his pocket.
He answers, “What’s up, man?...How’d the recording go?...Really…Oh…Oh yeah…Awesome…Say what…Really…”
Pause.
Rex shoots me this strange, awkward look, and then goes, “Hey, hold on a minute.”
He turns around quickly and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
“Hey, Brown,” I hear, and turn around.
Titty Coke is sitting on the sofa behind me again, holding the mirror up.
“Round two,” he says.
I take a seat next to him and he hands me the straw.
“Will you be a dear and hold this?” I ask him.
“For you. Of course.”
I take a huge breath and plug my right nostril and slam another line for my neighbor.
My eyes close and I shake my neck and shoulders loose.
All the anxiety disappears.
All the stress and the worries simply tumble away and evaporate into thin air and I feel fucking good.
I feel like I just did blow for the first time ever.
Leaning forward, opening my eyes, I take another drink of beer, and look to my left at Titty Coke.
I watch him devour these three pretty big lines, then look at me and go, “Goddamn, and I thought I was good looking.”
“Oh, you’re cute,” I tell him.
And he goes, “Everyday I wake up and wish that it was Dave Navarro who died instead of Layne Staley.”
I start laughing and he’s like, “I’m being dead serious here.”
“I’m sure you are,” I sigh, then lean over and give him a hug and kiss on the cheek.
I say, “Thanks for the drugs, darling.”
“You’re welcome you stone fox.”
Lighting another cigarette, I watch Michael telling this chubby girl with short black hair and bangs cut crooked across her forehead, “Ya know what? Just because you
met me at a party once does not mean you fucking know me at all. So knock it off with this guestlist bullshit.”
The girl nods her head very obediently.
“Good,” Michael says, and I start laughing again and light another cigarette, and like two minutes later, a bunch of us go watch The Cherry Stealers shred it.
Like ten minutes before we’re ready to go on, Rex grabs me and Danny and Lane and says he wants to have a word with us in our room.
So the three of us follow Rex to the room and Bomb is in there doing coke with these two heavier girls who were on The Cherry Stealers list.
“Yo, Bomber, what the fuck, man? Go guard the merch table,” Danny snorts.
“What?” Bomb asks, lifting his face from the mirror.
“The merch table,” Danny snaps. “Get out there and sell some shit.”
“Oh, right,” Bomber says, scrambling to his feet, vacating the room.
The two girls actually sit there and stare at us for a few seconds until Rex goes, “You two need to get out of here right now.”
The girls quietly gather their things and walk out and Rex goes, “Whose idea was it to bring Bomb?”
“Mine,” Lane says. “And I’m really sorry about it. Every day I wake up on this tour and I see his sunken in, chapped up, speeded out face, munching on Pringles, and I
wanna throw-up in my mouth, swallow it back down, and throw it back up.”
“Dude’s given away more merch than he’s sold,” Danny says.
“But he has bought gas for us three times and he did get the tires and oil changed on the van before we left,” I say.
“Yeah. You’re right,” Danny laughs, holding up a PBR. “To the Bomber.”
“The Bomber,” we all say back.
Lighting a cigarette, Rex goes, “So I just wanted to say some things that haven’t been said on this tour yet.
Everyone in this fucking room knows that things have gone to shit so far and everyone in this room is at fault. No one in this band is exempt from any of the blame.
We’ve all fucked up multiple times since we since we left San Francisco. Right?”
The three of us nod our heads in agreement and Rex continues, “But I still think we can pull this shit together and have an awesome tour. We’ve got two and half
weeks and tens shows left to turn this baby around and at least make it worthwhile and fun. That’s the big thing, guys. We just gotta start nailing the live sets and
rocking the fuck out like we’re goddamn kids again jamming in our first band. No pressure. Absolutely enjoying it. So let’s reclaim the stage from everyone else on this
tour starting tonight and destroy the fuck out of Chicago.”
Pause.
“Fuck yeah!” Danny snorts. “Let’s blow these jokers off the fucking stage.”
“Let’s do this,” I say.
And all of us throw our fists together and I shed my jacket and then we leave the room.
A minute later, Yaked Out is taking the stage.
And goddamn it!
There ain’t a better, more intense feeling in the world than strutting your shit onto a stage in front of four hundred whistling and yelling motherfuckers who you
know are going to be eating out of the palm of your hand in twenty minutes.
The shit is unparallel.
You take the gnarliest, most awesome fucking you’ve ever done. Add the most amazing nights of drinking and drugging in your life. Plus the euphoric feeling of nailing
down the highest Metal Slug score ever at your local arcade. Then toss in the sweet adrenaline rush of out running the fuzz for the first time in middle school. All of
that shit together has nothing on how rad the get-off is of actually standing on a stage, strapping on a fucking guitar, and stroking a power chord that rattles the
entire joint.
Whether it’s in front of ten. Twenty. Fifty. Or a thousand kids. It doesn’t matter.
This right here, this is the greatest thing you’ll ever feel.
Grabbing my rhythm guitar, which has this blue, My Little Pony painted on it, I flip the pink furry strap over
my head and glance at the rest of the guys then begin tuning and tweaking the instrument.
I’m already sweaty. I hear dudes whistling at me and a couple of girls actually yelling:
“I love you Bailey!”
I even hear:
“You own my world, Bailey!”
Rex starts pounding the drums, going through his measures. My pulse is speeding way up. The butterflies in my stomach turn to blood thirsty vultures ready to attack
this thousand pound carcass of leather and black and flannel and beards on the other side of the stage.
Grabbing the bottled water on Danny’s amp, I take a swig and both Danny and Lane give me the, Let’s do this nod, and then Rex bangs out his measures once more
and mouths, “I’m ready.”
The mics sound great.
The instruments are tuned.
So now it’s showtime.
I set the water down and wipe the sweat from my face and then I turn back to the audience and stroll to My Fucking Microphone.
“Well, good evening Chicago.”
Everyone roars. People hold their drinks up. Some guy in the front says he’s in love with me. A couple of camera flashes go off.
“Goddamn,” I say, catching a quick glimpse of Michael standing off to the side of the stage with Claire. “Now this is what I call a reception.”
More screaming.
I say, “Are you guys ready to get Yaked Out?”
Even more screaming.
“Awesome. Let’s do this. We’re Yaked Out from San Francisco and this first song is called High Heels and Face Lifts.”
The song we open every show with.
Rex counts it out on his sticks and then we just fly right into the song. And it sounds so good.
So gnarly.
Danny’s fucking killing it.
Lane is nailing those bass lines hard.
And of course Rex’s thundering drumming is impeccable.
We’re destroying. It’s that simple. And right as I’m perfectly hitting those notes and singing the chorus line…
If it makes you feel better, than I really have no problem with it, if it makes you think your better, than you’re just a fucking idiot…
I know tonight is going to be special. I know that we’re gonna own this show. Own the rest of the bands. And own the fucking audience.
Case closed.
We blaze through the set. This band has never sounded better.
We play:
Che Guerva ate your Rabbit
Two Dollar Out the Door Blues
PussyReaper
The Way I See It-history lesson pt. 1
Your Cum is Brown
Gross Dude
Bad Bitch
And we close with, The Broken Condom Solution. But right as Rex is about to count off for the final time, Danny jumps onto his back-up mic and goes, “Since
midnight is only like thirty minutes away, I’d like everyone in the audience to help me, Lane, and Rex wish our beautiful and talented lead singer, the lovely Miss Bailey
Brown, a happy birthday. It’s her birthday in thirty minutes and I want everyone to help us sing Happy Birthday.”
And on Danny’s lead, the whole crowd sings me Happy Birthday. My heart melts. Over four hundred people singing me a song in unison. It’s unbelievable. It’s powerful.
When they’re through, I say, “You guys are the best. That was so sweet. I love Chicago.”
More cheering.
And then I go, “This is our last song for the night. Thank you so much for coming out. Lamborghini Dreams are up next!” And then we start burning through The
Broken Condom Solution, with a chorus that goes…
You knew it fucking broke before you even finished, so don’t take it like a joke when I ask you to help me fix this…
And that’s it.
We’re done.
I take my guitar off and wipe myself down with a damp towel that Bomb hands me and exit the stage.
Backstage again. Everyone is freaking out about how good we just were. How gnarly we just slayed it.
Charles from The Cherry Stealers is like, “Where the fuck did that come from? Jesus!”
Dave from Lamborghini Dreams snorts, “Why aren’t you guys headlining this shit?”
Matti from the Tight Black Holes, quips, “I’m so stoked we don’t have to follow you guys.”
Claire, the second hottest bitch ever, snaps, “I’ve never been wetter.”
It’s almost overwhelming. This band is so not used to that after three weeks of absolute bullshit.
The feeling is off the charts and I’m absolutely going to relish in it.
The four of us roll back into our room followed by Titty Coke who’s carrying a bucket with six beers in it.
And he’s all like, “Best thing ever! It was Big Business on steroids. Year Future twenty times more advanced and better. It’s who The Cows wish they could’ve been
growing up.”
“Awesome, dude,” Lane says, high-fiving him.
And Titty Coke goes, “Lets do some bumps.”
“Sweet, man.”
So the five of us pass the baggie around like three times each. We sip our beers and bullshit and listen to Titty Coke tell us about how he lost his mind two weeks ago.
He goes, “Ten days straight drunk. High on coke and X. On the tenth day, hanging out with this hot asian babe in my pad. But she’s not letting me touch her. I buy
all the alcohol and drugs and she’s like, ‘I just wanna be friends’ and leaves. So like an hour later, I’m sitting in my underwear playing on MySpace and I notice that,
Oh, she forgot her really nice jacket that she was bragging about earlier. So I took a pair of scissors and cut it in half. The next morning, I’m looking at what I did, and
I start crying and can’t remember how to put on my shoes. So I took little breather. I got sober for a week and I feel much better.”
“Dude,” I say. “We’re totally writing a song about you for the next album. You’re fucking awesome!”
“I know,” he grins. “I’ve been told that before.”
Rex cuts in. He says, “Titty. Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
Titty slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, and Rex goes, “Do you guys remember a couple of weeks ago when I went down to LA for the weekend?”
“Yeah,” Danny says. “You went down to talk to some people about the band.”
“Right, he says. “I also went down there and drummed a set for King Me and the Crown Jewels.”
I already know where this is going.
And Rex goes, “And Ronnie called me tonight and asked if I’d join the band full time.”
“What’d you say, man?” Danny snaps.
“I said yes.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lane snorts.
“So the San Fran show will be my last one with the band. Then I’m moving down to LA.”
Danny and Lane start for the door.
And Rex says, “Sorry, dudes.”
“Don’t be fucking sorry,” I say. “Congratulations, man. You made it.”
Grabbing the last beer from the bucket, I follow Danny and Lane and go watch Lamborghini Dreams play, noticing that exactly one minute ago, I turned thirty years
old.
…Happy Birthday to me.
It’s halfway through the Lamborghini Dreams set and I’m getting shitfaced. I’ve taken three shots of Jameson and am working on my third Vodka soda when Rex
walks up behind me and goes, “Let’s talk.”
“Get the fuck off of me,” I tell him, knocking his hands away.
“No, Bailey. Let’s talk.”
I spin around. “Fine, dude. Let’s go fucking gab.”
The two of us roll back to the Yaked Out room and I slam the door shut and go, “How could you do this to me?”
“I had to. Those guys are on huge label.”
“So what? How do you know we won’t get a deal?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? We played one good show so far. How long do you think it’s gonna be before this band starts self-destructing again?”
“I don’t know, Rex.”
“Exactly. I’ve fucking done this low-level shit for fourteen years and now I’m getting an opportunity to be in a band that plays in the big leagues. They play stadiums,
Bailey. That’s been my fucking dream since I was a little kid and started playing music. I mean, as much as I want Yaked Out to be that band, the one with the huge
fucking draw and the awesome deal and a bus and all that shit, we’re never going to be that band. I’m sorry.”
“So just like that. All we did together. All the songs we wrote, everything. You can just walk away like that and move to LA.”
“Yes.”
“What about, Penelope?”
“Oh, God, Bailey. What do you think? I’ll dump her like that.”
“Jesus, Rex.”
“You’ll find another drummer.”
“Fuck you for saying that, dude! You know this band is done. This was our project. You know I can’t be in a band with Danny and Lane without you. I can’t believe
you even said that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You are not sorry.”
There’s a long awkward pause.
From the stage, I can hear Thomas from Lamborghini Dreams singing…
“Titty Coke, has a mean garage…All your dreams, die in his mirage…”
I take the last, sweet swig of my drink and light a cigarette. And Rex says, “I mean, aren’t you at least a little happy for me?” “I am. You do deserve a chance like
this. I just wish it could’ve been with this project.”
“I know you do, Bailey. But I may never get another chance like this again. I’ve gotta see what this shit’s all about. I’d regret until I died if I didn’t. And you know you’
d do the same thing. You know you would.”
I take a drag. “I know, Rex.”
Popping open a baggie of coke, he hands it too me and I take two key hits, then hand it back to him.
He does a hit and goes, “But, man. We did destroy it tonight. I’ve never played a show that sounded so fucking righteous.”
“I know it.”
“And that happy birthday shit. How cool was that?”
“Pretty cool, Rex.”
“We killed it tonight, Ms. Brown.”
I take a drag and nod my head and he’s completely right.
But this is the toughest pill I’ve had to swallow yet.
At the hotel room, Michael and I split a bottle of Jim Beam. We have sex. We do some drugs. We have more sex. We watch Lethal Weapon on HBO. We do some
more drugs.
It’s only three a.m.
It’s only way too early still.
Slipping on this pink nighty I bought in LA, I grab the bottle of Beam sitting next to the bed and take a seat at the table next to the windows. I light a cigarette.
Then I pound two huge pulls and hand the bottle to Michael who’s
sitting in on the edge of the bed in a pair of sweatpants with red running shorts sewn over the top of them.
“This isn’t so bad,” I tell Michael. “Me and you fucking and doing drugs all night in a hotel room in Chicago. It’s not so bad at all.”
Michael takes a swig. “Like the best birthday I bet you’ve ever had, babe.”
“Yeah,” I slur, holding up the rock horns. “Best ever.”
Michael takes a swig and lines up a couple more rails on this mirror.
Like a second later, I get a text message from James that says: Captain Hipster: The only thing worse than being in a room with a She Wants Revenge fan is being in
a room with no mirrors. I’m high and I bet you’re surprised. Anyway, Happy birthday, sweetheart. I’m buying you dinner when you get back.
I roll my eyes. “Quit texting me, dude!” I shout. “It’s o---ver. We are o---ver.”
“Who was that?” Michael asks, rubbing a finger over his gums.
“Mr. Published Asshole. James Morgan.”
“I can’t believe you hate him that much. The dude is like my favorite author. Fuckin’ PieGrinder is like my bible.”
“Yeah, well that’s good for you, Michael. You’ve only been privy to his words. But the real guy sucks. He sucks.”
“How does he suck that bad?”
“The only thing he talks about is himself and when he runs out of cool shit to say about how he’s so awesome, he just starts ripping on everyone else about how
they aren’t nearly as cool as him.”
“So what?”
“You don’t even know, man,” I slur, lunging halfway out of my chair, waving a finger in the air. “He only wants to fuck you if you dress up like a chick character from
his book and let him call you by that name.”
“That’s awesome,” Michael snickers.
“Ya know what, man?”
“What, babe?”
Pause.
“Can I have a line?”
“Of course you can birthday girl.”
Michael sets the mirror on the table and goes, “Ya know he slept with Claire?”
“No way!”
“Yes way.”
I blow a line. “Really?”
“Yep. It was right after his book came out, and her, me, and my buddy, Kyle went to see him read and when Claire was getting her copy signed, he asked her if she
knew where he could score some coke.”
“Sounds like James.”
“So she gave him her number and he called later that night and came over to my buddy, Travis’s parent’s house to score from this Asian guy I’d invited over. He
ended up sticking around and did a ton of fucking drugs, and actually tried to score first with Travis’s girl, Laura, but she turned him down, so he went after Claire and
nailed the shit out of her at his hotel room, then kicked her out like ten minutes later.”
“That really sounds like, James. Was Claire pissed?”
“Claire was stoked.”
“Jesus,” I laugh. “That dude has fucked a broad that I know everywhere. That’s kind of his thing. In this order. Drinking. Doing drugs. And fucking as many babes as
possible.”
“That’s rock ‘n roll, baby.”
I roll my eyes and take another line and say, “How about we got off James Morgan for a minute.”
“I’m into that. You wanna hear something?”
“Sure.”
Michael grabs his jeans off the floor and digs out his wallet and opens it and pulls this folded piece of paper from it. “This is the new song I’ve been working on. It’s
called Unicorn Kingdom.” Grabbing my acoustic guitar that’s leaning against the bed, he starts fingering the strings and says, “It’s just one verse, but I want you to tell
me what you think.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think about it, dude.”
“Bullshit, babe. It totally matters.” He says, “You’re an awesome songwriter. It matters. It matters a lot.”
“So let me here it.”
Michael grins and starts playing.
He sings, “There’s a place in my world that I think is super awesome, it’s a place that I’ve known since my strung-out days in Austin, it’s the place where I go when I
need to see some beauty, where the creatures are exotic and the kids are never moody, it a place in the sun where the special horses roam, it’s place in my head
even funner than my home, Unicorn Kingdom, my island in the sea, Unicorn Kingdom only place I wanna be.” He stops and looks at me. “That’s it.”
I throw my arms in the air. “Oh my, God! Yes! That was fucking amazing!” I say. “I loved it!”
“Thanks, baby.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard anything that cool in a super long time. Yes! Thank you!”
Michael gets up and walks in front of me and pulls me out of the chair, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“That sucks that Rex is leaving,” he says.
“It is what it is, man. I mean, it’s not the first time something like this has happened.”
“So what’s gonna happen when you get back?”
Pushing myself away from him, I grab the Beam, and start pacing. I say, “Well I suppose we’ll break up first. Then we’ll take no individual responsibility for our failures
and talk shit behind each other’s back at party’s and shows and blame it all on the bass player. And then we’ll start something new and claim to everyone around us
that it’s a way better situation than the previous project and everything happened for a good reason.”
“So that’s how it works, huh?” “Basically.” Michael steps at me and grabs me again and says, “You’ll be able to find another drummer.”
“Maybe.” I take a drink. “But that’s not really the point. Rex and I started the fuckin’ band. He’s the best drummer in the city. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’
t exactly get along the best with Danny and Lane. The Yaked Out era is over. It’s fucking done, man.”
Grabbing the bottle from me, Michael says, “Hey, ya know, whatever. I’m sure it happened for the best.”
I giggle.
Leaning into him, I kiss his neck, snag the bottle back, set it on the table, and slide my lips to his chin. Then I push him onto the bed and slip him out of his
sweatpants.
Straddling him, I say, “Maybe I can do some guest vocal work on the next Lamborghini Dreams album.”
“Maybe,” Michael says.
“If it comes down to that,” I say.
“We’ll see,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Happy Birthday.”
I kiss him and then we fuck again.
I don’t sleep well at all. The couple hours I do get are restless and full of images of Rex taking an axe to our tour van.
Michael on the other hand is having no problem. He’s huddled underneath all the blankets, snoring away. He even says a few sentences in his sleep.
He says, “Grimace is a purple faggot.”
He says, “Vince Neil stole my sandwich.”
Whatever, dude.
Vince Neil stole my fucking sandwich.
I roll out of bed and start looking for the cat that decided to take a shit in my mouth. My breath tastes that bad. My head feels ready to explode. It hurts so, so bad.
This is the most hung-over I’ve been since two days before we left on tour when I decided to start drinking bloody mary’s at Zeitgeist around nine in the morning.
From Zeitgeist, it was a twelve pack of PBR in Dolores Park with a couple of peeps, a boombox, and the Ice Cube, Predator tape. After that, it was cocaine and
mimosas at this dude Ryan’s crib in the Upper Haight. And then it was Heartless Bastards at the Hemlock. And this Speakeasy in the Marina.
I felt like total shit that next morning.
Just like I feel this morning.
I walk to the bathroom and run the shower.
While I’m waiting for the water to get warm, no hot, I lean over the sink and stare at the mirror. I look like shit. That prick out there left these gnarly bite marks all
over my shoulders and arms. He even tore my nighty down the left seam. On the far left side of the mirror it looks like I came in here last night with some dark red
lipstick and cribbed on it:
“Titty Coke Montana is the boss.”
I cribbed: “R.I.P. Yaked Out.”
That’s right. Rex told us he was leaving the band after the tour was over last night. Hence the dreams of him holding an axe to Danny and Lane’s throat. Hence the
visions of him shoving the axe handle up my asshole.
I take a deep breath.
The mirror is fogging up.
Wiping a path of steam away with my hand, I take one more look at me. I stare at my un-lovely but still rad face and watch as my reflection clouds to the point of
disappearing and then it’s gone.
Poof.
Just like my band.
I’m standing directly under the shower head, my hands pressed hard against the white shower tile, my head hanging down. I’m running through the number of times
I fucked Michael when this sudden memory pops into my head.
It’s this memory of the first time Yaked Out practiced together as a full band. It was about a year ago and at that point in time, Danny was going to school to
become a massage therapist.
To get your license in massage therapy you have to complete a hundred hours of practice on real patients.
So Danny shows up at that first practice with some beer and weed and a G ‘n R poster for the room. We were all kinda bullshitting while he hung the poster and
when he finished, he went, “Check this out.”
He said, “Two nights ago, I get all hung up on coke at Pop’s and end up doing the shit all night, into the next day. But the thing is, I got a class appointment at eight
in the morning. An hour session with this old bag, so I roll up in there with no sleep, looking like a motherfucking zombie, and I’m just like telling myself, get through
this and go home and go to sleep. That’s all I got to do. Just get through this hour. So I go into the room and things aren’t going that bad. I’m not on top of my
masseuse game, but I’m not blowing it either. Anyway, I’m standing there and I got my head tilted down, my eyes closed, when out of the blue, this ladies like, ‘The
new lotion you just put on me feels really good on my back.’ That’s when I come too. Like my eyes pop open and I look down and my nose is pouring out blood all
over this granny’s back and I’m just rubbing it in with my hands. So then I’m trying not to fucking lose it while I figure out what to do and that’s when she starts
screaming. She flips up off the table, her old titty’s flopping around and then my instructor and like three other classmates come barging into the room. And I can’t do
nothing. I’m just standing there with blood all over me and blood all over this naked old-timer who starts seizing out. They have to call 911 and by the time the
paramedics get there, I’m getting sent home.”
“Whoa,” I remember Rex saying. “That’s all that happened to you? You got sent home.”
“Oh, no,” Danny said. “I can never become a licensed massage therapist anywhere in North America. I’ve been totally shut out of that field. I got kicked out of school
and none of my tuition is refundable. But at least the old bag didn’t die.”
It was one of the best stories ever. The entire band was in tears.
And I practically am too right now. I’m laughing so hard that it hurts. My stomach is sore. Man, this band has had some good times. Some great times. I don’t think I’ve
been in a band where I’ve walked away with so many stories and outrageous memories. So I guess the thing is this: We’ve got two and half weeks and nine shows
left, so Fuck It. I’m gonna have fun with the boys and let loose and make the most out of the time we still have together as a band.
As of today, I’m jumping back into the Yaked Out van.
I call Rex around ten to tell him that I’m riding with the guys again and he sounds pretty excited. And then says, “Hey, turn on the TV right now and find a news
station.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” he says, then hangs up.
Turning the TV on, I flip to CNN and it’s like, Whoa. Shit.
On the screen is aerial footage from this news chopper of this apartment building in San Francisco. The same apartment building that Rex’s girlfriend lives in.
Police cars and Swat vans and FBI trucks have surrounded the entire block, and then the screen cuts to a photo of an Arab guy. It says, Amid Mojadeddi underneath
the photo, and then some voiceover says that he’s just been arrested on suspicion for the two recent bombings in San Francisco.
“Holy shit,” I say, jumping off the bed. “That’s where Rex’s girlfriend lives.”
“I still can’t believe that dude has a girlfriend,” Michael snorts. “He’s been slaying all sorts of vag on the tour.”
“Well he has one and that’s where she lives,” I say, while footage of Amid being taken away in handcuffs moves across the screen. The voiceover now saying how
the Amid dude may have deep roots in Afghan Islamic Totalitarisim.
Then the screen cuts to a reporter interviewing this dude, Sebastian, who says, “Dude’s from Afghanistan. He’s a terrorist. Period. We need to annihilate that country
with a nuke. The entire middle east actually. And just finish this crap once and for all. These Arabs are destroying the fabric of this city.”
“I know that guy too,” I snort.
“Jesus,” Michael says.
“Fucking craziness in the Co.”
“Sweet. I can’t wait to play there,” he grins.
Flipping off the TV with the remote, he says, “I still can’t believe you’re gonna jump back into the Yaked Out van. Who am I supposed to play MASH and twenty
questions and the license plate game with?”
“How about your best buddy, Dave?”
“Whatever, babe. I think he’s still pissed about me drooling in his Cheetos.”
“Oh, wow,” I laugh. “You are something else.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Me. I’m talking. And I’m telling you that we should plug in your Ipod real quick, flip on some Faith No More, and fuck one more time. It’s my birthday.”
“Done.”
We do all that and then we checkout.
The weather is absolutely perfect today. It’s sunny and really, strangely hot out and the sky is so blue it’s to die for.
It really is.
As Michael and I are nearing the Yaked Out van in our cab, that Replacements song, Left of the Dial jumps into my head.
Read about your band, in some local page, didn’t mention your name…The sweet Georgia breezes, safe, cool and warm, heaven up north, heaven up north…
Just thinking about that song, that band, makes me feel like a million bucks and I lean over and kiss Michael.
We pull up to the van.
“See you in Iowa,” Michael tells me.
“You will,” I say, and jump out of the cab.
Everyone is standing around, looking like crap and smoking cigs. The way it should be on tour.
Even Claire’s there, making out with Rex.
Rex, the big rockstar.
Rex, who has finally made it.
I light a cigarette and Danny goes, “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, dude.”
“I’m sure you’ll love what we did to the van,” Lane smirks.
“I’m sure I won’t be disappointed. Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”
The guys start loading in and Claire gives me a hug and tells me how awesome it was to meet me and then she turns to Rex, who’s just standing there rubbing the
back of his neck.
“Later, Sexy Rexy. It was a blast.”
“Yeah. I’m glad you had a good time.”
An awkward pause.
“So I’ll give you a call sometime,” Rex says.
“No you won’t, dude. But that’s totally cool. I don’t want you too. I just wanted to hook up.”
“Really?”
Claire pats Rex’s head gently and goes, “Yes. Really.”
Then she walks away and Rex shrugs and gets into the van which is completely full of trash-beercans-food wrappers-magazines-there’s some melted gummy bears I’ve
already stepped in.
Awesome.
We’re inches deep in trash and on our way to Iowa and I’m so happy to be back with these guys right now.
And as the van chugs it’s way out of the city, Lane produces a small birthday cake with a candle shoved into the middle of it, shaped into the number 14.
“No shit,” I grin. “You fuckers actually remembered.”
“Goddamn right we did,” Rex says.
And the whole big thing about 14 is that I was 14 when I lost my virginity. 14 the first time I heard Black Flag. 14 the year I saw Iggy live. 14 the year I started my
first band, Black Plague Courage.
Danny lights the candle and I make my wish, blow it out, and say, “That was cool, guys.”
Stretching my arms and legs as best I can, I lean back against my seat and go right back to humming my Replacements song because it makes me even happier.
Because the overall mood in here is actually kind of somber.
The underlying reality that this project won’t exist in fifteen days is very present. It’s like a sixth body in the van.
On one hand, I’m glad for Rex. He’s almost thirty- four. He’s been playing his whole life. And now he’s got a huge opportunity to play the big stages with the big
boys. Who wouldn’t jump at that? But I wish the opportunity would have happened with us. And although no one in the band wants to say it, we’re all thinking
about the about same things.
Picking up the pieces.
Moving on.
Trying once again to get ourselves off the ground with a whole new crew.
It’s tough. It always is. But all of us, except for Rex, will do it. We have to. Being in a band and making music are the only things we know how to do, the only things
that matter in our lives.
We’ll sacrifice relationships. We’ll lose friends and the chance at doing different things in life because we know that if we lose music, if we give up trying to do this,
then a huge part of us will die, and we’ll have to
live forever with the idea that we gave up on these dreams
and that’s something I for sure can’t cope with.
No way.
I’m in this for the long haul, and if I don’t ever get any other compensation from it other than the stories and the experiences and the body of music I’ve helped
create along the way, then so be it. There will be no tragic regrets from me.
Maybe a few could haves, should haves, what if this, what if that, but if you’re not willing to push through the bullshit and accept the bad breaks that come with this
kinda territory, then you have to question why you’re really in it in the first place. And I know my answer to that question.
The band is two hours outside of Chicago when Danny starts bitching about the heat and slides the side door open because the air conditioner broke in Austin.
Something about lemon juice and sour patch kids.
Tying his belt into a knot around one of the amps so he won’t fall out of the van, Danny sprawls out next to me and taps me on the arm and goes, “It’s all cool. At
least we have our looks.”
I nod and I say, “Agreed, dude.” Then I look out the window next to me and stare at the endless miles of cornfields and farmhouses and I smile.
I can’t help not to.
I smile because tonight we’re playing a show at Gabe’s Bar in Iowa City Goddamnit. And I intend to play my fucking heart out.
[home]
| ©2007-2009 Jason Myers. All rights reserved. |
 |
| © tyler sharkey |