by Zoe Lee
Sometimes Downbeat’s sound was compared to early Black Keys or Kings of Leon, and their lyrics were categorized with The Decemberists or Fiona Apple. The jagged juxtaposition was killer—alt rock tinged with blues chords, loud and quick with very few ballads to give the audience a break, and lyrics that, if comprehended, were messy and mostly tragic.
But that afternoon, Seth wasn’t the one who had written three-quarters of Downbeat’s songs; he was just an extra guitarist and backup singer, boosting their sound so that it kicked ass at a cool music festival in Chicago. He sweated blood, playing hard and precise and with all of the abilities he’d had since he was a little kid and had first heard the word prodigy whispered to his parents, heard it echoed in his parent’s unsubtle booms back.
Unlike when he’d been a member of Downbeat, though, Seth was simply soaring, untethered to reality on the ground. Reality like they were being recorded by thousands of people, that they were being studied like a hawk by a music journalist, that this was the first major U.S. music festival that had given them a main stage so they’d better be flawless.
The notes, the words, the hum of the amps and the stomps of the musicians’ feet on the temporary yet immovable stage beneath their feet, and the tsunami of the crowd, it all coarsed through Seth’s nerves, lit up his pleasure centers and made his adrenaline and serotonin spike. The heat and his power had his messy curls sticking to his neck and spraying sweat everywhere with every toss of his head, and his shirt was more like the walls of a sauna than fabric, completely saturated. His eyes were practically glowing with joy.
When they strolled offstage, the lights going out symbolically since it was still daylight, he finally felt the way his lungs were burning, the way his fingers were tingling from all of the energy zapping through him. The screaming and applause of the crowd, crying out for an encore even though everyone knew they’d have one no matter what, roared through him.
And when he went back onstage, following behind the stagehands wheeling out the piano, he pushed all of that aside again and smacked his hands against Xavier’s, expelling all that excess energy out, or shooting it into Xavier’s more-than-capable body.
In the near-blinding daylight, there was no way to put a spotlight on him, but the piano was wheeled to the front and center, perpendicular to the edge of the stage so that when he sat on the stool, he was sideways to the crowd, a mic bent near his lips to catch his vocals.
There was a moment before the first note was played where Seth’s mind was absolutely still and content, certain that this was exactly where and who he was supposed to be.
And the first note played, and he was gone, shot into the stratosphere of joy again.
The song was angry and he banged away at the keys like a piano player in a saloon in an old Western movie, his spine perfectly straight while his head was flung back because he didn’t need to read any sheet music. His body jerked forward into the keys and away until it looked as though he might faint right off the back of the stool onto the ground, looking even more precarious when his thigh flexed while one of his boots worked the pedals.
Xavier didn’t sing until the chorus, when he came in at a lower key to complement Seth.
Get gone if this is who you’re pretending to be
Get gone if you can’t even say why you love me
Get gone if there’s nothing left of the you I knew
Leave me here with all your shit to clean up
Leave me be to turn on the radio and dance alone
The studio cut was only Xavier, his enormous, deep voice rolling like wrathful thunder. But now, paired with Seth’s anguished power, it became a gut-wrenching song. Seth felt his eyes wet with tears, his body mirroring what his voice was expressing with every measure.
Finally it was done with one final ringing cry of Leave me be from each of the men.
There was a silence so profound that it was deafening, and then the roar rose.
Seth’s breathing was ragged and he was frozen again, terrified by the noise of the crowd and the tears still leaking, probably masked by the sweating, his hands shaking.
“You stuck?” Trentham asked, his tee shirt long stripped off and shoved into his back pocket, eyeballing Seth over the top of his aviator sunglasses. When Seth didn’t move at all, he nodded, bent down, and slung Seth over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry with a grunt.
If his mind had been processing anything at all right then, Seth would have been amused by the picture they made, but a bit agitated by the potential attention it would attract. But he wasn’t processing, so he hung limp over Trentham’s rock-hard shoulder until they were down off the stage and in a tent with huge fans blasting and a ton of water.
Trentham slung Seth into one of the chairs as though he were a rag doll, then dropped to his haunches and snapped his fingers in front of Seth’s face. “C’mon, kid.”
The paralysis cracked like the shell of a hard boiled egg and he twitched.
“There we go,” Trentham said, slapping Seth’s thigh. “I haven’t seen you do that since one of our first headliner shows, kid. I didn’t know it still happened like that.”
“It’s been a while,” Seth sighed hoarsely, flexing his fingers. “I could have lived without your shoulder crushing my guts, but thanks for the help.” He smiled up at Gin gratefully when she held out a bottle of ice-cold water, unscrewing the lid and downing the whole thing in three long swallows. “Oh fuck,” he said, “that is so good.” Laughing, he accepted a second bottle from her, draining it just as quickly. “Thanks, Gin.”
She shrugged in her dismissive way and mumbled, “You played perfectly, so…”
“You did indeed,” Astrid Sinclair murmured.
Gin and Trentham, who Seth knew would be the most opposed to or uncomfortable with a music journalist doing an in-depth story on the band, cleared out in a millisecond.
Seth might have spent most of his adult life wrapped up in his own life—on the road, in the studio, or holed up somewhere songwriting; or in the sweet, slower life in Maybelle—but he knew who she was. Her ex-husband’s music was thrilling and had enviable longevity, and while he didn’t care much about the celebrity thing, Barley and Astrid’s relationship had been impossible to miss. He found it fascinating that she was so contained, and wondered what had been there before and what was beneath that now.
So he raked his wet hair off his face and drawled, his eyes crinkling with silent humor, “Hello again, ma’am.”
There was an almost imperceptible increase in the arch of one of her long, sleek eyebrows. That, coupled with how utterly unaffected by the heat she looked in a cream pleated blouse and bronze linen capris, gave Seth a strange urge to ruffle her up. But it wasn’t in his nature to ruffle anyone at all, with very few exceptions; he wanted everyone to be comfortable with him, to feel safe and free to be who they were without any pretense.
Instead of worrying about where the urge was coming from, he studied her more. She was beautiful, the kind that most people wouldn’t notice because it wasn’t bold or obvious, her cooler manner making her intriguing too. She held herself in a regal way, as if she knew her value and how much she deserved, and that kind of confidence always caught him.
“That was quite a performance,” she said, the hint of some upper-crust English family or schooling still cooling her words. “I must admit, I thought you would only be backup.”
It also wasn’t in Seth’s nature to be talkative when it came to himself, so he evaded a direct answer as he preferred and deflected, “I was happy to help execute Gin’s vision.”
She hummed for a second and his curiosity clawed delicately, like a kitten kneading his chest, prompting him to ask her in his murmured drawl, “Do you sing too, Astrid Sinclair?”
“There’s a video of me singing to Barley once, when he was laid up after he broke his collarbone,” she said evenly, as close as he thought she might come to acknowledging her ex-husband as she’d get with strangers. “I’d been crying for hours, su
re the doctors were lying and he was past half-dead, and I think it’s why I sounded even remotely all right.”
“What did you sing to him?”
“‘If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out’ by Cat Stevens,” she sighed, a little begrudgingly.
Seth’s mouth curled gently and he nodded.
The nod caused a wave of dizziness, jerking his focus from the hazy vision of playing an acoustic guitar and singing a song like that with her, slow and sweet and easy. He’d only had a protein shake earlier and he needed to refuel after the energy expulsion of the concert.
“Excuse me,” he told her apologetically, “but I really need to get some food.”
“Of course,” she murmured, looking away, her mouth pressing thin as if she were biting back another thought. He got to his feet slowly, not just to keep the dizziness at bay, but also to give her time to let loose her thoughts if she wanted, but she stayed quiet.
He sighed a little and went to the craft services table, fixing a plate with a veggie wrap, pita chips and hummus, and a brownie. Although Astrid hadn’t moved, he was way too flayed open by the performance earlier to go back to her, concerned that he would say something too honest or that he would ask her too many more personal questions.
So he went to sit with Xavier, who was surrounded by the folks who’d won backstage passes, clamoring. He ate quietly, letting the chaos of the festival seep into his marrow and recharge him. Quiet living had done wonders for him, but sometimes, he needed to hurl himself off a cliff and back into the deep, bright blue waters of the life he’d once left behind.
CHAPTER SIX
Astrid
Unlike most press, Astrid liked to be in the thick of the crowd at a show, not right up against the stage or beside it in the wings. She liked to be able to see fans all around her and soak up their unfiltered responses, without any undue influence from other press who were more cynical or judgmental, or who were waiting for something noteworthy to happen.
Plenty noteworthy had happened during Downbeat’s Pitchfork set, in her opinion.
It had been fucking spectacular
Downbeat’s studio albums were tightly orchestrated and precisely executed, while the thematic elements in the lyrics told a larger story on each album. It was all easy to miss while caught up in the no-holds-barred songs, in the clever hooks and the rhythms that always made the listeners want to stomp their feet, throw their arms up, and dance it out. Of course, there had been some misses, like the entire third album was to her, tired or a little too bitter, something unbalanced that hadn’t worked for her. Nothing in any of their music was showing off, and there was barely any boasting in it, and she figured that lack of clichéd rockstar ego was the reason they hadn’t skyrocketed into the highest level of success yet.
This set had elevated all of that. The extra musicians had allowed for more playfulness than usual, making some of the heartbreaking songs almost tongue-in-cheek, as if they were more than willing to make fun of where they’d been when the songs were written or recorded. They had left their most popular songs mostly alone, leaving their other choices free for experimentation. One had been acoustic, one with them all singing like a choir… and the encore, the one with Seth Riveau behind a piano taking lead vocals.
That one… that one had sucked the air out of Astrid’s lungs.
That one had sent her to the tent where the band went after the set was done, compelled to tell him that she’d thought he was brilliant, that she’d nearly cried.
But she’d been so uncomfortable with the compulsion that she ended up offering him a backhanded compliment and he’d excused himself as soon as politely possible. With her dignity faltering, she’d fled the tent after a brusque instruction to Kayla to text her their whereabouts so that she could join them later. It was rare that Astrid felt embarrassed, so of course she would rather avoid Seth for a while, but she didn’t have that luxury. She knew he’d stay with Downbeat tonight and she would have to suck it up and stay professional.
But she didn’t have to suck it up just yet.
Now she was at another stage, watching another band put on their show.
She relaxed as she stood there, eating a snack she’d brought with, and put aside her silly fangirl moment with Seth in favor of enjoying the performance in front of her. It could never measure up to Downbeat’s set, but it wasn’t their fault, it was Seth’s.
Mulishly, she shoved Seth and his captivating eyes and hands and gifts aside.
It worked until Kayla texted that they were settling in at their hotel’s bar. It was a good opportunity to talk to them about how they felt the set had gone and find out what they were like after a performance she considered to be great. There was already plenty of praise and excitement about it on social media, which she went through on her way.
The hotel’s bar was boring, an ultramodern intention that wound up looking like everything was cheap and flimsy. The lighting was as bright as the lobby, sucking out any atmosphere. But the air was buzzing and it was all because of Downbeat, sprawled out around a few tables in the back. There were fawning strangers taking pictures to prove the moment more than to preserve it, inserting themselves into a celebration that wasn’t theirs.
Astrid didn’t mind fans or photos, but this looked like an intrusion, as if the band had had enough but weren’t famous enough yet to have security to protect them when they were tired. Still, she admired their determination to be good to their fans, even if she hoped that they learned how to set boundaries as much as they could, or hired some security.
When Xavier saw her arriving, he hopped up and hugged her, causing the strangers gathered to glare at her for getting the exuberant hug. If it had been a new experience, she would have either wilted or smirked, but since this had happened plenty she just ignored it.
“So glad you could join us, Astrid!” Xavier boomed.
Jorge offered her his chair between Xavier and Seth, which she accepted with a warm smile before he unobtrusively took another seat half-hidden in Trentham’s big shadow.
Smoothly crossing her legs, she smiled more like a mom than a journalist when Xavier planted his elbows on his thighs, pinned her with a million-watt grin, and asked how she’d liked the show. Not if she’d liked the show, but how she’d liked the show.
“I already compliment you enough, Xavier,” she chided him.
“Try this,” Gin said as she squeezed behind Seth, handing Astrid a neon blue-green cocktail with a cherry bobbing on the ice cubes. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s delicious.”
Delicately, Astrid touched her bottom lip to the rim of the glass, then dipped the point of her tongue into the drink, which was sweet and sour. “Mm, thank you, it’s delightful.”
Gin grinned and ran her hands through Seth’s hair absently.
Astrid was pleased to see that Kayla had begun to run interference on the strangers, helping them wrap up their selfies and go on with their nights. “Are you used to it yet?” she asked Seth, whose eyes were nearly closed like a cat’s from Gin’s stroking through his hair.
“Huh uh,” he answered in that half-subvocal way he had made himself heard with her before, the one that vibrated against her sensitive skin and woke it up. “But where I live, people interrupt other people all the time. There’s no such thing as date night, for example, in a small town. You walk in, the hostess calls you both by your names and you know she’s going to text all her friends as soon as she seats you. You get seated, and the server wants to know how your mama is and tell you how cute your niece is. You’re eating, and you know everyone in there and they don’t mind coming over to say hi and how’s it going. Ridiculous.”
“So you’re inoculated already,” Astrid murmured with a little twist of her lips.
Trentham leaned around and teased Seth about some cutie who had asked for a picture earlier, and drew in the others until they were all telling light-hearted stories about nervous fans. They were laughing, yes, but no one was making fun of those fans who wer
e so overwhelmed to meet the musicians they loved that they couldn’t keep their cool. It not only showed Astrid, again, how much the band valued their fans, but how funny and tight-knit they were. She had seen plenty of artists, of all types, profess to be “like a family” when it couldn’t be further from the truth, or only true if they were speaking of a dysfunctional family. Barley’s band Barnyard was one of the healthiest she’d seen, although they of course had had their share of conflicts, and she thought Downbeat might just beat them one day.
They let her in, let her see who they were, and while they were free with their stories, they weren’t reckless with their words; they didn’t take it for granted that they would charm her so much that she would forget why she was there listening. But it wasn’t the curated, bleached anecdotes that so many famous people offered up, rehearsed sound bites to shape, reshape or reinforce their brand. Either they had good gut instincts that told them she wasn’t out to screw them over, or they didn’t have any truly unflattering stories.
As time went by, they ordered some desserts, Jorge and Anita went home, Trentham went to meet their manager in the hotel’s billiards room. When a slow song came on, Gin bared her teeth in a predatory smile as she said, “I gotta go dance with my girl.”
Gin crossed the bar, caught Kayla’s hand and pulled her into an open area on the carpet, making Kayla beam at her as they started to sway to an uptempo, sappy love song.
For the first time all evening, Astrid was alone with Seth. After her less than brilliant attempt at conversation with him that afternoon, she studied his profile, looking for clues to his mood so she would say the right thing. She watched his expression melt from relaxation into a mysterious, distant thing as he looked at Gin and Kayla, then the others scattered across the bar. She imagined that she saw wistfulness and it struck a chord because there were times when she fiercely missed having a significant other by her side.
Wondering if he might be wistful, wondering if that was because he was single or because he was just alone in Chicago, she asked, “Do you have a girl, back home?”