by Erika Vanzin
“First, explain to me how the hell that blogger got to hear the singles. Second, explain to me how the hell you found that post. Third, explain to me why the hell you shared it without first consulting the press office!” He’s so angry his shouting sounds like he’s on speakerphone. It scares me.
Our public life is controlled by legions of press offices and marketers who scrutinize everything we post. Such an impulsive gesture will have triggered at least twenty alarms on the cell phones of those who take care of our image. It’s an excellent review, enthusiastic, precise, professional...but it was not authorized. Only now do I realize my mistake.
“What the hell did you think? What if that blogger puts the songs online?” he continues scolding me.
“It’s not possible. She only listened to them once from my phone.”
The silence that follows almost makes my blood freeze.
“You’re screwing this journalist and letting her write what she wants? Are you crazy? Thomas, what the hell are you up to? I expect to be called out of business hours for Michael’s bullshit, not yours.” The last few words come out so shrill that I’m afraid he’s ripped out his vocal cords.
“I’m not screwing her! And she’s not a journalist... It’s just, she has an excellent blog, and she’s a fan of ours.” I try to justify myself.
“Thomas, shut up. You’re digging your own grave,” he hisses.
I follow his advice and curl up in the couch cushions hoping this outburst will end soon.
“For Christ’s sake, now that Damian settled down, are you the one starting to screw up? Give me a break, guys, or I won’t live to see my forties. Is it at least a good review?” The tone of voice is calmer, but I know he is still angry.
Evan is the one who’s been watching our backs since the beginning, and when we mess up, he makes us pay for it. He’s not one to let things slip past him, especially when it comes to us. We were his first band, we grew up together, and he took charge of our past as if it were his. He’d do anything to protect us.
“It’s great.”
Yet another interminable silence.
“Evan?”
“Don’t post anything else about her. Don’t follow her on social media. Don’t do anything. And, Thomas, be careful. She’s still a journalist.”
His last words settle in my chest like a boulder. I know what he’s afraid of: it’s become increasingly difficult to keep our secrete from the world—that we’ve been in prison. Exposing ourselves to those who make a living doing research is not a good idea. When curiosity takes over, lies become unmanageable. But Iris is not a journalist, she is a blogger, or at least this is the lie I tell myself to indulge my obsession with her.
“Don’t worry, she’s not a journalist. She has this blog for passion. If you look at it, she doesn’t have ads on the site because she doesn’t care about the money. It just has reviews, no gossip. There’s only one post about Damian and Lilly when the tour scandal broke. She demanded her readers to leave them alone because she doesn’t want gossip about their private lives on her blog.”
“You’ve scrutinized her site well.” Evan’s observation is cautious, as if he wants to test what my connection is to Iris.
“I wanted to be sure she was a good person before I let her hear the songs,” I lie to my friend, something I never do.
Evan seems to think about it for a long time, then inhales thoroughly. “Okay, but be careful,” he tells me before hanging up.
The adrenaline I felt reading the article is a distant memory, and now I find myself back on the sofa scrolling through Iris’s Instagram photos. She’s very active in the music scene, and I’m surprised I’ve never noticed her before. At the end of the day, we frequent the same places, and suddenly I realize how different our worlds are. Although we both deal in music, we’re on different sides of the barricade. I move in the world of celebrities, the famous and glossy ones. She moves on the sidelines but perhaps it’s a more authentic world—one of genuine feelings and opinions, not filtered by the unwritten laws of this business.
I find myself scrolling through every single photo, and when I’m done, I put my finger on the screen and start Instagram stories. Her writing an article, the subway doors opening onto the Broadway-Lafayette station, her entering “The Bitter End” in Greenwich Village to listen to a band, her ordering a beer at the bar counter. The pictures keep flowing and, as if in a delirium, I grab my jacket and the black cap I wear to keep from being recognized, and slip into the private elevator before I can think twice about the bullshit I’m about to get into.
*
I look out the taxi window when we arrive in front of the club and realize that I look like a perfect idiot. The guy at the entrance is letting in the last people who stayed in line, and I’m pondering whether or not to get out.
“Have you decided what to do?” the taxi driver asks me in a slightly irritated tone, turning to me and staring, bored, from behind the plastic divider.
“Yes, sorry man, keep the change,” I tell him, handing him fifty dollars, which immediately alleviates his irritation, earning me an almost sincere smile.
I get out of the car and approach the entrance to the place, leaving some space between the people in front and me. When he sees me, the bouncer beckons me with his head to go in, and I find myself at the entrance, in front of a middle-aged woman inside the ticket office that is precisely the size of her person. I wonder how she can move or even just breathe in that space with a miserable little window she’s locked in.
“Who did you come to listen to?” she asks me with little enthusiasm, as if she has no desire to be in there and I can understand why.
I look at the poster for the evening and notice that there are three bands, all similarly unknown to me, so I shake my head. “None in particular.”
The woman marks something on a sheet of paper and then fastens a plastic paper bracelet on my wrist that serves as an entrance ticket. I feel sorry I didn’t give a name. If I had said one at random, they would have given the boys the percentage of the income instead of dividing it between the three groups and giving them a few pennies. We used to play like this, barely surviving. Things have changed radically for us, and I sometimes forget how hard it is to come up in this business. I take a picture of the poster so I don’t forget to check out their sites and buy t-shirts directly from them.
The place is dark and crowded so I approach the counter and order a beer. I look around and realize I have nothing in common with the people in here. They all look like hipsters in their perfect clothes that cost hundreds of dollars, and are eco-friendly and tailored in countries where there is no exploitation of child labor. I’m like a seal hunter in the middle of a PETA demonstration with my leather jacket and boots. I feel ridiculous with my cap down over my eyes and my head tucked into my shoulders, trying to blend with the dark wallpaper behind me.
“What the hell am I doing here?” I think as I grab the beer and approach the darkest corner of the room, away from the soft light of the lamps attached to the ceiling. On the small stage in front of me are several instruments, including double basses and trumpets. I don’t even have any idea what kind of music they’re playing here tonight.
I’m a crazy man for running out of my house, following the Instagram stories of a woman who has never given me a sign that she’s interested in me. She never told me her name, she didn’t give me her phone number, and most importantly, she didn’t invite me here tonight. I must have gone completely crazy if I think such idiotic behavior is normal. I’m usually the one who plans the outings with the others, so there are no problems with paparazzi; the one who reminds Damian to call the professional accounting firm that deals with his investments to manage his donations. For Christ’s sake! I’m the one who, when we were nobody, had a notebook to keep track of the group’s income and expenses and manage the money to be sure we could survive—because i
f it was up to the others, we would have starved to death.
I wouldn’t be surprised if a documentary came out on Netflix in a few years about me, with all those creepy stalkers I’m acting like right now. More ashamed of myself than I’ve been in a long time, I decide to drink my beer and leave before Iris realizes I’m here and runs for the hills.
Needless to say, luck isn’t on my side tonight. I look up and she’s there, at the bar counter, staring at me like she’s seeing an alien.
I Thought the Jailbirds Couldn’t Surprise Me More, But I Was Wrong...
Hi Roadies,
How are you? I have a big surprise for you! Yesterday, in a massive stroke of luck, I listened to the three, brand-new singles from the Jailbirds. You know when you think a band can no longer surprise you because they’ve surpassed your expectations already? Well, the Jailbirds will always amaze me. With this album, they have stepped up to yet another level.
But let’s get to the singles you can download next week. There are three songs, very different from each other, but all of them will get way down into your belly and stir up the anger inside you.
“Running Fast” is one of those concert songs that’s going to blow up every stadium in the world. Imagine a crazy, chaotic rhythm that makes you jump, dance, shout with all the breath you have in your body. Rarely have I heard such an overwhelming beat and this time, Thomas and Simon seem to be coming from another planet. It’s not humanly possible to play at that tempo for almost five minutes. They’re unbeatable.
“Don’t Mess with Me” is entirely different. It’s slower than the previous one, but the lyrics and the title leave no doubt: you don’t want to mess with the Jailbirds. Have you ever felt anger at someone who has done you wrong or hurt you? Listening to this song, you’ll have no doubt about how that feels. Damian has masterfully channeled so much rage and resentment that his powerful voice seeps into your veins, like poison running through your body.
But let’s move on to the last song: “Bloody Love.” If the slow pace brings to mind a romantic ballad, you’re so wrong. This is the rawest song of the three. The gentle, slow tempo contrasts with the lyrical images of sick and violent love. Maybe Damian took inspiration from the bad experience he had on the last tour? We don’t know yet, but from this song we certainly know his condemnation of those who use force against a person they should protect.
Are you curious to listen to these singles too? Are you quivering and counting the days that separate you from next week? Drop your opinion in the comments below.
Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,
Iris
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@jailfreakingbirds How do you stay focused on the songs when you have four rock stars staring at you? Asking for a friend!
@jailbirds_groupie Forget the songs, I think I got pregnant when Damian looked at me and smiled.
@wannabe_rockstar I want to be as famous as Damian and have the women drooling over me. I’d even settle for being like Thomas or Simon. Oh I almost forgot: I liked the songs!
“Is that Thomas Simons?” Emily asks me incredulously.
I’ve been staring at him for so long that it became awkward. “Yes, it’s him.” My voice is trembling. What the hell is he doing here?
“I have to admit, you’ve been meeting a lot lately.”
I turn away from Thomas to face her, and panic grips my stomach. “Can you ask the others not to say a word about my job? I don’t know why he’s here, but I don’t want him to find out, please.” I’m so confused I forgot I came to this club for my blog, not to shoot compromising photos of unfortunate celebrities.
Emily smiles and hugs me, then puts her hands over my shoulders and looks at me straight in the eyes. “You’re becoming paranoid. The others won’t say anything, don’t worry, but you’ll have to tell him sooner or later. I have no idea why he’s here tonight, but it’s clear that these encounters aren’t random. He’ll find out sooner or later.”
My conscience materializes in front of me in the form of Emily. She’s sweet, she’s not scolding me, but she makes me face the cold, hard reality. Should I just pretend I haven’t seen him and continue my night, thus ending this unhealthy game I’m playing with him? But then I remember the lost expression on my face and the ginormous surprise when our eyes met, and I realize I can’t ignore him. It would be immature and cruel, especially after he was so sweet to retweet my blog post.
I turn around again to meet Thomas’s lost and slightly embarrassed look. Maybe he expected me to confidently walk to him, not turn my back on him and talk to my friend. I take a deep breath, raise the corners of my mouth in a sincere smile, and approach him.
“Hi! It seems we meet a lot lately.” I smile, and he reciprocates with one of those expressions that lights up his face, even if he does still look awkward.
“Yes, Manhattan seems to have become a small suburban village where everyone knows everyone and bumps into each other...” He stops himself. “I’m just talking bullshit, right?” His insecurity makes him adorable, and I find myself smiling like a teenager in love.
“No, I agree. It’s a fact that I’ve never met you before, and then we’ve bumped into each other three times in two weeks.” I wanted it to sound like a joke, but it comes out more solemn than I intended, and I notice him tense slightly.
Why did it get so hard to talk to him? We were in perfect harmony until yesterday. What the hell changed in such a few hours? I know he’s not here by accident. The truth is, I’m flattered by his attention but also terrified. I’m afraid the 16-year-old in me—the one who’s always been in love with him—is under the illusion that there may be something real between us. My heart is split in two: one part beats excitedly at the idea that my teenage crush has noticed me, but the other is terrified to indulge in emotions that could crush me. Life has taught me that dreams are impractical. They’re beautiful fantasies that help you live in a much less fascinating reality. What are the odds that my dreams about Thomas will come true?
“Are you here to listen to the bands? Do you know them?” I venture when he doesn’t say a word. He lowers his head and looks at the floor. I didn’t know he was this fidgety. They all seem like boasters with huge egos, but the guy in front of me now is sweet, sensitive, and all too attentive to how he appears in public. He doesn’t like to seem vulnerable and gets defensive when his emotions take over. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just a pickup trick to appear to be a regular guy.
“Actually, no... I saw on your Instagram you were here, and I wanted to come and thank you in person for the article you wrote. It’s an excellent piece. Is that creepy? Because now that I’m saying it out loud, I feel like a crazy stalker,” he chuckles, rubbing his hand behind his neck.
I smile, amused and some of my tension goes away. To be honest, I’m ecstatic. As much as I’m afraid this situation will become complicated, I would be a hypocrite not to admit, at least to myself, that I am flattered by his attention. The part of my heart that beats excitedly is taking over the terrified part.
“No, it would have been creepy if you had had no reason to come here, but thanking me for the article seems to be a more than honest motive to do so.” As the tension slips away, my voice becomes playful.
“You make my behavior seem almost decent. Thank you!” Thomas laughs, much more relaxed than before.
“No, I have to thank you, tweeting the link of my article literally blew up my phone with notifications from people who started following me and writing to me. I have to keep it constantly connected to the power outlet, or else it shuts down.” I point to a spot behind the bar counter where my cellphone sits.
“Sorry?” he asks me uncertainly. I don’t think he understands that this is a good thing.
I laugh out loud and lay my hand on his arm, immediately realizing what I’m doing, how close I am to him, and distance myself ag
ain. A mixture of fear and excitement squeezes my stomach: I’d like to be even closer, and at the same time I’d like to put a wall between us before he hurts me. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good thing.”
The first band takes the stage and starts playing.
“I’m sorry, but I have to work tonight,” I say with a grimace. The truth is, I have no desire to do that. I would like to stay here and talk to him all night about music and their new single, tell him how much I liked the old albums and how much they stepped it up on the new songs. But when I turn to Emily, Albert and Jasper, I find myself catapulted into reality. My friends are open-mouthed at our interaction and remind me that our two worlds are so far apart we might as well live in two different galaxies, and this encounter is pure illusion.
“Can I follow you, or do I bother you?” As soon as the words leave his lips, he seems to regret the question. It gives me the impression that this situation, this way of approaching me, is new to him too. He doesn’t seem comfortable. I have a feeling that it is women who usually chase him and not the other way around. My hesitation at his attempts makes him insecure.
I smile and beckon him with my head to follow me, without ruining this moment with awkward words.
We approach the stage with some difficulty. The place is chock-full but, either because of the cap he’s wearing or the dim lights, no one gives Thomas a second glance. I wouldn’t be able to handle it if people started freaking out about his presence and took pictures. I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the camera, and I don’t want to end up on all the Google searches because I’ve been photographed with one of the most famous drummers in the world. Ron would immediately pressure me for some juicy gossip and ruin my life.