Your Favorite Band Cannot Save You

by Scotto Moore

  And I didn’t care, because I had made a simple choice. The maddeningly seductive memory of Airee’s voice singing that ballad was all-encompassing. I was making that same simple choice minute by minute, second by second, and loving it more and more as time went by. It was as though each time I remembered it, I was burning away any resistance I might have to remembering it again, and the cycle kept repeating like a nested series of musical spirals unfolding in my mind. Or something.

  “William’s going to be fine,” I said, not entirely certain how true that was. “He was injured, but not as badly as he could have been.”

  A long pause followed, where Maxstacy was either carefully considering what to say next, or he was typing and deleting and typing and deleting to try to get it right, or he was just checking email in another window and forgot about me for a bit. But eventually he said, “How are you holding up?”

  Could have been a lot worse than “How are you holding up?” Could have been “What the hell did you do?” or “Should I be calling the police?” but instead it was a seemingly genuine inquiry about my well-being. Which I wasn’t prepared to answer, at least not in full.

  I said, “I’m fine, I think. But I could really use your help promoting this show.”

  * * *

  We were an hour away from Houston when I saw Maxstacy’s post go up on his site, the very simply and effectively named Maxblog.

  “You’ve Been Given a Simple Choice”

  The Augmented 4th

  Self-released

  Regular readers with keen ears will almost immediately recognize the musical rapids from which the Augmented 4th draws its inspiration. Yet the formal construction of “You’ve Been Given a Simple Choice”—superficially, a ’70s era soft rock ballad—almost disguises the raw beating heart inherent in the track. Like a certain recent flash-pot band that everyone is talking about, the Augmented 4th relies on the conceit of gibberish lyrics (a trend that most notably includes Sigur Rós and its introduction of “Hopelandish” to the alt-rock lexicon), but let there be no question that the intensity of the song’s English title is abundantly apparent in the female singer’s powerful, throaty belting. Every guttural phrase that rises out of the austere orchestration is a plea for you—yes, you—to make that simple choice, to raise your hand in solidarity with a singer who is clearly desperate for you to join her. On what mad quest, we are not fortunate to know, but her charisma compels you. If you have followed the meteoric rise of a similar band that came out of nowhere recently, you will recognize this vicious yet gorgeous vocal style.

  God only knows what that voice must be like in concert.

  Conveniently, those of you in the Houston area have a chance to find out TONIGHT. Tickets to the Augmented 4th’s surprise show at the Nightingale Room are now on sale, and rumor has it that someone clued in the locals already, so tickets are going fast. But you, my lovely Maxsters, can use the discount code allurebient to get half-price tickets online.

  Download the track

  Buy tickets

  * * *

  The show sold out with an hour to spare before showtime.

  Airee asked me to wait in the van for this show. She said, “I need you to be ready just in case something goes wrong tonight. I don’t expect anything to go wrong, but you never know. I didn’t expect a riot last night.”

  “What exactly did you expect last night?” I pressed. “Or I mean—what do you expect from this tour?”

  “Hard to say,” she said. “Worst case, I take over the planet by the time we release track eight. Best case, I open a portal back to my home dimension by track seven and get the fuck out of here instead. It’s a little unpredictable. I’m still learning.”

  I stared at her. I kept staring at her. I stared some more. Lots of staring.

  “See, it’s this warm feeling of trust that I enjoy most about you,” she said. “Look, I know you’re upset because the people at the show tonight will get to hear the new track before you. But you still get to premiere the new track online tomorrow.”

  I said, “Wait, go back to the part about the . . . the dimension, or the . . . you said the portal—” and then I just wound up staring at her again.

  She actually put her hands on my shoulders. It was weird and strangely awesome. Like sticking your tongue on a battery and getting a shock, except the charge in this case was her charisma. Also, I wasn’t sticking my tongue on her and I’m sorry about that image.

  “I am building to something very intense,” she said, “and I would prefer that you don’t get hurt.”

  “What about all those other people?”

  “I don’t have as much of a preference there,” she said. “But I do want my Herald safe right until the end.”

  I said, “What do you mean, the end? The end of the tour?”

  She just gave me a look. I was half kidding. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what happened after the tour.

  I said, “I want the tour to last a long time.”

  She said, “One track daily and this ain’t a double album.”

  She left me in the front seat of the band’s van, parked across the street, waiting for the show to be over, watching roadies smoke on the loading dock of the venue. The line to get in snaked all the way around the block so I got to do some quality people watching even though I was parked behind the building.

  Then Sierra appeared briefly on the loading dock, phone in hand, glancing at the line as though she was looking for someone specific. Apparently she actually was—she waved, and someone waved back and broke out of the line heading for Sierra. Venue security was stationed even on the loading dock, but Sierra had an extra backstage pass to give to—oh.

  Sierra handed the backstage pass to Imogen Sweetness, and the two of them disappeared inside the venue together.

  Suddenly my very simple choice seemed much more complicated. I mean, I guess it made sense that Imogen was here. New Orleans wasn’t that far from Houston. Closer than Portland, obviously. Maybe Imogen scored an interview too. Except Airee doesn’t give interviews. So why did Imogen get backstage access when I was stuck out here in the van? What did Airee want with Imogen?

  “Sacrifice,” Airee whispered in my mind, and I officially freaked the fuck out.

  Track 06

  I jumped out of the van and bolted across the street, trying to catch Sierra and Imogen before the stage door by the loading dock slammed shut. Not only did I fail to get there in time, but security saw me sprinting in their direction and was extremely ready to knock me onto my ass when I got within range.

  “Okay, I deserved that,” I muttered. It fucking hurt. I didn’t even try to argue with the guy. He was just doing his job, I didn’t have a backstage pass for this show, and the roadies on the loading dock wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.

  My best chance was to hope they still had tickets at the door even though they were sold out online. The line wrapped around the block and they hadn’t started letting people in yet. I was too nervous to just stand and wait.

  I could text her. I had her number. She gave it to me specifically so that I could text her, someday, if I felt like it. Or call her? Maybe she had wanted me to call her? I couldn’t remember why I had her number, actually.

  I texted her: “What are you doing here?”

  A long pause followed. Then she texted back: “Who is this?”

  Because, of course, she didn’t have my number, because I never gave it to her, and I had never texted her, and I had never called her before.

  I said, “It’s MPC. How did you get a backstage pass?”

  “Interview,” she said.

  “She doesn’t give interviews!”

  “She gave you one, didn’t she?”

  “No, she most definitely did not. What’s the deal?”

  No response. I waited impatiently. I don’t suppose anybody truly waits patiently, but this was pure absurdism. The line finally started moving. I crawled forward before hearing the word passed down: usually a lin
e like this forks into two lines, one for will-call and one for ticket sales. This was all will-call; there were no tickets for sale. My next best chance was to pretend I hadn’t heard this, and then get to the front and hope for a miracle.

  I dropped out of line. A lot of strange things were happening lately, but expecting friendly, positive miracles was a stretch.

  I drifted back toward the van, unable to think clearly. I pulled out my laptop, jumped back onto Maxnet, and scrolled back through the main channel history to see if I’d missed anything important while I was on the road. Sure enough—a debate between Imogen, Mocha, and Ricochet about whether Imogen had time to make it to the Houston show. She couldn’t afford a direct flight, but if she jumped in her housemate’s car and took off immediately, she’d make it with maybe an hour to spare. And the most relevant exchange:

  IMOGEN: I’ve been chatting with their singer.

  MOCHA: Since when?

  IMOGEN: Since yesterday. She posted that they’re auditioning for a new bass player. She said I was the first person to respond.

  RICOCHET: What happened to their existing bass player? Spontaneous combustion?

  IMOGEN: Didn’t say. Just said her last show will be tonight in Houston and I should catch the show before she leaves.

  MOCHA: Lucky!!

  IMOGEN: I mean I do actually play the bass.

  Oh, suuuuuuure there was a rational explanation. I mean, just because I demanded that Maxstacy promote this show to the entire internet and just because Imogen loves this band as much as I do and just because she lives within driving distance of the show and just because Susie’s quitting the band and Imogen wants to audition because she actually plays the bass doesn’t mean this ISN’T WEIRD—because twice now, I’d actually heard Airee’s voice in my mind. Twice now, after long periods of poor to no sleep during which I soaked myself in brain-warping, behavior-altering music, I’d heard Airee’s voice say creepy things in my mind and uh . . . hmm.

  I got in the front seat of the van, put my laptop away, and put music on the stereo. I did not listen to Beautiful Remorse. I put on the Beatles and tried to relax.

  A few minutes later, I stopped playing the Beatles, and listened to Beautiful Remorse.

  * * *

  After the show, the band’s road crew pulled its van up to the loading dock and began ferrying out equipment. I could hear the headliner onstage in the distance. Normally the opening act in a small club waits to get its equipment out of the venue until after the entire show, but we were clearly in a hurry. Still, if the headliner was actually playing inside, the show couldn’t have been a riotous fiasco like Austin.

  The band itself appeared as a clump on the dock and hurriedly made their way to me, where I was idling the van, ready for a quick escape if it had been necessary. Maybe once or twice while I sat in the driver’s seat of the idling van, scouring Google Maps for good fast routes out of town, it had occurred to me that something had gone very sideways with my overall life trajectory.

  Sierra came up to the driver’s side, knocked, and motioned for me to scoot over so she could drive.

  “Where’s Susie?” I asked, instantly suspicious.

  “With the roadies,” Sierra replied. “We’re making room for Imogen to ride with Airee.”

  Airee and Imogen slid into the backseat behind us. The twins clambered in via the back doors and curled up with headphones, ignoring the rest of us. Sierra shifted into drive, and we were off.

  The van was quiet. I spun slowly around in my seat and made eye contact with Imogen, for the first time ever unmediated by a computer screen.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said.

  I guess I was essentially just staring at Imogen at that point, which suddenly made me uncomfortable, so I turned to Airee and said, “I take it there were no riots tonight. Did you skip playing ‘There Will Be Consequences’?”

  Airee gave me a smug grin and said, “We played an acoustic version.”

  Within moments, Airee’s head dipped, and she was sound asleep. Exhausted, more like—temporarily drained of whatever force animated her from moment to moment. Imogen didn’t bat an eye. I turned to Sierra and asked, “Where are we headed?”

  “Lawrence,” she said quietly, indicating with her eyes I should shut up and let Airee sleep.

  Maddening. I got on my phone and texted Imogen. Our first conversation in person was about to be held electronically.

  “How was your interview?” I asked.

  “They must like me because I’m joining the tour,” she replied. “Debuting in Lawrence. Playing bass.”

  “Why did Susie Satori quit?” I typed indignantly, irritated that I myself didn’t think to learn the bass twenty years ago.

  “She didn’t quit. She’s dead.”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHE’S DEAD?” I shouted out loud. Airee and the twins woke with a triplet of aggravated shrieks. Sierra swerved hard and pulled off the road.

  “I thought you said she was with the roadies!”

  “She is,” Sierra responded calmly. “She’s wrapped up in my drum rug, actually.”

  We were standing by the side of the van, she and I, obscured from the interstate, under the clear starry night somewhere in Texas. I was interrogating her; she was deflecting me.

  “Did you people kill her back in Houston?”

  “Oh listen to you,” she said, suddenly venomous. “Now it’s ‘you people’ as though you aren’t complicit in everything we’ve done since you showed up.”

  “I’m not complicit in fucking murder!”

  “We didn’t murder anyone.”

  “Then why is she wrapped up in a fucking drum rug, Sierra?”

  The road crew’s van pulled up behind us on the shoulder. Sierra and I were suddenly immersed in its harsh interrogating headlight beams. Its driver jumped out and came over to us.

  “Are we there yet?” said Susie Satori.

  Before I could flip my shit and have a frustrated temper tantrum all over the place, the side door of the band van slid open, and Airee stepped into the cool night breeze in all her tempestuous glory. Meaning, a wind literally ripped across the highway at that moment, causing her hair and her scarf to swirl amazingly about her in a strange halo as she flipped me a thumb drive. I wasn’t ready for it, so it bounced off my stomach and landed at my feet.

  “That’s a board recording of the new track from the show tonight,” she said. “It’s yours to release, just like we agreed.”

  “I’m not releasing anything until I understand what’s going on here,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” said Sierra quietly.

  “You tried to convince me Susie was dead!”

  “Just wanted to see how you’d handle yourself,” Airee said. “Apparently you freak out at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Are you absolutely kidding me?” I snapped. “I watched people get crushed under a tower of loudspeakers and now I babysit your van while you’re performing. Does that sound like freaking out?”

  “Sounds like you’re freaking out right this minute,” she replied.

  “I’m not freaking out! I’m just frustrated because you know more than you’re telling me! Even Imogen is more in on it than me.” I turned to Susie Satori. “By the way, Imogen says she’s got your job. Did you know that?”

  A confused expression lit up Susie’s face. “Wait, what?”

  “There’s something different about your music, Airee,” I continued, “something subliminal or, or—or I don’t know what the other options are, but your music has a deeper neurological effect than it should and I want to know how you’re doing it, and I want to know why you’re doing it, or else I’m out. I’ll go back home to Portland and Imogen can be your new Herald.”

  “Herald?” Imogen said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why is she getting my job?” Susie protested.

  “Just shut up,” Airee said, looking at me but addressing all of us. “I’m only going to tell you thi
s one more time. I’m using my music to build a pool of psychic energy that I can tap into and use for taking over the planet. It won’t be pretty if I succeed, and I’m already succeeding. But I’ve been building so much energy that I might instead be able to escape this shithole planet altogether. You should hope and pray I escape this shithole planet, really. Anyway, I realize this has been hard for all of you to accept. It’s easy to lose sight of my personal mission in the middle of all the screaming crowds and the exhilarating violence. Maybe you need a more personal connection to what I’m doing. A more tangible demonstration of the truth of what I’m saying. Because let’s be clear—you guys are the chosen few who get to witness what I’m doing, but nobody’s safe on this tour, not even me, and you need to realize that right fucking now.”

  She jumped out and walked back to the road crew’s van. I looked around at everyone, trying to gauge their reactions to the unbelievable line of bullshit Airee had just dumped on us. But Sierra could not have seemed more convinced, and I could tell that Imogen was more than half convinced. I studied my own reaction and realized that, holy shit, I might believe the line of bullshit myself and maybe that meant it wasn’t bullshit and maybe that meant it had to be bullshit, didn’t it? I mean, didn’t it?

  After a brief discussion with Airee, the road crew took off down the highway and disappeared, leaving us alone in the darkness. Airee sauntered back to us and said, “Sierra, take us to the first rest stop you can find.”

  “I’ll drive,” said Susie. She stormed around to the driver’s side and got in. Airee and Sierra climbed into the backseat, crowded now with Imogen back there as well. I hesitated briefly but not sincerely, then picked up the thumb drive before climbing into the front passenger seat.