by Karina Halle
When I said I wanted to have a chance at playing bass for the band, that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted a chance – I didn’t want to be forced upon them without any say and I certainly didn’t want it announced like that. I mean, Brad just found out one of his oldest friends and mentors died so of course my father had to add this whole disruption to the mix.
Luckily, Brad is a pretty easy going guy. Quiet as anything but still fairly decent. I mean, that’s probably an understatement. I’m trying not to dwell on the fact that I actually had him in my arms momentarily as he grieved over Mr. Robson, something that completely caught me off guard. In that moment he stopped being Brad Snyder, my idol, the man on the pedestal, the rock god of my dreams, and became something decidedly more human. A little bit less of a mystery.
Anyway, the audition idea is what I was hoping for in the first place when I asked my father. Just a chance to prove myself, fair and square.
Only now, I’m freaking the fuck out. In a way it would have been so much easier to have been forced upon them because they’d be stuck with me and I’d finally be able to live out my dream of being a working musician, playing live shows beyond my wildest fantasies. In time they would see how much I rock, what an awesome addition to the band I would make.
But that way comes with resentment. I had enough of that growing up, the way people treated me because I was Ronald Ramsey’s daughter. True, the private school I went to had a ton of kids who had famous and powerful parents but even so, my father has a reputation for making and breaking people.
I know everyone always assumed I would coast through life because of my father but that’s part of the reason why I left the US and went backpacking for so long. I wanted to put distance between the girl I knew and the woman I would become. Cheesy, I know. But I couldn’t figure out who I was without being on my own, away from my father’s cold and domineering shadow.
Now I know who I am and what I want. It just sucks that what I want to do with my life – play music! – is so intertwined with what he does. It’s like I’ll never escape. And I’m sure I could have moved to New York and tried to do it all without him, just as I did when I was backpacking, but the truth is, sometimes you have to stop being stubborn and use the helping hands offered to you. You should never let your pride stop you when your dream is on the line.
“You’re going to be fine,” Christy says, pouring herself a bowl of the soup and sitting down at the table. She’s been on a cabbage soup diet all this week. Every month it’s something crazy even though the girl doesn’t need to lose any weight. “You know you rock. You know you’re talented.”
“But they might not see that,” I protest. “Because all they’ll talk about is how I’m Ronald’s daughter. Do they really want me on their tour? They’ll think I’m a snitch or something. Or like some kid they have to drag around. They’re going to hate me. Plus, what if they don’t like my sound? I know what I can bring to the table but they might not want it. And who the hell knows who else I’m auditioning against?”
“Damn, girl,” Christy says, shaking her head. “You sure fucked up big time when you came up with that audition thing.”
“Actually that was Brad. And I had no choice. I could see in his eyes that this was the last thing he wanted. You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about an opportunity like this –”
“You mean dreamed about him,” she says wryly. I may have only known Christy for three months but we’ve become pretty close as roommates, especially when we have a bottle of wine between us. I may have mentioned Brad in a sexual way on more than one occasion. But she won’t stop talking about Chris Pine, so whatever.
“Anyway,” I push on, giving her a steady look, “this is my dream come true and I didn’t want to get it that way. I wanted to earn it, to win it.”
“And you will,” she says. “And if you don’t, then there’s something else. That’s what you always tell me. Better things are always just around the corner.”
I know that’s what I tell her but right now I can’t think properly. I just nod and head back into my room, shutting the door on Baby Groot. Normally he goes wherever I go, like my shadow, but I’m about to practice on the bass some more, make sure the pedal is working for the millionth time and he hates it when I play. He’ll be scratching to get out of the room in a hot second. I try not to take offense.
I sit down on the corner of my bed and go through the motions. I know all their songs by heart. I even know the songs from the avant garde solo album that Brad did. I can play everything in their catalogue with my eyes closed.
I try and think about what I can bring to them. What can I, just a lowly bassist, bring to a band that’s on top of the world, a band that has everything?
Stability is one thing. They want someone the opposite of Nick, someone they get along with. Now I know that during the audition they won’t have a clue who I am, at least that’s what Brad said. I know Arnie will know, but he’s a nice man and he doesn’t really count. He likes me. But after they learn the truth, if I’m accepted at all, I have to bring a sense of ease to the band that they didn’t have before.
Luckily, even though I do have natural showboating tendencies, I can keep that under wraps. I can keep my head down and let everyone else shine. That’s what I can bring to the band.
Sound-wise, though, that’s trickier. The band already has a signature sound that they never really stray from, probably why Brad branched out and did a solo project, just so he could deviate for once. Now, taking in my penchant for fuzz and effects and noting that Brad’s solo effort had a lot of that, I can bet that I may just have the sound the band didn’t realize they wanted or needed.
Of course I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m just Lael Ramsey. As a bass-player, I’m pretty much a nobody.
But I believe in myself. And when you believe in what you do, that’s how you become a somebody.
I take in a deep breath, finding strength and courage in the air, letting it fill me from head to toe.
Then I pack up my pedal and guitar and get ready to do this.
Chapter Five
Brad
“Okay, it’s time to talk about bass players.”
I’m talking to my bandmates in our studio. We all have our usual spots: Calvi and I sitting next to our amps, and Switch behind his sparse drums. Of course, there is an empty chair where Nick used to be. It took me so long to fire Nick because I was avoiding the painful process of finding his replacement. We’re auditioning four bassists today. I have no doubt they’ll all have their individual sound and will play the songs with ease, but there is way more to consider than the sound that comes out of their amp. This is going to be someone we have to live with in a bus for months on end.
Things to consider could be:
Are they easy to be around?
Do they have stage presence?
Do they show up on time?
Do they represent And Then well?
Are they professional?
Are they into drugs?
Most importantly, we need a guy who we have good chemistry with.
Or, perhaps, a girl.
I spoke to my manager, Arnie, and had him arrange for Lael to be added to the audition roster today. I can see him through the soundproof window sitting in the control room behind the mixing console, talking to someone out of sight. His long grey hair has barely thinned over the years, and his beard is always perfectly groomed to the point I often chuckle at the thought of this biker-looking dude choosing what high-end leave-in conditioner he’s going to try next.
I’m waiting for Switch or Calvi to respond to my question about the bassists, but as usual, I’m getting nothing. The room is silent save for the hum of an amplifier and Calvi quietly tuning his gold-top guitar. Switch was closer with Nick than Calvi was but he seems to be used to the idea that Nick is gone. I think he totally understood why I had to let Nick go—he started to believe in the myth of rock and roll and all the standard clichés, such as
:
Sex with groupies
Depravity
Violence
Trashing hotel rooms
Arrogance during interviews
Drunk on stage
Throwing televisions out of hotel windows
Heroin
The chicken incident
Mr. Robson briefed me on the heroin thing at the start of my career and I believe his words to be true. He’d said, “Kid, if you do it, you will never be the same for the rest of your life.”
Nick definitely was not the same after he got into heroin, and eventually I had to say goodbye to my old friend.
“How do you guys want to approach this?” I ask, directly now.
They both shrug and after some more silence, Switch speaks up. “Let’s just jam with each of them, shoot the shit, and see what happens.” With his head tilted back and his eyes in a squint I can tell he’s going to be tough on them.
Calvi takes a break from tuning his guitar and adds to the conversation, “We don’t have to choose any of them if we don’t want. If we settle, we’ll be back in the same situation next year.”
I make eye contact with ol’ Arnie though the window. I can tell our first victim is somewhere in the control room out of my eye line because Arnie’s body language has changed. Like my bandmates, he has been with me since the beginning and I know him well.
Arnie stands and walks out of sight. I take a deep breath and wait for the door to open.
“…That’s how we did it in the old days,” Arnie says, finishing his conversation with a rather tall, dark haired, pale skinned character.
“Boys,” Arnie says, “this here is John Beddis. He’s stopped by to jam.”
Arnie has the guitar tech set John up as he sits down in Nick’s old chair, next to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier. Even sitting down, John seems to tower over the three of us. His long face makes him look perpetually unimpressed.
Switch, Calvi, and John make idol chit-chat, and I, too, go through the motions of greeting this gangly monster. I can tell the chemistry isn’t right before we even play a note. We do a song called “Rust in My Bones,” and although he plays his bass with precision, he has the energy of a mortician and I’m happy when it’s time to say goodbye.
“Thanks for coming by John. We’ll be in touch,” Arnie says with a smile, keeping things light.
Next up is none other than the Jazz McKinnon.
I’m actually starstruck when he floats into the room with his personal guitar tech, assistant, and publicist. He’s fifty something years old with overly-styled blonde hair and a scarf wrapped around his neck, draping over his leather vest. Jazz may be over fifty, but he’s in better physical condition than we are. Jazz McKinnon is the only guy on the planet that can pull off leather pants, a leather vest, a scarf, and dyed blond hair. He smiles, exposing his toothpaste commercial teeth.
“And Then…” he says, gesturing to us. “Love it. Look at you guys. I’m a huge fan. Let me get this straight though. I’m not here to replace Nick. I just want to jam with you guys.”
Jazz keeps his eyes on me and holds out his right hand while his guitar tech scrambles to put his guitar in his hand. I still can’t believe he’s here—he’s a legend in the rock world, having helmed some of the biggest names of the eighties and nineties.
Looking at my bandmates, I can tell they’re just as blown away. I exchange a moment with Switch and we both manage to keep from giggling like children. Calvi is locked in a stare with Jazz, smiling like an idiot.
Jazz’s assistant looks up from her phone and makes an announcement. “We’ve scheduled a brief photo shoot, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.”
Somehow I’m not surprised. Regardless of what happens with Jazz, this is a moment that needs to be commemorated.
Jazz ignores the large lights, reflectors, and other equipment pouring into the rather small jam room.
“Over here, please,” a photographer orders and ushers all of us around the drums where the lights are shining. Calvi and I put our guitars down and obey. Switch stays seated on his throne behind the drums, completely hidden by Jazz standing directly in front of him. Calvi and I exchange a fan boy laugh behind him. Jazz is strutting around like a rooster, front and center. The camera’s flash seems like a strobe light and they must take a thousand pictures even though the shoot only lasts about two minutes. When it’s all over and the equipment is dragged out, Jazz’s assistant pulls me to the side.
“Hi, Brad,” she says. “I know we only have an hour so I’m keeping the press to a minimum.”
“Press?” I question.
“Yes. Modern Bass Player magazine is going to do a piece on the audition.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure what the hell is going on. Then I turn my head, and I don’t believe my eyes.
I don’t see how it’s possible but Jazz is in a completely different outfit right down to his shoes. Perfectly torn jeans, sneakers, a graphic t-shirt, blazer, and a network of necklaces. I think his damn hair is even a little different. Houdini would be impressed.
“Thanks again for having me,” Jazz calmly says as he floats by me toward one of his entourage who sits him down with a journalist from the magazine in the corner of the studio.
Calvi, Switch, and I are no strangers to this aspect of the job, but this is next level. The three of us stand in the opposite corner from Jazz and his intimate interview and wait. Arnie walks in smiling and says to Jazz’s assistant, “Time flies. We only have five minutes left.”
She nods and walks over to the interviewer, whispering something into his ear.
“You know, I always wanted to meet him,” Calvi says.
“Me too,” I say, though who would have known it would be like this.
“I like his haircut,” Switch adds.
Jazz walks across the room, looking from his phone up to us and says with a confident smile, “I have a book tour in a month so I can’t do the last leg of the tour. I wanted to be clear on that. I’m really digging your song ‘Rust in My Bones.’ I feel like I have rust in my bones sometimes. Anyway, that went well. Take care, boys.”
“Wait,” Calvi says and then stops him for a quick selfie before bidding him farewell.
Jazz and his entourage (that has seemed to grow significantly since his arrival) stream out the door, and we are left with just the three of us again.
“Wow, right, what a dude,” Calvi says, clearly taken by his childhood hero.
Arnie walks in to give us an update. “Sorry, boys. That ran a little late and we’ll have to jump right into the next audition. I told him it would be a little shorter than planned so you can have a little break before our last one of the day. Bruce Ross, And Then, And Then, Bruce Ross.”
We all greet Bruce with casual greetings after the pointless introduction. We all know him already. He has his own progressive funk band, and we have run into him many times on the festival circuit. His sets are usually one long bass solo broken by nasally vocals that are almost always about fishing. Bruce walks up to me to shake my hand and I get an up-close look at his iconic bowler hat and the greasy mustache that is waxed into points.
“Thanks for the chance, man,” Bruce says as he squeezes my hand tight and holds deliberate eye contact through circular blue tint glasses that make him look extra intense.
“Yeah, man. For sure. Cool guitar,” I tell him, referring to the bass guitar hanging from his shoulders. The wood curled and twisted wildly, I think Bruce is the only person I know that wouldn’t look out of place playing the strangely shaped guitar. Then again, the man looks like a reject from a Charlie Chaplin film.
“Do you know ‘Rust in My Bones’?” I ask him.
“You mean the song that’s playing nonstop on every rock station in America? I think I might have heard it.” I catch a tinge of bitterness in his voice which doesn’t bode well.
Still, we jump into the song, and in true Bruce Ross form, he turns the tune into one long bass solo. I don’t even sing becaus
e Bruce doesn’t leave any sonic room for me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing—Bruce is probably the best bass player on the planet in a technical sense.
Calvi and I take a seat when the song is done and Switch is the first to speak.
“Duuude, that was so fucking good.”
“Thanks, partner. I know you guys are busy and I have my snake in the car, so I’m going to run,” Bruce answers in a nasally voice and presses his blue glasses up from the end of his nose.
“Thanks for that, Bruce,” Arnie says as he walks Bruce out.
“What a weird guy,” Calvi says as soon as the door closes and we’re alone again.
“Yeah, but shit the guy can play,” Switch adds.
I give them both a dry look. “I would rather eat broken glass than be on a bus with that character for two months, wouldn’t you?”
We share a laugh and spend the next hour or so eating sushi that was delivered, Arnie playing back the recording of John and Bruce’s auditions. Obviously, we can’t listen to Jazz because he didn’t play a single note.
I had debated whether to tell my bandmates about Lael but thought it was best to keep them unbiased.
“Oh, would you look at the time,” Switch says, pointing to a clock on the wall. He’s obviously referring to my rule that we can’t start drinking until after one o’clock in the afternoon.
“Beer me,” I tell him. It’s been a stressful day and beer is usually the answer.
Switch goes out to the kitchen and comes back with a case of ice cold beer. He rips it open and throws one to me and one to Calvi.
“Who’s the babe sitting in the hall?” Switch asks as he falls into a worn out leather couch.
I know very well who’s sitting in the hall and I consider telling them that she’s both our last audition of the day and the daughter of Ronald Ramsey, but decide to leave out the latter.
“Oh, right,” I say casually. “We had an open audition online and this girl was the winner. She seems pretty good.”