“Too late.”
She nodded but barely missed a beat. “So I understand why you took two-plus years off. But you have to understand that it’s like when a volcano goes dormant. You cool off. People forget about you.” I felt the scowl overtake my face again, but inside I knew she was right. Metal music lovers would likely respond, “Kyle who?” to a press release or maybe just remember I was Brian Zimmer’s wife.
“But you’re gonna come back hard and heavy and fucking demand their attention.”
“And how exactly do I do that? Press release?”
She smiled, but barely. “No. We’ll have other more organic ways of getting their attention.” I wasn’t even going to ask what she meant by that.
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”
“Don’t get pissy with me.”
I scoffed. “You haven’t given me a chance.”
“You’re already pissy, Kyle. And what I’m about to say is going to set you off even more.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. She wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture anyway. She was too busy walking and consulting the task list on her phone. I sighed. “Okay. Shoot.”
“First off, I’ve hired you a personal trainer.”
“What?” The woman was off her rocker. “What the fuck for?”
“To get you in the best shape of your life.”
I was insulted now. Not pissy. Angry. I was in good shape. I was barely over one hundred twenty and—even though I was short—I wasn’t lumpy or carrying any slabs of fat around. “Do I look overweight to you?”
“No. You’re not overweight…but I said I want you in great shape. I want definition—as in slightly defined abs, a little bit of a bicep. Muscles are sexy, Kyle. You don’t have to look like an anorexic supermodel, but you do have to look like you could put up a fight with a guy if he got fresh.”
I snarled. I couldn’t help it. I started walking faster too, as if I could outrun Mollie. Yeah, but she was a dog with a bone. She’d hunt my ass down if she’d thought I needed it. “I can put up a fight.”
“I know…but they don’t. I want you to look fucking hot—sculpted and sleek, not just thin.” I sucked in an annoyed breath through my nose. “The guy I hired will meet with you five days a week, about forty-five minutes per session. You can meet at the gym or he can tell you the shit to buy so you can work out at home, but I want you to commit. No excuses. This is just as important as music practice. Got it?”
I thought it was fucking lame…but Mollie was convinced that her strategies would catapult me into the stratosphere—and I was so ready. I was hungry again. I was tired of languishing, of working my ass off with little gain to show for it. I wanted the world to love me—and I had to trust Mollie. She wanted it for me too, because if I succeeded, so did she. “Fine.”
“Good. Now, we’re also going to redo your entire tour wardrobe.”
“What the fuck’s wrong with my stage costumes?”
“They’re sexy, yes, so you’re on the right track but they feel dated. I’ve hired a designer to come up with four or five outfits.”
“Jesus, Mollie. You’re spending all the money I haven’t made yet.”
“You need to trust me, Kyle. You have to spend money to make money.”
All this was starting to make me nervous, so I had to pull out another weapon in my arsenal. “But my fans—”
“Your fans would watch you perform in a gorilla suit. You need new fans, Kyle. You need to grow your audience, expand your horizons, and you’re not going to do that doing the same old thing. You have to do something new.” I scowled again and started walking even faster, even though my calves were on fire and screaming at me to stop. But I kept my mouth shut. I knew, at least on one level, that she was right. “You also need to hire another guitarist.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. My legs silently thanked me, but I wasn’t paying much attention right now. “Fuck, no, Mollie. I have a hard enough time keeping a damn band together. I don’t need another person in the mix. Besides, my guitar sounds bad ass enough. I don’t need someone else.”
She was still calm and cool and knew how to handle me. “Yes, Kyle, you don’t need someone else, but…I don’t want you stuck at a mike for your whole damn show with a guitar slung over your shoulders the whole time. Yeah, there are bands who do it and get away with it, and you’re going to their concerts for the music alone, but if you’re up there onstage moving, engaging the whole crowd, kinetic and constantly in motion, they’re going to feel like they were at a rockin’ show. Think about it, Kyle. Think about the shows you’ve seen over the past five years. Which ones were the best? And why?”
I started walking again, not wanting to be scrutinized by her pale face. And I was feeling in a bit of a snit, so I needed to move away from her so I wouldn’t say something just because I felt like a bitch. Mollie’s honesty often made me angry until I could calm down and evaluate its validity. And dammit…the woman was usually right. But that knowledge didn’t make me less angry.
Heeding her suggestion, I thought back over the past decade to the shows I’d attended, whether as a paying audience member or as a band on tour with other bands, and I knew she was right. Yeah, I loved the bands whose lead singer was also a guitarist but they did tend to be more stationary. Some of them, in fact, incited the audience to mosh harder to show their appreciation for the music, thereby taking their minds off the fact that music was happening onstage but not much else. Some bands used a lot of pyro or lasers too…but I knew that the bands whose concerts I’d enjoyed the most were the ones with the dynamic leads—the ones who wouldn’t stand still, who danced, who moved from one side of the stage to the other. I didn’t know why, but it made the concerts seem better, more alive. Being tied to a mike and a guitar would limit me. But there was one problem. “I don’t want to not play, Mollie. I got into this business because I love to play my guitar, not prance around onstage.”
She sighed as if having to explain every little detail to a child. “I’m not saying you won’t be using and playing your guitar. You just won’t do it all the time. You’ll have the option to put it down and move.”
We walked in silence for a long while before I said, “Okay, fine. But that means I have to start all over again—tracking down a guitarist, auditioning them, teaching them my shit.”
“Unless I already have one for you.”
I stopped walking again. She was probably tiring of it, but there were times I had to look her in the eyes and only in the eyes—not on the track, not on the trees. “What?”
“Ever hear of Kyle Chambers?”
I rattled around in my head. “The name’s familiar…but do we really need two Kyles?”
“He’s a hell of a player, Kyle, and he has no issues with sitting back and letting you take the limelight.”
“How would you know this?”
I glanced over at her and saw a slight smile on her face. “Because I already took the liberty of chatting with him…and told him I just had to talk you into it.”
I stifled a sigh. While she had good ideas, it would be nice if she would discuss them with me before making the decisions and then just working to convince me that they were good. “Okay, so you’ve hired a personal trainer and a guitarist…what else do you feel the need to tell me I need to do—that you’ve already fucking done?”
She laughed then, a huge belly laugh, and we paused. Did we leave the park and begin walking to the coffee shop, or did we stay outside? So far, I’d kept my temper in check—probably because what Mollie had to say was sound—but she was pushing her luck. I began to turn to the right, letting her know we were going to continue walking in the park.
After we’d walked a few feet, she said, “Since you mention it…”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, actually.” She waited a little bit, probably so that I would relax a little, and then said, “You want to climb the charts, right?” I nodded. “Like to number one?”
&nbs
p; “What musician wouldn’t?”
“That’s kind of how I felt. Have you heard of Jerry Reimer?”
“No. Don’t tell me. He’ll be a cellist you’re bringing on board.”
She began laughing again, this time, sustaining the laugh for a while. No, I wasn’t a comedian and I didn’t think my wisecrack was really that funny—which led me to believe that this was probably the most stressful idea Mollie had to sell me on…which was maybe why she’d saved it for last.
“He’s a songwriter.” That jogged something. Yeah…that name did sound familiar, but I didn’t know why. Most musicians were songwriters in one way or another.
“Okay. And?”
“He’s known for writing singles—and not just any singles. Singles that top the charts.” I nodded. That was probably why I’d heard of him. “In fact, he’s probably why Pepper J was able to move on to a solo career.”
Goddamn Pepper J. It was like the woman was haunting me. Why must her memory dog my every footstep?
But there was a more important issue at play here. “She’s a fucking pop star, Mollie,” I said, the phrase dripping with as much derision as I could infuse it with.
“Hip hop,” Mollie corrected, barely missing a beat. “He’s also written a lot of rock songs.”
I felt my inner skeptical beast rearing its head. “Like what?”
She began rattling off songs that I’d heard—mainly because of their popularity—and then I realized that I even liked a few of them. I never would have guessed they’d been written by the same person. And, before I could even say that, she added, “He’s a songwriter, yes, but he also rehabs songs.”
“Rehabs them?”
“Yeah. If you have a song you want to be a hit, you can give it to him and let him work his magic. But most artists work together with him to write songs as a team.”
I was in, whether I wanted to be or not. The idea of hitting number one on the charts wasn’t just a temptation—it was a goal, a dream. “What do you suggest I do?” And my inner smart ass couldn’t help herself. “And when is my appointment with him?”
Mollie smiled. “You just say the word and I’ll set it up.”
“Word.”
She nodded. “You actually agreed to something without an argument. Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Write it down, ‘cause it probably won’t happen again.”
But, little did I know, Mollie’s plans were going to change my life forever.
Chapter Twenty-four
MY TRAINER WAS kicking my ass, but I really was getting in great shape. I was jogging three miles a day—against my will—and weight training five days a week. Mollie wasn’t going to have my clothes made until a couple of months before tour, because she predicted that my measurements would change as I continued exercising.
Wes and Kyle were absolutely amazing. They were a great fit with me and Brandon and both were eager to please. In spite of the fact that my star hadn’t risen anywhere near where I thought it should, they acted like I was God. It was kind of cool but very surreal, and it was hard for me to get used to. I mean…don’t get me wrong. I knew I’d sold a lot of albums. I knew lots of people knew who I was. I knew I was “famous.” But still…these guys were professional musicians—or professional quality, at any rate, and they were now part of my band. To have them worship me like I was “Kyle the Great”—that was just weird and hard to get used to and, fortunately, it didn’t last forever.
The best part was that they were open to learning but also to offering suggestions for new things, and there was no drama. My days of drama were, I hoped, long behind me. Barbie had been the biggest culprit, but all of us girls in the Vagabonds had fallen prey to it. It was nice just being able to get together with my band and work. Honestly, though, it might have also been partially due to the fact that I was viewed as “the boss.”
We had settled for certain on five songs that we thought were solid and reflected true growth. Brandon and I had our own beliefs, based on past experience, but our new guys gave us their perspective as outsiders and they, too, thought we had some good stuff thus far.
And, about that time, I had my first meeting with Jerry Reimer. We met at the studio one morning. He wasn’t a quiet guy but he came across that way. He was probably in his forties, thinning light brown hair, medium build and definitely not the kind of guy you’d expect to be working in music. He looked instead like he should have been the manager of a KFC or a department store—or crunching numbers as a CPA. As I approached him that morning, he stuck out his hand. “Kyle Summers, we meet at last.”
“Hi, Jerry. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He grinned. “All lies, I tell you.”
I nodded. I knew he was joking, but he was completely deadpan. “Guess I better leave then.”
He got serious quickly, not even acknowledging that he’d been pulling my leg. “I’d like to hear the tracks you’ve got so far. Scratch or demo is fine. And would you consider co-writing a song or two?”
“Yeah, if it’ll help.”
There was no hesitation when he said, “I guarantee it will.”
Okay, so he seemed cocky, but while he listened to our scratch tracks, I let my mind wander over first what he’d said and second over what Mollie had mentioned before. The guy had the golden touch. Either he really did have keen insight into what made people find a song catchy and what made it go viral or he was luckier than hell and just riding the wave and continuing to get lucky until someone figured out that he was full of shit. With his track record and Mollie’s faith in him, though, I was willing to take a chance. Why? Because I’d already written hits in the past. I knew I had it in me. Top five? Top ten? No. But top one hundred was nothing to sneeze at, and I didn’t think he could ruin one of my songs. I had a steady fan base too—nothing like what I’d hoped for or wanted, but I had to have faith that they would buy my album no matter what. And Jerry? Based on what Mollie had told me, the guy had multiple songs he’d written that had been in the top ten.
But as the five songs progressed, I felt myself growing nervous. He wasn’t saying a word and there wasn’t really any kind of expression on his face. He could have been the world’s best poker player, because I had no fucking idea what he was thinking. Did he like the music? Hate it? Think it was viable, marketable, good enough for radio? Was he hearing past the rawness of the songs, imagining what the final cuts would sound like or did he think we were dreadfully amateur?
Yes, by the time the half hour was up, my stomach was gnawing at itself, wondering what the hell was going on in Jerry Reimer’s brain. “Let’s talk,” he said when it was all over. “Do you prefer iced tea, flavored coffee, or a stiff drink?” Before I could answer, he interjected, “I recommend against the stiff drink for now…although later I might be amenable to it.”
I managed a stiff smile but I was faking it. I was nervous as hell for some stupid reason and just wanted to know his thoughts. But I said, “I’m okay with whatever.”
“Then let’s go get some coffee. There’s a great coffee shop downtown that seems neglected, and I’d love to support it. I’ll drive.”
I wanted to ask—I really did—but I didn’t know how this guy worked yet. I also didn’t know if he enjoyed this torture or if he needed a little time to piece his thoughts together. In retrospect, I’m positive that was the case, and prolonging the agony for me gave him the time he needed to put his words together in a coherent fashion.
By the time we sat down, coffees in hand, though, I’m afraid I was desperate. I still managed to keep it stuffed inside, however, mainly for Mollie’s sake, because I wanted to make a good first impression. Jerry sipped at his coffee and finally said, “I believe I can work with you.” I let out a breath but my mind wrapped around those words. So today was just his way of evaluating the possibility of compatibility? Before my temper could get the best of me and just before I opened my mouth, he said, “The songs I listened to have lots of potential…but I think, so far, they
’re all B sides.”
I felt my heart float during the first half of his sentence and plummet at the end. My songs had potential but none of them should be played on the radio? Ouch. That hurt. A lot. And, oh, the unasked questions.
Now that he’d opened his mouth, however, I wasn’t going to get a comment in edgewise. “We could work on them, Kyle, bring them up to a level where I think they could be commercially viable, but that’s a lot of work—and you’ve already put your heart into them. I’d prefer to start fresh. I see the look on your face, and I know it’s a bit of a shock, but you need to hear those words. You and your band are talented musicians, and the songs I listened to are very good. Will they be catchy to your average listening audience, though? Do they have what it takes to rocket you to the top of the charts? I don’t think so. But not all is lost. I believe you and your band do have what it takes to get there. So…here’s what I think, if you’re agreeable to it.
“You and I—we work together. You and I write a new song together. You can come up with a riff; I’ll tell you where to take it. You can write the words and I can tweak them—or I can start from scratch. It makes no difference to me, but I want to be part of it from the beginning so I can influence where it goes. If it doesn’t work, then it too becomes an album filler.” He was honest—harsh, maybe—but he was matter of fact in his delivery and didn’t seem to have a mean-spirited bone in his body. “I would also like to write a song for your band—by myself—and see what you think.”
At this point, I wasn’t feeling broken, but I was most certainly feeling humbled. I knew what we had so far for the album was good, but I also knew that Jerry might be right, that maybe they weren’t the best of the best. That I was too close to the forest to see the trees meant that I might care too much about my babies—the songs I’d poured heart and soul into—and not realize that they weren’t the cream of the crop.
On the Rocks Page 15