by Meg Ripley
“Half a million more for the next album,” Dan said finally. “Guys—that’s not chump change and you all know it.”
“Neither is two billion,” I said, flicking the ash off the end of my cigarette in the general area of the ashtray. “But working with Juniper Woolf isn’t worth that, either.”
“Come on, Jules,” Alex said, looking me in the eye. “This could be really good for us.”
“Besides, apart from getting yourself involved with a drug ring like Mr. Alex North over here, or having sex with the rising music press star like Nick, what else can you do to promote us that would be better than putting aside your stupid fucking feud with Fran Chambers?” asked Mark.
I glanced at Mark. “I didn’t know it was my fucking job to promote us,” I told him. “I thought we had someone taking fifteen fucking percent from our royalties for that.”
“What’s your problem with her, anyway?” Dan looked up at me from his position on the floor, an eyebrow raised in query.
“Jules doesn’t need anything so petty as a reason to hate someone,” Nick said with a smirk. “He can judge someone’s worthiness within thirty seconds of meeting them.”
“He’s never made a decision that works against the interests of the band, though,” Dan countered. “I want to know where this all started.” I shrugged, leaning over the arm of the chair and reaching for the acoustic guitar I’d put aside when Ron had come in.
“She’s just an attention-seeking bitch and I can’t stand her,” I said, splaying my fingers over the fret board until I found the chord I wanted and picked at a few of the strings.
“They met like a year ago,” Nick told Dan. “We were out after one of the shows, and caught the tail end of Juniper Woolf.”
“So, what happened?” I kept playing, ignoring Alex’s question; it had been around about the time that Alex had been either in rehab—meeting his girlfriend Mary—or on the run from the main dealer in South Florida.
“She threw glitter at him from the stage,” Nick said with a shrug. “Apparently, she does that a lot.”
“Like I said,” I cut in, “she’s an attention-seeking bitch.”
“Did you get glitter in your eye or something?” Dan looked at me, incredulous. “I mean it’s not like we haven’t done some crazy shit to get attention.”
“You played an entire show in an Elvis costume,” Mark pointed out. “It wasn’t Halloween.”
“You guys were in costumes, too,” I said. “It’s not like I was the only person on the stage in a fucking costume.”
“But you still did it,” Alex insisted.
“Costumes are one thing,” I told him, shaking my head. “Throwing glitter at people? Christ.”
“Green glitter at that,” Nick said with a smirk. I stubbed out my cigarette and went back to playing.
“Can’t you put your stupid rivalry with her aside for a few months to get a deal for us?” I looked up at Alex and sighed.
“I will if she does,” I said, knowing I sounded petty as shit and not even caring. “Besides, she owes me an apology.”
“I doubt you’re going to get that from her,” Mark said, shaking his head.
“She’s not that bad,” Dan said. “I met her last week at Respectables up in West Palm.”
“The hell were you doing in West Palm?” I frowned at Dan.
“Girl I know works up there,” he said with a shrug. “Her car broke down and she needed a ride.”
“A ride or a ride?” In spite of myself, I laughed at Nick’s clarification.
“She got home safely in the morning,” Dan said, smiling slightly. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that Juniper Woolf was playing Respects and I chatted with them a bit afterward.”
“And what’s your verdict?” Alex looked from Dan to me and I played an off chord just to irritate him.
“They’re legit,” Dan said, shrugging. “Offstage, Fran’s pretty nice.”
“Did you give her a ride, too?” I gave Dan a significant look.
“She had a ride,” Dan told me. “Went home with the rest of her band after closing.”
“Jules,” Alex said, shifting in his chair and lighting a cig, “You’re the only holdout in the band. Come on, man—it can’t possibly be that bad. We’ll play a few joint shows with them, do a little PR bullshit, act like buddies for a few months, and get a huge fucking paycheck at the end of it all.”
“I think we should hold out for a full million,” Mark said, picking up his drumsticks and tapping a fast-paced staccato on the arm of his chair.
“They’re not going to give us a full million on top of our old budget,” Alex said, shaking his head. “A one and a half million dollar album? Are you crazy?”
“One million altogether is more than we’re worth for an album,” Dan added.
“If it was, we wouldn’t be getting it,” I pointed out. “They wouldn’t offer us that if they didn’t think we could make it back.”
“They think we can make it back between our sales and Juniper Woolf’s,” Nick said.
“Okay—let’s make this at least somewhat official,” Alex said, raising his hands in the air. “All in favor of taking the deal?” Nick, Dan, and Alex raised their hands. “All opposed?” I raised my hand. Alex looked at Mark sharply. “What about you, Marky?”
“I’m abstaining,” Mark said, grinning. “I don’t want anyone in the band pissed at me for backing the wrong side.”
“Come on, just fucking vote,” Alex told him. Mark looked at me, at Dan, and then at Alex.
“Fine,” Mark said finally. “I’m in favor of it, as long as Julian can keep from getting himself arrested for vandalism or something like that.”
“You’re the only holdout, Jules,” Alex told me.
“I thought we’d agreed that we either all agree on something or we don’t do it,” I pointed out; it was an old agreement in the band: if any one member of the band disagreed with a deal, or didn’t want to do something that impacted the whole band, we didn’t do it.
“That shit went out the window when everyone voted me into rehab,” Alex said, shaking his head. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d at least give it a fair chance.” I sighed and found another cigarette in my pack, lighting it as I considered. Alex was right; there was no point in holding out when everyone else in the band wanted to move forward with what we were doing.
“Make sure Ron has a lawyer on retainer for us,” I said as I exhaled a plume of smoke. “I have the feeling we’re going to need it. I’m in.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Everyone! Five minutes,” Ron called into the room. I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. It’s just a couple of months. That’s all. I glanced at the rest of my band mates; Alex looked pleased as punch, Nick had his usual too-cool-for-the-world expression, Mark might as well have been glowing, and Dan was scribbling something in a notebook, utterly relaxed. I was the only one in the room that was tense.
“All right,” I said, stretching against the tightness in my back. “Let’s get this stupid shit over with.”
As soon as I’d agreed to the arrangement from the record label, they’d put the final package together so fast that I figured they’d already had it planned before they even came to us. We’d announce our promotional tour at a press conference alongside the members of Juniper Woolf, and then there would be three months of dates around the country—New York, Florida, Oregon, Washington, California, and a few scattered across the mid-west. Along with that, we’d do a bunch of press, a bunch of interviews. And at the end of it, we were slated to release an EP with them, with songs recorded at the shows and potentially—if we could work together long enough—a co-written track.
“Remember, Julian,” Alex said, rising from his seat. “Smile.” I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t smile anyway,” I pointed out.
“Sure you do,” Mark countered, grinning at me. “You smiled for that girl in Paris last year.”
“That’s because sh
e had weed and wasn’t wearing a bra,” I told him. “Amazing what pot and the promise of a good lay will do to improve my mood.”
“If you’re good I’ve got some spare grass,” Nick told me, glancing in the mirror and adjusting the sleeve of his ripped tee shirt.
“Just as long as she doesn’t act like a little shit,” I said, glancing at the rest of the band significantly. “I’ll do my job.”
We went out into the conference area; a bunch of local press had gathered, along with some of the national music mags—I spotted Nick’s girlfriend in the crowd piled up in front of the long table, along with a few other magazine beat writers. The members of Juniper Woolf came out from the other side of the stage, and I was actually surprised at how normal they looked; Fran Chambers still stood out, with her violet-colored hair in a chin-length bob, but she’d managed to dress in normal clothes: a skirt that came down to just above her knees, a pair of Mary Janes, and a tee shirt ironically promoting Leading The Heroes—a band that had broken up two or three years prior, its members scattered across the country. The other three members of her band looked as average as average could be; I’d never paid enough attention to Juniper Woolf to learn their names.
We all sat down at the table in front of our individual microphones, and Ron started saying something to the press about our partnership with Juniper Woolf being great, fantastic, the best thing since digital recording. I tuned out, wishing I could have a cigarette, or maybe a beer.
“I think we’re all a bit surprised that these two bands would work together,” one of the journalists was saying, “in light of the ongoing feud between Fran and Jules.” The guy from Music Smasher looked directly at me. “How did this come about?”
“We heard that Juniper Woolf were signed to our label,” Alex said matter-of-factly. “And that makes us members of the same family now. Families feud from time to time, but they make up and love each other at the end of the day.”
“Besides,” Mark added from his spot, “we all come from the same local scene. We’ve known about Juniper Woolf for a long time now—and most of us in the band have nothing but respect for all of the band’s members.”
“We feel the same way about Molly Riot,” one of the other band’s members said. “They’re one of the South Florida scenes greatest success stories, y’know? It’s an honor to have the chance to work with them.”
“But what about the feud between Julian and Fran?” All the rest of the members of my band looked at me, and a quick glance told me that the rest of Fran’s band mates were looking at her, too.
“We’re burying the hatchet,” I said. “I can’t guarantee we’re going to be best friends, but let bygones be and all that.”
“I feel like the press always hyped up our so called ‘feud’ to seem like it was way more intense and serious than it really was, anyway,” Fran said, glancing at me. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew if I did, the press would latch on to my body language and make all of our lives worse. “Julian and I’ve both said the same things about each other that all the bands in the scene say about each other—it’s just one of those things that happens in a small, competitive scene when you’re all vying for the spotlight.”
“So, do you think you’re going to be able to work well together on the EP?” I shrugged, keeping my attention in front of me.
“I’m sure we can manage it,” Alex said, taking up his role as the band’s leader. “All of us are fucking pros. We can make this happen.” The questions kept coming but for the most part I continued to tune them out, glancing around the room at my band mates, and pretending to listen oh-so-intently to what was being said. As far as I was concerned, I’d done my part; I never really took much of a role in these interview-type things anyway, and the rest of the band did a decent job of promoting the most recent album, talking about touring, and talking about all the shit that went along with it.
I glanced at Fran once or twice; it was weird to see her in something other than her bizarre stage costumes. You had to figure she didn’t wear those getups all the time, I thought idly as the conference dragged on. At the very least a girl like that almost definitely sleeps naked. The strangest part of it was that she wasn’t wearing the severe, colorful makeup she normally had on from the moment she arrived at a venue. It was shocking how utterly normal she looked. Hell, if you squint, she actually looks cute. Fran was maybe all of 5’3”, with a body that I was sure she invested more blood, sweat, and tears into maintaining than half of the beach babes of Palm Beach combined. What’s her bra size, anyway? Like a D maybe? I tried to guess, but the tee shirt she wore didn’t give me much to go on.
“We’re looking forward to spreading the word about our music around the country,” Fran was saying, in answer to some question or another. “Our biggest priority right now is to make good on the potential the label saw in us, when our video went viral.” I smothered a snort. Juniper Woolf had written some kind of anthem for a local feminist group, and made a video of themselves performing it at a protest, getting the crowd to chant the chorus acapella when the cops shut down their sound system for violating the noise ordinances or something like that. The video had gotten something like a million views on YouTube, which was probably what had gotten them the contract in the first place.
The press conference finally came to an end, and the band and I headed back to the green room; Ron followed us, and I reached into my pocket for my cigarettes—I knew it was going to be a long talk. “So there’s a new item added to the package,” Ron told us as we settled into our seats. I lit up and took a deep drag, holding it in my lungs for a moment before I exhaled.
“What’s the new addition?” I looked at Dan sideways.
“Tour diary,” Ron said. “Well—promotional tour diary, anyway. You guys and Juniper Woolf will write up your experiences, or make videos—whatever you want—and they’ll get posted to both bands’ sites for fans.”
“Seriously?” Mark looked about as irritable as I felt. “We’re musicians, not journos.”
“No one’s expecting you to turn in a Rolling Stone level blog post,” Ron told him. I took another drag of my cigarette and didn’t look at him; as far as I was concerned, anything the record label added to the deal at this point couldn’t possibly be worse than the original plan anyway. “In fact, as long as you hit a minimum of 400 words in your post, you’re solid. Whatever you want to write about.”
“Could be fun,” Nick pointed out. “We could make a bunch of nonsense videos and shit. Pass the time between shows at least.”
“Do all of us need to do it?” Alex sounded surprisingly unwilling for a guy who’d sold out at the drop of a hat when the label dangled half a million for the next album.
“At least one post per day,” Ron said. “Like I said—four hundred words, or three minutes of video, whatever you want to do for your day. Decide amongst yourselves how to divvy it up.” Ron paused to let us all take that in and started to turn around to leave. “Juniper Woolf is coming over here in a few minutes,” he added, looking at all of us and then letting his gaze linger on me. “Behave.”
Fortunately for everyone, the band brought beers with them. I stayed in my chair when they came into the room, watching the four band members and trying to figure out what they were like beneath the personas they’d always assumed. Alex gave Fran a hug and they started talking about something—what, I had no idea; I waited for Mark to pass me a beer and lit another cigarette while the conversation went on all around me.
“Why so quiet, Jules?” I glanced at Nick, who’d buddied up with Juniper Woolf’s bass player.
“Just taking it all in, son,” I told him, shrugging. Nick threw himself down onto the couch next to me, leaning in close to my ear.
“Nate’s got some bomb weed, man. We were going to go out back and light up. You in?” I looked around the room; Alex obviously wouldn’t come with—he was doing the drug-free thing for the most part now, after his run-in with the dealers. Dan was busy nursing a beer
and talking to another member of Juniper Woolf, and Mark was nowhere to be seen.
“Sure,” I said. Maybe a little dope would make things look up a bit. Nick and Nate slipped out of the room first and I waited until it was obvious that no one noticed before I went after them.
Nick and Nate had already managed to get a bowl filled by the time I found them behind the building; Nate took his hit and passed it to me. It was pretty decent stuff—not as good as my brother grew, but I could hold it in my lungs for about a minute without hacking it all up. “So,” I said, as Nick took his turn, “what’s your take on this partnership thing?”
“It’s all marketing,” Nate said with a shrug. “We’re the bigger act, and of course between you and Frannie the shit-talking has been epic.” He grinned, taking the pipe from Nick and pausing to hit it again. He passed it to me, and I took my second hit. Nate blew out the smoke he’d pulled in and coughed. “Actually, it’s not a bad deal for anyone.”
“Did she pitch a bitchfest when she heard about it?” I raised an eyebrow as I blew out the last of the pot smoke in my lungs. I was starting to feel it, tingling in my ears, throbbing at the back of my eyes. Decent shit.
“Nah,” Nate said, shrugging. “She figured it’s the cost of doing business: sometimes you have to lick boots.”
“Which I’m sure she has no problem with as long as it’s for an audience,” I said as the pipe made its way around the circle again.
“You know—you actually should talk to her, Jules,” Nate told me. “When she’s not trying to get people to pay attention to her band, she’s a pretty dope chick.”
“That’s what they keep saying,” I said. Nick hacked and sputtered from a too-large hit.
“Dude, where do you think Nate got this from?” I shrugged.
“Fran’s roommate grows,” Nate told me quietly. “Sort of a home project—she’s more interested in the botanical part of it than the smoking. So we get all the free grass we can stand.”