Jesus. The girl’s self-worth was off the charts. It was then that I started calling her Barbie Doll in my head, after the iconic fashion-lusty doll with blonde hair and big boobs. The doll actually looked very much like my anti-friend. Barbie might have been selling a few albums because she oozed sex, but she was not the beginning and the end of the band.
Liz, ever cool, didn’t even crack a smile. “Would you like us to test that theory?”
Barbie rolled her eyes and flipped her hair back…but she stayed.
And the business of album number three began.
* * *
After a month of rehearsal—and slight changes, like always happened once we put all the elements of real people together—we were ready to record. We had a collection of twelve amazing songs—six of Liz’s and six of mine—and we knew this was going to rock the socks off our fans and, we hoped, win us a few new ones.
We had the green light from the label to begin, and we weren’t too far into the process when we noticed a couple of execs in and out of the studio while we were putting everything together. We thought it was odd but nothing to panic about; after all, it wasn’t the first time we’d had talking heads in suits observing what we did and making suggestions (or, rather, demands) about what songs would be our singles and in what order. We had some say in the order we’d arrange the songs on the album, but we could only give our recommendations about what songs would be good singles. We also had some input when it came to the videos…but, really, we had no control over most of that end—when it came time to record and tour, aside from putting together our set list and playing our asses off once we hit the road.
I considered wrestling Barbie for a song to sing as well but changed my mind because she and I were barely talking as it was—and, if anyone should have had the pleasure, it was Liz. She stuck with bass for that album also, although she did add some rhythm guitar to one song and played an acoustic intro to the song that we thought should be placed first on the disk. We knew tour plans were beginning to shape up, so when a few executives scheduled a meeting with us, we weren’t too concerned. We had never discussed touring plans with execs, because our manager usually took control of our lives at that point, so in regard to the meeting, we really had no idea what to expect.
Liz and I arrived early. Vicki was nowhere to be found (not unusual) and I just assumed Barbie would be late (also not unusual). There were three men and one woman in suits of varying neutral colors, ranging from black to light gray, and their faces all appeared to be carved of stone. We sat in a small room with one window, the walls off-white and the carpet and accessories a beige shade.
I was fairly certain that none of these folks listened to our music. Their asses were pinched closed way too tightly.
The tallest guy invited us to sit down and the woman (yeah, really, and her subservience just pissed me off) asked if she could get us something to drink. I shrugged and Liz said, “No, thank you,” but she had a young woman bring us a pitcher of ice water and glasses anyway. In the meantime, the tall guy began talking.
“Ladies, we’ve listened to your new tracks. They’re…quite different.”
“Thanks.” We were pretty proud of that fact.
“We’re glad to see some maturity and growth, but half of the songs are so different from the other half that we’re afraid we’re going to lose some listeners.”
One of the other guys, a man who looked like his hair was receding by the minute, added, “Scare them off.”
The tall guy nodded. Liz said, “We’re not getting rid of any songs.” I agreed, frowning and crossing my arms over my chest.
Tall guy said, “We’re not suggesting that. But…in terms of marketing, we need to narrow your focus. Your fans are going to be confused enough.” Okay, let’s pause here. I had faith in my fans, but I didn’t have any experience in terms of marketing, so I knew I couldn’t really argue. I had an emotion, a sense to back up anything I might have said, and so I felt like I didn’t have any expertise in the matter. I hadn’t thought that I had experience as a fan of other bands that I could use in my defense. I just figured I needed to keep my mouth shut, no matter how pissed or defenseless I was feeling.
Fortunately, Liz was able to talk and ask questions for both of us. “What do you have in mind exactly?”
Before tall guy could resume, the assistant opened the door and Barbie popped in the room, waltzing over to the table as though she were the queen and deserved the spotlight. “So what did I miss?”
I saw Liz’s jaw clench but she didn’t say a word. I almost popped off and said something rude and sarcastic but felt out of my element. The woman in the suit said, “Ms. Bennett, please have a seat and hopefully you’ll get up to speed just by listening.” Barbie frowned but she was no dummy. She took the hint and sat. She did a little squirming and adjusting, just to keep attention on her, but she didn’t say a word.
Tall guy continued. “I’m sure you already know that there is a huge rift between your two sets of songs. It’s quite obvious that they were written by two different people. Do they both sound like the Vagabonds? Well…yes, but for different reasons, and it’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s difficult to rectify the differences, to really get a good handle on the direction we need to go. And so we have a proposal, but we need the band to make a decision.”
I felt my stomach sink as though the water I’d poured down my throat had mixed with concrete. I still didn’t say a word. The third guy who hadn’t spoken yet finally opened his mouth. “I don’t know if you ladies have ever listened to an old vinyl recording or a cassette tape.” Well, duh. We might have been raised in the era of CDs and MP3s, but we weren’t total strangers to vintage music. Both Liz and I nodded, and Barbie—well, she tilted her head and grinned, trying to look cute. “As you might know, there were two sides to both and when a single was released, there was an A side and a B side. The A side was the single…but, to get maximum value for the sale, a song that would never get radio play was put on the B side—the idea being that, if someone bought several singles instead of the album, he’d have to buy all the singles one at a time instead of one small record with two singles on it.” Yeah, it made sense. “The weaker songs on the album constituted the B side.” I raised my eyebrows and he added, “Weaker, meaning harder to market to fans. That doesn’t mean they weren’t any good. In fact, some of the best songs were B sides, heard only by true fans.” Nice save.
Tall guy resumed. “Right now, the Vagabonds are at a crossroad. We’re not going to tell you which fork in the road to take, but you will have to take one, and there will likely be no turning back.” I felt like I was a little rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights, unsure of which way to go, because either way could mean death. But I let him continue. “The two different kinds of songs on your latest album represent a dichotomy, and, after much analysis, we don’t think we can sell both. We believe we can sell either, but the two different sets of songs will be listened to by two different sets of fans. There’s the pop-punk music, written by Liz, that will, frankly, appeal to a more mainstream audience, but then there’s the heavier music, written by Kyle. The listeners who buy heavier music might not be mainstream, but they’re loyal. Long term, we see the potential for both. We want you, as a band, to choose which sets of songs you want us to promote, and we’ll do it.”
Well, of course, I wanted my music to be what was the virtual A side, and I was sure Liz felt the same way. In all fairness, Liz had started the band and it had been her music that had gotten us where we were today, and I should have said so right then…but I knew I’d written some amazing music, songs that I didn’t want relegated to obscurity, to what felt like the dark side of the moon. I looked down at the table, not sure what, if anything, I should say. But Barbie took the pause as a reason to speak. “We gotta go with Liz’s stuff. It’s easier for me to sing and it’s catchier, you know? It’s the kind of shit a girl will walk through the mall singing ‘cause it’s stuck in her head. Kyle
’s is good, but it’s headbanging stuff.” She tilted her head toward me. “No offense.”
Well, offense was definitely taken, but I wasn’t going to say it. This was a band decision and Barbie did, after all, have to sing the tunes. Liz said, “Even if we decide Kyle’s stuff is going to be B side doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be singing some of them on the road, Barbie.”
I clamped my teeth down on my tongue because I saw then the writing on the wall. Even though no one had said it as yet, they viewed my music as less marketable because it was heavier.
I was a rebel so I refused to let it hurt. Instead, I told myself, their loss. And then I fucked the shit out of CJ that night, in between swigs of schnapps and puffs of pot, to drown out the pain caused by what felt like rejection.
If only the fans had had a chance to vote.
Chapter Forty-five
IT WAS A routine I could now easily slip into, but life on the road had its own set of rules. We didn’t pack much in the way of clothes, because we did our own laundry while on tour. I, for one, didn’t want to pack around a shitload of dirty laundry, nor did I want to wash several loads once a week. About every four or five days, I’d have to do a load, and we were fortunate enough to have plenty of places where we could do it. Sure, we probably could have paid the hotels to wash our clothes, but I wasn’t feeling famous enough to demand that someone wash my dirty panties.
I didn’t know that I’d ever want someone else washing my underwear.
CJ and I had parted once more with our “on the road” agreement—what happened on the road stayed on the road and didn’t affect our feelings for one another. Or so that was the plan…but it shredded my heart.
I couldn’t think about it.
And, as usual, I drowned myself in the music, in drugs and alcohol, and in sex to relieve the ache I felt…the hollow spot where thoughts of CJ should have been.
Barbie and I hardly ever talked anymore and, when we did, it was usually because we were bickering. Liz kept to herself and so did Vicki, but for entirely different reasons. I was surrounded by dozens of people on tour—bodyguards, a manager, assistants, a makeup and hair woman, roadies, tech crew, and my bandmates—and yet I had never felt so lonely. When I wasn’t chemically altering my state, I was writing, pouring myself into music, the place where I always belonged.
But it was starting to feel like it wasn’t enough.
Even the weekly phone call with my parents wasn’t enough to ease the pain, because I hid my negative feelings from them. I didn’t want them to worry, so I pretended everything was okay.
I tried focusing on positive things. I was writing—a lot. I was also reading a lot. I’d talk with CJ on the phone once in a while too, but I never felt like I could talk to him as though he were my boyfriend. We were merely friends when we were on the road, so I wouldn’t even say sexually suggestive things to him. We kept it light and friendly.
But midway through the tour, I had had enough. The Vagabonds might have been a band, but we were no longer sisters. We were like strangers—and I didn’t know how to fix it. I was angry that my music was regarded as less important and less viable, even though showcasing Liz’s music had been the decision of all of us. And I didn’t even feel justified when our album was panned in reviews. I couldn’t figure out why critics hated the album, and it pissed me off. But I was also upset that the more things had changed, the more they’d stayed the same. Vicki’s drug use was just the beginning.
Barbie was getting to be too much, and I was sick and tired of her ego.
One afternoon, the three of us were waiting for Barbie. We were standing in the hotel lobby, hanging around until she bothered to show. Even drugged-out Vicki managed to get the call time right and be there on time, but Barbie was nowhere to be found. Mollie joined us, ready to go along for the ride, and asked, “Where’s Barbie?”
Liz shrugged. “I don’t know. I texted her a few minutes ago.”
Mollie called her and got no answer. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I so wanted to say something but, as usual, I had to bite my tongue. I think I got more frustrated with Barbie than the other women in our band did. They just accepted it as part of who she was, but I felt like she didn’t care enough about us to be on time. She didn’t care about us or the fans or anything. It was all Barbie, Barbie, Barbie.
And I’d had enough.
Just a couple of minutes after Mollie left, Barbie showed up…and that was too bad for her. I was done. “So fucking glad you could grace us with your presence, Barbie.”
“Fuck off, Kyle. It’s not like you guys left yet.”
“Yeah, because we were waiting for your lame ass.”
“We’re always at the venue ridiculously early. I don’t need that much time to find my center, get right with the universe, and get my shit together so I can perform. I just need the damn mike in my hand.”
“Bottom line, bitch—we have a call time, and you need to be here for it.”
“You’re not my boss, Kyle. So knock it off.”
Mollie appeared in the lobby again. “Technically, Bennett, you’re all on equal footing. And if these girls wanted to vote you out, there’s not a damn thing you could do about it.”
It was one of the few times I’d seen Barbie speechless. Her jaw almost dropped. But then I saw a flash in her eyes. “Oh, yeah? Well…you can’t fire me, ‘cause I fucking quit.” She turned on her three-inch black vinyl boots and stomped past Mollie, bumping her shoulder as she passed. That too was a statement.
Liz and I looked at each other. Quitting was one thing, but three hours before a show? Liz swiped at her phone a couple of times and then lifted it to her ear. Finally, she said, “That’s low, even for you, Barbie.” And she hung up and looked at me. Vicki looked ready to puke and Mollie was furiously texting—she might have been texting Barbie, but it could have been the press for all I knew. Liz’s jaw flexed before she said, “We’ve done it before. I could cover vocals.”
I felt my eyes widen. “And bass?” The three of us were used to singing backup to Barbie’s lead and, yeah, on our first tour, we’d muddled through a concert when she’d passed out. I didn’t know that we could do it now. But Liz believed in her abilities…and no way was I going to crush her spirit. So I nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.” And, in spite of Mollie’s unspoken misgivings, we headed to the arena, ready to put on a hell of a show, with or without our insane, narcissistic lead singer. Ex lead singer.
But, just as I was starting to feel positive about it, Barbie showed up—about forty-five minutes before we were expected on the stage. When she appeared in the green room, Liz asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m ready to work. What’s it look like?”
“You quit, remember?”
God, Vicki looked nervous again, but I didn’t know why. The show would go on—with or without Barbie. The girl just had to keep the beat for us.
Liz was handling the situation just fine without my mouth getting involved, so I continued pacing near the wall like I had been.
“I was obviously just joking.”
“Hmm. Obviously.” Liz sucked down a deep breath of air. “I’m tempted to tell you to get the hell out of here. You think we need you—but we don’t. If you stay…it’s with the knowledge that we don’t need you. We’re fine without you. You want to be the voice of the Vagabonds? Then grow the hell up, Barbie. I’m sick of your shit.”
I had to jump in then. “Make that two of us.”
Vicki crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “Yeah.”
Barbie almost looked hurt but then jutted out her chin and walked out of the room. We didn’t know if she’d walked again until we were all four onstage. But she performed only. There was no conversation, no friendly banter. And she begged the audience for love, as if trying to show us how important she was.
It didn’t matter how vital she thought she was. She’d been willing to walk away, and that was all I needed to know. And e
ven she couldn’t help our flailing album get better reviews.
Early critiques of our album described the music as “schizophrenic” and “indecisive,” but later ones simply called the music “overdone” and “boring.” Neither Liz nor I pointed the finger, but she thought we needed to keep a “steadier” sound on the road.
“What do you mean?”
“Well…kind of like how our singles are one sound? Maybe touring needs to sound that way too.”
And thus began the downward spiral, because my music stopped being played. I began feeling like no one liked what I’d written and I began drinking more, fretting more. I almost even stopped believing in myself…until one night a few weeks later. I was sitting alone in my hotel room, drinking whiskey one shot at a time and plucking at my guitar strings. Some stupid movie was playing on the TV, but it was just background noise. My head was leaning against the headboard. I was waiting for merciful sleep to overtake me.
And then I saw my phone light up. I glanced over and saw that it was CJ. Just seeing a text from him made me smile. Hey, pretty lady. How’s it going?
Oh. No way could I tell him how I was really feeling. I’m okay. How are you?
My phone rang less than a minute later. “What’s wrong, Kyle?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“I know you. So spit it out.”
I was quiet for a moment and then just poured it all out, telling him about our reviews and the direction the band was taking. “I’m not going to be happy if all I play is this bubblegum shit.”
“You ever think about doing a side project?”
I considered it for a few moments. “No. I wouldn’t have time.” That was true. While lots of other bands had long hiatuses, we never did. We had a little downtime between albums, but, for the most part, we worked our asses off, leaving no time for the grass to grow under our feet.
On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) Page 28