“Just a thought. And, maybe if you tell your bandmates that this new direction is killing you, they’ll make time for you to do a side project…you know, something to feed your soul.” It was at that moment that I realized what a poet CJ was—for him to know and feel what I was going through meant a lot.
Maybe a conversation with my bandmates was in order…because CJ had hit the nail on the head. I felt like my soul was dying.
Chapter Forty-six
WE HAD TWO months of tour left in the U.S., followed by a month-long leg in Europe. It was time to have that conversation that CJ had suggested. I wasn’t going to discuss it with the whole band, though. Barbie was loving the music Liz had written (and she’d been quite vocal about the fact that she didn’t much like the harder music I’d written anyway), and Vicki…well, Vicki couldn’t have contributed to a conversation about an apple at that point. Harsh, yes, but she was too far gone.
So I asked Liz if she was up for coffee and a chat and, of course, she was. As we walked down the street to a little hometown coffee shop (so different from all the Starbucks we’d grown accustomed to but no less welcome), Liz said, “What’s been bothering you, Kyle?”
I forced a smile. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
We walked in the door of the shop, immediately noticing the stuffiness. It was a little too warm in there—appreciated at first when walking in from the cool fall air—but it felt oppressive quickly. We were trying to ignore that, instead whiffing in the smell of roasted coffee beans and baked breakfast muffins.
Soon, though, we were sitting at a little table near the door (where the occasional customers coming and going relieved some of the unbearable heat in the room), biting into muffins and sipping lattes. I was focusing on peeling the paper off the gigantic muffin but I said, “I haven’t been enjoying myself lately as much as I used to.”
“Yeah. You’ve always seemed to love touring more than the rest of us.”
I nodded and looked up. “Please don’t take offense at this, Liz, but it’s the music.”
She was rotating her cup between her fingers as it sat on the table—it was an absentminded gesture, but I got the feeling she wasn’t ready to drink the beverage. “What do you mean?”
“You write great music—don’t get me wrong—but not being able to play my music is killing me.”
She was quiet for a good half a minute before she spoke…and then I knew her words were well-chosen. “But you’ve been playing my songs for several years before this. Why is it bothering you now?”
We hadn’t been playing any of my songs on the tour like we’d planned. That was just the start of it, but that wasn’t the main reason. “We’re only playing a couple of our old songs. We’re mostly playing the new stuff. And we’ve become a lot more mainstream, Liz. It feels like we’ve sold out.”
Her brow furrowed as she invested her attention in her cup again. “We haven’t sold out, Kyle. If we had, we’d still be writing and playing music that sounded like our first album.”
I clenched my jaw at her half-lie. She and I both knew that was mostly bullshit, because I didn’t know that Liz could write stuff like that anymore. We’d grown too much as a band, learned too much about music and what sounded good—even what resonated with fans. She could no more go back and write music like she had at sixteen and seventeen than she could wear the clothes she’d worn at age five. It was next to impossible.
“Maybe we haven’t actually sold out, but it feels that way…but we’re not actually gleaning any new fans like we’d expected.” I was skirting around the other issue, which was that none of our fans seemed to like this album—well, the diehard ones, yeah, but overall we’d been panned pretty badly for this album. I wasn’t going to tell Liz her music sucked—and I didn’t necessarily feel that way—but I was tired of playing it. “But that’s beside the point. The songs…I don’t know why, but they’re depressing the hell out of me—and it’s not because they’re not mine. There’s just something about them that makes me sad.”
Liz continued twisting her cup while I pinched off a bit of muffin that, as I stared at it, I realized I didn’t want to eat. I had no appetite. We sat there for quite some time in silence, while I wondered what the hell was happening in Liz’s head. All that quiet grew quite heavy until she finally said, “Because they’re mine?”
I blinked, realizing she’d finally spoken. I was going to pop off an answer, insisting that no, it wasn’t for that reason (and I’d just said as much), but maybe it was. Maybe I was depressed because I’d been pushed to the back burner. So I replied, “I don’t know.”
This was one of those times I hated how hard it was to read Liz. All these years and I still couldn’t get a bead on her sometimes. “What about them is bothering you?”
I looked down at her fingers loosely wound around her cup and gave her question a lot of thought. It wasn’t the words; Liz was a powerful poet and always had been. She was the modern equivalent of what I imagined beatnik poets to be like: Original. Unusual. Creative. Against the grain.
But then I knew…almost as if the heavens had parted and shone down on me with the answer.
It was the music. And, God, when compared with the beauty and depth of Liz’s words, it sounded shallow. I wasn’t sure how to explain it, but I realized in that moment that I was what others would later dub a music snob. I didn’t have that term to grab hold of then, but I struggled to explain. “I don’t know how to put it, Liz, except to say that…” I paused. I needed to go gingerly, and I was instead getting ready to trample. “You know how your tastes develop as you mature…and sometimes you don’t know why you like something? Like…I always remember getting ice cream cones with my mom and dad. My dad always got vanilla, and mom and I always got chocolate. I thought, Why the hell would you get vanilla when chocolate’s available? Dad told me vanilla was his favorite. I just didn’t get that when I was little. Now that I’m older, though…I know we all have different things we like—and not everyone likes chocolate as much as I do. Other women don’t like the same kinds of guys I do or clothes or food.” I paused. “What kind of coffee did you get?”
“Vanilla latte.” She almost smiled. “I suppose you got a mocha.”
I too almost smiled but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it…because of what I had to say next. “Yeah.” I sighed. “My point is that—well, I love a song based first on the music. I hope you know that I respect the hell out of you as both a lyricist and a musician, and you are beyond talented.” I almost said but when I realized that might be the worst thing to say, so instead I said, “I’m drawn to a song by how it makes me feel—not the words. Words in a song don’t affect me like words in a book. It’s the music first, and the music fills me with emotion—sometimes it’s hope or happiness or anger or love but sometimes it’s sadness. And I think there’s a reason for every song, and I love that a song can move me like that. I’m never amazed at how my favorite songs can pull me out of the depths. And I’ve always been that way. I have no way of knowing how I’m going to feel about a song just by looking at the notes on paper. I have to listen to it, let it infuse my soul, and I usually have to hear it several times before I know if I love it or not.” I looked Liz straight in the eyes then, because I wanted her to know I was down to the innermost part of me. “Just because I don’t love the music on this album doesn’t mean I don’t love or respect you, Liz. It’s an emotional connection, one that I can’t change.”
And then it felt like someone opened the refrigerator door. I’d never sensed such a coldness from Liz before, but it was clear to me that she hadn’t taken my words well. To this day, I don’t know any other way I could have said it or worded it and I don’t know that I could have been more sensitive. I do know this: Liz gave me a cursory answer, said we needed to get back, and suggested that maybe we could look at a different tactic for the next album.
I couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but I knew I’d hurt Liz—deeply and irrevocably and in a way
she might never have recovered from…I’d never know for sure, because she never talked about it.
But I already knew what Liz was thinking deep down, and even though we still had a few months of tour left, it was clear—this was the beginning of the end.
“Look So Pretty” ~ Kittie
Chapter Forty-seven
FUCKING BARBIE. ONE month of tour left and she walked. She was “done,” she said, and she had some guy in a white Maserati pick her up outside the hotel where we were staying—the top was down and Barbie jumped in, sliding her sunglasses over her eyes before giving him a peck on the cheek. She made sure to flip off Liz and me before they sped off.
She hadn’t even taken her luggage (although, I found out later, she picked it up after we were at the venue).
It felt surreal.
That was the kind of exit I’d expect from Barbie, though—overly dramatic and way over the top.
But Liz couldn’t believe it. First she texted Barbie and then Mollie. Vicki stood inside the hotel with a confused look on her face, her hands shaking. She reminded me of someone sixty years her senior. She seemed frail and not quite with it when she asked me, “So is the tour over then?”
I frowned and shook my head. We’d done it before without Barbie and we could do it again.
Mollie was pissed. She first called Barbie and then dialed what I called “Central Headquarters” and told them to cut Barbie off the payroll effective immediately. Of course, we knew she’d still earn her royalties, but she was to get no more touring proceeds. Mollie even said something about breach of contract, but I didn’t care. I was glad Barbie was gone. Her self-absorbed energy had been vampiric.
The four of us sat in Mollie’s room and once the calls had been made, Mollie said, “I need to know how you three want to handle this.”
Liz said, “The show must go on.”
I added, “We’ve been here before.” As much as I hated pulling Liz into my focus (because I could tell she was still monumentally pissed at me), I asked, “Do you want to cover vocals or is there something else you’d rather do?”
Her jaw clenched and, when she answered, she didn’t look at me, instead focusing on the table top. “I can sing.”
Mollie asked, “Do you want us to hire a traveling bassist?”
“No. I can do it.”
She obviously didn’t know Liz very well, because she said, “If you’re worried about the cost—”
“No. I’m concerned about our reputation. I don’t want someone up there who’s not a Vagabond.”
And so, shaky or not, we became a threesome, finishing out the American leg of our tour.
* * *
Three days before we planned to fly to Europe so we could finish out what to me had become a dismal joke, Mollie said we were meeting Barbie for lunch to discuss the possibility of her coming back. I said, “Fuck, no,” before we even left and Mollie half-glared at me, telling me to have an open mind.
I bit my tongue. I knew I was being negative, but I was ready to check out as it was. Liz no longer talked to me; I was playing music that was killing me; and Vicki looked more and more like death warmed over every day. Barbie’s return would likely drive me to want to leave the band myself. Her presence was toxic and at least when she’d been gone, I had felt relief from her negative aura.
But Mollie was, for all intents and purposes, my boss on the road, so I stuffed it down and showed up to the meeting on time. We were seated at a round table near the back of the restaurant, our bodyguards at a nearby setting. Barbie was on time and that alone surprised me. I’d never known her to be punctual. But that was the only thing different about Barbie. The attitude and the words coming out of her mouth were nothing new.
After our orders had been taken, Mollie explained that she and Barbie had been talking over the phone about her situation, and Barbie had asked to return. I suspected it was because she’d never been to Europe and wanted a free ride…but, again, I kept my mouth clamped shut. Mollie said, “Barbie, do you want to tell these ladies what you and I have discussed?”
“Yeah, sure.” She acted humble and soft-spoken, but she wasn’t fooling me. She batted her eyelashes. Sorry, sweetheart. That might work on all the guys enamored of you, but I can see right through your bullshit. I’m sure all my feelings were plastered on my face, and I didn’t care—but, sticking with my promise—I shut my mouth and listened. “I’m sorry I abandoned you guys. You’re my life.” Yeah…I was definitely calling bullshit. “I was, uh, under the influence of a guy I thought I was in love with.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Mr. Maserati?”
She blinked. I could tell she’d had her little spiel all planned out, and I wasn’t supposed to interrupt her or ask any questions. She looked confused for a second, until she understood my reference. “Oh, yeah.” I nodded and then she continued, but I could tell she was a little rattled. “Anyway, he talked me into—really, he coerced me into leaving with him on a wild adventure.” I thought back to that day, the way she’d jumped into the car and flipped us off after kissing the guy on the cheek, probably leaving a big red mark on his skin from her lipstick. Coerced? I was sure Barbie had twisted the facts in her mind so that she could believe the bullshit she was spewing out, but she had to believe we too were dumb asses if we’d swallow it. “He was a real sweet talker and convinced me that he’d take good care of me and I’d never want for anything…said he loved me.” She looked down at the tabletop, blinking once more. God, she was a lousy actress. I was ready to puke, but as I glanced around the table, I saw that they were all buying her story. Maybe I was the only one equipped with a Barbie Bullshit Radar. I was getting ready to call her on it too when she added, “He was abusive. I—I don’t want to go into a lot of details. I told Mollie some of them, but I…it was something I shouldn’t have done. And I’m going to get counseling when I get home. But anyway…I wanted to apologize for abandoning the Vagabonds. That was wrong.” Damn straight it was wrong. “I promise I’ll never do it again.”
Liz, as always, gave no indication of what she was thinking, but Vicki was crying and holding Barbie’s hand. Mollie too looked moved by Barbie’s stupid little speech and their reactions were likely what pushed me over the edge. I remembered back to the times Barbie had threatened to quit before and the times we’d had to cover her ass. I couldn’t forget all the times she’d reminded us of how important she thought she was to the band—and yet, we were often her last priority. Real or not, her story failed to move me like it visibly had two of the women at our table. Just as the waitress was bringing our food to the table, I said, “That’s complete bullshit, Barbie.” I saw just a glimmer in her eyes—enough to know that I had indeed called her bluff and she knew I had her number. That was all it took for me to continue. “You have abandoned this band more times than I can count. It wasn’t always physical abandonment. I don’t know how many times you were happy to sell the rest of us up the river if it meant some gain to you.”
Mollie had an apologetic look on her face as the waitress placed our entrees on the table. She had hesitated, thanks to me, and Mollie had waved her on. I think she was going to try to stop the conversation so as to ease the embarrassment and discomfort for the waitress, but it wasn’t going to happen. Our ex-vocalist blinked. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through. How dare you!” At that point, I wondered how long Barbie would keep up the charade. It wasn’t for me. I’d already determined that most, if not all, the story she’d fed us was a lie, but she was probably convinced that the other girls hadn’t figured it out yet.
I almost raised my voice louder but then realized I needed to keep it low. We didn’t need to draw attention to ourselves. “I think you made half that shit up. But that doesn’t matter.” I looked at the people who’d been with me throughout the tour—Mollie, Vicki, and Liz—and said, “I’m sorry, but I refuse to work with her anymore. She’s negative and she’s toxic and she’s like a loose cannon. How long before another excuse comes along and sh
e’ll abandon us again? Well, I for one am sick of it, and I won’t take it anymore. I’m done.” I stood, unable to eat my lunch and unwilling to do it at this table anyway.
Mollie said, “Where do you think you’re going, Kyle? You can’t go.” Her tone then was that of a manager—someone in charge and bossy as hell.
Her words simply flamed the ire burning in my belly. “It’s her or me.”
I started to turn when Vicki, in between Barbie and me, grabbed my arm. Her voice was weak when she said, “Kyle, please don’t go.” I searched her eyes, trying to figure out how to deliver the final blow, when she turned her head to look at Mollie. I hadn’t noticed until the words were out of her mouth that she was avoiding eye contact with Barbie. “If Kyle goes, I go.”
I don’t remember the rest of the words flung at me, because I managed to remove my arm from Vicki’s grasp and walk away. One of the bodyguards was hollering at me, telling me to wait, but no way was I turning back around.
And, even though the European leg of the tour went off without a hitch, sans Barbie, I could feel it in my bones that it was the beginning of the end for the Vagabonds.
“Make Me Wanna Die” ~ The Pretty Reckless
Chapter Forty-eight
IF OUR DISMAL reviews and semi-shitty performances hadn’t spelled disaster for us, Barbie’s nasty interviews would have. She was painting us (and, in particular, me) as the villains, but fortunately a few of the interviewers clarified that she had willingly left. I didn’t feel like I could refuse to talk to any of the press who called, because she was trashing us as much as possible, and I felt like we needed to defend ourselves.
When we got back to the states, I packed up my shit. Liz’s shoulder had grown far too cold, and CJ had already told me I could crash at his place until I got my own place. I considered moving back with mom and dad, but they’d downgraded to a small two-bedroom house during my last tour. They’d said it wasn’t because of money but because they didn’t need the space. After spending a good deal of their adult lives on the road, I couldn’t understand that. Once you’d had the entire world as your backyard, it was hard to be cooped up in a tiny space…but it was their choice, not mine. I know they would have welcomed me back with open arms, but they would hate my habits—a couple of beers at night to wind down, a pack or two of cigarettes a day, all that jazz. Oh, and sex. If there was a chance to get laid, I wasn’t turning it down. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I’d grown pretty choosy and, of course, there was only one guy in the Colorado Springs area I was interested in.
On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) Page 29