Your Rhythm

by Katia Rose

  We hang up after that and I bolt for the metro, riding the orange line up to Sherbrooke Station and hurrying across the street to our rehearsal space. It’s been snowing all day, and the tips of my fingers are numb by the time I make my way down the outside staircase to the basement.

  The snow must have held the other guys up because only Ace is here, slumped over his guitar on one of the musty couches. He strums a few half-hearted chords as I stomp the snow off my boots and toss my coat down beside him.

  “How was the interview?” he asks, pushing the sand-coloured hair out of his eyes. We look similar enough that most reporters ask if we’re brothers.

  “You mean how was your interview?”

  He shrugs. “I said I was sorry. I forgot.”

  “You’re lucky Shayla didn’t.”

  If our manager hadn’t thought to check up on him and call me in as backup, we would have missed the La Gare interview entirely. I should push him for a better apology, but I let it go. We don’t just look like brothers; we act like them too. After so many years, Ace has gotten used to having Big Brother Matt around to bail him out.

  It doesn’t seem to matter that the fucker’s two months older than me and pretty much the face of the band. If there’s a mess to clean up, I’m the guy to call. At this point I just consider it taking one for the team. Sherbrooke Station is worth the hit to my pride that comes with being Ace’s unofficial babysitter.

  Speaking of which, he seems to be having some trouble sitting straight on the couch right now.

  “God Ace, are you drunk? It’s not even six yet.”

  “I’m not fucking drunk, man.”

  As if to prove it, he runs his hands over the frets in a complex flurry of finger-picking that would make even an experienced player’s jaw drop. I’m not impressed, though. I know he could play that thing blind drunk, in the pitch dark, with one hand tied behind his back.

  Lately, he manages at least the first of those three on an almost daily basis.

  After satisfying himself, if not me, he goes to lean on the arm of the couch and misses by a few inches, falling forwards over the neck of his guitar and narrowly saving himself from a face plant.

  “Fucking hell, Ace. You’re pathetic.”

  “Hey,” he chuckles, clearly amused with his lack of depth perception, “at least I’m here.”

  True. At least there’s that.

  The door opens and JP slips into the room, doing the same boot stomping routine as me and letting out a string of expletives like only a born and raised Quebecois can.

  “Osti de câlice de tabarnak! Il fait tellement froid, là! My hands are gonna fucking freeze right off, man.”

  Something about the cold here makes everybody swear more. I don’t think I’ve heard JP go more than three sentences without dropping some kind of profanity since January. Being the band’s little ray of sunshine that he is though, he’s usually got one of his huge-ass JP grins plastered across his face as he cheerfully curses the shit out of everything.

  “It’s March already,” he groans, dusting the snow off the ridiculous trapper hat he’s always wearing. “It’s supposed to be springtime, eh?”

  “You know what they say,” I tell him, “in like a lion, out like a lamb.”

  He gives me a blank stare.

  “Or maybe you don’t know what they say,” I amend. “It’s an expression.”

  He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Anglos. You guys say the weirdest shit.”

  “Where’s Cole?” Ace mutters.

  “Probably hanging around Roxanne’s cafe, as usual,” answers JP.

  I raise an eyebrow. “I thought they called it off again?”

  “Maybe. Who knows?” JP lets out a yawn. “They’re like a broken light switch, those two— always off, always on.”

  “Broken light switch...” Ace mumbles, hands straying across the fret board again.

  “If you’re thinking that’s a good idea for a song,” I tell him, “it’s not.”

  He strums a few sullen notes in answer. JP pulls a ham sandwich out of god knows where. I spend the next few minutes listening to him ‘mmm’ appreciatively after every single bite as Ace continues with his discordant serenade. Cole’s entrance into the room is a welcome interruption.

  “Merde,” he swears, his dark eyes hidden behind fogged-up glasses, “that’s a cold one.”

  “As a witch’s teat!” JP shouts around a mouthful of ham.

  I shoot him a look and he returns it with an aloof tilt of his chin.

  “It’s an expression,” he says slowly. “Maybe you don’t know what they say.”

  I just shake my head and tell him he’s an idiot.

  “I won’t deny that, mon gars, I won’t deny that.” JP turns to Cole. “How’s Roxy?”

  Cole grimaces and stomps away to his bass, slinging it over his shoulder before taking a seat in the chair next to me and starting to tune the strings.

  “Trouble in paradise?” I prompt.

  All I get for an answer is a resentful, “Fuck off.”

  I get up from my armchair, sliding my sticks out of my pocket and heading over to the drum kit set up in a corner of the room.

  “Well now that we’re all here,”—I pause to stare pointedly at Ace—“physically, if not mentally, shall we get started?”

  “We don’t have the synth here anymore,” JP complains. “Why are we even here anyways?”

  He waves his hands to indicate the busted up furniture and piles of music paraphernalia crowding the basement. Back in the early days we even recorded our demos here, kitting the place out with acoustic panels and all the second-hand gear we could find.

  Of course, our recent deal with Atlas Records means we’ve now got access to state of the art rehearsal spaces at any hour of the day or night. I like the idea of still having something that’s ours though, even if the other guys give me shit about it.

  “We’re here,” I tell them, “because I don’t like Atlas listening in on us all the time.”

  Cole and JP roll their eyes, and even Ace makes himself coherent enough to bark out a laugh.

  “They’re not Russian spies, you know,” JP lectures me. “You talk about them like they’re out to get us or something. They’re our label. We help them and they help us.”

  “Whatever. I just feel more...creative here, too,” I admit.

  “Don’t mess with Matt’s muses, man,” Cole says to JP.

  I’m pretty sure anyone who didn’t know him well would miss the note of humour in his low voice. Cole Byrne is one of the most intense dudes I know. If he didn’t wear glasses and have a habit of stroking his chin, I’d think he was fighting off the urge to break someone in half every time he stared off into space. As it is, he just looks like he’s contemplating the inner workings of the universe.

  JP picks up on his joke right away.

  “Do you want me to light some candles?” he asks me. “Maybe we could burn some of that incense shit. Gotta keep the mood right for the muses, non?”

  I try to save some face. “Hey, maybe if you all spent less time messing with ‘muses’ we’d actually sound half decent when we played. We haven’t had a good rehearsal in forever. We haven’t even had a rehearsal in forever.”

  “Ça va, ça va. Be chill.” JP pulls off his coat but leaves his hat on as he takes his place at the keyboard. “We don’t play a show for another three weeks, and our shit is still crushing the charts. We can relax for a bit, man. We deserve it.”

  I clench my hands around my sticks so tight they threaten to splinter, swallowing down all the bitter comebacks that spring to mind. Lately ‘relaxing’ has been the only thing on any of the guys’ minds.

  “Calm your tits, Matt. We’re fine. You’re giving me a headache,” Ace groans.

  “Actually it would be your descent into alcohol dependency that’s doing that, Ace,” I answer levelly, still standing there like I’m bracing myself for a fistfight.

  He mutters something under his breath
and I’m about to ask him to speak up if he has something to say, but Cole cuts in.

  “Agreed. If you’re gonna come to practice, you should at least come to practice sober.”

  As always, Cole’s words seem to hold more weight than anyone else’s. Ace stays quiet, sitting up a bit on the couch and messing around with his tuning pegs.

  “Nous sommes tous corrects, là?” JP’s fingers stray across his keyboard to chime the chorus of our big hit as he asks if we’re all good.

  “Ouais,” Cole answers, with his voice and with his bass. “Let’s do this.”

  We launch into ‘Sofia.’ Ace can’t sing for shit today and misses half the lyrics, but he at least gets enough of the guitar part down to carry us through the song.

  The last few notes haven’t even faded out of the amplifiers before JP pulls a face and mutters, “Ouch.”

  That sums up my feelings right now too, but I want to keep the ball rolling so I pick up the drum intro to the next number on our set list.

  “Come on, let’s go. One— Two— One, two, three, four!”

  We play for half an hour straight, banging out the tunes we all know by heart but never seem to get tired of. Despite the way things have been going, when it comes to music, we’ve always had an unspoken understanding I’m not sure any of us could put into words. It comes out when we play, when we all get so caught up in a song the swell of sound swallows us up like a storm.

  That’s the reason I want to flip out when I see this band slacking; I know we’ve got something too good here to ever take for granted.

  We’ve almost made it halfway through our usual set when we decide to take a break. Everyone might have been freezing their asses off when they got in here, but now we’re all reaching for water and wiping the sweat off our faces.

  “I think,” pants JP, as he pulls off his hat to reveal the dishevelled man bun underneath, “we’re out of synch during the bridge for ‘2 AM.’ I keep missing your queue.”

  “Should we make a secret hand signal?” I joke.

  He starts flashing different gang signs that get more and more idiotic as he goes.

  “Just tell me when you see one you like.”

  “Maybe you should just do that on stage instead of playing,” I tell him.

  “Don’t give him any ideas,” mutters Cole.

  My phone starts to buzz. I don’t recognize the number, but I have a good idea who’s calling. I smother a grin and signal that I have to take it before stepping into the stairway.

  The smile I was trying to hide turns into a full-blown smirk when I pick up.

  I knew she’d call me.

  4 She Wants to Know || Half Moon Run

  MATT

  It was probably the most dick move I’ve ever pulled, but I knew she’d call me because I made sure she’d have to call me.

  I’m not heartless and I wouldn’t call myself a pick-up artist, but for the past while I’ve been sticking to one and two night stands. After we started getting serious with Sherbrooke Station, I didn’t have time to properly date, and there was no shortage of no-strings flings available on tour. It’s hard to pursue someone when you’re always on the move, so if there’s usually a girl hanging around the bar after our shows just looking for some fun, it makes an ideal situation for both of us.

  The only interruption to that plan is girls like Kay Fischer.

  I could tell just from the way she talked to me, from how she stared around the room in Sapin Noir, that she had a habit of seeing straight through people and finding whatever she was looking for. For some reason, I wanted to make her work to get that from me. She seemed like she was used to setting the pace and waiting for everyone else to catch up.

  Unfortunately for her, I’m a drummer. Setting the pace is my job.

  That’s why I let myself delete the recording of our interview when I put my number in her phone. I know I’m a dick for doing it, but when I saw the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen of my phone, I couldn’t help my sense of satisfaction. I don’t know exactly what I felt sitting on that staircase with her in the dark, but whatever it was I haven’t felt anything like it in a long time. Whether it’s a good idea or not, I don’t intend to let it go just yet.

  “Hey,” I answer, leaning up against the cold wall of the stairwell. “Is this who I think it is?”

  “If you think it’s a journalist with an unfortunate favour to ask, then yes.”

  “Unfortunate? Did you fall down the stairs again?”

  I can almost hear her rolling her eyes.

  “Oh wait,” I continue, “if I remember correctly, you actually fell up the stairs last time.”

  “Okay, the stairs joke is dead now. We can move on.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so,” she retorts. “Now onto the reason I’m calling. There was a...technical issue, and I lost the recording of the interview.”

  I really shouldn’t be smiling so much right now.

  “Would you happen to have time within the next twenty-four hours to re-answer some of my questions? I have the framework of the article done, but I need confirm some of the quotes with you and get a few new ones. We can do it over the phone. It’ll only take about twenty minutes.”

  She sounds muffled, like she’s speaking through several layers of something, and I can hear the sound of cars passing by in the background.

  “I’m just finishing up some stuff with the band,” I answer truthfully, “but I’m sure I can spare twenty minutes after that. Where are you, anyways? I can barely hear you.”

  “Running around the city. It’s kind of my job. Oh, fuck. Not again! Why the fuck does this always happen? Shit.”

  “What is it?” I ask, as she lists off a few more choice phrases.

  “Snow down my boot. Okay, I have to go now. Call me when you can.”

  She hangs up and I head back into the basement. I don’t know how yet, but I’m sure I can turn this into an excuse to see her again.

  We put practicing on hold for awhile. Shayla, our manager, called a band meeting this evening to go over some details for the upcoming tour, and she’s due here any minute.

  We never doubted we had something special as a band, but Shayla was the first person beyond the four of us to see our potential as the next big thing. She’s only twenty-nine, and already runs her own management firm. With her labret piercing, green-tipped haircut, and curves that could kill, I’m pretty sure all four of us have thought we were in love with her at some point, but she’s always been very clear on the fact that she’s happily married to Natalie, her wife.

  She’s also married to her job; she’s the reason we started booking shows that got us noticed by people like Atlas. It’s actually kind of scary how ruthless she is when it comes to the music industry. Sometimes I don’t know which motivates me more: the drive to succeed, or the fear of what Shayla will do to us if we don’t.

  She comes charging into the basement in a black military jacket, her usual ready-for-warfare attitude going strong as she plops down on the couch beside Ace.

  “Evening, boys. Let’s get started.” She pulls a tablet out of her bag. “I have some stuff the PR team at Atlas sent over. It’s a few drafts of tour media, just posters and things like that.”

  She sets the tablet down on our scratched-up coffee table and we all crouch around it. We used to let a company Shayla works with handle our PR, but as part of our contract we’re starting to hand off all responsibilities to the Atlas team. Me and the guys take one look at the first image before the protests start to fly.

  “Sacrement, non.”

  “Like fuck we’re using that.”

  “No. No way.”

  “Over my dead, rotting corpse.”

  Shayla shushes us. “Ben là, calm your tits. I haven’t even finished showing you yet.”

  She’s trying to take the high ground, but I can tell she feels the same as we do. All I can do is shake my head as she scrolls through a few more pictures.

 
I’m not going to lie and say I’ve never realized we’re four pretty good-looking dudes. I’m also aware a lot of the attention we’ve caught is because of that, but it’s never something we’ve focused on as far as promoting ourselves goes. I like to think that even if our looks are the reason some people start listening to us, it’s not why they keep listening to us. Clearly the PR team has other ideas.

  “This is like a Magic Mike meets indie rock sex fantasy.”

  Ace summed it up pretty well. The posters show us in various stages of removing flannel shirts, cast in black and white against different galaxy-themed backgrounds.

  “How did they even get a picture of me lifting my shirt up like that?” JP asks, still gawking at the tablet.

  “I think they photoshopped these.” Shayla coughs to cover what I’m sure is a snicker. “You know, just to give us an idea of what they’re aiming for.”

  “Must be photoshopped, JP,” I say with a nod. “I know for a fact you don’t have an eight pack.”

  At that, the tension breaks and we all burst out laughing. I can’t believe an entire team of PR professionals actually thought this was a good idea.

  “But seriously, Shayla,” Cole urges once things have calmed down a bit, “I am not signing off on that.”

  A dark possibility occurs to me then. I turn to Shayla.

  “We do get to say no to this, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She sounds too cautious for that to be the end of the story.

  “...And no.”

  There it is.

  “You don’t get final say on this kind of stuff, but I made sure you’re included in creative decision-making. I took care of you boys when we worked out the contract. You have way more leeway than a mega label taking a shot on some up-and-comers would normally give. I think that’s because we’re getting the bare minimum compensation to make signing with them worth our while, and also”—she pauses to toss her hair over her shoulder—“because I’m amazing.”

  “Hear, hear!” JP shouts, reaching over to pat her on the back.

  “So I’ll tell them it’s a solid ‘no’ on this and that we’d like to take a different direction. Moving onto the next order of business, we need to make sure you’re all up to speed on your bookings for the next few weeks. You have that show in Ottawa on the twenty-second...”