Your Rhythm

by Katia Rose

  I hesitate and she continues to urge me on.

  “Kay, trust me. We need to...What is the phrase?” She taps her finger against her chin for a moment, thinking. “Make some waves! La Gare needs to make some waves, and I want you to be the one to do it.”

  Lately I’ve been focusing on doing the exact opposite with my reporting. I’ve spent the past few months covering things like sculpture installments and what’s new at the Montreal Opera. I don’t want waves—I just want the water raging around the name ‘Kay Fischer’ to have some time to grow still.

  Marie-France narrows her eyes.

  “La Gare is not Last Bastion.”

  A shock runs through, jolting me like I’ve just brushed against a live wire. I didn’t even put my time with Last Bastion on my resume when I applied here. If Marie-France knows I worked for them, she must know why I stopped, too.

  A few months into my time with Bastion, I took on an investigation into a series of plagiarism claims made against Atlas Records. I knew just a few days into my research I was onto something big. I got in touch with eight different musicians who said they could prove bands on the Atlas label had ripped off their songs. None of them had ever taken legal action because of the costs, and stopped speaking out about it after Atlas sent out threats to sue them for defamation.

  The boyfriend I was crazy about happened to be an Atlas intern at the time. He hated the job but stayed on with them for the work experience, and agreed to feed me information if he could remain anonymous. I was a week away from publication when Atlas caught wind of the investigation and told Bastion they’d be facing the lawsuit of their lives if they didn’t shut the story down and fire me at the same time.

  The digital age means even journalism giants like Last Bastion struggle to turn a profit. They knew they wouldn’t survive picking a fight with Atlas and they caved without a second thought.

  After his employers connected the dots between me and my boyfriend, it turned out he gave more of a shit about his job than he let on. He covered his ass with rumours that I was a ‘media whore’ who spent our whole relationship begging him for inside facts he never gave and sleeping around with half the industry behind his back. He did lose his job eventually and plagued my answering machine with apologies for a few weeks, but that didn’t change the fact that I came out of the ordeal blacklisted in the world of music journalism. I spent four months unemployed.

  I did gain two new rules for myself, though:

  Never fuck with Atlas Records.

  Never date or sleep with a source.

  I’ve been able to follow both of them in the time I’ve been at La Gare. I thought the only reason I snagged this job was because everyone here is so out of the loop they wouldn’t even recognize the name Last Bastion to begin with.

  “I know you might not believe it,” Marie-France continues, “but back in the day we knew how to cause trouble around here. This paper can weather a storm. En fait, a storm might be the only thing that can save it.”

  I see it in her again: a steady, head-bent-against-the-wind kind of strength. It hits me that maybe she wasn’t just talking about the other employees when she said they’d have a hard time finding other jobs; maybe the end of La Gare would be the end of the road for her too. She’s got nothing to lose by betting everything on this story. Her ship is sinking either way, and in that moment I realize mine is too.

  I could spend the next year working menial jobs like the one I have here, biding my time until I feel like the rumours have died down. By then I’d have wasted a year of my career though, and if even Marie-France can find out what happened with Last Bastion, any future employer would be just a few phone calls away from looking into the gap in my resume.

  I’ve been acting like I’m guilty, slinking away to bury myself in obscurity and hope everyone forgets who I am. I have nothing to hide though, and maybe it’s time I started digging myself out of this hole, instead of just burrowing deeper.

  “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Marie-France gets up, making the growly ‘harrumph’ sound it took me awhile to figure out was her laugh.

  “You weren’t actually allowed to say no, Kay, but I’m happy you want to do it.” She opens the door for me. “Pierre already has all the information, so you can get started on planning the rest of your news week together right away.”

  Even with Pierre’s help, having my section of the paper double in size without any warning means the two of us have a hellish week trying to finish enough articles to fill the space.

  The temperatures have finally started to rise, but not enough to make rushing around outside all day and night much more enjoyable. I’m pretty sure I’ve walked the entire length of the city several times by the end of the week. I have to squeeze in so many interviews, showcases, and exhibit openings that I don’t even have a chance to email Sherbrooke Station’s manager until Friday afternoon.

  She gets back to me just as Pierre and I are making plans to go out and get thoroughly trashed together once we’ve sent off our final submissions.

  Hi Kay,

  Glad things with Matt went okay, and sorry again for Ace not being able to make it to your interview. To answer your inquiry, I think a front page feature in La Gare would be great for Sherbrooke Station.

  We’re still transitioning into working with Atlas Records, and eventually I’ll be referring things like this to their PR department, but to be honest I still feel rather protective of the band’s interests, so I’m going to risk coming under fire and just go ahead and say yes to you myself.

  I know you mentioned you’re looking to release the article in tandem with their June show at Metropolis, but I think it would be great if you could tag along to some of the smaller shows they’re playing in the next few weeks, maybe get to know the guys a bit better, do some interviews, etc.

  Let me know what you think.

  Sincerely,

  Shayla McDougal

  “Oh no.”

  “What?” Pierre calls from his desk.

  “Sherbrooke Station’s manager wants me to go on tour with them.”

  He lets out a laugh at my expense. “That’s great news, Kay. We all know how much you love them. Now you get to spend even more time together!”

  “Marie-France will never go for it,” I assure myself, ignoring Pierre as he starts humming ‘Sofia.’

  With the Arts and Culture expansion in the paper, and our very limited budget, there’s no way we’ve got the money or time to send me on the road with Sherbrooke Station. I decide to go check with Marie-France to feel justified in turning the offer down.

  After seeing them in person, I’m willing to admit that I get why everyone finds Sherbrooke Station so sexy, but even with the memory of Matt and I’s interview in mind, I stand by what I’ve said before: they’re way too trendy for me to take them seriously. The less time I have to spend listening to fans screaming out the lyrics of ‘Sofia,’ the better.

  I knock on Marie-France’s door and give her a summary of Shayla’s email.

  “I wanted to make sure it’s okay I tell her I’ll be doing all of the interviews in Montreal,” I conclude.

  She closes her laptop and gives me a look that implies I’m being an idiot.

  “Ce n’est pas ‘okay.’ I would like you to go to as many shows as you can, and do what this Shayla says: get to know them better.”

  I start firing off reasons I shouldn’t go. “I don’t have the money to travel all over Ontario and Quebec right now, and to be honest I don’t think we can spare me for that long. Pierre and I barely made it through the week—”

  “The paper will pay for it,” she interrupts. “I’ll get the budget moved around. You can spend a night here and there out covering the Sherbrooke Station story, and the rest in Montreal helping Pierre. He’s an experienced writer. He’ll manage during the days you’re gone.”

  She flips her laptop open again, signalling that the conversation is over. I hover at the door, trying to come up with
an excuse she won’t be able to deflect.

  “Kay,” Marie-France sighs, fingers clacking away at the keys, “don’t just stand there. Get Shayla to send you the band’s schedule, and I’ll have someone take a look and figure out how many shows we can send you to.”

  By the end of the day, it’s decided that I’ll be going to see Sherbrooke Station play in three different cities over the next few months. It’s not a lot, but I know trying to balance the travelling with my regular work in Montreal is still going to be hell.

  I’m drowning my sorrows in vodka at a bar with Pierre that night when a text pops up on my phone:

  If you wanted to see me again you could have just called, but I’m flattered you put in all that effort. See you in Ottawa.

  I guess ‘in vino veritas’ also applies to vodka, because reading Matt’s message has me wondering where he is right now and how he feels about me going to all the shows. I start replaying our conversation on the staircase, how his knee kept bumping into mine, the little thrill I felt when he caught me before I fell...

  No. No, no, no. We are NOT going there.

  I’ve been living by those two rules I made up for awhile now:

  Never fuck with Atlas Records.

  Never date or sleep with a source.

  I just agreed to bend and possibly break number one. I sure as hell don’t plan on going back on number two.

  6 Lonely Boy || The Black Keys

  MATT

  Ace, Cole, JP and I are all piled into The Chick Magnet, the silver Honda minivan we bought for our very first tour. I don’t think it surprises anyone that JP came up with the name. We got the rusty, scraped-up 2002 model from one of his cousins, who was trying to sell it for parts. We had to let Atlas arrange a proper van for all the roadies and gear we can’t pack into a seven-seater anymore, but it just didn’t feel like an actual tour without hauling The Chick Magnet out for ourselves.

  Not that this is even an actual tour. We’ve got a handful of midsized shows scattered around the area during the next three months, before we headline Metropolis back in Montreal and kick off the international tour.

  Thinking about getting on a plane to Europe feels almost surreal as I sit in the driver’s seat, following the curves of a highway I’ve been driving my whole life. McDonalds’s wrappers are piled on the dashboard and The Black Keys are blasting so loudly we have to yell to hear each other over the noise. In this moment at least, it’s hard to believe anything has really changed.

  “I can’t believe she’s the Café Cléo girl,” JP calls from the back seat, trying to talk around a mouthful of fries.

  “Yeah,” Ace adds from beside me. “I was gonna ask if you went home with that girl. She was hot as fuck.”

  “Agreed,” Cole comments. “Bet you wish you hasn’t missed that interview now, Ace.”

  I just filled the guys in on the fact that the journalist who’ll be following us around for the next few months is the same one who was supposed to interview Ace, and the same girl they all saw me talking to at Youssef’s show.

  “Uh-huh.” I try to sound nonchalant. “She’s pretty cute, yeah.”

  “Wait.” I glance over and see Ace’s narrowed eyes. “Did you go home with her?”

  “No!” I answer way too quickly. “It was another interview. She just had a few more questions.”

  “About your dick?”

  “About the band.”

  Ace shrugs and goes back to his burger. “If you say so.”

  “Well, if she doesn’t want the drummer, maybe she’ll go for the piano man instead.”

  I can’t stop myself from glaring at JP in the rear view mirror. “Don’t you even fucking try.”

  “There it is!” Ace crows. “You like her!”

  I reach over and steal some of his fries. “If you say so.”

  We make it to Ottawa in the late afternoon and get checked into the hotel. Usually we crash with a friend of mine when we play here, but since hosting four dudes is kind of a chore and we’ve got the money for it now, the label booked us two rooms.

  Ace jumps in the shower after throwing his bag down in the room we’re sharing. I take the opportunity to give Kyle a call.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I greet him.

  “Why are you calling me if you think I should be in school?”

  The kid is getting sassier by the minute.

  “Maybe it’s a trick call.”

  Kyle snorts. “You’re a loser. Class let out like twenty minutes ago. I’m walking home.”

  “How’d the project go?”

  He had his music class presentation a few days ago, and I’ve been meaning to check in with him about it.

  “Freaking awesome!” he shouts. “I don’t have my mark back yet, but everyone thought it was cool. The girls were literally sighing when I showed some pictures of you and me as kids. I’m gonna have like five honeys on my arms at the dance next month.”

  Clearly academic achievement isn’t at the top of his priorities right now, but from what he told me about his plans for the project, I’m sure he’s going to ace the thing.

  “You didn’t show them the matching t-shirts, did you?”

  “Hell no,” he mutters darkly. “That shit is staying buried where it belongs.”

  I let the curse word slide. He’s almost fifteen, after all.

  “I’m surprised there even are photos of us as kids where we’re not wearing those things,” I muse.

  “I only found three.”

  We both laugh at that.

  “But girls aside,” Kyle continues, “I didn’t think I would like doing the project as much as I did. I got really into it.”

  “What do you mean? You didn’t think you would like telling everyone how cool your brother is?” I demand, acting offended.

  “No I mean like, I didn’t think I would enjoy all the work I had to do, but it was kind of fun— building a story like that, talking about what music means to me. I liked thinking up all the questions.”

  My chest tightens. I love seeing him get excited about stuff like this. I used to worry I was pushing the music world on him too much, but he took to it almost as much as I did.

  “You remind me of someone, talking like that,” I tell him. “One of my...friends is a journalist. I should introduce you to her.”

  “Her?” Kyle asks slyly. “Is she a Montreal babe?”

  “You said it yourself. All the girls in Montreal are babes.”

  “How are you going to introduce me if you won’t let me come visit you?”

  Right. That’s the other reason for my call.

  “I’ve been thinking, Kyle. Mom and Dad are on my ass about getting them tickets to our Metropolis show in June. They keep going on and on about how it’s their last chance to see me before the Euro-Tour. So I decided maybe, under complete parental supervision and with clear limitations in mind, you could come with them and spend some time with me and the band.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, and then he starts shouting so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

  “BREAK OUT THE G-STRINGS LADIES, BIG K IS COMING TO TOWN!”

  “Big K?” I choke out, once he’s stopped making noises that I think are supposed to be gunshots and cash register sounds. “Take a piece of brotherly advice and never call yourself that again.”

  He doesn’t pay any attention. “We’re going to rock the world together, BB. Montreal won’t know what hit it!”

  “Did you hear anything about my parental supervision requirement?”

  More gunshot noises. I take it the answer is no.

  Ace walks out of the steamed-up bathroom in a pair of boxers, and I glance at the clock. It’s time we headed over the college concert hall we’re playing the show at. I get in a goodbye with Kyle, who’s still at the height of his gangstah antics, and we meet the other guys in the hall.

  “Hey guys, where’s your flannel?” JP jokes on the way over. “We’re all supposed to match, remember?
”

  He’s usually in flannel to begin with. Ace and Cole wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything other than black, and I guess I kind of fluctuate between the two as far as style goes.

  The hall is already buzzing when we get in. Our opener, an Ottawa band we’ve played with before, is up on stage doing their sound check. Despite the fact that we just ate our weight in McDonald’s, we all load up on food when the first thing we spot inside the doors is a catering table.

  “Hey, that’s for the crew!”

  Nico, our production manager, walks over with a tablet and a headset. He’s been helping us on the road since the days we occasionally had to sleep in The Chick Magnet. Besides everything it’s done for us personally, seeing how our career taking off has helped everyone else who makes Sherbrooke Station what it is has been pretty mind blowing. We used to not even be able to pay Nico, and now we’re taking him to Europe with us.

  He tells us we’ve got twenty minutes until our sound check and then rushes off. We’re supposed to meet with Kay after that for an interview, and then we’re on at nine.

  The sound check turns out to be a total shit show. We haven’t played a gig in weeks, and the time we spent slacking off on practice is coming back to bite us in the ass now. Nico tries to blame it on technical problems to help us save a bit of face, but we’re off our game and everyone knows it.

  Ace nearly walks off stage after the fifth time Nico calls for us to restart, but Cole steps up and tells him not to be a fucking drama queen.

  “This is bullshit,” Ace retorts. “We sound like shit.”

  I drum my sticks against my leg, trying not to explode with all the accusations I want to throw at him. These days, Ace is like a pit of embers just waiting for a chance to flare up, and now is not the time to fan the flames.

  “Then let’s just get through the next half hour and try not to sound like shit anymore,” I state through gritted teeth.

  The asshole is in sore need of a reality check, but I put off giving him one. Just like I always do.

  We manage to get ourselves on track enough that I don’t think people will be walking out during our first song, but by then we’re all ready to jump down each other’s throats. I feel bad for the college employee who shows up to take us to our interview. Truth be told, she’s pretty cute and seems so nervous to be meeting us she can barely get a full sentence out. She’ll probably be telling all her friends what assholes Sherbrooke Station turned out to be.