Your Rhythm

by Katia Rose

  I stay up until well past midnight, pounding out an article that’s exactly what Marie-France is expecting. I tear Sherbrooke Station to shreds and make them out to be the shallow amateurs I thought they were. I write it as well as I possibly can, but even to me it sounds like a cheap shot, straight out of a gossip magazine.

  I send it off to her with an email explaining that I know I can write something much better, if she’ll trust me. These past few months, I’ve seen something in Sherbrooke Station that takes my breath away, something I never saw in all the dozens of bands I interviewed for Last Bastion.

  These guys have more than the potential to be good. They have the power to be Great. When they’re on stage, I feel like I’m witnessing history. They even roped a sceptic like me into rooting for them, and I know that if they can get their act together they’ll be headed towards something big.

  I get my answer from Marie-France the next morning. She wants to see what I’ve got, and I’m ready to show her. I’m ready to show everyone.

  17 On Top || The Killers

  MATT

  Nico glares at the ominous clouds gathering overhead, like he can will the oncoming storm away with the power of his mind.

  “I told them the first weekend of May was too early for an outdoor show,” he mutters. “Way too unpredictable. We’re lucky it’s not still cold.”

  The day isn’t sweltering by any standard, but we’re all dressed like we’ve bypassed the spring and launched ourselves right into summer. After crawling out from the depths of winter, people tend to overcompensate when it comes to shedding layers. JP’s standing offstage in a muscle shirt and shorts, refusing to take off his Ray Ban’s even in the face of all the clouds. I at least managed to stick within the reasonable limits of a t-shirt and jeans.

  Tonight is our Kingston show, the last one we’ll play before we headline Metropolis in Montreal and then head off to Europe. It’s also the last show Kay will be at.

  I scan the barricaded city square in front of us, the one that will hopefully be filled with screaming college kids tonight. We’re playing a benefit show some society at the university is putting on, and right now the weather reports are looking like they might take a huge hit on the turnout.

  Shayla’s down where the front row of the crowd will stand, camped out in a plastic lawn chair as she types away on her tablet. A few feet away, two reps from Atlas are doing the same thing. After Ace’s reckoning with the law, the label has been on our asses twenty-four seven with constant warnings and threats. Shayla says she’s here to watch out for us, but I know she’s watching out for herself too. Even though none of us have admitted Atlas approached us about replacing her, she can tell something is up.

  She lifts her head and gives me a wave as she catches my eye. I don’t want to worry her if she’s not in any danger of us deciding to let her go.

  Which she’s not, I try to remind myself as Ace saunters on stage.

  We’ve barely spoken a word to each other outside of rehearsal. He didn’t even give the band an apology. Part of me thinks he might actually believe the story the PR team has been putting out, that he’s convinced himself he’s the good guy and there’s nothing to apologize for.

  He surveys the gear on stage, circling around his mic stand and gazing up at the lighting rigs before spotting me watching. His expression darkens, and he crosses the stage to talk to one of the roadies.

  “So we’re meeting Kay for lunch?”

  I turn to find Cole walking towards me. They’re not close enough to hear, but I still glance at the Atlas reps at the mention of Kay. I figured they might be a problem for her, so I asked her to join us for lunch instead of working an interview into our schedule.

  “Yeah,” I answer Cole. “You guys good with burgers?”

  By one we’re waiting for Kay at some kitschy burger bar on the city’s main strip. JP complains about me insisting we take a table inside instead of out on the patio, but the storm looks like it could break at any minute, and even if it doesn’t I figure Kay won’t want to do an interview a foot away from the crowded sidewalk.

  As is usual these days, sitting at a table with the entire band assembled is awkward and tense. We all have our eyes glued to our menus when Kay shows up, looking flustered.

  “Hey.”

  She glances around the restaurant and I can’t help checking her out. She looks like a garage rock dream girl today, with her hair pulled up into a lopsided bun and her oversized jean jacket thrown over a Stone Temple Pilots shirt.

  She scoots into the only spot left in our booth, right next to me. I notice she leaves an inch of space between our thighs, but her foot nudges mine under the table and I nudge her right back, trying not to smile.

  No one else at the table looks even slightly enthused about the idea of an interview. Cole is still pretending to read his menu while JP stares out the window like he’ll be able to teleport himself onto the street if he tries hard enough. Ace is shooting me death glares.

  “So,” he says, his voice almost a snarl, “you guys are fucking, right?”

  My fists clench. I’m about to give him his due for speaking to Kay like that when she cuts in.

  “Yeah, we’re fucking.”

  Everyone’s jaws drop, including mine.

  “Matt and I are seeing each other. I’m sure you all knew that already, but we might as well air the awkward out now.”

  Her comment has the opposite effect. We all sit there tongue-tied for a moment. Ace is the first one to speak.

  “Aren’t you, like, breaking some journalistic code of ethics? How are you supposed to write an impartial story if you’re screwing your source?”

  Kay stares him straight in the face. “Luckily for you, I’m not impartial. If I was, I’d just join the current media trend of shitting on Sherbrooke Station. I could write an article that would slam you so hard you wouldn’t know what hit you. People are laughing at you right now. Your little stunt outside the bar might have gotten you some attention, but it wasn’t the kind you should be proud of. People are tweeting about buying tickets to your shows just so they can stand a chance of seeing you get punched in the face again. Right now you’re either the Hot Guy or the Stupid Guy. No one’s actually paying attention to your music anymore.”

  Ace looks like she just slapped him and he’s about to retaliate, but she doesn’t show any signs of backing down.

  “I am paying attention, though.” She shifts so she can address us all. “I’ve seen you guys play. I’ve heard you talk about music. I’ve watched you practice together. I’ve written a lot of stories about a lot of bands in my time. Many of them were a lot more famous than you are, but none of them...”

  She trails off as our waiter approaches and asks if we’re ready.

  “A few more minutes,” I answer distractedly, as everyone else’s focus stays fixed on Kay.

  “Look, when I first got told I was covering a story on you guys, I could barely drag myself to Sapin Noir. I thought you were the next big overrated thing, just a bunch of guys in sleeveless shirts posing for pictures, like half the roster Atlas Records cycles through every few years. You’re not, though. At least, you don’t have to be, but that’s what you’ll turn into if you keep acting like it.”

  I expect one of the guys to tell her she’s out of line, but hearing this from a stranger, from someone who’s not involved with our history or our future, someone who’s looking at this thing from the outside in, seems to make it real for them in a way it never did coming from me.

  “So why are you telling us this?” Cole asks her.

  She fidgets with the edge of her menu, her face twisted in concentration, like she’s still trying to work the answer out herself.

  “I went to my first concert when I was fifteen years old. It was the Foo Fighters, some big arena show in Toronto. I walked out of there promising myself that the day I turned eighteen, I’d get a tattoo of a quote from ‘Everlong,’ and I did.”

  The guys all glance at me
, echoing the shock I felt when I discovered those words inked on her ribcage.

  “That feeling of being affected by some band or some song so much it changes the way you go through life—that’s what made me become a journalist in the first place. Music is a story that demands to be told. I think you guys have the potential to make it in this game, to really make it. I’m not interested in spreading rumours about you. I want something more than that. I want to tell your story.”

  I’ve hardly ever heard her sound so earnest, so open and raw, in front of anyone but me. Even then she only talked like this in the darkness of the early hours. I don’t know what kind of revelation she’s had since the last time I saw her, but she’s practically blazing with determination.

  I look around at the guys and watch them transition from surprise to skepticism to a grudging acceptance of the truth. We’ve been headed for a brick wall, and I think Kay just made us all realize how close we were to slamming into it at full speed.

  “Ben là,” JP summarizes, “I don’t think we can argue with that.”

  Our exasperated waiter shows up again, and this time we order. Somehow all the tension at the table has dissipated, replaced by a silent understanding. We joke around until the food arrives, still cautious with each other but sounding more like a band than we have in weeks. Kay pulls out her microphone and asks a few questions as we eat, although I don’t know how many answers the machine will pick up over the sound of four guys devouring burgers.

  The storm hits just as we’re asking for our bills.

  “Maybe this means it will be over by show time,” I say hopefully, as rain streaks the window beside us and people flee inside from the patio, trying to shield their plates of food.

  “It better be,” Cole grumbles.

  He, JP, and Ace all get an Uber to take them to our hotel, but I tell them I’ll catch up with them later. Kay and I stand in the entryway of the restaurant, peering out at the now-deserted street.

  “I brought an umbrella,” she tells me, “if there’s anywhere you wanted to go.”

  When I don’t answer she turns to face me. I clear my throat and try to speak, but it feels like there’s something lodged in my windpipe.

  “Matt?”

  I cup one of her cheeks in my palm.

  “Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. I cough and try again. “Thank you for whatever you did back there. I don’t know how you made them see what I couldn’t, but Kay... thank you.”

  She reaches up to wrap her hand around mine.

  “You getting emotional on me?” Her voice is teasing but soft. “I didn’t really do anything. I think I just kind of freaked them out.”

  I shake my head. “They listened. I could tell. We still have a shit tonne of issues to work out, but this is the first time I’ve felt like we might actually be able to do it.”

  “Speaking of issues to work out...”

  She trails off and looks at the floor.

  “Yeah?” I prompt.

  “I was thinking—after my article is out, and we don’t have to be so on the down low about this anymore, would you maybe want to...try dating? Like for real?”

  I tilt her chin up higher. “You asking me to be your boyfriend, Kay?”

  Her eyes widen. “Woah there. I said ‘try dating.’ Key word try. But...Yeah, I mean, that’s the general idea.”

  “I’m not complaining,” I tell her. “I definitely like this Kay who makes charismatic personal speeches and wants me to be her boyfriend, but did you hit your head or something?”

  “Maybe.”

  She smiles to herself and brings a finger up to the glass panel on the door, tracing the path of a raindrop.

  “I guess I just had this realization, like...” Her hand comes up to rub the spot on her shoulder where I know her sword and shield tattoo is etched. “Like maybe it’s time to start running at life with the sword, instead of just hiding behind the shield.”

  I grab her and kiss her, something like pride thumping in my chest. A big group of students walks into the entryway and she drags her mouth away from mine, but I don’t let go of her waist.

  The group gives us a judgemental look and keeps walking. We both burst out laughing when they’re gone.

  “Baby,” I tell her, making my voice low and gravelly as I flex my hips into hers, “I’m gonna run at you with my sword all night long.”

  She instantly shoves me away and starts making gagging noises.

  “Never mind. I retract everything. I’m never speaking to you again.”

  “Liar. You can’t take it back.”

  I reach for her hand and we lapse into seriousness once more.

  “I know,” she admits, “and you can’t take it back either. We’re kind of in it, aren’t we?”

  “I think we’ve been in it since I first sat down next to you on those stairs.”

  The storm does pass. By the time we take the stage that night, the only trace of bad weather is the lingering smell of wet pavement in the air. It’s barely detectable under the signature mix of sweat, weed, and stale beer that seems to follow large crowds of undergrads wherever they choose to assemble.

  We cross the stage to our instruments in darkness and in silence, a ritual we’ve completed so many times it verges on sacred. Ace claps me on the shoulder as I pass him to get to my kit and I pause, dipping my head in a nod I’m sure he can only just make out through the shadows. The exchange says more than an entire conversation between us could.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, just like they always do when our Sherbrooke Station sign flickers to life and the crowd, already rowdy and pumped up from the opener, breaks out into ear-splitting screams.

  We play hard and we play well, throwing ourselves into the music like it’s our lifeline, like we’re going down in a burning building and this is our last chance to be saved. The night is a blur of sweat in my eyes and screams in my ears and the flick of my wrists in front of me. I play until I’m panting, gasping for breath, so exhausted I shouldn’t be able to move but so exhilarated I can’t stop.

  When we finally file offstage after our encore, JP throwing guitar picks and set lists and eventually his hair elastic into the crowd as we go, I scan the sea of faces for any sign of Kay. She’s not in the press pit with the other reporters, and I’m about to give up on looking when I spot her three rows from the front.

  She’s got both her hands up in the air, clapping along with everyone else as they chant for a second encore the city’s noise restrictions won’t allow us to give. On a whim, I reach into my pocket and grab one of my sticks, locking eyes with her as I throw it towards her.

  I miss by several feet. A knot of people drop down to their knees and scramble around for the stick as it falls to the ground. Kay’s smiling at me though, and right now that’s the only thing that matters.

  Much later that night, I slide out of bed in the shitty apartment Kay rented for the night. It’s a ridiculously tiny room and we barely fit on the single mattress together, but I’m pretty sure I avoid waking her up. I’m just stepping into my jeans when she lets out a yawn and mumbles something.

  She doesn’t make any other noise. I start to search the floor for my belt, figuring she’s still out of it.

  “Stay,” she calls, her voice sluggish with sleep.

  I freeze. “You sure?”

  “Stay,” she repeats.

  So I do.

  18 You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid || The Offspring

  MATT

  Another day, another Atlas meeting. We’re three weeks out from the Metropolis show, and both Atlas and Shayla have been grilling us so hard on all things European tour-related I’m almost sick of talking about it—almost, but not quite. The discussions might be tedious, but they are making the idea of playing overseas finally start to feel real.

  Plus, we really do need all Shayla’s last minute reminders to save us from disaster. She only discovered last week that JP’s passport is expired.

  I make my
way to our usual meeting room at Atlas HQ. Nadine and that asshole from PR, David, who got everyone hooked on calling Kay a snake, are already waiting. Shayla’s sitting on a couch by herself, tight-lipped with her arms wrapped around her stomach. I tilt my head in concern but she looks away as soon as she meets my eye.

  I pause in the doorway, wondering if it’s my imagination of if the temperature in here really just dropped several degrees. I can almost smell the dread in the air, sharp and nauseating, like I’m walking into some kind of death chamber.

  I was going to say hello, but my throat constricts just as a twisting sensation starts in my gut. Now I have an idea why Shayla’s clutching her stomach. I take a seat next to her on the couch.

  “Thanks for joining us, Pat,” David greets me.

  I don’t bother correcting him. “What’s going on?”

  He shakes his head, staring at me with what almost looks like regret. “We’ll wait for the rest of the band to get into that.”

  The guys file in one at a time, doing the same double-take I did when they pick up on the atmosphere in the room. When we’re all finally seated, Nadine lifts a folder out of her bag and sets it on her lap.

  “You all know who Kay Fischer is?” she inquires.

  The rest of the band’s heads snap towards me. I blink, fighting to keep my cool.

  My chin dips down in a nod. “She wrote an article about us in La Gare a few months ago.”

  “She’s working on another article about you now.”

  Nadine opens her folder and starts to pass several sets of stapled papers around. I hand one to Shayla, but she shakes her head and refuses to take it.

  “I’ve already read it.”

  There’s a harshness to her tone I’ve never heard before.

  I glance down at the first page. There’s a title:

  Next Stop: Sherbrooke Station

  Underneath that is Kay’s name. I take a deep breath and start reading.

  The topic of Sherbrooke Station prompts a now familiar question among Montrealers whenever it’s brought up: are we talking about the metro stop or the band? In the case of this article, the answer is the latter, an increasingly popular addition to the city’s alternative music scene who seem to generate more concern over where they’ll be drinking tonight than when they’ll be playing their next show.