Road Rash

by Mark Huntley Parsons

  every day.

  I’d guessed wrong. He didn’t give the impression that he was insecure about his singing. It was more like the song might have been a personal thing to him.

  His voice was actually pretty damn good. Well, a better word might be effective. To me, if it’s convincing on a gut level, then it works, no matter what technical skills the singer has. He didn’t have that big rock voice that Brad had—it was a little leaner, a little more intimate. But it worked perfectly for that song. The tune was about communication problems between a guy and a girl—hardly a new topic—but the sincerity of the delivery, along with the guitar riff and the overall vibe, really worked.

  After a couple of verses and a chorus, he stopped. “That’s most of it, so far. Like I said, there’s a bridge. Probably half time. Then a solo and a couple of repeat choruses and an ending.”

  That all made sense—that’s probably how I would have arranged it, too. But what was more interesting was what he didn’t say. Like, So, what do you think? Or, Do you like it? He just went back to trying some different chord voicings on the guitar.

  “Hey,” I interrupted him. He looked up. “Dude, that’s a freakin’ great song. I can totally hear the drum part, the bass, backing vocals. Hell, I can hear that on the radio.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got more originals?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why aren’t any of them in our set list?”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he looked at his watch. “We’d better get going—it’s almost time to meet everyone downstairs for dinner.”

  14

  “My Best Friend’s Hot”

  The waitress turned to me. “And what will the drummer boy be having?”

  Jake was right—the staff was really friendly. “The trout sounds good,” I said.

  “It is,” she promised. She looked at Glenn. “Okay, guitar hero, what’ll it be?”

  “Do you have sushi?”

  “Just California rolls,” she admitted.

  “Wasabi and ginger?”

  “I think I can scare some up for you.”

  Glenn thought about it for a second. “Okay, sold.”

  “You’re jonesin’ bad, huh?” She pointed up the street. “When you get a chance, head a few blocks that way. There are two places. One right here on Main, and one a block off it, on Bozeman. The real deal, flown in fresh.”

  “Thanks—I’ll remember that.”

  Brad snickered. “I’ll eat fish,” he said, “but not bait.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, honey,” she said. She winked at Glenn, finished writing up the order, and left. It was like she was right out of the old-school-waitress academy, but in reality she was maybe twenty-five, max, and kinda cute. Cracked me up.

  As we ate, Brad and Glenn were joking along with the others, and I realized Danny had been right. And they all seemed so relaxed, shooting hoops and kidding around with the staff. To be honest, I was nervous. Not like I was at the audition, thank God, but still … It was our first real gig as a road band, in a big club that was totally new to us, so yeah, I had butterflies. Plus, I’d had to learn like fifty new songs in the past couple of weeks, and I’d be lying if I said I had all of them totally nailed.

  Danny must have caught my mood, because he kicked me under the table and made a goofy face. “Smile, man. You look like you’re going to the gallows.” He grinned. “Look, here’s how it’s supposed to work—we storm into town, we rock their socks off, we have our way with their women, then we roll on to the next port o’ call like postmodern pirates. What better way for a young buccaneer such as yourself to spend his summer, right?”

  I laughed. “Well, now that you put it that way …”

  He nodded. “Relax, bro. You’re rock solid.”

  I almost said Aaaargh, matey! but matey reminded me of mate, which reminded me of Toby, which of course reminded me of the Sock Monkeys and Kyle and the wonderfulness of that whole thing. So I just said, “Thanks,” and let it go.

  Brad got up and stretched. “I’m gonna go back to the room and chill,” he said. “Meet back here at a quarter till for preflight?”

  The others agreed, and one by one they took off, until I was sitting by myself. I was finishing off my water when our waitress came by. “Looks like they ran off and left ya, huh?” I nodded. She sat down and said, “So tell me, honey. The hot one—does he have a girlfriend or anything?”

  I honestly didn’t know who she was referring to. I mean, it’s not like we have this one obvious total-stud guy and the rest are all slobs or something.

  She misread my hesitation. “Hey, I didn’t mean you were chopped liver, sweetie,” she said. “You’re a cutie-pie. But you’re a little young for me.”

  Whoa … The food metaphors were coming too fast for me. “No, that wasn’t it. I just didn’t … Never mind. You’re talking about Brad, the singer?”

  “Naw. He’s a pretty boy all right, but I’m talking about the gunslinger—he’s what I call interesting. And I saw you guys rehearsing. That guy can play.” She kinda shivered. “So …?”

  Oh yeah, her question. I was about to say no, he’s not hooked up, when I thought about the tune he’d just played for me in our room. And about what happened this afternoon in the club. And I realized I really didn’t know these guys very well.

  “You know, this is going to sound lame, but I’m kinda here on the tourist plan and I really don’t know. I suppose I could ask for you?”

  She laughed and I swear, I thought she was going to reach over and ruffle my hair. “You really are sweet, you know that? But that’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

  She went back to work and I went up onstage, where I sat behind my drums and fiddled with them, making sure everything was adjusted just right. Then I glanced at the set list taped to the stage next to my floor tom and mentally went over the songs in the first set. It lowered my stress a little when they all came back to me—the groove, the tempo, the arrangement. Sometimes I “practice” songs in my head, just by letting them run on my internal playlist. Especially with new stuff—it makes me feel like, Okay, I know what I’m doing.

  As I was going through the set, Brad walked in and came over. “Hey, you seen Jamie?” he said.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I’ve been here since dinner.” He nodded and walked off.

  I checked tuning real quick … everything sounded fine. I would have played a little to loosen up, but people were starting to come in and I hate to noodle in front of strangers. It was almost eight—another hour to go. It was starting to dawn on me that road life was twenty percent onstage and eighty percent off. I was getting ready to do my usual pre-gig thing and grab a coke or a coffee and read a magazine or something when I realized I had a room right upstairs—duh. I guess I am a newbie tourist.

  When I walked into my room, Jamie was there, talking to Glenn. They both looked up when I opened the door.

  “Hey, Zach, how’s it going?” she said. “You ready for tonight?”

  I wondered if Danny had said something to her, but then I realized that if my nerves had been obvious to him, they probably were to her, too. “Yeah, I’m good,” I said. “How about you?”

  “I’m fine. I just hope there’s a decent turnout.”

  “Me too. But I suppose one good thing about not being local is, if there’s not a great turnout, they can’t really blame it on us.”

  “At least not the first night,” Glenn said. “After that, they sure can blame it on us—and believe me, they will—because a lot of it’s word of mouth, especially in smaller towns.”

  I grinned. “So I guess we’d better not suck, right …?”

  Glenn hit himself on the side of the head. “Wow! Why didn’t I think of that? I knew there was a reason I wanted to hire you.…”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you comedians alone,” Jamie said, getting up.

  “See ya, JD-girl,” Glenn said.

  At the door she turned. “
Bye, GT. Bye, ZR.” She laughed like that was the funniest thing in the world, then left.

  I plopped on my bed and started reading the latest issue of Modern Drummer. I was getting into this feature on recording drums using a minimal miking setup when I heard music. Glenn was playing something on guitar. Not on his Strat—he was playing this little beater acoustic that he’d packed along. The tune wasn’t a rocker like the other one. It was slower, almost a ballad, but it had a really nice melody and these haunting, minor-key chord changes.

  I didn’t say anything, I just kept on reading. When he finished, I looked up. “Let me guess—that was yours?” I asked.

  “Actually, yeah.”

  “Lyrics?”

  “Not much yet. Just starting on it.”

  “Hate to sound like a broken record, but man, that’s nice. What do you call it?”

  He just blinked at me, then shook his head. I wasn’t sure if that was I don’t have a title for it yet or I don’t want to talk about it, but I guess it didn’t really matter.

  “Do you have any recordings of your stuff?” I asked.

  “Well, just some rough demos of a couple of things.”

  “You got them with you?” He nodded. “Can I have a copy?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, I suppose so.”

  “Great.” I dug through my stuff and handed over a thumb drive. “Just dump them on here whenever you get the chance.”

  He laughed, like he didn’t really get why I wanted to bother, but he took it.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get rolling.…”

  “Yeah.” I got up, then stopped. “Hey—I almost forgot …”

  “What?”

  “That waitress at our table tonight?”

  “Yeah …?”

  “She wants you.”

  Now that made him seriously laugh. “Figures …” was all he said.

  15

  “Communication Breakdown”

  The Dog & Pony had a large movable wall between the restaurant and the club area, keeping the stage and the dance floor—and the surrounding seating and the bar—separate from the dining area. But by nine p.m. the dining side was cleared out and mostly served as a quiet place where the band could hang before the gig.

  We all met there a few minutes before showtime. The band had done something before the show at Paisano’s that was a little, uh … different, and at the time I figured they’d done it because it was the first time with the new guy. We’d all gotten into a huddle and sort of went around the circle and said positive things. Kind of a cross between a group hug and a team getting psyched up before a game.

  But apparently it was a regular thing with them, because they did it again here. We wandered into the dining room one or two at a time and ended up sitting at a table just shooting stuff around. Brad was the last to arrive. He sat near me, and I thought I could smell beer on him. “Is the PA hot?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s all fired up and ready to go,” Glenn said.

  “Cool,” Brad said. He looked at his watch. “Time for preflight.”

  We all got into a huddle—Amber, too. Brad said, “These guys are gonna see what a band from California can do, ’cause we’re gonna kick ass tonight!” and Danny said, “Can’t wait for ‘Go My Way,’ ’cause I love the way baby bro hammers it!” I’ve gotta admit, that made me feel good in spite of the nickname, and I said, “I’m just happy to be here, and I’m going to do my best to keep up with all of you.” GT replied, “You’re good, man … you don’t have to keep up with anyone but yourself.” Jamie laughed at him and shook her head. Then she turned to me and smiled. “Zach, we’re really glad you’re here with us … facial hair and all.”

  Everyone laughed, and Amber added, “You guys are going to do great tonight! Anything you want me to listen for?” There was no sound guy running the PA, so we were going to have to rely on our sound check to set our mix, plus whatever info we could get while we played.

  “Thanks,” Glenn said. “You can tell us about small stuff during the break, but if anything gets really out of whack, let us know right away. I may get out front with my wireless, too—the more ears, the better.”

  “It’s time,” Brad announced.

  We wandered through the bar and up onto the darkened stage.…

  Q: HOW CAN YOU TELL WHO REALLY RUNS THE BAND?

  A: WHY DO YOU THINK THEY CALL IT A THRONE, BITCHES!

  I freakin’ love drumming … There’s something about playing the drums that’s different from any other instrument. Maybe it’s the physical part. I mean, you’re generating sounds by hitting things. You’re the guy with his foot on the gas, driving the whole thing. You’re the one making people get up off their asses and dance. You’re the one setting the vibe—is the groove gonna be hard and mean, or maybe a little slower and sexier?

  It’s just so … primal. Imagine you’re dancing in a room full of people, only every time your foot hits the floor, the whole room goes boom! And every time you clap your hands, the room goes pow! And when you shake your ass, the room shivers. Everyone feels it and everyone moves with you. Drumming is exactly like that—you’re sitting at your instrument, dancing to the music. Only your dancing makes the music, instead of the other way around.

  It’s the coolest thing ever.…

  Brad stomped on a foot switch, and the stage was flooded with colored lights. “BOZEMAN, MON-FRICKIN’-TANA—YEAH …!” he boomed into the mic. Some cheers started up, but he didn’t wait. “We’re-Bad-Habit-and-we’re-from-California-hope-you-like-the-show!” Without missing a beat, Glenn fired up the grinding guitar intro to “So Far” and I started laying down a slammin’ pile-driver beat as Brad jumped into it.

  I’ll tell you how the story’s told

  I always wanted so much more

  And way on down the road

  I caught a glimpse of the sunlight …

  And just like that we were off and running with our plan to take the Northern Rockies by storm. We followed that song with another strong one, and another. My nerves had vanished after the first thirty seconds, and we were in the pocket and rocking through song after song. Except …

  By the end of the first set—after a dozen-plus killer tunes—it was apparent from the lack of audience response that something was wrong. If we’d sucked, I could see it. But what are you supposed to do if you’re at the top of your game, really nailing it, and you still get a lukewarm response from the crowd …?

  It was weird, like telling hilarious jokes to people who don’t speak your language. The others chalked it up to being the new guys in town, and we jumped on the second set after a short break, just going on down our set list. But by then I had a hunch about what was wrong, since the Sock Monkeys usually played to a less exclusive crowd than these guys did. We’d been like a mutt band, where Bad Habit was more of a purebred, and we’d had to do a little bit of everything to keep people happy. Well, looks like things hadn’t changed as much as I’d thought … but I was way too new here to start throwing my opinion around.

  Luckily, someone else did it for me.…

  “Hey, guys—Corey was right. You sound great.” Jake was talking to Brad and Glenn and me during our second break.

  “Hell, you think this is good,” Brad said. “You should see—”

  Glenn held up his hand. “But what?” he asked.

  “Well …” Jake paused. “My feeling is, people pretty much like to hear what they’re familiar with. Especially when they go out to have a good time. If I had to guess, I’d say about three people in the room tonight have heard most of the songs you’ve played so far.”

  “Hey, man,” Brad said, “these are pretty happening, for the most part. Good tunes. Don’t you guys listen to what’s goin’ on?”

  I thought Jake was going to get pissed, but he seemed to take it in stride. “Sure we do. But it’s a big country—things might be a little different here than in California. I’m just sayin
g.”

  Glenn spoke up. “Can you give us some examples of what they might like to hear?”

  “Hey, I’m just a glorified barkeep,” Jake said, “not a music expert.”

  “Well, what do most bands play here?” I asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know … I’ve heard a hundred bands play here, and they’re all different. But I can tell you one thing our best bands all have in common—when they play a song, you’ve probably heard it before, and you probably like it.” He took a sip from his coffee. “Look, guys. I’m not trying to be a pain or tell you how to do your job. Like I said, you sound real good. I just think you’d get more people out on the dance floor if you’d drag out some of the songs from your Saturday night set and mix them in. That’s all.”

  “Uh, Saturday night set …?” Brad asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Corey didn’t tell you about Saturdays here …?”

  Glenn was shaking his head. “Nope, he didn’t mention anything special about it. What’s the deal?”

  “Every Saturday during the summer season we host Club Classic. It’s a big thing around here—happy-hour prices all night and free snacks, and whatever band we have that week plays classic rock all night. We get a great turnout—probably more money comes in that night than the rest of the week.” He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “But from what I’m hearing, it seems like you guys won’t be able to cover it.”

  “Yeah, classic rock … I don’t know—” Brad said.

  Glenn interrupted him again. “We’ll make it happen.”

  “Maybe I’d better try to book another band for that night instead,” Jake suggested. “Might be hard this late in the game, but I could probably scrounge someone up.”

  “You won’t need to,” Glenn said. “We’ll do it, and we’ll do a good job.” He looked at Jake and nodded. “I promise.”

  Jake looked at him for a minute, then finally nodded back. “Okay. But you let me know if you need anything.”

  “That’s a deal. And thanks.” Then he added, “When’s the best time for us to get in here during the day without disturbing your customers?”