Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella

by Frost, NJ

  Just like her.

  The Vine is one of cooler venues on the London gig scene. There are lots of beautiful girls here tonight, lots of hipster guys. Usually this kind of crowd is hard to impress, but we must be doing something right because they’re throwing themselves full force into our set with us. There’s an incredible buzz. Not the louche, jaded hubbub usually reserved for the warm up act. We’re killing it. The crowd have bounced and danced and cheered along to the last three songs. As I blast out the final line of the outro and lean into the crowd to high five the sea of hands that are reaching out for me, I think, I love this, I fucking love it - this moment right here. Being up on stage, carrying a crowd along with you, lifting them, gives just as big a high as any other shit I’ve ever tried. It’s just as addictive. Just as dangerous.

  Fran catches my eye, and he sees it in me, the hunger for more raging inside me. He gives me a nod and a cocky arsed smile. Bastard. He thinks that I’m being won over, that my reservations about moving back to London, that my morbid fears of this band actually snowballing into something beyond our control are gradually being eroded by moments like this. But this high is just as fleeting as any coke high and the crash will be just as big. Right now this all makes perfect, crystal clear sense. I feel like I’m king of the fucking world, like I own this moment, own this crowd. Like this is what I was born to do. Half an hour after I come off stage the same old doubts and fears will come crashing in on me again. I put my finger up to Fran to signal that I need a quick breather. I neck my bottle of beer in one and do what I always do, give myself over to the temporary high, fuck the consequences.

  Fran starts to play the intro to Breathe. I don’t play guitar on this song, although my fingers ache to do it every time. I’ve shied away from playing it since I first showed it to the lads. It’s painful enough to sing, without feeling the weighty resonance from my guitar in the pit of my stomach too. I always get a little nervous performing this song. My emotions are still raw surrounding it. It’s good in a way that this song has become our torch song. In the small familiar venues of Brighton, my voice is often drowned out by the audience. The times when the lyrics catch in my throat, the audience is there to catch me. But tonight we are unknowns here, there’s no safety net.

  I stare out into the crowd. I’m thankful for the dazzling spotlight. It’s so easy to become someone else in its glare, to let the sea of faces watching me become an abstract mass.

  My voice is surprisingly steady and strong in spite of the hush that has descended on the place. This song has a strange power. It works its dark magic on the audience, and I feel the shift in the air. But for once rather than feeling oppressed by it, I feel strengthened, emboldened. As my voice soars, I let myself scan the audience again.

  It’s almost as if I’ve been expecting it, as if fate has been waiting for this moment. My eyes fall on a face that’s haunted me for the past year, a face that is so much more beautiful than I remember.

  She’s here.

  She’s here, and she has no fucking clue who I am. I should be relieved, but part of me wanted those stunning golden eyes of hers to flame with something other than this appraising, avariciousness she’s pinning me with. I swear I can almost see pound signs flashing there. It fucks me off and saddens me beyond words.

  I watch her warily in the dressing room mirror as she schmoozes Dex and Fran and Charley, giving them the standard A&R patter – hinting at big things to come. This Sylvie seems so much harder, so much slicker than the broken girl who shattered in my arms another lifetime ago. Yet the need to hold her again is overwhelming and heart-breaking, the need to consume her so strong. It’s like she’s my air, like I’ve been living on nothing but thin dregs for the past year. In her presence, it feels like my heart is finally doing what it’s supposed to. Like its beat has a purpose.

  I’ve denied and avoided and closed myself off to these feelings for so long now that suddenly faced with them, I’m overwhelmed. Part of me wants to forget all about the promise I made to Jamie. The one I made to myself the night of Jamie’s funeral.

  I want to see Sylvie Smith as just another girl. I want to fuck her to get her out of my system, to toss her aside and never have to think about her again. But fucking hell, Jamie was so right. She’s not just another girl. She’s the girl. So beautiful, she’s fucking lethal. I know somewhere deep in my heart that I’ll let her in and that she’ll destroy me too.

  Betrayal has never sat easily with me. I can’t betray Jamie. I can’t. But the dark rogue part of my heart whispers, fuck it, I couldn’t think of a more beautiful way to fall…

  Blake, Sylvie and Chris’ story continues in

  Coming Summer 2014…

  Read on for an exclusive preview.

  I always wondered if it was true. If your whole life flashes before your eyes in the moments before you die. I guess I’m about to find out.

  As I ease down the plunger, savouring the euphoric kick, I know this speedball is going to be my last.

  The instant it hits my veins it feels like the universe is fighting there. Exist. Don’t exist. Live. Die. Dark. Light. Fight. Let go. Crash. Fly. My body is finally saying no to all the shit I’ve put it through. Beat. Don’t beat. My heartbeat stops. In that silence, I see it all. Everything that brought me here. My life story in one lethal hit. Sensory and emotional overload.

  I see what finally brought me to my knees. I see Sylvie. In all her bold Technicolor beauty. In a cold grey world that’s getting further and further away, she’s like a burst of sunlight splitting into a million different shades and hues. I know there has to be a God, because a beauty like hers can’t be down to chance. She’s the golden ratio. So perfectly imperfect. The dazzling constellation of her is as stunning as any night sky you’ll ever see.

  I see Blake. My shadow self. I see his darkness wrap around Sylvie.

  They always seemed inevitable somehow, like a tide I was trying to hold back. Now I see the truth so very clearly. The truth of what they are and what they will be. I am their unwitting facilitator, the catalyst, and now I’m all used up. Now I’m no longer fighting fate I can finally rest.

  The world is narrowing, getting further and further away, until it’s just a lit window in the distance. Isn’t this what I wanted? To become nothing. To escape. To not feel.

  Then in a sudden rush I feel everything. But love burns the brightest of all and consumes everything else. The whitest, most beautiful light I’ve ever seen.

  I’ve always been a sucker for a boy in a band, specifically a bad boy in a band - the badder the boy the better. While you’d never bet your heart on one of these guys, you sure can have a hell of a ride for a while. I’ve had more than a handful of crazy rides so far. They’ve been beautiful while they lasted, but brief for the most part, and that’s been fine with me. No strings. In my line of work, you can’t afford to have strings. I have to love them and then let them go. That’s the thing with rock stars. They’re never really yours. They never can be. Once you get your head around that fact, then that’s when it becomes fun and not torture.

  With this obsession – although sometimes I wonder if it’s actually an affliction – it seems fitting that I ended up working in the music business. Although it’s no fluke. I work for Artemis Records. Not a huge label. More of an Indie outfit really. But it is the Indie label every new act out there is gunning for. I’m the head A&R girl, which means I scout the talent, tout the talent and liaise between the artists and the label. I have my finger on the pulse. I pre-empt the trend before it happens. I’m the mind reader, the nanny, the diplomat, the shit shoveller. I’ve had a few of my signings be bought out from under us by the bigger names. That means I rock at my job. It also means I’ve been head hunted by all those major labels, but I love Artemis, and I can’t see myself ever leaving. I love Denton my boss. He’s a fucking genius. He taught me everything he knows.

  Alongside all the shittier stuff, the job has its upsides: The easy money, the partying, the free gigs,
the free booze, the rock stars. I try not to mix business and pleasure too often. I try to be good, really I do. But sometimes I slip, so shoot me. I can count on one hand the boys in bands I’ve had who were no good in the sack. Sex and rock and roll just seem to go hand in hand – I swear that if it was studied, it would be proven that those two skill sets share the same DNA markers.

  I got a tip off from Bernie about the band I’m here to see tonight – The Flood. They’re a four piece who’ve recently moved up here from Brighton. Bernie was at uni with the lead guitarist. This is only their third support gig in London. They’re a little too Emo for my taste, but they’re good. Really good. They far outclass the bigger band that they are meant to be supporting. The front man has that tortured punk-gothic vibe going on and is wearing too much makeup, but he has presence. They’re a little rough around the edges, but I see real potential here. The room is alight with it. There are a couple of catchy floor fillers in their repertoire already and the crowd is eating them up. I know that Denton will love them. The pound signs of a nice juicy bonus start flashing before my eyes. This moment. This precise moment here is why I love my job so much. Knowing I’m on to something big.

  And would you believe it, I’m the only A&R here tonight. It’s practically unheard of to get first dibs on a hot new act like this. A&Rs are typically pack creatures. There’s usually ten other guys to trample over and elbow out of the way before I even get anywhere near the band. But this band is so new on the London scene that word hasn’t had chance to filter through about them yet. There’s nothing quite like a bit of insider information. I make a mental note that I owe Bernie a big night out, on me.

  I do have one advantage over all the guys in this game though, and that is my womanly wiles. The boys in the bands seem to be just as much a sucker for me as I am for them. A reasonably good looking A&R girl has a distinct advantage, an edge. You’re essentially the ultimate groupie, but one who has the irresistible glimmer of a potential record deal in her arsenal.

  My job is the perfect job if you love to fuck up and coming rock stars, which I do probably more often than I should.

  Denton overlooks this foible of mine because I’m so good at my job, and I don’t let it get in the way of what I do. If anything, it helps. Sometimes my reputation precedes me and more often than not that is what gets my foot in the door, gets my first hook up with the band.

  Listening to me I know it sounds like I’m not picky. That I’d fuck any guy who can strum a few chords on a guitar, but I assure you that is not the case. The guys I fuck are the crème de la crème, only the best for me. If I named names, you’d be pretty shocked and I’m proud to say I fucked them all when they were on their way up. Before they were tabloid fodder or the prey of movie goddesses, models and the spoilt daughters of oligarchs.

  I also know I sound like I’m ancient, but I’m only twenty four. I feel ancient though. I’ve been at Artemis for nearly six years. I was sixteen when I threw myself at Denton’s feet outside The Ivy and pleaded for a job. Impressed by my audacity and unwillingness to take no for an answer, he bought me dinner and then hired me as his gofer. I think that my story appealed to his innate goodness and sense of charity, and I became his little Orphan Annie, his protégé. I spent two years shadowing him, learning from the best. Then when he left Telstar to set up Artemis he took me with him and let me loose. At eighteen, I was one of the youngest A&Rs out there. It took a couple of prescient signings to earn the credibility that I have now. If you work in the industry, you sure as shit will have heard of me. The name Sylvie Smith is synonymous with success.

  I’m overdressed for this gig tonight. I’ve come straight from an awards show, and I’m a few glasses of champagne worse for wear. I’m still sober enough to know a great act when I see one though. The Vine is a popular venue on the London club circuit. The gig space has that ‘upstairs room of an old East End boozer’ vibe that is so on trend with the likes of the Hoxton set at the moment. There are lots of boho chic girls here with nouvelle mod guys. It’s all very, very trendy in a purposefully ‘unknowing’ way. I kind of stick out like a sore thumb. I’m a hundred and fifty percent killer rock chick this evening. The VOX awards don’t really call for understated chic. My spikes give me a great view of the stage though. There’s a real buzz in the place. It’s that unmistakable buzz you get when the audience can sense that they are present at the start of something that is going to be huge. It feels like a classic ‘I was there’ moment. An ‘I saw The Beatles at The Cavern’ kind of moment. These moments are rare. The unexpected thrill of it sobers me up in a flash.

  There’s something so magnetic about the lead singer of The Flood. His presence seems to swallow all the air up in the room. As I scan the audience, I note that practically every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on him. Beneath the overlong hair, the overdone eyeliner, he’s actually pretty fucking attractive. But then most frontmen are. It’s the peacock in them. They love to strut their stuff. They love the rampant eye fucking that goes with the job.

  This guy clearly has all the usual charisma in spades, but there’s something more. He’s a bad boy all right, but a bad boy with issues. There’s a subtle fragility hidden behind the overdone mask of his performance. I have a good nose for things like this and I can just sense this guy is trouble. It’s always the tortured ones that end up giving you the most grief. They are the ones who end up breaking your heart.

  My chest constricts as the image of Jamie pops into my head, unbidden. I need another drink, a really fucking strong drink. For a split second I think about leaving, kicking off my killer heels and running for the tube, I think about sitting in the acid white light of Bar Scala drinking our favourite grappa, drinking to him, alone. Other uninvited memories run through my head. His tremorous touch. His achingly lost eyes the last time I saw him. The black body bag being stretchered out of his apartment on the news. A long suppressed panic prickles at me. I can’t do this, I think. And then the music slows, and the singer’s haunting voice cuts through it all. It’s beautiful. I’m rooted to the spot.

  I’m a good head and shoulders above most of the other girls in these ridiculous skyscraper shoes, but I want to disappear. This song makes me feel so exposed. Like all songs that live long in the heart, it feels like this guy has literally reached into my soul and ripped the words right out of me. It’s about loss and losing the reason to breathe. The lyrics flow like ice in my veins.

  …I watch you blaze

  then watch you fade

  And now you’re gone

  I just can’t believe

  There’s a reason to breathe

  Or to carry on…

  As the song swells, the singer’s eyes scan the crowd and meet mine. Oh. Fucking. No. He’s just a boy in a band. A boy in a band, that’s all. Business. A trip to the fucking Maldives, a down payment on a bigger, more beautiful apartment, for God’s sake! That’s all he is. Then why is every cell in my body defying me? Why is my mind screaming that he’s so much more? I am so fucked.

  The small back room of The Vine acts as a makeshift dressing room. It’s cramped and hot and stinks of beer and sweat. The four guys and I are wedged in there. They’re all in various states of undress and inebriation. We’ve made our introductions. There’s Fran on lead guitar, Charley on Bass, Dex on drums. Blake, the lead singer, seems like a completely different guy from the one I just watched on stage. Quiet. Maybe even a little withdrawn. Gone is the cocky, brash presence that filled up the room. It still feels like there’s not enough air to breathe though.

  “Holy Shit, really?” The drummer beams at me.

  “Yes really. If you can put together a showcase for Denton, I’ll set up a meeting.”

  “Alex fucking Denton! You’re not shitting with us?”

  “No, I’m not. I really liked what I saw out there tonight. I think Denton will too.”

  “This calls for some seriously crazy partying! You wanna help us celebrate?”

  I shake my head laughing
. Three of the guys are buzzing. They’re acting like they’ve won the lottery which they pretty much have if Dent gives them the nod.

  The lead singer Blake is seated in front of a grimy sliver of mirror with his back to me. I catch a glimpse of his expression in the reflection, and it’s one of utter desolation, emptiness.

  “You okay with this Blake?” I ask.

  His eyes meet mine. Most of the black kohl that was lining his eyes has either sweated off or been wiped off. But his gaze is still dark and unreadable. It makes me uncomfortable. He doesn’t answer my question.

  “Of course he’s okay with it.” Dex the drummer scoffs.

  “What is there not to be okay with?” Fran the lead guitarist is sounding a little pissed off at the lead man’s lack of enthusiasm about my approach.

  Alarm bells are going off in my head. These guys seem to be on the verge of imploding already. That’s before the pressures of recording or promotion or touring are even remotely on the horizon. My gut is telling me to walk away, but my heart is telling me otherwise. There’s something about this band and the beautiful, surly boy I can’t tear my eyes away from. I don’t want them to be one of my ‘what if’s’. I’ll take them as far as the showcase for Denton. Then I can always hand them over to one of my juniors if they sign.

  I remind myself; these guys have only just moved to the City. Under the pressure of being thrown so closely together, in an unfamiliar environment, cracks are bound to show. If they decide to trust me, and I can trust myself, it will be my job to smooth these cracks over. To fix them. To make this band and its members fit for purpose.

  All eyes are on Blake. He seems to retreat further into himself and then he stands up abruptly shrugging on his jacket.