For the Record

by Charlotte Huang

  Being behind the curtain felt cozy, like it was us against everyone out there. Before the illusion could be broken, Malcolm banged his sticks together. Pem joined in with the thumping bass line, and then Beckett’s guitar cut in with a jarring screech. The lightweight white curtain dropped to the ground and we moved downstage.

  The houselights were low, but I could make out about forty people in the audience. They weren’t all journalists; I recognized people who worked for the club and our agent, Mark, who’d flown in. Mandy stood by Rob and Sam. I focused on her as I began to sing. She pumped her hands in the air, waving double devil’s horns. I sputtered. Singing with a giant grin on your face is impossible, so I had to look away. But not before I noticed a camera in my face. Fantastic. I had to get my head in the game.

  I skipped to the other side of the stage, mostly to get Mandy out of my sight line because she was now giggling uncontrollably. Pain in my ass.

  Since I’d already survived the showcases, I wasn’t thrown by the blank or even bored look on some faces. But this was the biggest venue I’d performed in, so I was freaked out that most of them clustered toward the back. They felt far away, impossible to touch. I decided to pretend they weren’t there. Nothing sucks more than trying to reach out to someone who doesn’t want to be reached.

  I visualized the curtain going back up, being recocooned, reisolated behind it. I instantly relaxed and felt my bandmates respond to the shift in my attitude. We settled into the song, a connection being woven among the four of us.

  This was one of the most amazing discoveries about being in a band: you developed a common language, a flow. We’d worked out the arrangements well ahead of time, but within the structure there was room to play, to be spontaneous. No matter how many times we played a song, it was never exactly the same. I mostly stuck close to the arrangements, but I loved watching my bandmates improvise with almost telepathic communication.

  By the end of our mini set, I felt invincible. The tiny crowd had responded enough that I knew they weren’t totally dead inside. We had talked about our collective commitment to leaving it all on the stage each and every time we played, and I thought we’d delivered.

  Interviews started right after. Now that I wasn’t onstage, I felt like a clown in my makeup and outfit. As Pem predicted, my makeup had slid halfway down my face. I stopped into the bathroom to mop up, so I was late to the office, where Michaela, our publicist, was already giving talking points. “Remember, if someone brings Hollis up, go with ‘We miss her, but we’re excited about the new direction we’re able to take with Chelsea.’ That’s it. Period. Chelsea, don’t answer any questions unless they start with your name. Boys, be ready to chime in and save her.” Michaela held a hand to her forehead and cast a nervous look at Sam. “Where’s the bathroom?” Without waiting for an answer, she ran out to the hallway, moving amazingly fast for a woman in four-inch heels.

  “She really thinks I’m going to nail this,” I said sarcastically.

  “She’s pregnant,” Sam explained.

  The boys murmured things like “That’s great” or “Awesome,” whereas I blurted out, “Really?” They turned to look at me. “She’s tiny. You can’t even tell,” I said.

  Malcolm yawned, stretching his fists toward the ceiling. “Girls are weird.”

  The first journalist, Lewis, came in and took a seat across from the L-shaped leather sectional where the four of us sat. He turned on a pocket recorder and opened a notebook before reaching out to shake our hands. “Hey. I interviewed you guys a couple of years ago.” They all nodded but didn’t give any indication they remembered. “So. Let’s start with the album. How was it recording without Hollis?” And we were off.

  At some point, Michaela slipped back into the room. She looked pale and shiny but had put on fresh lipstick.

  I tried to pay attention as the guys answered question after question that attempted to get at the Hollis issue. Malcolm did a lot of the talking, since he seemed to be the master of answering without actually saying anything substantive.

  In the middle of one of Lewis’s rambling questions, Beckett pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to Michaela. She frowned but took a long sip. “I think the exciting thing for us is that because Chelsea has such a powerful voice, it opens up the songs that we’ve done a million times in a whole new way,” Beckett said.

  “Do you agree, Chelsea? Do you think you’re helping to reinvent the Melbourne sound?”

  I focused on Lewis. “It’s not my intention to reinvent anything. I’m a Melbourne fan myself, and I loved how they sounded with Hollis. But I can’t replicate it, and I think that would be boring anyway.” I hoped it didn’t show that I’d practiced that answer a thousand times.

  Michaela called from the side of the room, “Half hour is up, Lewis. Last question.”

  Lewis turned to the boys. “What do you want to tell former fans who’ve written you off because they think Chelsea isn’t someone who shares your musical heritage?”

  Ugh. The musical heritage BS again. I could explain until I was blue in the face that I had no control over the song selection when I was on American Pop Star, but everyone insisted on believing that I lived and breathed Top Forty. I was so over defending myself.

  Pem spoke up first. “Our fans care about music. When they come see us or hear our record, I have no doubt that they’ll get it.”

  Michaela clicked over in her heels. “Thanks so much, Lewis. Hope you got what you needed.” We all stood as she ushered him out the door and came back with the next reporter.

  No one else seemed worried that two more hours of this might not be the best way to prepare for our first show tomorrow. They’d all done this many times before and probably weren’t fazed. But I could still hardly believe it was really happening.

  6

  Friday was our first real show. No industry, no reporters, just fans. First we had to do a sound check, a meet and greet, and say hi to the opening band, Gray Matter. I leaped out of bed at seven a.m. without an alarm. The lump in the next bed mumbled, “You’re going to regret this.”

  But an hour later I’d wrangled Mandy into riding a red trolley car up Mount Washington. “I have to say, this isn’t as lame as it sounds,” she said. The view of the cityscape and rivers was spectacular and helped me put my worries into perspective. I’d done everything I could to prepare; now it was time to let go and do it.

  At the top, we poked around the little museum and went to lunch. Our food had just arrived when Mandy’s phone rang. She hadn’t even said hello before I heard Rob’s frantic voice on the other side. “Okay. We’ll get right over,” Mandy said. She frowned at her phone. “They’re going nuts about something.”

  Every muscle in my body tightened. So much for touristy distraction.

  We ate and rushed back to the venue. The dressing room and backstage areas were empty. We finally found Rob rolling an amp off the stage. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Forecast is clear and Pem wants to move the show outside.”

  “You’re kidding.” While I’d been soaking up the sun just moments before, it never occurred to me that this could be a ramification of the nice weather. I felt myself sliding off the edge. “But all that setup and rehearsal. Now we’re just going to wing it?”

  “We have just enough time to make sure everything works. Might not be the tightest show ever.”

  Even playing inside as we’d rehearsed five or six times, I’d be battling a monster case of nerves. But being outside, on a different stage, with a different audience setup? I might as well have a nervous breakdown right now.

  Mandy circled to stand in front of me. “Deep breath. You’ve got this.”

  “Merch Mandy! Help us move stuff!” Rob hollered.

  “Remember, you’re amazing.” She hugged me and ran.

  When I got outside, techs and stagehands buzzed around, building what seemed like a small city. I joined the guys onstage, fighting dizziness with every step.
>
  Malcolm saw my face first. “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. What brought this on?” I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Pem said. One stagehand looked like he wanted to jump on Pem and beat him senseless. “The weather cleared and the alternative station wanted to do a ticket promotion. So now instead of two thousand people, we’ll get about five thousand.”

  I nodded, aware that this was supposed to be a good thing.

  Beckett pulled me aside. “Okay. Calm down. You’re going to have to get used to playing in unfamiliar venues anyway. Might as well start now.”

  “But I’ve been visualizing playing inside for three days.” I was too out of my mind to be embarrassed. Still, I was surprised to find Beckett smiling kindly.

  “You still have a couple of hours. Pem’s going to do all the talking. Just focus on the people walking around. If they’re walking, they can’t be paying too much attention to us.”

  “If you say so.” I had serious doubts about Beckett’s advice, but he’d obviously performed a lot more than I had.

  The next few hours were a blur. We sound-checked while the techs redid the lighting. When we finished, Gray Matter set up. They were a few years older than the guys in Melbourne but just starting to break out. We gave hugs, and they thanked us for having them on tour.

  Rob hustled us into a large room with a few chairs scattered around, then went right back out, shutting the door. Malcolm texted like he was possessed.

  I had no idea what to expect from my first meet and greet. I’d probably answer questions about how I came to be part of Melbourne, maybe pose for a few pictures.

  “Are Amber and Lila coming?” Pem asked. Malcolm nodded, distracted. “Do we have room? How many spots did you give them?”

  Rob came back in and moved the chairs.

  “Them plus five,” Malcolm said.

  Pem shook his head. “Dude, that’s like half our list. What about Sienna and them?”

  “Hey, has anyone bothered to read that handy-dandy tour booklet I put together for you guys?” Rob glowered at us.

  “It was very pretty, Rob,” Pem said.

  “I read it,” I said. It said something about not making day-of-show guest list requests.

  “I don’t have anyone coming, so they can use mine,” Beckett said.

  “Sienna’s bringing friends too.” Malcolm put his phone away. “What about you?” he asked.

  “I was supposed to have these friends of my parents’, but they’re out of town.” By the time I realized how sad that sounded, it was already out of my mouth. The three of them stared at me.

  The door opened and Rob led a mob into the room. Some went straight to the guys and started talking; others stayed by the entrance, causing a logjam. Since nobody came to me, I got to observe. I told myself this was a good thing, but after a conspicuously long time doing nothing, I felt like a wallflower instead of the lead singer. I drifted and hoped no one would notice that I wasn’t talking to anyone.

  Each guy seemed to have a type. Malcolm’s fans were mostly girls. They were done up, giggly, and flat-out gorgeous. My guess was that the few boys who gravitated to him were drummers. Pem drew the die-hard music lovers in the group—overly serious and not touching him every five seconds. Not to say he didn’t have his share of fangirls. Beckett’s people were a mix but seemed the most normal, like they didn’t have an agenda other than seeing the show and having a good time. If I was still on the other side, I’d fall somewhere between the Pem and Beckett posses. I’d pick Pem’s brain about process and inspiration but talk to Beckett about music and being in a band. In some ways it was a shame that I hadn’t met them when I was still just a fan. Now when I asked them questions I felt like it only made me seem more green.

  Pretty soon phones came out. A girl backed up and stepped on my toes. “Oops. Sorry,” I said.

  “That’s okay! Hey, do you mind taking a picture?”

  “Sure.” She and her friends squeezed close to Beckett. Oh. She handed me her phone. “One, two, three.” I resisted the impulse to stick my finger in the picture and handed the phone back.

  A guy and two girls huddled by the wall, darting worshipful glances at Pem. “Do you guys want to meet Pem?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah. But he looks really busy,” the guy said.

  “Don’t worry. Pem’s a people person,” I said. He probably wouldn’t bite my head off in front of fans.

  “Serious? Thanks!”

  I walked over with my little trio and tapped Pem on the shoulder. “These guys want to meet you.”

  Pem glanced at them, then back at the guy who seemed to be dominating the conversation. “Hey, have you met Chelsea? Our singer?”

  Unfortunately, Intense Guy was far less interested in me than he’d been in Pem. “So. What bands were you in before Melbourne?”

  “None. I was on American Pop Star, though.”

  “Oh. Cool, I guess?”

  And that was the end of that conversation.

  —

  The changeover between Gray Matter and us happened mind-bendingly fast. Before I registered what was happening I was onstage clutching the mike, as if that would keep me from bolting. The curtain dropped and I went on autopilot. It was still light enough that I could make out every person in the audience.

  They were so very close. Barricades created a moat between us and them where security stood, but fans hung over them with cameras and phones. It stressed me out so much that I backpedaled and bumped right into Beckett. He shot me a sharp look that clearly meant “Calm down” but stayed by my side to make it less obvious that I’d almost plowed him over.

  I would have stayed there, frozen in place, but Pem scowled at me and I knew I had to work more of the stage. I felt disoriented. The sound, which had been so clear inside, seemed to get carried away on a breeze. We had a break after the second song. “Hey, Pittsburgh!” Pem shouted. The crowd roared back. I walked to the drum riser for water and to collect myself while Pem asked everyone if they’d enjoyed Gray Matter.

  Malcolm was so relaxed he looked almost bored. He reached for a water bottle and dropped his sticks on the ground. “Fuck,” he said, loud enough to make people in front laugh.

  Aaron darted out to tighten a cymbal. As he scooted by he said, “Give ’em hell, Chelsea!”

  I tried to channel Malcolm, to just not care so much. I jumped up and down as the next song started. I sang the verse, stalking to the front of the stage, and held my mike out for the crowd to sing the chorus, which they actually did. It was like one of those trust exercises, like I’d fallen backward off a chair and they were actually there to catch me.

  I knew then that I’d never get enough. The crowd feedback was beyond exhilarating. I spent the next hour running, dancing, headbanging, jumping off the low monitors, using the crowd’s energy as fuel. Whatever the crowd gave me, I gave back to them, double. Halfway through the show, we’d worked ourselves up until I wasn’t touching the ground.

  Pem went to his mike. “So that’s Chelsea.” The crowd erupted. I waved before returning my mike stand to the front of the stage. “We’re so glad you guys came out tonight. Change is hard, no doubt. But we want everyone to have a fuckin’ great time!”

  Beckett played the intro to “Smash Cut,” a slower song off the new album that we sang together. Beckett had a fantastic rock voice; depending on the moment, it could be clear and powerful or gravelly and soulful. I remember first hearing his vocal tracks in the studio and being surprised that Melbourne didn’t feature his singing more.

  Video screens behind us showed a montage of a couple falling in love.

  I gripped the mike, closed my eyes, rocked slowly back and forth, and started singing alone before Beckett sang his verse. At the risk of sounding like a total nerd, when our voices combined on the second chorus, I felt completely transported. Everything slipped away while our voices played off each other.

  Pem wrote this song, which was how I kne
w he had a tender side. Whenever he harangued me about anything, I sang it in my head.

  By the end, our video couple had broken up. A yearlong relationship compressed into a three-minute movie. The audience was silent. When I swept my arm toward Beckett, they exploded into whistles and applause.

  The next song, “Curvature,” brought the tempo back up. I tried to muscle my way back in, to lift my energy to where it was before the ballad. My feet and stomach felt weighted down with lead while my head and chest felt buzzy and light. I pushed on, determined to end on a high note. I was in the home stretch.

  While I admired Beckett’s guitar-playing, I suddenly realized he was singing the chorus. This was not supposed to be a duet. I had freaking missed my cue. I let Beckett sing through while I stood paralyzed, mind racing, feeling like a rank amateur. He and Pem stared daggers at me, but they couldn’t be angrier with me than I was at myself. I jumped in, taking over when the chorus repeated. I felt like I was going to pass out.

  Luckily we only had one song and the encore left. When we finished the set, Pem thanked everyone again and I sprinted backstage to the nearest bathroom. I spent the next ten minutes hurling into the toilet. There was a rapid knock on the door before it swung open. “Do we need to skip the encore?” Rob asked.

  I shook my head. “I can do it.”

  “You sure? People are starting to leave.”

  My stomach felt empty. I straightened and looked in the mirror. My skin had a waxy shine and my eyes were glassy. I grabbed some mouthwash and rinsed while giving him a dirty look. “I said I can do it.” I ran my fingers through my hair and walked back into the wing without crashing into anything.

  The guys’ expressions were mostly sympathetic. I willed myself to get it together. “She’s good.” Rob clapped me on the back and we went out. The crowd roared again. Beckett started the song quickly, probably afraid that I’d barf onstage if we didn’t hurry.