Chapter 9
Jon’s guitar emitted a harsh and jarring note, and Bryan sighed heavily. This simply wasn’t working. He had no doubt as to why Jon, a man famous for his rich, smooth style, was suddenly creating notes that sounded like the wailing of howler monkeys. He was angry that Bryan had abandoned them, and it showed in his playing. They’d been rehearsing for two days, and the sound just wasn’t there. They weren’t cohesive, and the situation only got worse the more they played. This was not just rustiness from a long hiatus; this was a band on the verge of disintegration.
They had decided to play an acoustic version of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” a very emotional tribute to their friend. But the tightness of sound that typified their performances had eluded them.
Bryan held up his hand to stop the music. “All right, guys, why don’t we talk about it?” An awkward hush fell over the room. Bryan waited a long moment, then putting his guitar down on its stand, he turned to face Jon. “Look, guys, we’re in trouble here. I know you’re pissed off at me, and I understand why, but come on, don’t you think you should at least tell me to my face what an asshole I am? I know you’ve said that and worse while I’ve been gone.”
Jon looked over at Twist, who was poised like a springing cougar behind his drum kit. He ran his hands over his closely cropped blonde hair. “Dude, you just left; you didn’t say anything to us. Hell, man, for months we didn’t even know if we’d have a band. B.T. had to tell us what was going on. Then you think you can just walk back in here like nothing happened? What the hell was that all about?”
Bryan looked over at Callie where she sat in a corner of the rehearsal hall. She’d just returned from taking a nap in the lounge downstairs. Apparently, Jon’s long-term girlfriend Cinnamon, who had been there for the first few hours, had already called it a night. Bryan thought it was terrific that Cinnamon and Callie had hit it off so well. He should’ve known that Callie would be fascinated by Cinnamon’s ownership of a holistic health store. They’d connected right away, and had spent most of the time they were at rehearsals “talking shop.” Bryan assumed that Twist and his on-again, off-again girlfriend Naysa were in an off-again phase. He gave a heavy sigh. Twist, who generally had the temperament of a wolverine in full-blown steroid rage, was even worse when Naysa wasn’t around. Tempestuous did not even begin to describe their relationship; she was one of the few people who would stand up to him and give as good as she got. Usually he’d be so angry with her, he wouldn’t have any irascibility left to direct towards anyone else. Bryan shook his head. Given the vibe in the room, he’d need an archangel complete with a flaming sword to get out alive. He gave a self-deprecating snort. He’d spent most of his life doing things that were unlikely to earn him any tender mercies from God; divine intervention in this situation would not be forthcoming.
Callie had been with him for all the endless hours of rehearsal. He couldn’t have done it without her, and he was grateful for the support. But he sensed that dealing with Jon and Twist was going to be tougher than any performance. He had expected a confrontation from Twist, but was surprised that Jon had been the first to fire off at him. Generally Jon, with his Beach Boy good looks and soft voice, was so low-key and mellow that people were tempted to check his pulse. The fact that Jon had spoken up was an indicator of just how tenuous the situation was.
Bryan turned back to him. “Man, you’re right, I messed up. When Brodie died…”
Twist threw his drumsticks across the room, so angry that his numerous freckles stood out like little sparks on his normally pale face. “Goddamnit, Bryan, I’m tired of you acting like you’re the only one who loved Brodie. We lost our friend, too! Jesus, man, you’re not the one who walked into that…,” he faltered and took a deep breath to calm himself, “that hotel room. I was!”
Bryan inhaled sharply as he tugged on his ponytail. Twist was the youngest and had always been the most volatile member of his band. He was quick to feel slighted and tended to get angry very quickly. As his nickname indicated, he would change personality without warning. Bryan had learned to handle him after years of experience, but they had never had a crisis of this magnitude before. He struggled to find the right words to mend the rift he’d caused, but he was frustrated, too. These guys were his family; they should understand him better than this.
“Look, man, did you want me to die, too?” he asked exasperatedly. “You know what it was like before I left. Eventually I was going to kill myself or somebody else. That’s why B.T. wanted me out of here. But I never ran out on you guys. You know I wouldndo that!”
There was a long pause while everyone digested what had been said. But he could still feel the anger simmering in the room. When he looked at Callie again, she leaned forward in her chair, her face rapt with interest, giving him a slight nod to let him know that he needed to continue.
Bryan stood up and began to pace. “This is the first time I’ve ever let you down. Do you really think I wanted to do it? Goddamnit, I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave. Can’t you understand that?”
Still there was no response. Bryan could suddenly feel the anger coming over him in waves. Fear tightened his chest, constricting his lungs so he couldn’t breathe. What would he do without his band? The pounding in his head intensified, and fear rose up in a wave of clammy sickness. Suddenly he was there, back there in the bottom of the closet where his mother used to leave him when she went out. She’d started locking him in after social workers came by in response to complaints from neighbors that he played in the streets at all hours of the night. The overwhelming fear that she’d forget he was there had left him paralyzed and helpless, and those feelings returned now with a vengeance. Breathe, man, breathe. He struggled to swallow his fear. No, no, he wouldn’t go there ever again.
Abruptly he turned and started yelling as loudly as he could. “All right, what is it, Twist? What the hell am I, your daddy? What’s wrong? You needed your daddy here to hold your hand?” he shouted belligerently, straining past the tightness in his throat. “You want to kick my ass because I wasn’t here to hold your hand?”
“Bryan,” Callie said urgently, moving towards the stage, “please don’t do this.” What on earth had gotten into him? Callie experienced a brief moment of fear as she saw a side of Bryan he had never shown her before, a dark, raging facet of his personality that he generally hid with sarcasm and genial good-naturedness.
Bryan couldn’t hear her through the roaring in his ears and the pounding in his chest. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. What would he do without his band? He struck out again. “Come on, Twist, you’re the big badass. Everybody has to walk on eggshells around you! So now what’s it going to be? You’ve always wanted to do it, so come on then. Come on, what’s keeping you? Come on, bring your punk ass on over here and kick your daddy’s ass!” After years of handling Twist and his hair-trigger temper, Bryan knew exactly how to elicit the desired response.
“Punk ass? Who the hell are you calling a punk ass? At least I didn’t run!” Twist jumped up from his drum kit and charged.
Jon knocked his chair over as he leapt and grabbed Twist before he made it to Bryan. “Ah, come on, dudes, cut it out,” he said, breathless from trying to hold a squirming Twist.
Callie had sprung from her chair when Twist charged and now she put a calming hand on Bryan’s shoulder. After a long moment he began to feel the tension ease from his body and he relaxed his pugilistic stance. Callie pulled him over to the chairs where she’d been sitting to give him a chance to calm down. She couldn’t believe the anger she felt coming off him. He was actually trembling with rage.
Jon struggled with Twist for quite a while longer before he calmed down enough for Jon to release him. They both sat down on the floor, astonished by what had happened. Talented, strong-willed people were bound to clash from time to time and they’d had many fiery battles in the past. But they’d never come this close to actual blows before.
Both Bryan and Twist looked
on in amazement when Jon suddenly stood up. His face flushed, his voice trembling with emotion, he began to rock back and forth. “Look guys, this just isn’t right, okay. I have no intention of going out on tour with you two acting like spoiled brats. Do you think this is what Brodie would’ve wanted?” Jon raised his voice to a normal level, which was the equivalent of anyone else shouting. “We’ve spent most of our lives building this band. Are you two going to flush it just because of your huge egos? I’m sick of the whole thing, and I’m not going to put up with it. Either we’re a band or we’re not. Just let me know what you decide.” He turned to walk out the door. His movement finally jarred Bryan and Twist out of their stunned paralysis.
Twist jumped up and grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “No, nobody’s going anywhere, we’ve got to talk this thing out. If you leave, who the hell’s going to talk? Me and him?” He jerked a thumb towards Bryan.“I don’t think so. I’d rather cut the bastard’s heart out,” he finished lightly. True to form, Twist’s hair-trigger temper had spent itself. His temper was like a lightning strike while Bryan’s resembled a hurricane.
Jon didn’t resist as Twist pushed him back down on the floor and sat beside him.
Bryan pulled the elastic band off his hair, letting it hang free while he rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. Then he leaned back, staring at the ceiling while he tried to find the composure to say what needed to be said. What the hell had that been about? He hadn’t felt this out of control since he was a kid. The desperation and utter hopelessness that had dominated his life before music, before B.T., had suddenly returned with a vengeance. Music had saved his life. He couldn’t afford to lose it. His foundation had always been insubstantial, and now it was collapsing beneath his feet. God, even Jon was pissed with him, and he’d never seen him pushed beyond even keel.
He swallowed the huge lump in his throat. He had no idea what to say, but he had to say something. “Look, guys, do you want me out? Do you want me out of the band? I mean, I would understand. I left you two here to face all the craziness by yourselves, and I understand that you’re pissed. But I really didn’t mean to do it, and I’m sorry. But haven’t I always been straight with you guys? Don’t I at least deserve something for that?”
Jon and Twist considered his words. He was right; he’d always been straight with them. Even though he and Brodie had written most of the songs, their money cut, even from the publishing, had been divided equally. He and Brodie had dismissed their protests about the inequity. If it was for Storm Crow, they all shared equally. Too many bands had fallen apart over royalties, and money simply wasn’t worth it. He had always been very careful to make sure all of them were included in publicity or articles about the band. Everyone knew that Storm Crow was Bryan’s band. He was the unchallenged star of the group. The media couldn’t get enough of that tortured poet visage and sometimes surly attitude. But he had never hogged the limelight, nor did he dominate the band as many others in his position had done.
Twist got up from the floor and began to pace. “Dude, it’s not about the money or publicity! Yeah, you and Brodie were always fair about that.” Twist paused. “It’s like, well, I know you and Brodie were together since you were kids, but it just seemed like sometimes, man, you guys shut us out. Like you were one band, and we were another. It didn’t feel like Storm Crow was about the four of us. Then when Brodie died…” He took a deep breath, his eyes closed as if to shut out the horrific reality of Brodie’s death. When he opened them again, they were moist with unshed tears. “When Brodie died, you didn’t turn to us, you ran away, like we didn’t matter. Like we weren’t a part of this too. We were supposed to be in this together, but we weren’t.”
Bryan latched onto the first part of Twist’s statement. “Man, we’ve talked about this before. The lead singer almost always gets the attention…”
Twist interrupted, “That’s not what I’m talking about! Weren’t you listening? Hell, I’m glad I’m not the one reporters are following around. I sure as hell haven’t enjoyed having them all over me while you’ve been gone. I just want us to be like brothers again, you know, like when we started out. Remember how close we got when B.T. would make us practice like twenty hours a day? And we would go to Maria and beg for mercy?” Bryan nodded. “Man, that was so hella cool. Now it’s like we’ve split up, but westill together. It’s been driving me crazy, man. I just want to be included. We should’ve been able to talk about this. We should have been the first people you turned to, but you left us, like we weren’t family. That’s all I’m saying.”
Bryan nodded and glanced over at Jon who seemed to be in full agreement with Twist. He’d had no idea that his bandmates felt this way. He’d always thought of them as his brothers. Really they were the only family he had. It surprised him that they didn’t know that. Then again, he’d never told them.
“Look, guys, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But I’m with Storm Crow until the day I do die, okay? I’m not going anywhere, and you’ll always be my brothers.” He choked up and had to stop talking for a long moment, then resumed. “When Brodie died…” He took a deep breath. “All kinds of crazy stuff went through my mind, but I didn’t for one moment think about breaking up the band. I might not have acted like it the past few months, but I love you guys. You’re all the family I’ve got. I’m not out unless you kick me out.”
Twist hung his head. “I guess we just freaked out a little. You know with both you and Brodie gone, we kind of didn’t know what to do.”
Bryan nodded. He certainly knew how that felt. “I know, I didn’t know either. That’s why B.T. sent me away before I did something that even he couldn’t fix. Losing Brodie really messed up my head, but I can’t lose you guys too.”
Jon seemed contemplative for a moment. Then he walked over and picked up his guitar and nodded to his bandmates, “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Bryan shrugged his aching shoulders. He couldn’t believe it had taken until after two o’clock in the morning for them to get it together. They had been playing for eighteen hours straight, and he was exhausted. Though he was still worried about the tension in his band, he had been reassured when Twist walked over to him as rehearsal broke up and asked, “Hey, dude, what’s up with Callie?” He’d introduced her earlier, and he’d known that they were curious about her but were too proud to ask. Twist had been absolutely flabbergasted when he’d simply replied, “She’s my mate, man.” He smiled to himself; they’d always treated Twist like a kid brother because he was so much younger than the rest of the band members. From the beginning Twist had looked up to them, and his hurt over Bryan’s defection was genuine. But Bryan was pretty sure that they would be able to work out any remaining tension once they got back on the road together. For him, being on tour was a real bitch. The constant time zone changes were absolutely exhausting, and he was always tired because it was impossible to sleep. Even the most stringent contract riders didn’t ensure good food, so more often than not he had an upset stomach. They usually weren’t in a city long enough to really enjoy it, and he spent most of his time in a boring hotel room looking at daytime television. Little wonder that some rock stars trashed luxury hotels rooms as a hobby. Many record companies even built escrows into contracts to cover such damage. Being on the road was a trial by fire; it either brought a band together or destroyed it. Storm Crow had always gelled on tour, and Bryan was confident that this time would not be any different.
He glanced over at Callie in the passenger seat of his pickup truck. She was sound asleep with her head pressed against the glass of the side window. She looked so youthful and pretty when she was asleep. Her dreadlocks were pulled back, and her face looked soft and vulnerable. She wasn’t accustomed to their late hours and had taken to napping whenever the opportunity presented itself. Bryan smiled. She was a game one, all right. This lifestyle was difficult to say the least, but she had hung in there with them through fights, temper tantrums, and hours only the local winos ke
pt. But now they were headed home. Something about that seemed so right. Home with Callie. His grin grew wider; he wondered if she knew she snored.
* * *
Callie awoke with a start, disoriented. It took a moment to recall that she was at Bryan’s house in Venice Beach. When they first arrived, she had been surprised at the grittiness of the neighborhood in which Bryan had chosen to live. She’d assumed that he would live in Malibu or even Carmel, but she should’ve known that an alternative rock superstar wouldn’t live in such sanitized surroundings. The edginess and eclectic nature of Venice Beach suited him far better than any ritzy upscale neighborhood. In Venice Beach multimillionaires rubbed shoulders with street performers, seemingly in comfortable accord. She’d never seen anything like it, though of course, she’d actually seen very little of it.
They had arrived late the previous Saturday, and since then she had not gotten to bed before three o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t believe how hard the band worked. So much for the glamour of drugs, sex, and rock and roll. She and Tonya had worked to the point of and beyond physical exhaustion many times when they first opened their store, but at least they weren’t required to sound good while they did it. She’d always dismissed rockers as a bunch of overpaid, spoiled brats, and that element certainly had a presence. But the brats weren’t successful for long. Maintaining a career in this industry took nothing less than selfless dedication. As a small business owner, she could respect hard work, and these people made promoters of the Protestant work ethic look like slackers. Today, if she was right and it was Wednesday, they’d be auditioning a new guitarist, and she was sure that would result in more endless sessions.
The tribute concert was on Saturday, and while the band seemed ready for that performance, she could tell that Bryan was anxious about hiring a replacement for Brodie. They apparently had a number of candidates. The band seemed to be more concerned about chemistry than with actual talent. Bryan was adamant that guitar licks could be learned, but he didn’t want some jerk to come in and ruin their already fragile vibe. They’d even briefly toyed with the idea of going with just Bryan on lead guitar, but most of their music had been written with two leads, many with difficult contrapuntal harmonies. Those would be impossible to duplicate without another guitarist.
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