Rosemary trailed her over to the stairs. There was an alcove underneath with a folding table in front of it. Luce hefted a suitcase onto the table and flipped it open. Inside, patches and stickers and download cards for Harriet, but also for Luce Cannon and Patient Zero and Last April and Typecast as Villains.
She pulled out some T-shirts, slipped them onto hangers, and hung them from the stair banister. They had DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT screen-printed on them in block letters. The band names nagged at Rosemary.
“It’s easy enough,” Luce told her. “There’s a price list in the suitcase. Cash only. Any questions, find me or one of the guys.”
“Um, okay. When do I sit over here instead of over there helping you with your guitars?”
“For the whole night except when we’re playing. Good question. Next?”
“Luce Cannon? Is that really you? Like, ‘Blood and Diamonds’ Luce Cannon?” As she said the name of the song, Rosemary remembered the way it had drifted into her hospital room, made itself part of her while her body fought the fever.
“In a previous incarnation. That song was a long time ago.”
“Yeah! It came out when I was twelve, and then it got big again when I was in high school. It was my favorite song for ages.”
The other woman winced. “I don’t think of myself as old until somebody says something like that.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say you’re old. You were pretty young when it came out, right? So you’re not old now. It’s just I loved that song. I can’t believe it’s you. But—you’re famous. What are you doing here?”
Luce cocked her head. Rosemary got the feeling she’d said something wrong. She changed the subject. “Um, are the other bands selling stuff, too?”
“Yeah, but that’s not your problem. You keep my merch from walking off without cash in exchange.”
Footsteps on the stairs behind them. Another band, more gear in the guitar pile by the stage. They all shared a drum kit, Rosemary had figured out by then, as well as the bass amp and mic stands. Luce turned to help them, and, Rosemary guessed, to step away from their conversation. She had probably blown it, saying she’d been twelve when “Blood and Diamonds” came out, and getting stuck on it. But Luce Cannon! What a coup if Rosemary brought her to SHL. Everyone knew that song.
Luce came back to the table a moment later, so Rosemary must not have insulted or embarrassed her as much as she’d worried.
“Do they all get soundchecks? All the bands?” she asked Luce, eager to show she wasn’t hung up on the song. She had also decided to stop pretending like she knew anything.
“Naw. We do it to set the overall levels and the others get a line check. It’s not worth the time to check everyone and move gear twice. The room sounds totally different with people in it, anyway, but it’s ritual for me. Relaxes me a bit.”
“You don’t look nervous.”
She laughed. “I don’t get stage fright. Some anything-can-happen low-grade anxiety, maybe, but that burns off when we start playing.”
Rosemary didn’t know the difference, but she let it go.
The room began to fill. Rosemary was glad to be behind the merchandise table. She had dressed in what she thought people wore for shows, but it wasn’t like what anybody else was wearing, and she felt more overdressed by the second. They all came downstairs and took positions in the room like they’d gotten a memo she had missed. Some stood alone, Hoodies up or checking their phones, leaning on walls, looking like they belonged.
The audience demographics varied more than she’d expected: black and brown and white, teenagers and seniors and all ages in between. At the Patent Medicine show, most of the avs had been young and white and had fit into the five basic av body types, since custom bodies cost so much more. She was struck again by how different real people could be.
She had expected people to be drinking, and some held bottles or flasks, but she hadn’t spotted a bar. Whenever somebody stopped to look over the items on her table, she tried to exude a false front of confidence and belonging, smiling at them and waiting to see if they smiled back.
“What band are you here to see?” she asked one browser, trying to make conversation.
“All of them,” the woman said, and Rosemary wasn’t sure if that was a rebuke or an innocent answer. Maybe everyone came to hear everyone, not a particular favorite. Or maybe she’d made the woman uncomfortable, since she sat behind a particular band’s table. Maybe she’d implied the woman wasn’t fan enough. After that, she pressed her lips together, afraid she’d say something else stupid. What had Luce Cannon called it? Anything-can-happen low-grade anxiety.
The room now held more people than Rosemary had ever seen in one place. Each time she’d thought that recently, a new situation had come along to outdo it, but this was the most for sure. Fifty? Sixty? She had no idea how so many people fit in a space this size. She started to sweat. If she didn’t have the table and the alcove to carve out some space for her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
How did they stand it? Shoulder to shoulder, front to back with total strangers, with their heat and their odors. No clue if any of them had some new superbug, if a single sneeze might endanger the entire room. No clue if someone had a knife or a gun or a vendetta. If even one person panicked, the whole room would try to squeeze up that tiny staircase. People would be crushed. There were laws against this, laws to prevent gatherings like this one. She could pull out her phone and call in a violation. She held that consolation to her; the possibility obviated the need to do it. She had her space under the stairs, her table to keep her safe.
17
ROSEMARY
Shadow on the Wall
The first band started, and Rosemary turned her attention toward the stage area. She had to push the table forward a few inches in order to stand and see anything other than the hand-painted banner with the name “Kurtz” that now hung above the musicians. The shifting table earned her dirty looks from people who’d been standing in front of it, but she ignored them. Her first real live show!
The Patent Medicine show counted for something, of course; she wouldn’t be here now if that experience hadn’t blown her away. Even watching musicians record their set for SHL, with their individual camera arrays and sound booths, all knitted together to appear as if they were on a single stage; even that stirred something inside her. This had to be even better, with the band members close enough to interact with each other, and a real audience to feed off.
This band was a three-piece, drums and guitar and what sounded like a keyboard holding the low end where a bass usually rooted down, though she didn’t see a keyboard onstage. The singer kept his eyes shut tight, gripping one arm with the other. He looked to be on the verge of tears, but when he opened his mouth, his voice came across controlled and intense, like a revival preacher’s. The first song had a biblical fervor, but not from any Bible she had read. “These are my notes from the great upload,” she caught on the second chorus. An interesting sound, but she wondered if a singer who didn’t ever attempt to make eye contact with anyone would remind viewers that they weren’t actually in the room with the band. His voice didn’t match his face, either. It was a big voice, suited for someone with more personal charisma, and the lyrics worked better when she imagined some disembodied voice rather than a real person with a real body talking about an upload.
Really, this wasn’t any better than StageHolo. With SHL she didn’t need to worry about heat or crowds. She could adjust the volume, turn it off when she’d heard enough. She pulled up her Hoodie to check for messages, but she had no reception, maybe because of the alcove. Realizing she’d be unable to call for help if she needed it sent a new panic through her. She concentrated on making herself small and unnoticeable, concentrated on breathing the warm and sticky air, concentrated on the band again to distract herself.
Where was the keyboard? There were tw
o amps. The guitar was plugged into one; the other had a box plugged into it. Nothing else onstage.
The singer twitched and she spotted it: a single-octave keyboard tattooed inside his right forearm. The fingers of his left hand roved over it, pressed down. She looked for somebody to ask, but everyone was paying attention to the band. She pulled up her Hoodie again to record a short clip. Amazing how this one difference changed the nature of the whole performance—she wished she could rewind and watch him from the beginning.
The crowd shifted, cycled, but didn’t disperse, even when the band finished. She sat back down, and the singer with the playable tattoo walked over to her alcove with his own little case of vinyl records and CDs. Records and CDs! Rosemary’s parents had a machine that played both, except when it skipped and stuttered. She wouldn’t have thought anyone would bother, but a few people stopped to trade him cash for music, so more people must still own those devices than she thought. The singer caught her looking at him and flashed a grin. He had eyes after all. She wondered if his closed eyes while performing marked shyness or stage fright or a deliberate effect.
“What were you doing with your arm?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t some fad everyone here had, yet another question to make her look ignorant.
He held out his arm for her to examine. Flat implants lay underneath the tattoo, one for each key. “Triggers and a transmitter. They send to a box synthesizer plugged into my amp. You can touch if you want.”
Rosemary fought to keep her recoil internal, concentrated on the tech. “That’s okay. Did you design it?”
“The trigger system idea was, uh, a friend’s, but I designed the synthesizer. I’m working on a guitar fretboard next, but I can’t decide where to put it. Here, maybe.” He put his left hand to his chest and played an invisible riff. “Then a gyro in my right wrist to pick up the strum.”
“Why not play a guitar instead of going to all that trouble?” Rosemary asked.
The singer gave her a funny look. “It’s not trouble.”
He moved away, leaving her wondering. She’d seen Tina Simmons’s biometric tattoo and hadn’t thought twice about that modification. What was wrong with trying to become your own instrument? She left the question alone to contemplate at a later time.
“Quick level check?” asked the sound guy over a PA talk-back audible to the room.
“Nah,” said someone from the band moving onto the stage. “We’ll start and you can adjust as we go. Hi, uh, we’re the Coffee Cake Situation.”
Rosemary barely had time to think that was a weird band name, when feedback filled the room. She put her fingers to her ears, some instinct telling her that the next sound would be unbearable. Instead, the band caught the feedback like a pro surfer catching a wave, riding it but not taming it. The feedback was the song. It was deliberate. She leaped to her feet, knocking her head on the slanted alcove.
“Damn,” said the singer standing next to her. “Are you okay? That must’ve hurt.”
Rosemary waved him away. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
She rubbed the spot where a solid egg was already forming. It didn’t hurt; the noise pulled the pain away.
The band onstage had drums, bass, guitar, and cello. The cello ran through a distorted amplifier, long and low chords, bowed in such a way that they built to a crest and then crashed. The cello player had a mane of superhero-black hair with blue highlights, which fell over her face when she played.
Half an hour before, Rosemary would have thought closed eyes meant no connection with the audience. Now she realized it was a tool to draw the listener in, make the song more intimate. That cello player could wear a mask or a paper bag and people would still want to watch. There was something riveting about her confident hands, her posture, the sound she shaped and conducted.
After a minute or so, the guitar joined her, mimicking the cello but with its own distinct timbre. Drums and bass started rolling soon after, rising to meet the cello. The drummer, bassist, and guitarist were all women.
The cello player started singing. Rosemary hadn’t even noticed the cellist had a mic until then, she’d been so drawn in to the hands, the bow, the heavy, mysterious drape of hair. Her voice was low and strange, a growl, a moan, every bit as pained as the sounds coming from her instrument. The cello and the voice came up through the trembling floor, up through Rosemary’s bones. It was a physical sensation, a resonance taking place between her body and the instruments and the room. However long they played, it didn’t feel long enough.
As the band left the stage, Rosemary tried to turn off her gut’s instant reaction and picture them at the Bloom Bar. Would that bone-deep cello translate to SHL? Maybe they had some effect to approximate it. And was there some trend here for singers to hide their faces? All the SHL bands she’d researched were so perfect looking. Then again, maybe that was why she was here, to find some raw band and turn them over to the company. If she convinced SHL to take a look, they’d probably make the Coffee Cake Situation change their name. But that cello . . .
Luce appeared beside her. “Come on, Rosemary Laws. Our turn.”
Rosemary had been so focused she’d forgotten she was supposed to help Luce’s band. Blocked it out, maybe. She eyed the crowd. If possible, even more people had crammed into the space. “Are you sure you need me?”
“We can get by without you, but you’d make our set run smoother, and you did say you’d help.”
Luce walked away then turned back, waiting. Rosemary assessed the distance between alcove and stage. Twenty steps would take her across the whole room.
So many people. Dozens, maybe hundreds. No, impossible. She’d seen the space empty. But it was so hot now, and everyone stood so close to each other. How did you get from one place to another in a crowd like that? If they didn’t move, if they stood their ground, what happened to the person moving through? Worse yet, what if somebody else panicked while she was stranded in the middle of the sea of people? She’d be trapped, suffocated, crushed, trampled. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Are you okay?”
“Panic attack,” said someone else. Voices floated to her, but she couldn’t turn her head to see who’d spoken.
“Give her some room.” Luce grabbed her elbow and guided her back to the chair in the alcove. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Look, if you can walk with me, there’s even more room over at the side of the stage. You can have it all to yourself. You don’t need to help us. We can handle our guitars.”
Rosemary shook her head. Searched for her own voice. “I’m going to stay here, if that’s okay. I wanted to help. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll check on you after the set. I’ve gotta go play.”
Rosemary nodded. Settled back into her chair. Closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure why crowds had never crossed her mind as a possibility. Of all the concerns she’d had when she applied for this job, she’d never considered that aspect. Underground club? Sure, I’d love to. She had pictured bands playing for her, but in her imagination there were never crowds. Never real people.
What had someone said a moment before, a panic attack? Maybe she was a person who got panic attacks in crowds. She’d never had one before, so she couldn’t have known. Her career as a scout for SHL would be brief if she never actually saw the bands where they played. On the other hand, she’d made it through the first two bands without trouble. She would have been fine if Luce hadn’t tried to make her walk across the room. No, that wasn’t fair, either. She only had this alcove to herself because of Luce. She would have panicked way earlier if she hadn’t had this space.
“Do you need some fresh air? You look like you need to get out of here.” The cello player stood at the table. Her hair still fell in front of her face, her voice low and warm. “That’s not a pickup line. Seriously, people have passed out from the heat in here before. Come upstairs.”
“I sho
uldn’t.” Rosemary looked back at the alcove. “I told Luce I’d watch her stuff.”
“Nobody needs to watch that old swag; anyone who’d want it has it already. It’s an honor system around here anyhow.”
Rosemary’s cheeks burned. She might as well have NEW HERE tattooed on her forehead.
“Come upstairs,” the cellist repeated. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
“I really, um—” In the alcove, she had space all to herself. It would disappear the second she moved. If she stayed in place, all she had to do was wait until the entire crowd had left and then step out again and never come back.
The cellist tucked her hair behind her ears. Her face was all concern, all planes and angles. A constellation of pox scars marked her forehead and cheeks. She peered closer at Rosemary. “Oh. The crowd. You don’t want to deal with the crowd. Come on, honey. Let me help.”
“I want to hear them play,” Rosemary said, but she let the cellist shift the table so she had room to get out. She let the woman take her elbow, fought the urge to pull it away. The cellist stood on the outside, forming a buffer, letting Rosemary have the space between her and the table, her and the stairs. Then they were at the stairs, up the stairs, and there was only one other person descending, and then they were in the narrow kitchen on the first floor, and closing the door on the crowd in the basement.
The cellist opened a cabinet, pulled out two glasses, spotty but clean, filled them both with tap water. She handed one to Rosemary, then opened the fridge and pulled two small yellow apples from a large bucket, offering one of those to Rosemary as well. Rosemary took the fruit and followed her to a back door, where they took one step down to a rickety porch. Two people talked in low voices at the far end, passing a joint between them in the near darkness. The cellist gestured Rosemary to the lone deck chair.
The other woman folded her legs to sit on the stoop, then pulled purple plugs out of her ears and stuffed them in her back pocket; Rosemary wondered why you would go to a rock show and then block out the sound, but decided to save that question for another time. The night air was cool in comparison with the basement. A siren wailed in the distance, and a dog matched its pitch. From the basement, a muffled “One-two-three-four” marked the beginning of Luce’s set.
A Song for a New Day Page 17