A Song for a New Day

by Sarah Pinsker

  “Hi, Rosemary. How’s it been going in”—she paused—“Asheville? Good weather?”

  She’d graduated to collegial chitchat as well. “Yeah, the weather’s been lovely. It’s a nice little city. Full of music.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Have you ever been to this area?”

  “Um, no.”

  Rosemary wanted to follow up, to ask if this Management person had ever been a recruiter, what scenes she’d destroyed to get promoted, but that would mar the illusion of model employee she was trying to project. “You should check it out sometime. It’s beautiful. There are real waterfalls and stuff in the area, too, but I’ve been too busy with work to see them.”

  “Sounds nice. Whatcha got for us?”

  She imagined the faceless manager sitting somewhere in a childhood bedroom turned workplace, points flashing across her vision for a perfect pivot from pleasure to business.

  “Two acts.” She used their word back at them. “I’ve seen a ton of musicians here, but I think these two groups are SHL material. The first is called Way Way Down. R & B grooves on folk instruments. Catchy stuff.” She wasn’t sure they’d be pretty enough, but she was willing to stand behind their sound.

  “Sounds interesting. Got video?”

  “Sure. This is from a practice, since I got nervous taking my new Hoodie to a show after . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  Generic Management gave a good simulation of a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, we heard what happened. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks. The other is called the Simrats. You’re going to love them. I’ll send along a vid someone else recorded at their last show. Twelve-piece band, sound as big as any room you want to fill. The singer’s voice is amazing, and they do this glo-paint thing that will translate well. People will line up to see them.” She was proud of having figured out how to alter the metadata on the video the band had given her, but that was another in a long list of tech victories nobody but her would ever celebrate. Maybe she should design a hoodbot to follow her around complimenting her code-tweaking.

  “Wow—a twelve-piece. I don’t think anyone’s brought in a rock band that big in ages.”

  “But it’s okay?”

  “Sure, in the right circumstances. Expensive, but worth it if they’re as good as you say they are.”

  “They are.”

  “Nice job, Rosemary. You have contact info? No noncomm bullshit?”

  Rosemary didn’t let her avatar wince. She passed their contact info along. “They’re all reachable. They’re doing a big show together a week from Saturday, too, if you want to send someone to watch.”

  “No need. I’m sure your report and the videos will be enough,” Management repeated. “Hey, you haven’t heard from Luce Cannon, have you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Too bad. The one that got away. Anyway, you can contact Logistics to get out of there anytime you want, now.”

  “Is it okay if I stay a few days? To see those waterfalls I mentioned? My room is paid through the end of the month.”

  Management shrugged her too-perfect shoulders. “I don’t see why not.”

  Management thanked her again, said she looked forward to checking out the videos, signed off. The space resolved to blank. Rosemary switched to clearview and looked over at the coffee counter.

  Sadie leaned on her forearms, watching her. “How did it go?”

  “Good, I think. If they like you, they’ll contact you within the next few days.”

  “And I don’t have to say yes?”

  “Nah. They’ll offer you an audition or a contract, and either way, you don’t have to say yes. Thank you for helping, either way.”

  “My pleasure. Gumming the works while negotiating with the Man. I’m into it.”

  Rosemary grinned. She’d been terrified to explain her plan, nervous Sadie would share Joni’s or Luce’s reaction, though their reactions might have been different if Rosemary had been this honest with them. Maybe.

  She’d tried to keep some distance, but it was hard not to consider Sadie a friend. The planning had made them closer, though she no longer had the impression Sadie was hitting on her, either because she now knew who Rosemary was or because she’d be leaving town soon. They’d settled into the roles of friendly coconspirators. “How are the invitations coming?”

  “Rad,” said Sadie. “The warehouse concert of the year and group action. Spread the word.”

  32

  LUCE

  Fix My Life

  Silva booked our first shows as a band, calling around to old friends until we had gigs lined up in Atlanta, Athens, and Dahlonega. He called it the Georgia, I Must Be Out of My Mind tour.

  “Don’t expect much,” he said, hoisting his amp into the back of the van beside mine as we packed to leave.

  Marcia joined us, staggering slightly under the weight of her drum hardware bag. They looked nothing alike, but I felt a strange déjà vu thinking of April and the massive duffel she always insisted on carrying for herself.

  She gave me an expectant look. “A little help here?”

  “Sorry!” I grabbed one handle and helped her lift it.

  “Just saying,” said Silva, lending a third set of hands. “Keep your expectations low. These places aren’t what you’re used to.”

  “I’m not used to what I’m used to anymore, either. You were there when I rocked out at an antique store. They said to keep the volume down so I didn’t rattle anything off the shelves.”

  “I played backline for live karaoke behind chicken wire at a country-western bar.” Marcia put a hand around my waist.

  Silva grinned, getting into the game. “I played an airport baggage claim. I don’t know why they thought people might want to listen to live music while they waited for their bags.”

  They’d shifted into Before, so I did, too. “Busking in Manhattan. August. Garbage day.”

  “Oooh, you win.” Marcia pinched her nose. “C’mon. There’s more gear and I’m not carrying it all.”

  I watched the two of them head back toward the cottage, memorizing the moment because I didn’t know how long it would last. It felt good to inhabit that space again. My favorite space, with its shorthand of shared experience. I picked up my pace so nobody would accuse me of not pulling my weight.

  * * *

  —

  In the old days, on a highway, the trip to Atlanta would’ve taken a little more than four hours, but it took us nearly seven on the back roads, between the speed limits, the meandering roads, and the overzealous cops.

  “Don’t you need to have a reason to stop us?” I asked in frustration the third time we were pulled over. The first one had claimed he thought we weren’t wearing seat belts; the second said I’d been weaving, but declined to test me; the third said she’d had a call about a suspicious van.

  The fourth one didn’t even pretend. “A van with Maryland plates this far from home is reason enough,” he said before asking for my license and registration. When everything checked out, he followed us through town, stopping only when we passed under their second license plate reader. I’d wanted to grab lunch, but he made it clear we weren’t stopping in his town. We ate premade sandwiches from a gas station automat a few miles down the road instead.

  “Can we skip the towns entirely?” Marcia asked, as yet another trooper deigned to follow.

  I concentrated on maintaining the speed limit and the straightest line possible.

  “Not if we want to get there in time for the show,” Silva said. “But this is definitely getting old. Was it like this up north, too, Luce?”

  “Not this bad. Dammit.” Lights behind me again. I sighed and pulled over. Again.

  * * *

  —

  The Atlanta show took place in the windowless back room of a luthier’s workshop in Lit
tle Five Points. Walking past the workbench, the neat tubs of hardware, the cubbies full of guitars with labels saying where they’d been sent from and where they went back to, I couldn’t help salivating. It had been over a decade since I’d seen a guitar store; the guitars I’d bought and sold since coming off the road I’d bought from and sold to friends. This wasn’t a guitar store, but it was akin, and the owner clearly had her own custom projects going as well as the repairs. My own guitars could probably use some of the luthier’s TLC, but that involved being in one place long enough to come back for them, or having an address to send them back to. Someday, maybe.

  We were slotted with two local bands, one of which had a drummer Silva had played with once upon a time. They were kind enough to offer us the middle spot, so that their fans didn’t get the idea to show up late or leave early and skip the band they didn’t know. We soundchecked, then ordered pizza together from three different pizza places, so that anyone monitoring deliveries wouldn’t think we were ordering for a crowd. It was good to get a chance to chat with other bands, even if neither was considering touring. They were happy playing this place and one or two others on a semiregular basis, the way I’d been happy at the 2020. Controlled danger; nothing like the vagaries I’d experienced since leaving home.

  I watched the audience enter with the curiosity of someone who had developed her own security without consultation or any knowledge of best practices. Mine had been named Alice. If it hadn’t been for her amazing facial recognition and deep suspicion of humanity, I knew my place would have been raided long before Rosemary’s arrival. This place seemed far more regulated, and as I watched people enter, I tried to figure out the system. It seemed to involve key fobs, a scanner, and a question. I finally gave up and asked about the last part.

  The luthier’s wife grinned. “On any days without a show, the landing page on our website is one of Mary’s custom guitars. On show days, she throws a picture of an old Bacon mandolin up in the morning, then at noon, some vintage piece or another. It’s a splash page with alternate text saying the make and year—doesn’t say that we have one. They have to come in and ask about that particular vintage instrument. Once we get to recognize somebody, they can buy a key chain that gets them in without having to jump through hoops.”

  “What’s today’s vintage?”

  “A 1959 Gibson Explorer.”

  My jaw dropped. “You have one of those? Aren’t they worth like half a million dollars?”

  “Of course we don’t! She repaired one once and snapped a picture. But anyone actually looking for one would call to ask, not show up in person, since we’re mostly a repair shop, not a store. It’s not listed on our sale page, and we mostly sell Mary’s work, not vintage.”

  The system seemed complicated to me, but they still had a venue and I didn’t, so I wasn’t in a place to critique. I had one other question. “How do new people find out you’re here?”

  “They don’t.” She shrugged, then reconsidered. “I mean, if a band is playing here and has somebody new to invite, they can vouch and we’ll start the vetting process, but we try to keep it pretty limited. No sense risking everything.”

  Alice had wanted me to be that careful; she hated when I brought in strays. I’d argued that communities needed new blood or they stagnated, and that there was no point having the place if we couldn’t serve as an escape for people who needed it, no matter whether they knew us or not. Better safe than sorry, she’d said, and of course, she’d been right. I’d been too trusting.

  The back room would’ve fit about thirty people in addition to the three bands and owners, and twelve showed up. Twenty minutes after the show was supposed to start, despite the low turnout, they locked the front door and turned out the shop lights. The venue space had a nicer smell than the 2020: wood and oil with a faint undertone of solder. The audience settled themselves into three small risers’ worth of thrift store couches and lounge chairs. A ceiling fan creaked overhead, stirring the air.

  I leaned against the back wall and watched the first band. They were young, not much more than teenaged, and it would’ve cheered me somewhat to think that they’d found a way in here if one of them hadn’t called Silva’s drummer friend “Dad” over pizza. Still, they were decent performers, even if their songwriting was trite. They were here, and trying, and that was all I ever asked of anybody, and the idea of parents who encouraged their kids to break the law for music gave me hope for the future. I listened to their first two songs before slipping into the tiny green room.

  The last band had vacated—to watch their kids play, I guessed—and I’d seen Silva sitting in the front row with his buddy. Marcia was alone in the band room, Hoodie up, drumming air. I couldn’t recognize the song from her pattern. I kissed her and she leaped a foot off the couch.

  “Anybody could sneak up on you in that thing,” I said as she took it off. “I don’t get how people use them in public.”

  “That’s because you’re old.” She looked miffed, but not overly so.

  “You’re two years older than me.”

  “Wouldn’t know it. You’re a dinosaur.”

  “I’m not! I just don’t see the point of those things.”

  “It’s awesome tech, Luce. I still think you should try it sometime. Here, put mine on for a sec. The women’s national team is a goal up on Canada.”

  She held the Hoodie out, but I clasped her hand to my chest and then gently pushed it back in her direction. “I don’t want to watch people fake soccer for cameras. You have fun, though, if that’s what gets you ready to play.”

  “They’re not faking just because they’re playing for cameras, any more than you’re faking if you play to an empty room. Anyway, I don’t like to hear the band that plays before me, so I don’t have to know if they’ve laid down something too amazing to follow.”

  I grabbed my guitar from its case and sat down opposite her on the couch to tune. “Huh. I’d rather know, so I can up my game if I need to. Not that it’s a competition.”

  “Girl, everything’s a competition.”

  She settled back into her game, and I noodled on my guitar while I listened to the band. They finished to familial-level enthusiasm. I nudged Marcia that it was time.

  “We have a treat tonight,” Mary the luthier said as we stepped into the stage area, such as it was. “They’re called Cassis Fire, and they’re from out of town.”

  Not a superlative introduction. I guessed from it that Silva hadn’t sent music; his friend’s introduction had probably been enough to get us in the door. It didn’t bother me. I’d always loved winning over the audience.

  I hadn’t given a ton of weight to the fact that this was our first show together, but as I jacked my guitar and hit a test chord, it struck me. We’d spent the last few weeks practicing in a circle for each other, and now we got to turn outward again. To see if the cues that worked at home carried to this context, too. The songs were still fresh to Silva and Marcia, and the arrangements made them feel fresh to me as well, even the ones I’d played before. A small thrill hit me, stage fright of the sort that could be tamed and harnessed and turned into energy. Even if we were still rough around the edges, we’d conjure something. A new band, a new tour, a dozen new people to win over. My favorite challenge; the one I would break any law to experience again.

  “Hey,” I said, stepping to the mic.

  The next chord was for real.

  33

  ROSEMARY

  Pressure Drop

  Rosemary waited for the concert with a combination of excitement and trepidation. Only her career on the line, no big deal. She checked in with Sadie and the Simrats constantly, and was relieved when they both got their calls. The Simrats were signed on the spot—she even got a bonus added to her paycheck. Sadie’s band was asked to audition, which they were still debating. The clock had started ticking.

  “My nerves have nerves to
day,” Sadie said in the cab they shared to the warehouse. “I’m usually anxious before a show, but my butterflies are wearing butterfly hats.”

  Rosemary felt the same way. “Mine, too, and I’m not even playing. I guess this is what it’s like to put on a show? Worried everyone won’t be in the right place at the right time, or that nobody will come at all.”

  “Sounds about right.” When Sadie grabbed her hand, Rosemary squeezed back. A solidarity squeeze.

  The cab arrived at the warehouse, low and gray, like a thunderstorm. Sadie grabbed her bass and let Rosemary carry the box she called her bass head. Someday, Rosemary needed to learn all the terms.

  “It’s weird to ride a cab to the front door of a show without worrying about leading cops here,” Sadie said. “One time only, right?”

  “One time only,” Rosemary repeated, hoping she hadn’t screwed everything up for everybody again.

  They walked in through the front door, with Sadie muttering under her breath, “That’s a weird feeling, too.”

  The scent of decaying rubber hit them as they entered. The foyer was two stories tall, with light streaming in through a skylight, and dominated by a pink and blue pile taking up most of the floor with its deflated footprint. She spotted turrets: a giant inflatable castle. They tracked around it instead of through; behind it, the ceilings dropped back to a normal height.

  “What the hell did they make here?” Sadie asked.

  “Tomás said they sold something called ‘party rentals.’” Rosemary had spent a fair bit of time with the kid who put the shows on over the last week.