Except then I see him going over to Val again. I check the set list. “On My Sleeve” is supposed to be next. Uh-oh. Val starts shaking her head emphatically, Matt is shrugging . . .
Caleb returns to the mic. He glances over at Val. I hear him say, just picked up by the mic, “Come on, let’s just do it?”
She shakes her head. Oh, Caleb, breaking so many rules of the stage right now. Because if I can feel the indecision, the crowd can, too.
Caleb turns back to the mic and says, “This song is called ‘Soundtrack to a Breakdown.’”
Wait, what? They’ve only rehearsed this song maybe twice with Val. It wasn’t even supposed to be in the set, but Caleb starts to play it. The first verse is just him, fast acoustic strumming with low, seething vocals that sound right on the edge of losing your mind. I see the band looking around at one another, Val to Jon to Matt, and their gazes are easy to read: Caleb has clearly started without their agreement. But if they don’t join in, they’ll leave him out to dry and the set with be ruined. Dammit, Caleb!
I did not expect this from him. And I can see the rest of the band trying to decide. To go with Caleb is to let him get away with a power trip, or a freak out, whatever this is. But to not go with him is to sink the gig. I flash all the way back to the first day of school, when I wondered if if he was a head case or just going through a tough time. Maybe I was wrong.
Just as Caleb gets to the end of the verse, Matt clicks his sticks and the rest of the band jumps in for the chorus.
This is all moving around me
This is all second nature to you
I hang on tight against the wind
I count on you to pull me through
Man, I wish they were playing “On My Sleeve” right now. This isn’t bad, though. Unpolished, but raw can be good.
Except after another verse and chorus, the song hits a solo section, and while Jon begins to climb high in the atmosphere, Caleb starts jumping up and down, emphasizing the beats of his rhythm line. Too much though: his shoulder slams into his mic stand. There is a moment of slow time as the stand teeters, and then it crashes over, causing a huge booming pop as the mic hits the stage. Everyone is thrown off.
Caleb spins to stare at it, and just at that point, the band returns to the chorus, but Caleb is a step late. His hands clamp down and he hits a chord and it’s just so totally wrong, like cats fighting in the dark. Caleb yanks his hands away from the fret board, staring at the guitar like it’s betrayed him. His hands return, his fingers dancing in the air over the frets, trying to remember where to go. Val is shouting at him, I can hear a faint sound of it even from out here.
Caleb turns to her. He nods, bending to pick up his mic. At least if he sings, it will be fine—
But as he’s bent over, his guitar strap comes undone, and his guitar topples to the stage in a terrible crash of string noise.
Matt and Jon are looking to one another, panicked, and then Matt does a big fill down the toms while nodding his head, and when they hit the end of the bar they slam to a halt. It’s an impressively timed ending that almost sounds planned, and almost saves the song.
There are a few faint claps. Caleb, scrambling to pick up his guitar, grabs the mic with the other hand and speaks into it sideways. “Sorry about that.”
Someone boos. Drunk guy yells: “You suck!” A girl snickers.
Caleb stands and fumbles to reattach his strap. Val stalks over to him and talks into his ear. I can’t hear it, but her look is lethal.
People start to walk away, here and there. Caleb looks out at the crowd. The rest of the band is looking at him. He seems frozen . . . and then he leans into the mic and says, “Thank you very much. Good night.” And walks off.
No, Caleb. No.
Matt and Jon share a perplexed glance. Val is already storming offstage.
I’m frozen, staring, hoping they’ll come back on. But after an awkward few seconds of silence, music kicks on the PA speakers, and a soundman comes up and starts pulling mics off the drums.
I keep standing there, wondering what to do now.
This couldn’t have gone worse.
“Hello, Summer Carlson.”
Or maybe it could.
My gut clenches.
What lurks in these shark-infested waters . . .
I don’t turn around.
He steps up beside me, watching the stage. “It’s so nice to have you back.” Jason Fletcher. Ari’s older brother. He’s a scout for Candy Shell Records, aka, the one who took Postcards from me.
He smiles. “And look, you brought me a new band.”
10
MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 1m
Or maybe, I really am that foolish version of me. #lifefail #perfectcircle
I’m frozen between urges. To walk away wordlessly? Explain to him what a giant ass he is? To toss this Coke in his face? His wide grin tells me that none of these options would work. Well, maybe the Coke. “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking past him, as if being seen with him is kind of embarrassing.
“Just keeping one eye on little bro,” Jason says, “and as always, the other out for new talent. So, that was your new band. Hmm . . . All the parts are there. They’ve got real potential. Kind of a train wreck just now, but in the right hands . . .”
I glare sideways at him but Jason’s grin just grows. He’s had his teeth professionally whitened to a shark-like shine. He’s wearing an olive-colored suit jacket over a wife beater, which means we’re getting far too much of his hairy chest, and I want to tell him: nobody except cougars like that look, Jason. He’s also sporting a hipster hat that might have worked five years ago if he was Justin Timberlake, which he is so not. He’s a day unshaven in that professional way. Ugh.
But I am not caught totally unprepared. I brought some ammo in case this happened. “I’m surprised you’re here,” I say. “I saw that Postcards is having trouble selling tickets on their Southeast tour leg.”
Jason’s smile fades a touch. “Says who?” This sounds like news to him.
“Says the Twitterverse. There’s a way that bands push when they need to fill seats. It’s pretty easy to spot. You probably wouldn’t know.”
Jason almost seems like he’s considering this, but quickly shrugs. “That’s publicity’s problem. My job is to find the talent, not change its diapers.”
SO MUCH the urge to crush him or throw sand at him or something, anything. Postcards may not be my favorite band right now, but they don’t deserve to get hung out to dry. “And so,” I say, “if they don’t make this tour a success, then what? Wait, I know this story: Less funding for the second record, and soon after that you drop them and send the next fresh batch of faces out.”
“Aw, you make me sound so heartless,” says Jason.
“I hope so.”
Jason keeps smiling, and holds a business card out to me. “I want to talk about this new band of yours. And about you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Why aren’t you going after Freak Show? They just killed it.”
Jason shrugs. “They did, but they’re not really my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to drop them a line. There’s a place for them in the game, for sure, but . . . there’s no accounting for taste, I guess. Luckily, I’m a tastemaker. And, surprise surprise, you and I like the same things.”
“You really know how to make a girl want to barf.”