Caleb and I share a look. Randy’s putting fifteen years of perspective on it, but we can still hear the hurt.
“That’s too bad,” says Val. “Record labels are bastards.”
Randy shrugs. “Sometimes. Anyway, like I said, Eli was a dreamer. He said a lot of things, just, idealizing, that was what he did, thinking of what would be awesome. Start his own label, write three albums a year, open a rock club in London . . .” Randy trails off. After a pause, he adds, “Everybody always knew better than to believe him, but, you kinda couldn’t help it.”
The car returns to silence.
“There it is,” says Matt from the front seat a little while later. We all look up and get our first glimpse of the San Francisco skyline.
“Here,” Caleb says, handing his phone to Randy. “Put this on.”
The song that comes on is Allegiance to North, the big hit off their first album, a song we’ve all heard a billion times called “Excuses in Technicolor.”
“Nice,” says Randy, rolling down the windows.
He cranks it ear-bleeding loud.
Jon grabs his guitar and calls out chords, as we all start to sing:
It’s all black and . . .
“A!” calls Jon.
whiiiiiite with you, And when I . . .
“E!”
tryyyy to prove, That I’m . . .
“G, B minor, E!”
different and debonaire
“G, B minor, D!”
In my tuxedo and greased-back hair
“Hits on E!”
The PER. FECT. Gen-tle-MAN.
“F sharp minor!”
But oh no, Just when I
“A!”
thought that I knew
“G, B minor, E!”
Your excuses in technicolor, Make me blue
“F-sharp minor!”
Oh no, No matter what I do
“G, B minor, E!”
Your excuses in technicolor, Paint it new
“D to E!”
Your excuses are mixing me u-uuupp!
“This is going to be awesome,” Caleb shouts over the guitar solo. A minute later, I feel my phone buzz. A text from Caleb:
Don’t tell them yet, but I’ll play the songs, if we find them.
We HAVE to.
I feel a thrill at reading this, and flash him a quick smile before singing along with the next song.
We light into the Mission, buzzing, free, alive, far from home and ready for anything—
Until Randy pulls up at Tea & Crumpets.
“This is it?” says Jon. Before us is a tan brick building, a Masonic Temple. Dead fluorescent light spills out the front door. There is a gathering of people visible inside, milling around. They all look old.
“It’s in the basement,” I say. “Petunia said to go in around back. It could still be cool.” But inside I’m knotting up with worry. There is nothing worse than showing up for a gig and finding out it’s lame. Especially when you’ve driven six hours and spun lies to get there.
There’s a back door down concrete steps. A handmade sign announces the TEA & CRUMPETS ALL AGES SALON. It’s exquisitely made with lace doilies and script letters hand cut from gold foil paper. There is a teacup on one side, and a unicorn reading Alice in Wonderland on the other.
“Danger,” says Jon. “This is not looking very rock ’n’ roll.”
“It’s supposed to be a good crowd,” I say weakly.
We enter into a storage area that’s dank and smells like old towels. Through the next door, we find ourselves in a low-ceilinged basement with cement poles here and there. There are speakers and mics, a crooked house drum kit, and frayed amps set up beneath two harsh yellow lights in the corner.
“Ouch,” says Matt, eyeing the drums like he just witnessed someone wiping out in the school hallway. “Good thing I brought my own cymbals.”
Across an empty sea of concrete floor, lit only by strands of multicolored holiday lights strung around the poles, is a little sitting area, thrift-store furniture and floor lamps arranged on a patchwork of threadbare oriental rugs. Past that is a counter with a popcorn machine and a cooler of sodas and fruit.
There are five people sitting in the chairs. A wideframed girl stands up. She’s wearing a magenta polyester dress that is straining to fit her. “Hey, you must be Dangerheart,” she says. She’s got thick glasses with pointed rims, like something a grandmother in the fifties would wear. She has a triangular green handbag that matches. Her friends are a collection of sweaters, polyester pants, hipster sneakers, more thick glasses, and retro hairstyles.
“Hi,” says Caleb.
“I’m Petunia. You guys can unload by the stage and when you’re done, we have tea sandwiches and Dandelion made her signature crumpets.”
“That sounds adorable,” says Val with a spoonful of sarcasm, except I probably agree with her.
We drop our stuff, get our paper plates of crumpets, which are dry and made from whole wheat and likely flax and who-knows-what-else, and then sit on the couches. We take up two, and Petunia and Dandelion and their other friends sit on their side and it feels like the worst social event ever.
“So glad you guys could make it up,” says Petunia.
“You’re from LA,” says Dandelion. She’s dressed in a similarly retro lime-green housedress, with a thick strand of costume pearls. “Do you know the Lapels?”
“Oh, not really,” I say, “are they new?”
This seems to offend one of the boys, causing him to get up for more tea.
Petunia is about to answer when there is a huge sound from above, like twenty cases of grapefruits just got dumped on the floor. Then there is a long scrape, followed by another chorus of thumps.
“Oh God, they’re at it again,” says Dandelion.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“There’s a monthly African dance class in the church hall.”
The sound of hundreds of feet thumping and sliding continues over the next hour, as the first band of the showcase, New Erasers, plays. It’s a three-person band in matching black V-necked sweaters, two boys and a girl, drums, bass, and accordion, and they are all equally hunched in half as they play. The girl whisper-sings her lyrics and the drummer plays with brushes and it is barely possible to decipher their songs with the dancing horde from above.
Halfway through the set, Val springs up from the couches and hugs a tall, pencil-thin guy with frizzy hair who just entered. So, Weezil exists.
By the time New Erasers finishes, there are only about fifteen people in the room, just enough for it to feel even more empty. They stand in clumps, far back from the stage. Dangerheart starts to unpack, and I begin to feel the sinking certainty that this is so lame, and what are we doing here? Why did I think this was a good idea? And I can see the same solemn disappointment on the band members’ faces. They’re all staring quietly into space as they swap places with New Erasers. So, so disappointed.
And then I hear a clap of hands from behind us. A slow, sarcastic clap.
Jon turns, and squints. I hear footsteps striding toward us.
“Isn’t that Ari’s brother?” Matt wonders.
Oh no. I turn, and before he even steps into the stage light, I can see the pro teeth, gleaming from behind their predatory smirk.
“There they are!”
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
“Hello, Dangerheart. Jason Fletcher, associate talent scout for Candy Shell Records. I’m sure Summer’s told you all about me.”
19
MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 20m