“Hey.” She gives me a hug. “So you excited?”
“Yeah. Crowd isn’t very big, though.”
“It’s okay for a Thursday gig.” Britney shrugs, surveying the twenty or so people lumped around tables. Most of them are probably just here to eat and really don’t care about the band. But Max explained it to me earlier. Against the Dawn is paying for this tour out of their own pockets, so they can’t afford to lie around hotel rooms in between big weekend shows. All week, they’ve been playing in little restaurants and coffee shops, scrambling to get enough gas money to make it to St. Louis tomorrow for the LouFest music festival.
Me and Britney find a table near the stage. The waitress comes by, and Britney orders the sweet potato burrito; I nurse my Mountain Dew. We both cheer as Max adjusts the microphone.
“Um, hey. We’re Stratofortress.” The mike turns his voice into a hollow rasp. A blue piece of paper crinkles in his hand. “So, um, before I get started, the management asked me to tell you that, in accordance with the Alabama Clean Indoor Air Act, smoking is banned in all indoor workplaces including bars and restaurants, excluding designated hotel and motel smoking rooms and limousines under private hire … ” While going over the necessary signage for designated outdoor smoking areas, Max shakes a Winston out of a half-empty pack and lights up. “ … Shall assess a civil penalty not to exceed fifty dollars for the first violation, not to exceed one hundred dollars for the second violation, and not to exceed two hundred dollars for each subsequent violation.” Stuffing the paper into his shirt pocket and swinging his guitar up, he blows a gray curl of smoke into the stage lights. “But, you know, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
That gets a few laughs from the guys beside the wall. Then Max starts belting the lyrics for “Molotov in Your Pocket” with just Ultimate’s drums behind him. Then all three guitars come in at the same moment, and purple veins bulge from the sides of Max’s neck. His body jerks hard, side to side. This isn’t the Max I’ve been staying with. It’s not even the Max I’ve watched fuss over songs in practice. This beast couldn’t practice a song any more than I could practice crying or laughing.
Tyler misses a chord. He recovers quickly, though, and if I hadn’t heard the song a million times, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Then he misses the same chord again, and this time, LeighAnn glances over, annoyed. When the song ends, she walks over and talks to Tyler. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but Tyler nods. Downstage, Max pants into the mike and says, “Okay, this, um, this one was inspired by Dr. Phil. I was watching his show once, and he said, ‘Cheers to a new year and another chance to get it right,’ and I thought that was too good a line for Dr. Phil to have, so I stole it.”
They start playing “Cheers.” Before long, the momentum of the song sweeps me along and I stop worrying. As I open my mouth to holler, Tyler messes up again. Then he stops dead, and the other instruments clatter to a stop after him.
Feedback whines as Stratofortress glances at each other, trying to get on cue. “If it was perfect, it wouldn’t be rock ’n’ roll,” Max chuckles as they start up again. But Tyler has that deer-in-headlights look now, and his right hand is stiff against the strings. He loses the song again, and boos rise from the crowd. The table beside the wall starts chanting, “You suck! You suck! You suck!”
This time, Max sets down his guitar and walks offstage. He comes straight for us, and at first I think he’s coming to yell at me. Instead, he grabs Britney’s beer and drinks. “It’s not that bad,” she says weakly, almost drowned out by the chanting.
Max doesn’t answer. He goes back on stage, not looking at Tyler, and when he steps to the microphone, he sounds like nothing’s wrong, like he’s having the time of his life. “Okay, thanks for having us. We’ve got one more for you. This is ‘Catatonic State Marching Band.’”
I wonder why they’re giving up on “Cheers” halfway through, but then I see. They play “Catatonic State” so simple and fast, it would be hard for anybody to notice if Tyler did mess up. He could stop playing altogether and people would barely hear it under Steve’s exploding drums. Still, the “You suck” chant keeps going, underneath the song.
It’s a couple college boys behind us. I turn around and glare at them, and I hate them. I want to throw my drink in their faces. I want to smash the glass against their heads. I know it’s not right, but it would feel so good to hear their smug, stupid chant shatter into shrieks. It would feel good to watch them skitter backward like crabs.
Then a gray-goateed man comes up—he wears a greasy apron across his huge belly. He slaps one bear-paw of a hand on the college boys’ table, says one word, and they shut up. But they’re still snickering, and I still hate them.
Stratofortress makes it to the end of the song, Max tells people to stick around for Against the Dawn, and they get out of there. Me and Britney cheer as they walk offstage, but everybody else ignores them.
When Steve comes to our table, Britney says, “That was …
you recovered really—”
Steve shakes his head. “Baby, leave it alone.”
“Well, I mean, with ‘Catatonic State,’ I think you really got back—”
“Just leave it alone, okay?” he snaps. Then he hugs her and sighs. “Come on, let’s go sit with Max and LeighAnn.”
I glance back and see them sitting at the shadowy back of the room, already drinking. “Can’t they come up here?”
“No. I don’t want to be up front right now.”
While we move to the back table, Tyler motions to me from near the stage. He has his guitar case in his hand. “I’m gonna go. Do you need anything out of my truck?”
“What? No. Come watch Against the Dawn with us.”
“No, I messed up. I … ” He looks ready to cry. “I’m gonna go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“What? Where you gonna go? Your truck’s back at Stratofortress’s house.”
“I’ll just walk. I have to get out of here.”
“No. Tyler, please. Come watch Against the Dawn with us.”
“No, I messed up. I … they don’t want me, right now.”
“Tyler … ”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he’s gone.
I go sit with Stratofortress. For a long time, nobody says anything. Nobody looks at each other or around at the crowd that saw them bomb. They all stare at their drinks or hands or the table.
“Well … ” Max mutters. “Nobody burst into flame while onstage. If you look at it that way, it was a success.”
We snort and chuckle. Steve says, “I don’t know. Halfway through, I was sort of hoping to burst into flame.”
We laugh out loud. LeighAnn hugs Max. Stratofortress is still embarrassed, still angry, but at least they can lift their heads up now. I try a bite of Britney’s sweet potato burrito. It’s just as vile as it sounds.
Then the music crashes down like a wave. No intro. No warning. Against the Dawn jumps into “Boomtown” with both feet, then “In a Brown Beat Coat.” Stratofortress didn’t do much to excite the crowd, but Against the Dawn makes up for it, barreling through one song after another with barely a breath in between. Then Jessie stops to tell a long story about not being allowed to drink Cokes growing up because she was Mormon. Except one day, she snuck into the woods with a neighbor boy to trade peeks at her underwear for a can of Coke.
“Tony left me. He went on home, but I was too ashamed. I stayed in the woods, those tall pines all around, that sweet taste still in my mouth.” She cracks open another beer, drinks deep, and wipes the foam off her chin. “I cried. Just sat on this old tree trunk and sobbed and prayed to God to forgive me while it got darker and colder. But even while I was praying, there was part of me that just wanted another Coke. And I knew I was a bad girl and I was going to Hell.”