Kristin Hersh - Rat Girl

Betty catches my eye from across the room and does her joyful home movies wave. I wave back and join them in the corner to watch the end of the opening band’s set. This band is in the throes of an outro balanced on top of another outro on top of something that was probably an outro. Other bands fascinate me. They’re so fun. Nobody would ever call us “fun . ”

Unfortunately, these guys’re playing music they’ve heard before, which is comfy but easy. And musicians get smarmy when they aren’t busting their asses. They don’t have to concentrate on what they’re playing, so they concentrate on how they look while they’re playing it: they grimace and jump around. Trying to get laid tonight, I imagine. I wonder if it works. I should ask them.

The song ends with a big finish. Then another big finish. Another one. And… done. The musicians jump off the stage, cheering along with the audience. Gosh, they’re having a good time. As the lights come up in the room and the clapping peters out, the band members high-five each other and their friends in the front row.

I look at Betty, concerned. She’s still hiding from fans who aren’t there. “Do you wanna hang out in the dressing room?” I point over her shoulder.

“I’ll think about it.” She looks around nervously and pulls the brim of her cowboy hat down lower. “But Father McGuire likes the people-watching out here.”

Father McGuire smiles engagingly, his mouth widening to the point where his face must hurt. “There’s so much energy in the room,” he says. “Everyone’s excited!”

Betty is businesslike. “Oh, yes. Including us.” Father McGuire sticks his thumbs up, nodding happily. “We can’t wait for the show to start,” Betty murmurs, glancing around the room distractedly. I find this hard to believe. They see every show. At this point, we could only be making them tired and confused.

Then, giving me a sly wink, she snaps into “showbiz tips” mode. Betty’s showbiz tips are heartbreakingly bizarre. “What’re you gonna do tonight, Krissy?” she asks gaily.

I think for a second. “I don’t know, what?” I hate being quizzed on this stuff. Father McGuire’s eyebrows shoot up past his glasses and settle high on his forehead.

“String ’em along!” she squeals, spreading her long, frosty nails like cat’s claws. “Play with ’em! Cats and mice! It’s spring, sweetie, and you’re a super kid! Fall in love!” Father McGuire nods and smiles.

“Okay, Betty.”

“And remember: don’t just stare into space! Ask ’em with your eyes: Do you want some more? ” She says Al Jolson told her to do that.

“But I already know the answer, Betty: No .” And she giggles.

Guys from the opening band file past us on their way to the dressing room, which means it’s time for us to set up. My stomach lurches with stage fright. “Good show!” I call out to them, wringing my hands nervously. Father McGuire sticks his thumbs up at them.

The guitar player stops and looks at me. “What’s wrong with your hands?” he asks. “Are they sore? Lemme get you some Tiger Balm; I got some in my backpack.” He disappears into the dressing room, then returns with a tube of this ubiquitous ointment, which is sorta like vegan Ben-Gay. I’ve never really needed it, but everyone seems to use it.

He squeezes a generous amount of Tiger Balm onto my palm. I rub it all over both hands and up my arms—can’t hurt, right? Holy crap! It feels crazy. Searing ice. Jesus. “Thanks!” My voice sounds really high-pitched. He grins and takes the Tiger Balm back to the dressing room, returning a minute later with a beer that he presses into my greasy hands. “Shit…” I say when he leaves.

“Yeah, Tiger Bomb burns like a motherfucker,” says Betty. Her priest smiles brightly.

“And I haven’t taken out my contacts yet.” Not seeing is a very important part of playing music for me. I stare into space and get lost in a warm, fuzzy sensory deprivation tank of sound. No audience, no club, just my best friend: noise.

Betty claims it’s nearsightedness that keeps me from “falling in love,” which is what she calls singing well . She’s never actually come out and told me she thinks I sing badly, but I sing so weird, I don’t see how she could think anything else. According to her, I have to make eye contact with audience members… and something about mice playing with cats and cats flirting with mice. Or vice versa. I don’t know. I don’t try very hard to do this ’cause I can’t imagine anything worse than trying to play while looking at people who are looking at me.

“So leave your contacts in,” says Betty. “And ask ’em with your eyes, Do you want some— ”

“I can’t,” I whine.

Betty throws her hands up. “So take’ em out.” Father McGuire watches with an animated frown.

I take out my contacts and hold them in my hand. Tears roll down my cheeks. Squinting at Betty and her priest through a thick fog, I announce, “I just set my eyeballs on fire.”

It’s worth Tiger Balm tears to fuzzify all the faces in this room, but they’re looking really fuzzy right now. I wonder if I’ll be able to see my effects pedals or the set list. I look down at my hands—they’re a soft blur. Betty takes a handkerchief out of her purse and, grabbing me by the chin, wipes away my tears with it. “Wow,” I say through her hand. “I thought only my grandfather carried a handkerchief. How old are you, anyway?” This makes her angry and she spits on the handkerchief, rubbing it into my eyes and ranting about how bad blindness is for musicians. “Stevie Wonder’s blind,” I mutter.

“Steve who?” she asks loudly. People at the crowded bar next to us turn slowly around on their bar stools to watch. “Where’re your glasses?” she demands, taking my beer and wiping it down.

“I can’t wear ’em onstage; they fall off.” More tears stream down my face, so she switches from the beer bottle back to my face.

“Father McGuire wears glasses, don’t you, Father?” Father McGuire nods and points at his glasses. Then Betty steps back and sighs, folding up her spit-kerchief. “You have to sing to people, Krissy. How can you do that if you can’t look at them?” Father McGuire nods sadly.

I hate this conversation. I hate it every time we have it. “I can’t sing , either.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “That’s no excuse! I can’t sing, never could,” she says proudly. Father McGuire shakes his head.

I squint at her through burning eyes. “What’re you talking about? Singing’s your… thing.”

“Nope. I just yelled with a big smile on my face!” She stuffs the folded handkerchief into her sleeve.

“Hey, like me!” I say. “Except for the smiling part.”

“Yeah,” she continues. “I gave it my all. I sold it and nobody noticed that I couldn’t sing.”

She’s gotta be lying . “You could too sing, Betty. Can I have that back?” I ask, reaching for the beer. Glancing at the bar, I notice that the line of faces is still staring.

“No, really, I couldn’t.” She studies my face. “So I sold it,” she says pointedly, gripping my beer tightly.

“Oh.” I get it. “I don’t sell it, do I?”

Betty and her priest both shake their heads. “Listen,” she says. “Show the audience how the song makes you feel . Your face is a blank when you play, dear—it’s disconcerting. You gotta show off more.” She glares at the staring drinkers who, one by one, turn back to face the bar.

Show off? That’s what that dumb opening band was doing. “I don’t show off at all ,” I say quietly.