Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

It was strange to reconcile the woman she had chatted so easily with a few nights before with the person onstage now, staring down her audience like she didn’t care what anybody thought of her, like she dared them to disagree with what she was singing, dared them to look away. Nobody did.

“Was that new?” someone asked from somewhere near Rosemary as the song slid to a stop.

“I haven’t heard it before,” said someone else. “Damn.”

She recognized the second piece from the previous show, before she had gone stupid. It was hard to believe they could ramp up from the first song, but this was the one that had run away with her a few days before. It threatened to do the same again. The beat was close to a heartbeat but not quite, inviting her body to adapt itself to the song rather than the other way around.

Rosemary remembered her panic from the other night, but it felt distant now, like she’d decided to be a different person. Rosemary had been replaced with someone who was okay in crowds, someone who didn’t grow up under a failing Hoodie in the middle of nowhere. City Rosemary, with drums for a heartbeat and bass for a pulse. The volume that had felt crushing wasn’t crushing at all. It pushed from underneath her skin, making her stronger, pushing the bad stuff out. She needed to put it on repeat until it became her own personal armor. What had Luce called it? “Choose.” She pulled up her Hoodie to record.

The song ended, and its absence nagged at Rosemary like a missing tooth. The third one was quieter, a respite. The fourth song had a spoken-word interlude, preplanned but stream-of-consciousness, with a rhythm to it. Luce came across both tough and vulnerable, inviting the audience in. Nobody in the crowd talked, even though they’d all heard this band dozens of times.

Rosemary found herself wishing that she played an instrument. Bass, maybe. That rooting of the song, the tight communication between bassist and drummer. How long would she have to stay here before some band accepted her, let her play with them? Or maybe she’d buy a bass and go home and practice and return in a few months or a year. She had a job to do, but the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

The last song ended with an extended coda. The drummer and second guitarist had a wordless la la part, echoing the melody Luce had been carrying. Luce stalked the stage. She climbed onto her amp, then stretched one foot out to rest on the bass drum. She stood there, balanced between amp and drum, head inches below the ceiling, strumming harder and harder. One of her strings broke and she pulled it loose to dangle from her guitar. Another string, then another, all three trailing from her headstock, whipping with her movement, flashing when they caught light.

The guitar became more and more discordant, but it didn’t matter. None of it felt like performance, though she posed unanswered questions of how she didn’t fall over, how the bass drum didn’t crack or spill her, how she played that hard in that precarious a position without losing her footing or looking like she cared about anything other than the sounds she dragged out of her guitar. It was as if Luce had become a conduit for something bigger than her, and it didn’t matter what she wanted or where she was or how she had gotten there.

At the last possible moment, as the song built to its inevitable conclusion, she pushed off the drum, knocking it into the drummer, who leaped backward off his throne but managed still to bring his sticks down on the cymbals for one last crash. The whole band cracked up in laughter; they all looked surprised-pleased-relieved it had ended as well as it had.

Rosemary dragged herself back to the analytical. She was supposed to pay attention to the whole package, not just her own response, the better to explain what she was selling—what she was buying—when she talked to her employers. She thought she knew how to pitch it. Sure, they were political, but maybe that was acceptable, as long as she’d play “Blood and Diamonds,” too? Their songs were catchy, and they were compelling to watch. Everything she could ask for.

“That was amazing,” she told Luce after the show. “What you said the other night—about wanting to make people realize they want to make something themselves? I think I get it.”

Luce looked exhausted, though she’d been full of energy a minute before. “Thanks. Glad you made it through one. You going to hang out a while?”

“Uh, this is the first time I’ve gotten to the end, so I didn’t know that was a thing. People hang out now?”

“Some do. At the Heatwave. You’re welcome to join us.” She paused, cocked her head. “I’d like that.”

Rosemary nodded and retreated to the back of the basement while the musicians packed their gear. She started to offer help, but their movements were so precise she knew she’d be in the way; she preferred keeping to the edge while the audience exited, in any case. Luce packed up her merchandise last, folding the case and sliding it into the alcove behind the table.

“The benefits of playing in my own house.” Luce grinned. “Let’s get out of here.”

The end-of-night stragglers headed up the street. Luce’s band walked together, speaking in low voices; the other band chatted with the two strangers, leaving Rosemary alone. If she dropped out of the group and headed back to her hotel nobody would notice.

“Rosemary, catch up. I want you to meet people.”

Or not. She walked faster, and allowed Luce to introduce her around. The guy with the tattoos, the drummer, was Dor. The teenage bassist, in a yellow sundress over jeans, with supermodel cheekbones and a cascade of chestnut hair, Andy.

“You’re all so intense onstage,” Rosemary said.

“That’s because we have to concentrate on not being killed by our singer.” Dor drew his face into a caricature of sheer concentration.

“You look constipated,” said Luce. “I hope that isn’t what you look like onstage behind my back.”

“Nah, he’s more like this.” Andy made a worse face.

It was hard to be intimidated by people who mocked each other so lovingly. Rosemary smiled and kept quiet, happy to be included.

The shades were drawn at the Heatwave. Rosemary waited for someone to say it was closed, but when the door swung open, she realized the place was full, even though the city curfew was fast approaching. There were at least fifteen or twenty people inside, some she recognized by sight, if not by name.

Mary Hastings sat in the first booth on the left with three other women. Two people stood behind the counter handling orders, both of whom looked to be the musician’s siblings. The crowd dispersed among the tables and barstools, but everyone chatted cross-group. She looked for a familiar face—Joni, maybe, or the singer with the keyboard tattoo, but she didn’t see anyone she recognized except Alice, who sat on a stool at the bar. She wasn’t about to go chat with Alice, so she stayed by Luce’s side.

Luce stopped at Mary Hastings’s booth first. The other woman was tinier than Rosemary remembered. When she stood for a hug, she reached Luce’s chin, and Luce herself wasn’t tall.

“You were awesome.” Luce sounded like a giddy fan. “Every time you step up there, I have to pinch myself. Thank you.”

“Luce, you know I’m just happy you haven’t yet kicked this old woman off your stage yet. I should be thanking you.”

“You have a place to play as long as I have a stage to put you on.”

They hugged again, then Hastings sat down and Luce moved along. Here and there people waved or gave her a thumbs-up, but it didn’t take her long to slide into the last booth. Rosemary lingered, not sure if it was reserved for the band, though they had all stopped to chat.