Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

After three weeks, I begged Gemma for a change, and we settled into a new schedule. When possible, we started sleeping in the town we had played, so I could get a solid night’s sleep. Wake up, try to get to the hotel gym, drive, soundcheck, play, sleep. It didn’t work if we had to be at a radio show six hours away by eight a.m., but the PR people got some promos rescheduled for lunch shows instead of morning, and worked it out that I called in for others.

The previous Saturday, in the hours between soundcheck and show, I’d sat down to write for the first time in the entire tour. An idea had wormed its way into my head while I drove. I got most of my ideas behind the wheel; something about the rhythm of the road lent my mind permission to wander.

The seed had been a piece of graffiti I’d spotted along the way. DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, the sign read, scrawled on the WELCOME sign below the town’s name, the mayor’s name, and the population. Don’t even think about what? I wondered, and from there the song came, a punchy little meditation on insularity and fear. I had written it out for the guys in the van on Sunday morning, and we had tried an arrangement at that day’s soundcheck that made me happy.

Two days later, it sounded a little less ready than it had on Sunday, when the newness had obscured the roughness. This far into the tour, I had mostly outgrown my hesitance over telling the band what to do. At the beginning, I’d been reluctant to tell them when I thought something wasn’t working.

“Let us know,” April had told me, when she noticed. “We’re here to make you sound good.”

“But you’re all more experienced. You’re amazing musicians. Maybe I’m wrong?”

“They’re your songs, right? We can make suggestions, but you get final say. We’d all rather sound good, at day’s end, right? We’ll sound better if you’re happy.”

I’d worked on it over the following months. Developed the nerve to say when I thought someone was out of tune, or a drum fill was too distracting.

“JD, why don’t you and April both wait to come in on the second verse?” I asked now. “The beginning needs a little room to breathe.”

We tried it the new way. I made another tweak, a change from one chord to its relative minor. It brought a dark nuance the song needed.

“I think that’s it,” I declared after the fourth time through. The lyrics still weren’t quite right, but nothing was set in stone until we recorded it.

“Thank goodness,” said Hewitt. “I’m hungry enough to eat my own arm.”

“Not our fault you don’t bother to eat breakfast,” said April. “It sounds good, Luce.”

I flashed her a grin. “Do you guys think we can squeeze it into the set list for tonight?”

“If you think we can get through it without messing up.” JD leaned his bass against his amp and flipped the standby switch.

“Do you mind if I play a little more?” I asked into the mic.

“Go ahead. Opening band hasn’t shown yet.” Silva’s disembodied voice came back to me through my monitor. “Do you need me to stay up here?”

“No, thanks. Everything sounds perfect.”

I lingered for a few minutes after everyone left to find dinner. Not because I had anything left to do, but I wanted a moment alone on this beautiful stage. The house lights were on again, and I looked out on a sea of empty seats, two long aisles, an elegant balcony level. I played a cover I used to play on the street, digging how my voice sounded rich and strong, my guitar muscular. It expanded to fill the space, like a liquid or a gas, pushing into the farthest corners. I belonged here.

My phone buzzed, a text from April. Check out this green room.

The second I walked in, I knew why she had messaged me. It was bigger than any other green room we’d crammed into on this tour. The couches were worn but didn’t look like the biohazard sites we often found backstage. A mirrored vanity table sat in the corner, promising movie-star glamour. The walls were plastered with band stickers and black-and-white 8 x 10 photos, new and old.

“That’s not intimidating at all.” Hewitt pointed to a signed photo of Johnny Cash. He was kidding. I’d never seen him daunted by any room or any situation. He was a lead guitarist through and through, full of lead guitarist confidence.

“Is that a bathroom? We get our own bathroom?” I asked. In most clubs we had to share a green room with one to three other bands, so there was no place to change except the public bathroom, standard model: two stalls—one clogged, one dubious, no toilet paper; more graffiti than wall; cracked mirror for putting on makeup; and no surface that looked safe to touch without a glove. This one sparkled with cleanliness, even if it was still too small to change in easily.

“Eat something.” Every once in a while, April tried to step into Gemma’s managerial shoes for a minute. Not long enough to, say, choose not to paint the hotel room pink, but at least long enough to make sure I considered dinner.

I looked over the spread. They’d followed our full rider; lots of places ignored what we asked for and served us pizza and M&M’s, or handed us money and told us to buy dinner. I didn’t mind the buy-dinner option—that was when we got a chance to find local restaurants, see a little of a new city.

After that lousy night, the side table holding an electric kettle, throat-health tea, and honey and lemons looked enticing to me. Other teas and coffee for everyone else, since they all agreed that throat tea tasted like rotting licorice. Veggies and hummus, cold cuts, cheese for the nonsingers in our midst. I made myself a plate, started a tea steeping, put a chipped saucer over it to concentrate it, and settled on a couch to eat.

“The show is sold out,” April said. “I talked to the lighting tech outside. The venue’s super happy.”

“Awesome.”

“If it goes well, maybe the label will book the whole next leg of the tour in theaters like this. I could get used to that. If we don’t all get fired for painting the hotel room.”

That was probably as close to an apology as I’d get.

Somebody knocked on the door, sharp and urgent.

“It sounds great out—” I started to say when Silva walked in, but the sentence died halfway through. He looked distraught.

He waved his phone at us. “Have you seen?”

None of us had looked at any news sites since we’d gotten to the club.

“Is it the hotels again?” asked JD.

Silva shook his head. Didn’t offer any more.

“Oh, God.” We all turned in April’s direction. She had her tablet out and her face had gone pale.

She turned the tablet to face us.

Rosemary spawned in a parking lot.

The Bloom Bar’s exterior carried a strange air of both “Welcome” and “Get lost.” Daisies and black-eyed Susans overflowed from beds on either side of the door and beneath the long dark windows. The outer walls were yellow stucco, and both o ’s of “Bloom” had been transformed into smiling flowers. The friendliness ended there.

A sign over the parking lot proclaimed PATENT MEDICI E TON TE! SHL! A dry-erase board by the door said the same thing, but without letters missing. Rosemary wondered why a virtual environment pretended to run out of letters for their sign; she guessed it added authenticity. For that matter, the entire parking lot was unnecessary; just another place for people with money to show off their gas-powered sports cars and unicorn-drawn pumpkins and whatever other virtual extravagances high-end hoodspace offered. Not that she’d ever been in any hoodspace this well-developed before.

An av perched on a stool between two doors: at least ten feet tall, sized well past human. No, not an avatar, a nonplayer bot. Rosemary wasn’t sure if he was security or a ticket taker or both. A scanner sparkled on the wall beside him.