Jean Haus - With the Band

His full lips form a slow, authentic grin.

I’m caught in the beauty of that grin until Gabe’s voice disrupts the moment. “Cranberries? You have to be joking!” He leans forward and snatches the glass of whiskey and ice from Sam. “Something from Coldplay would be closer to U2 than the pussy Cranberries.”

Still grinning, Sam raises his glass to me. “ ‘Zombie’ is a perfect match.”

Gabe’s brows lower. “How?”

Sam tilts his head toward me, taking a long, slow drink of whiskey.

I consider how to explain our long-forgotten little game. “The match is about the feel and meaning of the song. It’s more complicated than just choosing two bands that sound alike. Both songs are angry about war.”

Gabe still looks confused. “Give me another one.”

“All right.” Sam lowers his drink to one knee as his fingers drum on his other knee. “‘Rush.’ Big Audio Dynamite.”

“That’s too easy,” I say.

“Huh,” Gabe says, swirling the ice in his drink by rotating the glass. “Nothing goes with that weird shit.”

I take a sip of beer and wait, but when Gabe continues to appear lost, I say, “ ‘Story of My Life.’ Social Distortion.”

Sam grins again. “Perfect.”

Gabe’s glance at me is cynical. “What are you, a fucking walking music library?”

A laugh escapes me. “Kind of. I’ve been obsessed with music since my grandpa, who worked at punk clubs in Detroit in the seventies, gave me his record player and albums when I was twelve. Overnight I went from a huge fan of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys to liking the Clash, the Ramones, Devo, the Dead Kennedys . . . anything hardcore punk or rock from about the seventies and after.”

“I think music sounds like shit on old-fashioned records,” Gabe says, still swirling the ice in his glass. “At least on the ones I’ve heard.”

I shake my head. “Not at all. There’s something so raw about old vinyl. All the fast punk stuff sounds better.”

“What about your dad?” Sam asks.

“What about my dad?” I ask back.

“Why didn’t your grandpa give his music to him?”

I smile at the thought. “My dad is pure country. Hank Williams. Johnny Cash. He wouldn’t have listened to the albums. But me . . . Well, my grandpa made up his mind to pass down his taste in music. When my grandma died, he moved in with us, and the music I was playing in my bedroom drove him nuts. Incredibly irritated, he started playing his old favorites, hoping to change my tastes. And he did,” I add, suddenly wishing I were back in Michigan and visiting my family.

I love them all, but my grandfather and I have had a special connection. I know he wouldn’t love me any less if I’d continued with my boy band obsession. He’s not a music snob. He believes whatever music touches you is fine, as long as he doesn’t have to hear it.

Sam laughs, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Just what every twelve-year-old should be listening to.”

“What?” I ask.

“ ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ by the Dead Kennedys.”

I shrug and smile. “The language may have been part of the allure.”

Sam smiles back at me. “Exactly what I thought.”

The limo slows along the side of a huge building. A huge crowd waits in front of it to get inside. As we pull into the back lot, to an area that is fenced off with orange construction mesh, I set my half-full beer in a cup holder and haul the camera over my head as Sam and Gabe drain their glasses. The driver opens the door and we emerge to see a girl in the shortest shorts in the world—paired with the highest heels—waiting next to a rusted metal door.

She glances over the clipboard in her hand as we step closer. “The last two members of Luminescent Juliet, the indie band?” Her sultry black-lined eyes roam over Sam and Gabe. When Gabe nods, she looks to me. “And you are?”

“She’s our promoter,” Sam says levelly.

“Oh,” she says with a slight frown. “I didn’t know indie bands had those . Well, I’m Kayla from WZIK Rock.” She holds her hand out in a dainty manner. Both Sam and Gabe stare at the hand like it’s a foreign object. The indie comment may have hit a few nerves.

Holding in an offensive giggle, I shake her hand and introduce myself and the guys.

She lets out a small huff. “Okay, follow me. We’re going in the back.”

Sam and Gabe give each other a look, then follow Kayla as she opens the door. We step into a long, dark hall. Kayla’s heels echo on the tile until she stops and opens another door. As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blasts at us, Kayla shouts, “This is the VIP area! You have about a half hour before signings and pictures start. Drinks and food are complimentary. The radio station is footing the bill.” Her expression is smug.

Sam and Gabe breeze past her without a glance.

Even though she has a bug up her ass, I say, “Thanks,” as I enter the bar. The decor includes steer horns mounted all over the walls and strange lighting from a mix of disco balls and spotlights. Western chic? More like the seventies on crack on a ranch. The VIP area, located in the back and raised a few steps higher than the front, is half full of people. I recognize some of the other bands’ members and a few roadies. The bar beyond the wooden rail that separates the VIP area is packed. People lean over the rail and point at band members like they’re watching animals at the zoo.

Sam and Gabe are already at the bar. Instead of joining them for a drink or filling a plate with food, I pull out my camera and wander around taking pictures. I catch Romeo talking to a guy dressed in a suit, who I’m guessing is the tour manager, and Justin talking with some of Griff’s members. Then I turn and capture Sam and Gabe doing shots with a couple of scantily clad girls.

Maybe Sam’s girlfriend has a reason to be bitchy.

As Sam leans down and whispers something to one of the girls, a burst of annoyance shoots through me. Perplexed, I lower my camera and let it hang from my neck. What’s my deal? I try to think logically. My frustration has to be confusion. Of course it’s hard to know how to feel now that he’s gone from being a dick to being a nice guy—and back again, judging by the way he’s about to cheat on his girlfriend.

I scan the crowd until the irritation passes, then glance at a clock and realize the half hour warm-up is over. All the band members are rounded up—the phrase is a perfect pun, given our surroundings—and seated at tables in the front of the VIP area. Lines have already formed, with people waiting to get pictures, autographs, and meet the musicians.

After taking a few out-of-focus shots of the crowd, I decide it’s time to get a drink and a plate of food.

The night drags as I sip Diet Coke and watch Kayla direct the madhouse. The crowd of girls in front of Luminescent Juliet’s table grows by the minute. The band might not be well-known, but the guys’ hotness creates a draw that soon enough makes their line longer than the others.

The guys sometimes take breaks and join me at the bar to bitch about how dumb the event is, but I’m mostly alone and horribly bored. I do meet several members of the other bands as they come up for breaks. Most of the guys in Brookfield seem reserved and almost businesslike compared to the guys in Griff, who dress and act like rockers.

Near the end of the event, I head for the back door to get away from the noise and to call Bryce from the parking lot. When I step outside, the smell of weed is unmistakable. Spotting Kayla and Sam amid a haze of smoke a few yards from the building, I nearly drop my phone as I step back, stunned by the sight of them together. I feel a burst of annoyance like the one from earlier. I immediately justify it as shock that they’re getting high in the middle of a promotional event.