Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

Tim launched into the band’s newest song, an ambient tune from their latest record. As he strummed his guitar, he spotted his stepfather, Henry, at the bar. His mother had clearly dragged him to the concert against his will. He was ordering a drink, his back to the stage. At Thanksgiving, after finishing his fourth glass of wine, Henry had suggested Tim apply for an internship at his consulting firm.

“I’m sure you’d be good at it,” he’d said cheerfully. “And you’d still have music as a hobby.”

The comment had so enraged Tim that he’d spent the next hour in his room. But now, looking back on it, he couldn’t help but smile. What would Henry say if the Fuzz got signed to a major record label? He pictured the old man reacting to the news, staggering backward, spilling wine all over his cashmere sweater. It was such an absorbing fantasy that he almost missed his cue to start singing.

They’d played “Abel’s Crossing” hundreds of times, but they still made occasional mistakes. Sanjay’s drum part was complex — a jazzy 5/4 beat — and it often caused him to mistime his vocal harmonies. Tonight, though, the performance was flawless. Their voices braided together, in key and on rhythm. They sounded like professionals. Tim snuck a glance at the man in the charcoal suit. He was writing down notes in a small black book, his eyebrows scrunched with obvious interest.

“Let’s play ‘Love Monkey,’ ” Pete whispered.

Tim hesitated. “Love Monkey” was their most popular song to date. (It had been featured in a local car-wash commercial just two summers ago.) But it wasn’t on the set list and Tim wasn’t even sure he remembered all the words. Before Tim could make up his mind, Sanjay grabbed his microphone.

“This one’s called ‘Love Monkey’! One, two, three, four…”

There was nothing Tim could do but play. The song was supposed to be midtempo, but in his excitement, Sanjay wielded his sticks like a punk rocker. It was hard for Tim to keep up with him, but the chords weren’t too hard and he managed to get used to the pace. Pete’s girlfriend had brought her friends from med school, and when the final chorus started, they sang along with Tim.

Love monkey, I’m a love, love monkey!

When they finished the song, everybody went nuts, cheering and laughing and whistling. Even Henry put down his wineglass and clapped his hands with feeling. Tim eyed the man in the charcoal suit. He was typing out a message on his iPhone, his lips parted with concentration. Tim was trying to decipher his opinion of “Love Monkey” when the scout looked up from his phone and — shockingly — flashed him a thumbs-up. Tim turned to his bandmates. They were trying their best to stay cool, but he could tell by their grins that they’d both seen the gesture.

Tim checked his watch. The club had given them only twenty minutes (it was a Tuesday night and they were the first of three bands performing). That meant they had twelve minutes left — exactly enough time to play their magnum opus.

“Echoes Lowering” was the most ambitious piece of music that Tim had ever written. It was a meditation on music itself and the inherent difficulty of artistic expression. The song included a three-minute bridge during which the only instruments played were a toy piano, a triangle, and a purposefully untuned guitar.

It was during this bridge that Tim began to daydream about his future.

“Why the triangle?” Tim imagined a reporter asking him six months from now, in the penthouse of a European hotel.

“It is what it is,” Tim would say through a translator.

“Do you enjoy touring? You seem frustrated by all the media and photographers.”

“I just want to be back in the studio. Where things make sense.”

Sanjay hit the crash, pulling Tim out of his revelry just in time to launch into the song’s discordant outro. It was his favorite part of the album — an ironic series of power chords culminating in a blare of distortion.

Tim looked straight into the scout’s eyes as he strummed the final bars. He played the last chord so aggressively that the daffodil nearly fell out of his lapel. When the song was over, he bolted from the stage without a word. What was the point of saying thanks or goodbye? The music had done the talking. Pete and Sanjay followed his lead, looks of intense stoicism on their faces.

The club owner was waiting for them in the greenroom.

“You only brought in five guests,” he said. “So your take is ten dollars.”

Tim chuckled. Normally, this kind of exchange would leave him shaken and humiliated. But now all he felt was pity.

“Was it difficult in the early days? I read in NME that you once played a set for ten dollars.”

“That’s a true story. But back then we didn’t think about the money. We were just kids. Give us a stage and some amps, and we were happy…”

“Tim?” Pete said. “Do you have any cash on you?”

“Huh?”

“You each had two beers,” explained the owner. “So that’s six beers times four dollars is twenty-four dollars. Minus the ten, you still owe me fourteen. Plus tip.”

Tim flushed.

“I thought the beers were free?”

The owner folded his arms across his chest.

“Beers are only free for headliners.”

Tim rooted around in the pockets of his skinny jeans. His mom had given him sixty bucks a week ago, but he’d spent most of it on guitar strings. All he had left was a single crumpled twenty.

“Keep the change,” he said, handing it over.

The owner grabbed the cash and walked away.

“Oh, one other thing,” he said, spinning around suddenly. “There’s some guy, he wants to talk to you. Says he’s an agent. Asked me to tell you to meet him outside.”

Sanjay swallowed.

“Are you sure he said us? And not one of the other bands?”

“Which band are you again?”

“We’re the Fuzz,” Tim said with annoyance.

“Yeah, it’s you guys,” said the owner. “He’s right out front. In the limousine.”

“Remember!” Tim said. “Don’t sign anything, no matter what he says, until we speak to a lawyer!”

He was trying to act professional, but he couldn’t suppress the childlike lilt in his voice. He realized he was happy, genuinely happy, for the first time in recent memory. He’d never admitted it to anyone, but lately he’d started having doubts about the band. When he first moved back home after school, he genuinely believed the situation would be temporary. He assumed he’d be on tour most of the summer and that, within a year at least, he’d be supporting himself with his music. It ended up taking him three years to organize a tour — a nine-day trek across the Midwest. And between the van and the gas, he’d ended up losing money.

“What’s the absolute worst show you played?”

“Milwaukee. Hands down.”

“Tough crowd?”

“Worse. Nobody came.”

“What do you mean, ‘nobody’?”

“Literally, nobody. The owner never promoted it and we didn’t sell a single ticket.”

“What did you do?”

“We played a few songs anyway, just for the waitstaff.”

“Did they like it, at least?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact with us. You could tell they were embarrassed that we were playing to an empty room.”

“Did you ever think about giving up?”

“Never. When you believe in your music, nothing can stop you.”

The limo was long, black, and gleaming. Tim was debating whether or not to knock when the door swung open automatically.

“Come in,” said the man in the charcoal suit. Tim, Pete, and Sanjay climbed into the backseat. It was too dark to see. The only source of light was the man’s cigar, a gleaming ring of fire casting shadows everywhere.