“Three nights ago in Leeds you beat a guy over the head with your microphone because he was grabbing your guitarist. A lot of girls look up to that.”
“I think a lot of girls should beat guys over the head if they’re going to be assaulted like that, because what that guy did was assault,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken. I took a deep breath. “I don’t get why people act like that. Why they think they’re entitled to treat girls that way.”
“Do you see a lot of this sort of thing while you’re touring? Do you think there’s an element of sexism in the music industry?”
I frowned, wondering if she was joking or if this was a serious question. “Definitely. I think a lot of guys have a sense of ego and over-confidence in this industry. Particularly . . .” An image of Balthazar flashed in my mind. I quickly dismissed it, clenching my fists. “Er, particularly musicians.”
The interviewer giggled. “Well, some might say that girls rather enjoy the attention of musicians.”
I swallowed my urge to reach across the table and slap her. I took a deep breath and replied calmly, “Not all girls. I think it’s a good lesson for some of these . . . assholes to remember that. Not every girl is going to fall at your feet and do nothing but giggle. I don’t understand that perspective.”
The interviewer had stopped smiling and now seemed nervous, as though she knew she had offended me and wanted to clarify her point. “But there really are so many groupies —”
“Not every girl is a fucking groupie,” I snapped. Her eyes widened in the silence that followed, and I was aware of the soft whirring of the tape recorder. The faces of the two girls who had been backstage with me and Fern, the ones who had to deal with the disgusting roadie, flashed in my mind. What had that night been like for them? What had happened to them after we had fled? I didn’t want to come off as a bitch here, so when I spoke next, I softened my tone. “And groupies don’t deserve to be treated badly either. It seems like some guys at shows just have a problem with women. It makes me so angry. I mean, Fern is onstage, playing guitar, and some guy thinks he has the right to just grope her, and no one does anything. I don’t understand that.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the interviewer said quickly, smiling back, glad that our conversation had gotten back onto a positive note. “There has always been violence against women at concerts, and I’m glad you’re addressing it.”
“Well, everyone should be damn well addressing it,” I said. “There are enough girls at these shows that we should be looking after each other.”
xXx
The Flesh for Lunch tour seemed to end before it even began, really. A week and a half isn’t a long time at all, especially when you’re playing really cool shows every night. By the last night, though, I have to admit I was a bit relieved. We hadn’t bothered doing laundry, so all the clothes we’d brought were getting raunchy. The food provided each night by the different clubs pretty much sucked — usually just a plate of greasy sandwich meat and, for some reason, a huge variety of buns and bread, and cheese that looked off the minute it hit the table. Not eating well paired with the huge amount of phys-ical energy it took to perform each night proved to be very draining. And I don’t even want to get started on the mystery bruises and bumps on my body.
The final night in England, we got to our hotel and I sank into bed, shocked by how exhausted I felt. It seemed like I had been running on some sort of high, knowing we had shows each night, and now that I knew all we had to do was get up and get on a plane the next day to go home, I was ready to collapse.
“It was a good tour,” Fern said from the next bed over.
My eyes were closed, and through my haze of exhaustion I heard the flick of her lighter. “Yeah, it was. Some really good shows.”