“He knows it, and it’s only pissing him off. Just let him even himself out.”
I fist my hair and let out a harsh exhale, and Dad smirks. “You’re placing too much importance on the wrong shit. Your collective sound is tight, East, damn near seamless, so give them a little fucking grace.”
“Dad, you can’t intervene.”
Cigarette dangling between his lips, lighter ready, he pins me with his stare. “Don’t go there. I haven’t said a single word inside that room without you instigating my involvement.”
“You ever stop to think you’re the one making them nervous?”
He scoffs as he lights his cigarette, exhaling as he speaks. “Professionals they may be, not one of them can exchange instruments on a whim and play with expertise the way you can. Thank fuck they don’t know it yet, either. It’ll only humiliate them, but the more you point out, the more they’re catching on.”
“All right,” I snap, feeling the adrenaline coursing through me start to wane. I’m drained. We’re all drained. We’ve been busting our asses for a solid month to get our sound together. We’ve only got a few days before we hit the road, and we aren’t where I want us to be. The fact that we’ve only had weeks to play together is my fault because of my indecision on releasing. To their credit, they’ve been practicing their parts solo while on standby in case I decided to pull the trigger.
Now that there’s gunpowder on my hands, I feel the pressure mounting daily.
“You have time,” Dad reads my thoughts, offering assurance. “We weren’t nearly as strong the entirety of our first tour.”
“I hear you,” I reiterate, as he takes a long drag from his cigarette and shakes his head incredulously.
“No, you don’t, and the fact that you think it’s me they’re intimidated by is laughable.” He blows out a steady stream of smoke. “Truth of the matter is, they weren’t at all prepared for you. Think about your ask, son. You’re demanding they master a song with different time signatures that starts in four-four, shifts to three-four, and then occasionally measures down. Then there’s the change in the chorus. A song they were only vaguely familiar with before today. That’s the equivalent of handing a fucking four-year-old their first violin and the sheet music for Mozart on day one.”
Reading my expression, a prideful grin lifts his lips. “I don’t know whether to love or hate it that you still don’t believe me, but that,” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “what’s happening in there has got nothing to do with me.”
He tosses his cigarette and stomps it out before stepping up to me. “You can’t let frustration and anger take over, or you might as well hang it up now. Whether you like it or not—and for the first time in your life—you have a band, and you’ll have to learn how to play well with others. Stop being so selfish with your demands and recognize your own talent is one in a billion. You know all too well how to bounce off other musicians because you’ve played with some of the best.”
“We can do better,” I mutter.
“Perfection is an illusion. Half the fun of being in a band is fine-tuning sound together and letting their creativity blend with yours. You have got to relinquish some of that ingrained control.”
Sweat begins to dry on my back as I consider his words. I need a shower and a day of sleep. A lot of my frustration has nothing to do with the hired musicians we recruited months ago and everything to do with the woman who left me trapped between infatuation and unsatisfied curiosity. I predicted before she left that time and space wouldn’t do a damn thing to curb either, and I was dead on. Instead of dwelling on what I can’t control, I’ve thrown myself into perfecting what I can. “All right.”
Seeming satisfied, Dad turns and heads back into his studio. When I step in behind him, I see three sets of eyes lift past Dad’s shoulders, and land anxiously on me, driving his point home. I am meticulous and often a perfectionist. When recording, I consider it a good thing to be able to get the melodies and notes cemented exactly like I composed them. But if I want to make this work, I’m going to have to leave a part of that perfectionist in the studio.
Making a fast decision, I look over to LL, who I’ve been dueling lead with for the better part of two hours due to the difficulty of the song.
“One more time,” I prompt, keeping the demand out of my tone, “this time, follow me to the split.”
LL’s technically our main lead on guitar, so I expect a little opposition. Instead, he cracks his neck before securing his guitar strap just as Tack lifts his drumsticks. Looking bored—which seems to be my bassist’s MO—Syd tosses his empty beer bottle into the trash before strapping himself up too.
Though they are professionals, all of them are experienced bandmembers who have never managed to attain the industry’s definition of success, and I’ve put them through their paces. They’ve taken it, mostly, in stride. Today, I pushed them past their capabilities and was rewarded when I saw the shock on Tack’s face. He surprised himself, which I considered a small victory, but that was hours ago. Even his adrenaline is starting to dry up.
“We’re too fucking close to fold.” I look at each of them pointedly, strumming a few chords, relaxing my posture. “So, just give me everything you have for seven more minutes. Seven minutes.” I search their faces for relief that this is our last attempt and find none. They want to nail it too, and it’s in that I find my own respite.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath as Tack clicks his sticks together to start the count. Within the first minute, it starts to feel different. My breathing becomes labored between playing and singing, and I avert my gaze to LL, who’s paling rapidly but keeps rhythm with me like we’ve been at it for years, not weeks.
My lips lift in a slight grin when we surpass the first hurdle. It’s then I see the determined flare return in LL’s eyes, some of his confidence restored.
Because of our grueling practices, these men are still strangers to me in the personal sense. Our only common ground at this point is tightening our sound for the few gigs we’ve managed to line up since I released. I’ve pinpointed their flaws as meticulously as I have my own. The fact that they’re aware of them, and that Dad stepped in with sound advice when asked has made all the difference.
Going hard, I duel with LL to thicken up the lead to one of the most notorious metal guitar solos while raging through the lyrics. When Tack nails the break, and LL and I fall effortlessly in sync with our solos, victory begins to roll through my veins. When the last of the notes pierce the air, we mutely glance over to Dad, whose megawatt grin confirms what we all know just before he belts out. “Fuck yeah, you just did that.”
The four of us howl in victory as Syd pops another beer in celebration before doling out cold bottles to the rest of us. Turning it up, I soak in the moment, glancing at the three men I’m about to embark on a journey I’ve imagined a thousand times or more since I began recording. Walking over to a nearby table, I lift the sketch I’ve spent hours drafting. “What do you think about REVERB?”
They scrutinize the drawing as I explain the motive behind the name. “R3V3RB short for reverberation. Since we’re planning on paying tribute to music of every genre during the tour while introducing our own sound, I think it suits. The three’s in replace of the e’s are a nod to the old school LP’s.”