Rocked Up

Luckily, even though I do have natural showboating tendencies, I can keep that under wraps. I can keep my head down and let everyone else shine. That’s what I can bring to the band.

Sound-wise, though, that’s trickier. The band already has a signature sound that they never really stray from, probably why Brad branched out and did a solo project, just so he could deviate for once. Now, taking in my penchant for fuzz and effects and noting that Brad’s solo effort had a lot of that, I can bet that I may just have the sound the band didn’t realize they wanted or needed.

Of course I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m just Lael Ramsey. As a bass-player, I’m pretty much a nobody.

But I believe in myself. And when you believe in what you do, that’s how you become a somebody.

I take in a deep breath, finding strength and courage in the air, letting it fill me from head to toe.

Then I pack up my pedal and guitar and get ready to do this.





Chapter Five





Brad




“Okay, it’s time to talk about bass players.”

I’m talking to my bandmates in our studio. We all have our usual spots: Calvi and I sitting next to our amps, and Switch behind his sparse drums. Of course, there is an empty chair where Nick used to be. It took me so long to fire Nick because I was avoiding the painful process of finding his replacement. We’re auditioning four bassists today. I have no doubt they’ll all have their individual sound and will play the songs with ease, but there is way more to consider than the sound that comes out of their amp. This is going to be someone we have to live with in a bus for months on end.

Things to consider could be:

Are they easy to be around?

Do they have stage presence?

Do they show up on time?

Do they represent And Then well?

Are they professional?

Are they into drugs?

Most importantly, we need a guy who we have good chemistry with.

Or, perhaps, a girl.

I spoke to my manager, Arnie, and had him arrange for Lael to be added to the audition roster today. I can see him through the soundproof window sitting in the control room behind the mixing console, talking to someone out of sight. His long grey hair has barely thinned over the years, and his beard is always perfectly groomed to the point I often chuckle at the thought of this biker-looking dude choosing what high-end leave-in conditioner he’s going to try next.

I’m waiting for Switch or Calvi to respond to my question about the bassists, but as usual, I’m getting nothing. The room is silent save for the hum of an amplifier and Calvi quietly tuning his gold-top guitar. Switch was closer with Nick than Calvi was but he seems to be used to the idea that Nick is gone. I think he totally understood why I had to let Nick go—he started to believe in the myth of rock and roll and all the standard clichés, such as:

Sex with groupies

Depravity

Violence

Trashing hotel rooms

Arrogance during interviews

Drunk on stage

Throwing televisions out of hotel windows

Heroin

The chicken incident



Mr. Robson briefed me on the heroin thing at the start of my career and I believe his words to be true. He’d said, “Kid, if you do it, you will never be the same for the rest of your life.”

Nick definitely was not the same after he got into heroin, and eventually I had to say goodbye to my old friend.

“How do you guys want to approach this?” I ask, directly now.

They both shrug and after some more silence, Switch speaks up. “Let’s just jam with each of them, shoot the shit, and see what happens.” With his head tilted back and his eyes in a squint I can tell he’s going to be tough on them.

Calvi takes a break from tuning his guitar and adds to the conversation, “We don’t have to choose any of them if we don’t want. If we settle, we’ll be back in the same situation next year.”

I make eye contact with ol’ Arnie though the window. I can tell our first victim is somewhere in the control room out of my eye line because Arnie’s body language has changed. Like my bandmates, he has been with me since the beginning and I know him well.

Arnie stands and walks out of sight. I take a deep breath and wait for the door to open.

“…That’s how we did it in the old days,” Arnie says, finishing his conversation with a rather tall, dark haired, pale skinned character.

“Boys,” Arnie says, “this here is John Beddis. He’s stopped by to jam.”

Arnie has the guitar tech set John up as he sits down in Nick’s old chair, next to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier. Even sitting down, John seems to tower over the three of us. His long face makes him look perpetually unimpressed.

Switch, Calvi, and John make idol chit-chat, and I, too, go through the motions of greeting this gangly monster. I can tell the chemistry isn’t right before we even play a note. We do a song called “Rust in My Bones,” and although he plays his bass with precision, he has the energy of a mortician and I’m happy when it’s time to say goodbye.

“Thanks for coming by John. We’ll be in touch,” Arnie says with a smile, keeping things light.

Next up is none other than the Jazz McKinnon.

I’m actually starstruck when he floats into the room with his personal guitar tech, assistant, and publicist. He’s fifty something years old with overly-styled blonde hair and a scarf wrapped around his neck, draping over his leather vest. Jazz may be over fifty, but he’s in better physical condition than we are. Jazz McKinnon is the only guy on the planet that can pull off leather pants, a leather vest, a scarf, and dyed blond hair. He smiles, exposing his toothpaste commercial teeth.

“And Then…” he says, gesturing to us. “Love it. Look at you guys. I’m a huge fan. Let me get this straight though. I’m not here to replace Nick. I just want to jam with you guys.”

Jazz keeps his eyes on me and holds out his right hand while his guitar tech scrambles to put his guitar in his hand. I still can’t believe he’s here—he’s a legend in the rock world, having helmed some of the biggest names of the eighties and nineties.

Looking at my bandmates, I can tell they’re just as blown away. I exchange a moment with Switch and we both manage to keep from giggling like children. Calvi is locked in a stare with Jazz, smiling like an idiot.

Jazz’s assistant looks up from her phone and makes an announcement. “We’ve scheduled a brief photo shoot, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.”

Somehow I’m not surprised. Regardless of what happens with Jazz, this is a moment that needs to be commemorated.