Rocked Up

Jazz ignores the large lights, reflectors, and other equipment pouring into the rather small jam room.

“Over here, please,” a photographer orders and ushers all of us around the drums where the lights are shining. Calvi and I put our guitars down and obey. Switch stays seated on his throne behind the drums, completely hidden by Jazz standing directly in front of him. Calvi and I exchange a fan boy laugh behind him. Jazz is strutting around like a rooster, front and center. The camera’s flash seems like a strobe light and they must take a thousand pictures even though the shoot only lasts about two minutes. When it’s all over and the equipment is dragged out, Jazz’s assistant pulls me to the side.

“Hi, Brad,” she says. “I know we only have an hour so I’m keeping the press to a minimum.”

“Press?” I question.

“Yes. Modern Bass Player magazine is going to do a piece on the audition.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure what the hell is going on. Then I turn my head, and I don’t believe my eyes.

I don’t see how it’s possible but Jazz is in a completely different outfit right down to his shoes. Perfectly torn jeans, sneakers, a graphic t-shirt, blazer, and a network of necklaces. I think his damn hair is even a little different. Houdini would be impressed.

“Thanks again for having me,” Jazz calmly says as he floats by me toward one of his entourage who sits him down with a journalist from the magazine in the corner of the studio.

Calvi, Switch, and I are no strangers to this aspect of the job, but this is next level. The three of us stand in the opposite corner from Jazz and his intimate interview and wait. Arnie walks in smiling and says to Jazz’s assistant, “Time flies. We only have five minutes left.”

She nods and walks over to the interviewer, whispering something into his ear.

“You know, I always wanted to meet him,” Calvi says.

“Me too,” I say, though who would have known it would be like this.

“I like his haircut,” Switch adds.

Jazz walks across the room, looking from his phone up to us and says with a confident smile, “I have a book tour in a month so I can’t do the last leg of the tour. I wanted to be clear on that. I’m really digging your song ‘Rust in My Bones.’ I feel like I have rust in my bones sometimes. Anyway, that went well. Take care, boys.”

“Wait,” Calvi says and then stops him for a quick selfie before bidding him farewell.

Jazz and his entourage (that has seemed to grow significantly since his arrival) stream out the door, and we are left with just the three of us again.

“Wow, right, what a dude,” Calvi says, clearly taken by his childhood hero.

Arnie walks in to give us an update. “Sorry, boys. That ran a little late and we’ll have to jump right into the next audition. I told him it would be a little shorter than planned so you can have a little break before our last one of the day. Bruce Ross, And Then, And Then, Bruce Ross.”

We all greet Bruce with casual greetings after the pointless introduction. We all know him already. He has his own progressive funk band, and we have run into him many times on the festival circuit. His sets are usually one long bass solo broken by nasally vocals that are almost always about fishing. Bruce walks up to me to shake my hand and I get an up-close look at his iconic bowler hat and the greasy mustache that is waxed into points.

“Thanks for the chance, man,” Bruce says as he squeezes my hand tight and holds deliberate eye contact through circular blue tint glasses that make him look extra intense.

“Yeah, man. For sure. Cool guitar,” I tell him, referring to the bass guitar hanging from his shoulders. The wood curled and twisted wildly, I think Bruce is the only person I know that wouldn’t look out of place playing the strangely shaped guitar. Then again, the man looks like a reject from a Charlie Chaplin film.

“Do you know ‘Rust in My Bones’?” I ask him.

“You mean the song that’s playing nonstop on every rock station in America? I think I might have heard it.” I catch a tinge of bitterness in his voice which doesn’t bode well.

Still, we jump into the song, and in true Bruce Ross form, he turns the tune into one long bass solo. I don’t even sing because Bruce doesn’t leave any sonic room for me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing—Bruce is probably the best bass player on the planet in a technical sense.

Calvi and I take a seat when the song is done and Switch is the first to speak.

“Duuude, that was so fucking good.”

“Thanks, partner. I know you guys are busy and I have my snake in the car, so I’m going to run,” Bruce answers in a nasally voice and presses his blue glasses up from the end of his nose.

“Thanks for that, Bruce,” Arnie says as he walks Bruce out.

“What a weird guy,” Calvi says as soon as the door closes and we’re alone again.

“Yeah, but shit the guy can play,” Switch adds.

I give them both a dry look. “I would rather eat broken glass than be on a bus with that character for two months, wouldn’t you?”

We share a laugh and spend the next hour or so eating sushi that was delivered, Arnie playing back the recording of John and Bruce’s auditions. Obviously, we can’t listen to Jazz because he didn’t play a single note.

I had debated whether to tell my bandmates about Lael but thought it was best to keep them unbiased.

“Oh, would you look at the time,” Switch says, pointing to a clock on the wall. He’s obviously referring to my rule that we can’t start drinking until after one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Beer me,” I tell him. It’s been a stressful day and beer is usually the answer.

Switch goes out to the kitchen and comes back with a case of ice cold beer. He rips it open and throws one to me and one to Calvi.

“Who’s the babe sitting in the hall?” Switch asks as he falls into a worn out leather couch.

I know very well who’s sitting in the hall and I consider telling them that she’s both our last audition of the day and the daughter of Ronald Ramsey, but decide to leave out the latter.

“Oh, right,” I say casually. “We had an open audition online and this girl was the winner. She seems pretty good.”

“A girl? Hmm,” Calvi responds stiffly, staring into nothing, thinking of god knows what.

“A girl?” Switch repeats, his eyebrows scrunched together and the corner of his lip curled into a smile.

“Yeah, a girl…so…” I answer.

Knock-knock.

Here comes the moment of truth.

Arnie opens the door and in walks Lael with bass in hand with all the ease and confidence of a professional, her thick teal hair looking striking. She’s dressed to impress. Lael glances at the three of us lounging with beer and chopsticks in hand and gives us an unimpressed look. Then she scans the room and struts over to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier.

Leather pants look much better on her than on Jazz McKinnon. Her sleeveless shirt has a White Zombie graphic, and the collar is artistically torn and split, exposing her tawny skin.