“What do you think, Dred?”
Dred returned his attention from the view out of the Cessna’s window and finished scribbling the thoughts into his lyrics notebook. He closed it with a snap and looked over to Sam, Preload’s manager.
“What?” he asked calmly.
“We only have another hour left on the flight and we still have a lot to get through. Could I get your attention please?”
“Cut him some slack,” Nikan said. As the eldest of them growing up in the group home together, Nikan, guitarist and back-up vocals for the band, had always taken on the role of protector. “If you hadn’t committed us to getting the new album out so fucking quick, he wouldn’t need to be thinking about lyrics twenty-four seven.”
Dred appreciated the intervention, but the truth was, the lyrical ideas came to him when they were ready. He could no sooner turn them off than he could stop blinking. Can you turn off the sun? . . . Does love burn like the sun? And if so, could you avoid love, the way you avoid the sun?
“Dred.” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts.
They were two hours into the early morning flight to Miami, and business was the order of the day even though his mind was on the inspiration outside the window. Dred unwrapped a lozenge, and caught the flight attendant’s eye for another cup of hot water. The last thing he needed was a sore throat, but the telltale irritation and dryness said one was on its way.
“Keep your shirt on, Sam,” Dred said. “We know what needs doing. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”
“Right. So, Lennon, I have a deal lined up for you to be sponsored by Soidal. You’ll need to use their drum kit on the next tour.”
“Soidal is a total rip-off. All they’ve done is taken all the good ideas from Tama and Yamaha and wrapped them up in a sweatshop package. It isn’t ethical and it’s crap. Sounds like it too. I’ll stick with Tama,” Lennon replied.
Dred shook his head. Soidal sponsoring them was a stupid idea. Everyone knew Lennon wouldn’t budge, because Lars Ulrich was his fucking idol. Shortly after their first single released, they’d played on a daylong festival bill, headlined by Metallica. They’d walked off the stage after their set to find Lars Ulrich backstage, standing out of sight of the crowd. Lars had congratulated them on their performance, but told Lennon he needed a better drum kit. He’d introduced Lennon to his contact at Tama and it was the only kit he’d used since.
“The endorsement is huge. Gives us free gear shipped and set up anywhere we play in North America. You could even sign the fucking things, give them to local charities to auction. Think of all the free publicity you’d get,” said Sam. “It’s my job to find these deals for you.”
“It’ll be my job to kick your ass out of that emergency exit without a parachute if you sign that fucking contract,” Lennon fired back explosively. Dred casually flicked open his seatbelt, ready to hold Lennon back if he needed to, but was relieved to see Lennon grab his headphones.
Sam looked shocked by the outburst. “Jordan,” he said, changing track, “I’ve put your name forward for a reality TV show. Inked is getting such great publicity for Dred, and it would be great to raise your individual profile.”
Well that made no sense whatsoever. In their makeshift family, Jordan assumed the role of socially awkward older sibling. Dred and the rest of the band witnessed the way Jordan’s separation anxiety seemed to be getting worse. While Dred refused to give up hope, it would likely be a cold day in hell before Jordan would be able to travel around North America alone.
“Elliot wants his own TV show. Get him to do it.” Jordan tilted his chin in Elliot’s direction.
Dred smiled. Elliot hated television almost as much as Jordan hated fame.
“Why the fuck would I want to do it, bro?” Elliott asked.
“Can we focus, please? Elliot, it’s not for you. Jordan, it’s a great concept. They’re going to build a rock band.” Sam shuffled papers around. “They’ll have regional rounds to find the talent and then bring the ten best drummers, singers, and guitarists to LA. From there, they’ll play as part of a different band each week, and the worst band will get eliminated. They want you to coach the bass house.”
Despite a hatred of manufactured pop bands, it wasn’t a bad concept. For a more confident, gregarious artist, it would be perfect. Dred looked at Jordan pulling his swan act, the one where he looked like he was calmly gliding over water, but under the surface, his legs were paddling furiously.
“Come on, Sam. You’ve known us, what, nearly ten years. These are terrible ideas,” Dred said, wading into the discussion.