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My mind raced – Is he talking about us? – but within seconds it was past, and they were onto something else.
It continued like that, with them going back and forth with suggestions and additions, until finally Ryan asked, “Should we try it?”
Derek nodded, and Riley counted it out on her drumsticks, click click click click –
And over the next three minutes, a new Bigger song unfolded – one that no one else in the world had ever heard before.
I was the first.
The song was good – definitely rough, but good. I was enjoying it by the midpoint, and was disappointed when it ended.
“Well, that sucked,” Riley muttered after it was all over.
That shocked me.
“No, it was good,” I burst out.
The entire group turned around and looked at me. Apparently they’d forgotten I was even there.
“You liked it?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah.”
“Which part?”
“Well – all of it. I mean… I don’t know… I didn’t like the middle part as much, where it slows down and Derek sings about walking away?”
“The bridge,” Ryan said.
“Is that what it’s called?”
“Yeah, the bridge.”
“I told you,” Killian said. “B minor and faster.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, okay,” Ryan said grudgingly.
“I didn’t say it was bad, it just – it didn’t click for me.”
“What else?”
“Um…” I looked over hesitantly at Derek. “I didn’t like the second and third verses as much as the first.”
His face darkened a little.
“It’s just the first verse is really strong, that’s all,” I added quickly.
“Yeah, the rest was fuckin’ weak,” Riley taunted him.
“Fuck you,” Derek snapped.
“Ha haaaaa,” she jeered back at him.
“But you liked it overall?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah, it was good.”
“How good?”
I shrugged. “Solidly in the middle of everything you’ve ever done.”
Ryan cringed. “That’s it?”
I stared at him. “That’s the first time you ever played it, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And all the other songs you’ve done, you did a ton more work on them before you recorded them, right?”
He sighed. “Yeah…”
Then he turned to the rest of the group. “Let’s put it on the back burner for now. Killian, come up with some new ideas for the bridge. Derek – ”
“Yeah, yeah,” he growled. “If we’re through getting reviews on our shit before it’s even halfway finished, can we get back to work?”
Ouch.
I sat down and crossed my arms.
“It’s good to hear from people,” Ryan protested, giving me a sideways glance to make sure I wasn’t taking it too hard. “It’s good to get feedback.”
“Yeah, well, now you’ve got it. Let’s work on ‘Gold And Diamonds.’”
“Okay…”
Ryan gave me a sympathetic look, and then he turned back to the band.
“For the bass line, I was thinking of changing it from what I played you guys last time to…”
29
Despite my wounded pride at being told to butt out, I was soon captivated by the jam session. In total, they worked on three songs I’d never heard before. Each one was better than the last; the final one could have been good enough to be a single on the radio, even in its rough state.
I kept that opinion to myself, though.
Two hours passed, and suddenly Miles walked in. “Twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, you’re on the bus or my foot is up your arse.”
The band members put up their stuff and retreated to their separate rooms. Derek slipped out before I could say anything to him.
“He just hates criticism in any way, shape, or form,” a voice said behind me. “Can’t stand it.”
I looked back. Ryan was standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms.
“It was actually pretty good, though,” I protested.
“Yeah, well, for Derek, telling him he’s ‘pretty good’ is a half step above saying he’s awful. It’s amazing – the guy can handle all sorts of stuff getting thrown at him, but he gets bent out of shape at the first mention that his lyrics or singing aren’t absolutely amazing. It’s been that way since the beginning.”
“Is that why he can’t handle music critics?”
“That’s pretty much it. Although some of them aren’t exactly evenhanded. There was this one guy at the Red and Black back when we were in Athens – ”
“He told me about that.”
Ryan grimaced. “Did he tell you about him sleeping with the guy’s girlfriend for revenge?”
My stomach turned. “Yeah.”
“Did he tell you he recorded it and sent it to the paper’s offices?”
I felt even queasier. “Yes.”
“Derek’s always been super-mature,” Ryan said sarcastically, then shrugged. “Oh well. Hey, you got whatever stuff you need? Because Miles is one hundred percent not kidding about being on the bus at 3:05.”
“Oh crap,” I whispered, and ran out of the penthouse as fast as I could.
30
I made it out to the bus with five minutes to spare.
It was waiting outside the main circular drive in front of the hotel. The exterior was black, with ‘BIGGER’ in huge white letters on the side – plus a graphic of the .44 Magnum Smith and Wesson from their first album, only now it was about twenty feet long.
Subtle.
Inside, the thing was beautifully decorated. It looked more like a luxurious train car, with tons of soft, plush, black leather seats. There were a couple of giant flatscreen TVs on the wall, areas set up for instruments, a kitchen area with a double-wide steel refrigerator, a full bar, and what looked like sleeping quarters in the back.
Ryan and Killian were already onboard. Derek showed up a couple minutes late, quite obviously in defiance of the deadline. He waved to the paparazzi and a couple of dozen screaming fans as he entered the bus.
“Hey – I just wanted you to know, I thought the verses were good,” I said as he walked up the center aisle.
“Okay,” he said without any emotion, and strolled past me to the bar.
ASSHOLE!
Somewhat deviously, I wondered where Miles was and why he wasn’t chewing Derek out – until I saw a giant crew member walk out of the hotel with Riley slung over his shoulder. She was kicking and screaming, and Miles was marching along behind her, hurling insults and profanities at the top of his voice.
The paparazzi had a field day with that one.
The crew member basically threw Riley down on one of the front seats of the bus and retreated outside to lick his wounds. Miles walked in and shouted at her, “OI, NOW SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND SHUT YOUR FUCKIN’ GOB!”
With that, the bus driver closed the door, and we were off.
Good times.
31
I had a couple of hours to kill, so I figured I ought to do my job. I pulled out the Zoom recorder and walked over to Killian.
“Hi… Killian?”
He looked up at me with a pleasant, vacant smile. “Yes, luv?”
“Could I interview you? For the article?”
“Oh…” A shadow of concern passed over his face, and then was gone. “…I suppose so. Why not.”
I sat down opposite him and began.
And found out that Killian Lee was about the worst interview ever.
Not that he was mean, or rude, or anything like that. No, he was as pleasant as always.
It’s just that he was very… laconic.
“Oh… I don’t know.”
“This and that.”
“I can’t really say…”
“I don’t remember that well…”
When I asked him about guitarists who had influenced him, he shrugged. “Oh… all the famous ones.”
So I started naming off all the famous guitarists I knew (mostly from perusing Top 10 lists on the internet before I left New York).
Jimmy Hendrix? “Yes.”
Jimmy Page? “Definitely.”
Keith Richards? “Oh, yes.”
B.B. King? “Definitely, yes.”
Eric Clapton? “I’d say so… yes.”
Any others?
“Oh, you know.” And then a little shrug.
After ten minutes of going nowhere fast, I smiled tightly and shut off the recorder. “Thanks.”
Killian gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, luv. I’m just not much of a talker.”
So I noticed.
“We’ll do it again,” I said politely.
“Hey Blondie, come and interview me!” a raucous voice shouted.
Oh God.
Apparently Riley had gotten over her temper tantrum and now was bored.
And I was the designated plaything.
I sighed and walked across the bus.
Riley patted the seat next to her with a grossly overt leer.
I winced and sat down. “Okay, so – ”
“To fuck hot chicks,” Riley interrupted.
I stared at her. “…what?”
“To fuck hot chicks,” she repeated.
She was very serious.
Too serious.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why I do it,” Riley said matter-of-factly. “To fuck hot chicks.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask,” I said, annoyed.
