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I looked at Ryan. “What did you do?”
“He did me proud!” Riley shouted happily, leapt up, and gave Ryan a noogie. He laughed and tried to bat her off, but she was like a monkey with an extremely strong grip.
It struck me that they acted very much like brother and sister. A playful, bantering relationship. With Derek it was brotherly, too, but more like sibling rivalry: constant, simmering hostility. Between her and Ryan there was real warmth. She could have been his long-lost little sister.
His ill-kempt, foul-mouthed, horny lesbian little sister.
“I moved in that day and quit college next week,” Ryan said, after putting his hand on Riley’s forehead and keeping her at arm’s length. “And then we recorded the first album, and that was basically when we took off.”
Just as he said it, the limo pulled into a giant parking lot in front of a huge stadium.
“Touching story, ladies and gentlemen, but it will have to be resumed at a later time,” Miles announced. “We are here, and you are now officially on the clock. Go on, get out! Chop chop!”
9
The Staples Center was a massive arena usually reserved for sports events and the biggest of the big music acts. It has room for 20,000 people; at the moment, there were only 100, and so it felt cavernously empty.
The hundred in question were working getting the stage, lighting, and equipment ready for the show. There were teams futzing with the electronics, and others messing with the sound system. Feedback whined through the speakers and echoed in the empty spaces above the upper rafters.
“Christ, never on time, never on schedule,” Miles spat, pronouncing ‘schedule’ as ‘shed-yull.’ Then he stomped down to the stage and started yelling at some long-haired sound guys.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“We go eat,” Derek said, and led the way.
We walked up onstage and passed through a bunch of scaffolding. Derek called out to and joked with almost everyone we passed. Ryan and Killian got a lot of enthusiastic hellos; Riley got a few shout-outs, but mostly everybody seemed scared of her.
We entered a cement hallway and turned left into a giant room filled with tables of food: bite-sized morsels of filet mignon, shrimp on skewers, all sorts of hors d’oeuvres, and a platter of Big Macs. Riley headed over and immediately started in on the hamburgers.
There was a guy already loading up a plate. He had on a sleeveless leather jacket, the better to show off the menagerie of tattoos curling across his arms. He was more of a stereotypical rocker: thin, slight build, wild hair.
“Hey, what’s up, guys,” he said, throwing the band a head nod.
Derek went over and clapped him on the back. They started chatting.
“Who’s that?” I asked Ryan.
“That’s Mike, our backup guitarist.”
I frowned. “What? There’s only four of you in the band.”
“On tour we have another guitarist. On the albums, Killian does all the guitar parts himself – except for bass, of course. But on tour, we need another guy for rhythm guitar. He’s cool, I’ll introduce you. Hey, Mike – I want you to meet somebody.”
We said our hellos. Ryan told him I was there from Rolling Stone.
“Whoa – you finally caved, huh?” Mike asked Derek.
Derek just shrugged.
“Not exactly,” Riley shouted from the food table, half a Big Mac crammed in her mouth. “He’s tryin’a bang her.”
Mike laughed as Derek and I scowled at Riley.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” Mike said to me. “Riley’s a little shy, but she’ll eventually come out of her shell.”
“Guess who else she is?” Riley piped up, but right then Derek picked up a Big Mac and smushed it into her face.
“The hair, dude, watch the hair!” she shouted as she and Derek got into a fist fight using hamburgers as boxing gloves.
“Who else are you?” Mike asked.
“Nobody special,” I lied.
I figured he’d hear about it later – but no need to hear it from me.
Killian was over in the corner staring intently into a punch bowl. He seemed very stoned and very interested in whatever was inside.
“They get the proportion right?” Ryan asked.
“It would appear so,” Killian answered.
I walked over a few feet and saw he was looking at a massive pile of red and orange M&M’s.
I groaned.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“I don’t know, what do you think it is?”
“It looks like a ton of red and orange M&M’s.”
“Then yes, that’s exactly what you think it is.”
I shook my head and gave him a sideways glance.
He laughed. “What’s that look for?”
“Do you really need to power trip so badly you made some poor guy sort M&M’s for an hour?”
Ryan smiled. “We got the idea from Van Halen. They used to write into all of their contracts that there had to be a bowl of green M&M’s in the dressing room.”
“Great.”
“But you don’t understand why it’s a good thing.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that.”
“What you don’t know is that the typical venue contract for an act as big as Van Halen runs 60 or 70 pages, maybe more. And in that contract was specified exactly how their equipment was supposed to be set up. All the rigging, all the lights, all the pyrotechnics. And inserted right in the middle of one of the most obscure passages was a sentence that said the venue had to supply a bowl of all-green M&M’s. When Van Halen got there to perform and the venue had set up the stage, the band would go and check the M&M’s. If they weren’t there – or if there were all sorts of colors, and not just green – they’d know that somebody hadn’t read the contract carefully or didn’t give a damn. What’s more, they probably hadn’t set up all the equipment to specification, so the band’s team would have to go through all the wiring and cabling to make sure nobody messed up. Otherwise they might get electrocuted or burn the place down. On the other hand, if there were green M&M’s, the band was reasonably sure that somebody had read the contract and done their jobs, and they didn’t need to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Oh,” I said, chastened. “So it was like a warning sign.”
“Exactly.”
“So yours do the same thing?”
“Yes. Miles and Killian write 10 very obscure things into each contract. If they’re all followed to the letter, then we know we don’t have to worry. The punchbowl full of one-third red M&M’s, two thirds orange is just one of them.”
“Are the Big Macs part of that?”
“No – Riley just likes Big Macs, that’s all.”
10
Sound check went fine. It was boring; I mostly just watched as Riley tested her drums, Killian and Ryan messed with their guitars, and Derek kept saying, “One two three, testing, one two three” into the microphone and singing bits of songs. Down on the floor, I could hear Miles screaming at some poor unfortunate soul.
Two hours before showtime, five guys who looked like Bigger’s poor relations walked up on stage. They were all dressed in black t-shirts and fashionably ripped blue jeans, with tons of tattoos and piercings. They approached Derek like Roman Catholics from a small village going to meet the Pope: with fear and wonderment. Their eyes were wide, and they looked around the arena like it was the Sistine Chapel.
As soon as Derek saw them, he yelled out, “Heyyyyy!” and went over and gave the apparent leader a big hug and slapped him on the back in a bro-like way.
“Oh, man, we just wanted to say thank you for this opportunity, man,” the huggee enthused.
“Hey – you deserve it,” Derek said. “You guys are awesome.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” another guy piped up.
“Well, you know – pay it forward, right? Besides, it’s the whole band’s decision. Hey, Ryan – Killian – come here.”
Killian and Ryan wandered over and chatted, and the five newcomers gushed some more. Then Killian and Ryan politely bowed out. Riley ignored them completely as she tested out her drums.
As Derek continued to chat with the guys, I thought sourly about how he much must be enjoying his power trip. Big man, surrounded by sycophants.
Ryan noticed me watching them and came over. “Having fun yet?”
“Loads. Who are they?”
“That’s the opening act.”
“Why are they acting all starstruck?”
“You mean, besides the fact that we’re huge stars?”
I grimaced. “Watch it, Derek’s rubbing off on you.”
“Oh! You wound me, madam,” Ryan grinned.
“Seriously, what’s up with them?”
“Derek’s big thing is that every show we do, we have a local band open for us. Most tours, they’ll have an opening act that’s pretty big already, usually on their way up – or on their way down and trying to make a comeback. Derek insists that it has to be somebody small and local, to give them some exposure. We solicit submissions from local bands on Facebook, and we go through and choose one.”
“Oh.” Now I felt bad. “That’s nice of you guys.”
