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As the execs shuffled out of the booth, leaving us to pack up, Luc set his guitar down and clapped me on the shoulder, staring. He didn’t have to say anything. We both knew what he meant.
“I’m fine,” I told him, even though everyone could see I wasn’t.
It was my mantra. The more I told them I was fine, the more I convinced myself I was.
It was obvious he didn’t believe me, but we were in the middle of work, and unlike Steve, Luc hated mixing business and pleasure.
As long as no one else asked me where the burst of unholy passion had sprung from, we wouldn’t have a problem.
Max
The execs stared us down from their end of the table. They chose the biggest conference room, the one usually reserved for press releases and contract photoshoots. It meant they huddled together at the opposite side of the room, far enough away that they were safe if one of us kicked off. Sonny perched beside us, looking curious.
We’d built a reputation for ourselves. Goss would turn up drunk and stoned and fly into a rage whenever they informed us we’d be doing a private event or some commercial we’d never agreed to, which was a lot.
Carl hovered in the middle, a barrier of sorts. He was here to negotiate any situations that might arise.
They’d handed us copies of the proposed tour itinerary, circling possible times and dates for recording the new songs. Luc and I had heavier schedules, him because of modelling, me because of endorsements and interviews, and now Bunny. Steve and Bevel preferred it that way. When Bevel first joined, people clamoured over each other to be the first for interviews, but the fervour quickly died down when they found out Bevel had nothing to say.
“There are spaces on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday mornings we can schedule for recording.” The exec talking shuffled his papers. “I believe the designers have already completed the cover art for the next album, but we’ll want new designs for the videos of the songs. We’ll find time to film before you leave, and we can always use the Wembley days if we run over.”
They had us playing alternating nights at Wembley Stadium for the first two weeks of the tour. They said it was to break us in easily and give us a day off between each performance, like we’d never been on tour before. Then they revealed the real reason why.
“Obviously, The Angels could be involved if you boys would settle your differences and —”
“No.” I cut him off. “Not a chance. Not a single fucking chance are The Angels getting anywhere near us.”
We unanimously agreed that the day they touched our music was the day we quit.
The Angels, or 'To The Angel’s Detriment', was our rival band. The label liked to compare us, placing us on equal footing by claiming we played the same music and had the same fanbase. Both bands signed with Storm Records around the same time and rose to stardom in mostly the same way. The crucial difference was their lead singer, Venom, was an absolute cunt.
He was depressing. All his lyrics were about love and darkness. He couldn’t pick a style and stick with it, changing his image all the time, contradicting himself between interviews, sleeping with men and women, swearing on daytime TV, and getting The Angels banned from any live appearances.
Plus, he called himself Venom. I mean, seriously. What kind of pretentious prick calls himself Venom?
There was only one Venom, and he came from a comic book, not fucking Manchester.
Critics had said they had trouble telling Venom and me apart, which was bullshit. We were obviously different people, and Clutch and The Angels were different bands. They had a pianist; we had a bass player. Easy.
Just because both our parents died when we were teenagers, and we struggled in school, plus we were estranged from the rest of our families and our true family was our band members, on top of the fact we’d both had our hearts broken didnotmean we were the same.
The execs were obsessed with getting us to collaborate. They even suggested merging the bands at one point, which had all eight of us flying off the handle. I’d rather pay the millions in fees for breaking my contract and quitting than deal with him.
So, when the execs informed us we’d be playing together for two weeks, we were naturally pissed.
The label wanted to make sure both its star bands came out in full force before our tours, which included throwing a launch party before we left. We were doing the UK first while The Angels did America, then we’d do Europe while they did Asia, and so on, making sure we stayed as far away from each other as possible. It was just bad luck that we were all in London, and the execs took the opportunity to sneak in a launch party. They loved trying to rile us up while the cameras were on us. Even though they claimed they did everything to support us, they made more sales when the two bands fought.
The exec cleared his throat as he went on. “They have been consistently producing new music while we have been employing ghost-writers for you boys for three years. You’ve fallen behind in sales, and although your engagement to Bunny Collins has certainly put you back on the map, your total yearly earnings have barely covered your costs. If you simply considered a joint venture between The Angels and Clutch, you could —”
Luc cut him off. “Do you have anything important to discuss with us? Because all I am hearing from you is shite.”
Luc was good for things like this. Blunt enough that people stepped back when talking to him, and handsome enough that people didn’t want to.
The exec glanced away awkwardly as Luc glared them down; the others shuffled their papers nervously and did everything they could not to meet Luc’s ice-cold stare.
“We’ve already completed the new album. What do you want to do with the new songs?” Thank you to Carl for casually moving the conversation along.
“Seven songs are not enough. If you are presenting them on tour, we’ll want something in place so your fans can purchase the new music.”
