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But whatever.
I read through the contract three times, and when I was happy with the terms, I signed them electronically before emailing them right back.
It was all very straightforward.
I would perform four songs at the Cold NeptuneGoodbye NYwarm-up gig–all four of the songs from my playlist, but completely at their management’s choosing–in a one-off concert that would be covered by this contract, and this contract alone.
I would have no further arrangement with the band at the completion of my set, and I’ll be paid via direct deposit the morning after the show. I did question that one point. I mean, what if they didn’t pay me? It would be too late once the show was over. But Nick assured me vehemently that it was standard practice in the industry and I had nothing to worry about.
Nick then emailed me back with the details of the first of three rehearsals that would take place in the week prior to the show. He sent me the address and a time and date and warned me not to be late. He said I didn’t need to bring anything with me, other than myself and my guitar.
It all sounded pretty kosher, and above board.
Nothing to be nervous about.
But as I stand out front of the industrial-style warehouse just on the outskirts of the Hell’s Kitchen area, with my guitar hanging by my side, watching on as a swarm of burly looking guys dressed completely in black wheel trunk after trunk of sound equipment from an oversized U-Haul that’s parked on the street, my nerves get the better of me and I’m starting to feel completely out of my depth here.
“Watch out, sweetheart,” yells one guy, right as another guy shouts loudly, “Move!”
Oh, shit.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I hurry out of the way, not wanting to cause any problems on my first day. That’s the last thing I need.
Standing on the edge of the sidewalk, I look around for a familiar face, but I don’t see anyone I recognize.
A tall guy with waist-length hair and tattoos crawling up one side of his neck stops a few feet away from me, looking me up and down like he feels a little sorry for me. He’s got a roll of thick black cable balanced on one shoulder and he’s sweating up a storm, despite the frigid morning air that surrounds us. “You lost?”
“Yes.”
“Who you looking for?”
“I’m here to rehearse with the band today, I’m Brin –”
“Dressing rooms are through that door over there,” he interrupts, not giving a crap who I am or why I’m here. He nods his head toward a narrow doorway to the left of the building. “Just go straight through and follow the signs. Nick should be back there somewhere. You’ll probably hear him before you see him.”
I smile politely and thank him.
“Good luck,” he replies with a wink.
A few minutes later, I’m standing inside the cavernous building, the large reception area nothing more than boxes of equipment and rolls of cables.
There’s a woman stacking cups and paper plates, as well as napkins and bottles of water on a long table near the entrance, so I head in that direction.
“You all right?” she asks in a clipped tone when she looks up and sees me standing there. She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t want to be messed with. She’s gorgeous and sexy, and she looks like every rock star’s wet dream with fake boobs and plumped up lips. She’s clad in tight leather and her hair is bright purple.
I’m so out of my element here it’s frightening.
“I’m looking for Nick?” I tell her, glancing down at my denim skirt, black boots, and a hippy green and white floral blouse that ties up in the front with puffy sleeves. The sales lady told me it brings out the color of my eyes.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Strumming her talon-like nails on the table in front of her, she looks me up and down and I’m suddenly so self-conscious I feel like I’m going to puke. “You on the list?”
“There’s a list?”
“Of course there’s a fucking list. What do you think this is?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Fucking playschool? Are you on the list or not?”
