by Katia Rose
JP, my band mate and co-resident of our two bedroom apartment, left his latest restoration project sitting on one of the cushions and I almost knock it over. I grab the edges of the plastic sheet spread underneath the metal odds and ends and shift them over to the coffee table. From the looks of things, he’s trying to solder an antique pencil sharpener to a piece of copper pipe. Our whole apartment is full of half-finished shit like this.
“Sup, LB?” I ask, as Kyle comes on the line.
“Not much, BB.”
LB and BB. Our parents used to make us wear shirts with those letters printed across the chests. They gave me mine the day they brought Kyle home from the hospital, red and screaming and wrapped up in so many blankets you could barely find his wrinkled face in all the fabric.
“BB stands for big brother,” my mom had explained. She showed me Kyle’s LB shirt. “He’ll grow into this one day and then you can wear them together!”
And wear them together we did. At every fucking family gathering and photo shoot and summer trip to Florida, we were the dipshits in the matching shirts. I was ten when Kyle was born, so by the time he was old enough to fit in his t-shirt I was well aware that all our cousins were laughing at us, but I still grudgingly pulled the thing on every time my mom tossed it at me and got her camera out.
Deep down I kind of liked wearing them. Something in me woke up the first time Kyle wrapped his tiny baby fingers around my thumb. He needed me, and I swore I’d always be there for him. Even if it meant giving up on things I wanted, or forgiving things I didn’t want to forgive. I’d always pick him up when he fell. I’d always answer the phone when he called. I’d wear a stupid t-shirt all day at Disneyland if it showed him how much he meant to me.
That’s what being a brother is.
I do draw the line at my mom’s request that we haul the shirts out again and recreate some old photos. They’d be crop tops on us now, and I’m not standing outside the fucking park and holding Kyle’s hand with both our midriffs showing. I keep telling my mom I’m a rock star now and can’t handle something like that getting splashed across the band’s Facebook page.
“Just calling for the sake of it?” I ask Kyle.
“I need some advice,” he tells me. “We’re doing a project in music class where we have to talk about a musician that has changed our lives.”
“That’s cool. Why didn’t I get to do cool things like that in music class? All I ever did was learn Christmas carols on the trombone.”
“They had trombones when you were in school?” He pretends to be shocked. “That was so long ago I thought you were all still sitting around in caves, banging sticks on rocks around a fire.”
I chuckle. “When did you get so savage, Kyle? High school is making you lose respect for your elders.”
“You just can’t keep up, old man.”
“Old man? Watch it, or I’ll kick your ass next time I’m back in Sudbury.”
“When will that be?” His tough guy act slips and I hear the yearning in his voice. “Are you coming for my March break? Maybe I could come see you in Montreal instead. I have enough saved up to take the bus.”
My heart jumps into my throat. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I start mentally flipping through all our upcoming shows and press junkets, trying to find somewhere to squeeze in a last minute trip up north.
“I’ll be home for Easter,” I offer with a heavy exhale, after realizing that’s the best I can do, “and you know what I told you. As soon as you turn eighteen you can come spend a whole summer out here with me.”
I glance over at our windowsill, which houses an extensive liquor collection and the dragon-shaped bong JP brought home one day. I might not party as hard as the other guys, but there’s still no way my Montreal life is the kind of environment a ninth grader should be hanging around.
“That’s years away,” Kyle complains. “Maybe I won’t do my project on you.”
I blink.
“Huh?”
“I was going to do my project on either you or Dave Grohl. I was calling to see if maybe I could ask you some questions for research, but now that you’re being such a cock blocker I guess I won’t give you the honour.”
I almost choke on the sudden surge of emotion. My little brother just lumped me into the same category as Dave Grohl. My brother, who used to sit on my lap and mess around with my drum kit before he could even walk, has to write about a life changing musician and he thought of me.
Someone could walk into the apartment right now to tell me Sherbrooke Station just went triple platinum and I wouldn’t feel the same mix of swelling pride and the clanking weight of responsibility that I do right now.
“Matt?” Kyle prompts, filling what I realize has been a full minute of silence. “You still there?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, letting my head drop into my hand as I try to keep my voice light. “Cock blocker? Who am I cock blocking you from?”
“From the Montreal babes! Montreal literally has some of the hottest girls in the world. They’ve done studies.”
I laugh, glad for a change of subject as I work on pulling myself together.
“I should probably be concerned about what kind of studies you’re looking into, Kyle,” I warn him, “but you’re not wrong.”
I picture Kay Fischer crouched beside me on the staircase last night, tucking a lock of hair behind her glasses as she sized me up with those ray gun eyes of hers. I knew the second I saw her in Sapin Noir she was going to mean trouble.
First off, I’ve always had a thing for girls in glasses, especially girls with faces that make them look like angels of sin.
I’m almost certain ‘Angel of Sin’ was the god-awful title of one of our old Chained Souls songs, but it’s the only way I can come up with describing her china doll features and thick brown hair. Combine that with an earful of piercings and the hint of a tattoo, and physically she’s pretty much my dream girl.
There was more to her than that, though. She just seemed to get it. I’m used to reporters giving me blank stares when I geek out over music the way I did with Kay. Journalists seem to want catchy quotes, not passionate soliloquies, but when I looked at Kay after telling her what drumming means to me, I saw a blazing understanding in her. I wasn’t just spewing words to someone with a microphone; we were sharing a feeling.
“The girls here are definitely some of the hottest in the world,” I admit to Kyle, “and once you’ve reached the age of legal majority I’ll introduce you to as many as you want.”
“Cock blocker,” he fumes.
“For four more years,” I insist, “then I’ll be your wingman.”
He spends the next few moments grumbling about how unfair the world is before asking if he can start his research on me right now. I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time on the screen. I could sit here talking to him all night, but I’m going to start getting angry texts from the band soon, and usually I’m the one sending those out.
“I’m really sorry, LB, but I’m already late for rehearsal,” I admit. “How about after school tomorrow?”
“Yeah, that works.”
“All right, I’ll talk to you then. And Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
I run a hand over my eyes. “This, uh, this means a lot. You wanting to do this project on me. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
We hang up after that and I bolt for the metro, riding the orange line up to Sherbrooke Station and hurrying across the street to our rehearsal space. It’s been snowing all day, and the tips of my fingers are numb by the time I make my way down the outside staircase to the basement.
The snow must have held the other guys up because only Ace is here, slumped over his guitar on one of the musty couches. He strums a few half-hearted chords as I stomp the snow off my boots and toss my coat down beside him.
“How was the interview?” he asks, pushing the sand-coloured hair out of his eyes. We look similar enough that most reporters ask if we’re b
rothers.
“You mean how was your interview?”
He shrugs. “I said I was sorry. I forgot.”
“You’re lucky Shayla didn’t.”
If our manager hadn’t thought to check up on him and call me in as backup, we would have missed the La Gare interview entirely. I should push him for a better apology, but I let it go. We don’t just look like brothers; we act like them too. After so many years, Ace has gotten used to having Big Brother Matt around to bail him out.
It doesn’t seem to matter that the fucker’s two months older than me and pretty much the face of the band. If there’s a mess to clean up, I’m the guy to call. At this point I just consider it taking one for the team. Sherbrooke Station is worth the hit to my pride that comes with being Ace’s unofficial babysitter.
Speaking of which, he seems to be having some trouble sitting straight on the couch right now.
“God Ace, are you drunk? It’s not even six yet.”
“I’m not fucking drunk, man.”
As if to prove it, he runs his hands over the frets in a complex flurry of finger-picking that would make even an experienced player’s jaw drop. I’m not impressed, though. I know he could play that thing blind drunk, in the pitch dark, with one hand tied behind his back.
Lately, he manages at least the first of those three on an almost daily basis.
After satisfying himself, if not me, he goes to lean on the arm of the couch and misses by a few inches, falling forwards over the neck of his guitar and narrowly saving himself from a face plant.
“Fucking hell, Ace. You’re pathetic.”
“Hey,” he chuckles, clearly amused with his lack of depth perception, “at least I’m here.”
True. At least there’s that.
The door opens and JP slips into the room, doing the same boot stomping routine as me and letting out a string of expletives like only a born and raised Quebecois can.
“Osti de câlice de tabarnak! Il fait tellement froid, là! My hands are gonna fucking freeze right off, man.”
Something about the cold here makes everybody swear more. I don’t think I’ve heard JP go more than three sentences without dropping some kind of profanity since January. Being the band’s little ray of sunshine that he is though, he’s usually got one of his huge-ass JP grins plastered across his face as he cheerfully curses the shit out of everything.
“It’s March already,” he groans, dusting the snow off the ridiculous trapper hat he’s always wearing. “It’s supposed to be springtime, eh?”
“You know what they say,” I tell him, “in like a lion, out like a lamb.”
He gives me a blank stare.
“Or maybe you don’t know what they say,” I amend. “It’s an expression.”
He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Anglos. You guys say the weirdest shit.”
“Where’s Cole?” Ace mutters.
“Probably hanging around Roxanne’s cafe, as usual,” answers JP.
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought they called it off again?”
“Maybe. Who knows?” JP lets out a yawn. “They’re like a broken light switch, those two— always off, always on.”
“Broken light switch...” Ace mumbles, hands straying across the fret board again.
“If you’re thinking that’s a good idea for a song,” I tell him, “it’s not.”
He strums a few sullen notes in answer. JP pulls a ham sandwich out of god knows where. I spend the next few minutes listening to him ‘mmm’ appreciatively after every single bite as Ace continues with his discordant serenade. Cole’s entrance into the room is a welcome interruption.
“Merde,” he swears, his dark eyes hidden behind fogged-up glasses, “that’s a cold one.”
“As a witch’s teat!” JP shouts around a mouthful of ham.
I shoot him a look and he returns it with an aloof tilt of his chin.
“It’s an expression,” he says slowly. “Maybe you don’t know what they say.”
I just shake my head and tell him he’s an idiot.
“I won’t deny that, mon gars, I won’t deny that.” JP turns to Cole. “How’s Roxy?”
Cole grimaces and stomps away to his bass, slinging it over his shoulder before taking a seat in the chair next to me and starting to tune the strings.
“Trouble in paradise?” I prompt.
All I get for an answer is a resentful, “Fuck off.”
I get up from my armchair, sliding my sticks out of my pocket and heading over to the drum kit set up in a corner of the room.
“Well now that we’re all here,”—I pause to stare pointedly at Ace—“physically, if not mentally, shall we get started?”
“We don’t have the synth here anymore,” JP complains. “Why are we even here anyways?”
He waves his hands to indicate the busted up furniture and piles of music paraphernalia crowding the basement. Back in the early days we even recorded our demos here, kitting the place out with acoustic panels and all the second-hand gear we could find.
Of course, our recent deal with Atlas Records means we’ve now got access to state of the art rehearsal spaces at any hour of the day or night. I like the idea of still having something that’s ours though, even if the other guys give me shit about it.
“We’re here,” I tell them, “because I don’t like Atlas listening in on us all the time.”
Cole and JP roll their eyes, and even Ace makes himself coherent enough to bark out a laugh.
“They’re not Russian spies, you know,” JP lectures me. “You talk about them like they’re out to get us or something. They’re our label. We help them and they help us.”
“Whatever. I just feel more...creative here, too,” I admit.
“Don’t mess with Matt’s muses, man,” Cole says to JP.
I’m pretty sure anyone who didn’t know him well would miss the note of humour in his low voice. Cole Byrne is one of the most intense dudes I know. If he didn’t wear glasses and have a habit of stroking his chin, I’d think he was fighting off the urge to break someone in half every time he stared off into space. As it is, he just looks like he’s contemplating the inner workings of the universe.
JP picks up on his joke right away.
“Do you want me to light some candles?” he asks me. “Maybe we could burn some of that incense shit. Gotta keep the mood right for the muses, non?”
I try to save some face. “Hey, maybe if you all spent less time messing with ‘muses’ we’d actually sound half decent when we played. We haven’t had a good rehearsal in forever. We haven’t even had a rehearsal in forever.”
“Ça va, ça va. Be chill.” JP pulls off his coat but leaves his hat on as he takes his place at the keyboard. “We don’t play a show for another three weeks, and our shit is still crushing the charts. We can relax for a bit, man. We deserve it.”
I clench my hands around my sticks so tight they threaten to splinter, swallowing down all the bitter comebacks that spring to mind. Lately ‘relaxing’ has been the only thing on any of the guys’ minds.
“Calm your tits, Matt. We’re fine. You’re giving me a headache,” Ace groans.
“Actually it would be your descent into alcohol dependency that’s doing that, Ace,” I answer levelly, still standing there like I’m bracing myself for a fistfight.
He mutters something under his breath and I’m about to ask him to speak up if he has something to say, but Cole cuts in.
“Agreed. If you’re gonna come to practice, you should at least come to practice sober.”
As always, Cole’s words seem to hold more weight than anyone else’s. Ace stays quiet, sitting up a bit on the couch and messing around with his tuning pegs.
“Nous sommes tous corrects, là?” JP’s fingers stray across his keyboard to chime the chorus of our big hit as he asks if we’re all good.
“Ouais,” Cole answers, with his voice and with his bass. “Let’s do this.”
We launch into ‘Sofia.’ Ace can’t sing for
shit today and misses half the lyrics, but he at least gets enough of the guitar part down to carry us through the song.
The last few notes haven’t even faded out of the amplifiers before JP pulls a face and mutters, “Ouch.”
That sums up my feelings right now too, but I want to keep the ball rolling so I pick up the drum intro to the next number on our set list.
“Come on, let’s go. One— Two— One, two, three, four!”
We play for half an hour straight, banging out the tunes we all know by heart but never seem to get tired of. Despite the way things have been going, when it comes to music, we’ve always had an unspoken understanding I’m not sure any of us could put into words. It comes out when we play, when we all get so caught up in a song the swell of sound swallows us up like a storm.
That’s the reason I want to flip out when I see this band slacking; I know we’ve got something too good here to ever take for granted.
We’ve almost made it halfway through our usual set when we decide to take a break. Everyone might have been freezing their asses off when they got in here, but now we’re all reaching for water and wiping the sweat off our faces.
“I think,” pants JP, as he pulls off his hat to reveal the dishevelled man bun underneath, “we’re out of synch during the bridge for ‘2 AM.’ I keep missing your queue.”
“Should we make a secret hand signal?” I joke.
He starts flashing different gang signs that get more and more idiotic as he goes.
“Just tell me when you see one you like.”
“Maybe you should just do that on stage instead of playing,” I tell him.
“Don’t give him any ideas,” mutters Cole.
My phone starts to buzz. I don’t recognize the number, but I have a good idea who’s calling. I smother a grin and signal that I have to take it before stepping into the stairway.
The smile I was trying to hide turns into a full-blown smirk when I pick up.
I knew she’d call me.
Grab your copy here.
Acknowledgments
The first person I need to address here is you. Yes, you, the reader looking at this right now! Whether you’ve been here from the beginning of the Barflies series or you’re just jumping on board with this book, I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be sharing this moment with you (you know, in spirit. I’m not actually there right now...or am I?)
