"Ten? You've been smoking since you were ten?"
I laugh. "No! That was just when I first tried it. My mom's a smoker, and it was one of hers. That was when she was smoking Reds, and those fuckers are harsh. I didn't start actually smoking regularly till I was...fifteen. Sixteen? A few years ago."
"Reds?"
"Marlboro Reds. They're like, almost unfiltered. The smoke is a lot harsher than that." I lift the butt of the cigarette as a gesture, then stab it out. "These are Parliament Lights. They're one of the lightest cigarettes you can buy."
"That was light?"
"Yeah, babe. It's like breathing regular old air compared to Reds."
"Ugh. Gross." She shudders. "Okay, enough about cigarettes. Back to music."
"Kylie--"
"No, just listen. Have you ever actually listened to country music? Tried to forget the fact that you think you hate it and really listened?"
I shrugged. "No, but--"
"Then just try it." She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, types in her passcode, and pulls up her music app, scrolls through looking for a specific song. She finds it, I assume, and spots my dock, plugs her phone into it. "Listen. This isn't what I want you to play. I just want to prove something." She hits "play" and I hear what sounds like a music box, a little tinkling sound, and then it's joined by an acoustic guitar.
"What is this?"
She waves me off. "It's 'I'm Still a Guy' by Brad Paisley. It's a funny song. Listen."
I listen. For her, I try to push away my distaste, and really listen. It is a funny song, and against my own will I find myself nodding along. It's soft, it doesn't have the same edge as metal, obviously, but there's something to it that I don't mind. When the lyrics talk about how you can't grip a tackle box with creamy, lotion-y hands, I laugh out loud. "Okay, that wasn't too bad. What else you got?"
She scrolls through her songs again and selects one. "This is 'Goodbye Town' by Lady Antebellum. This is more like what I want to play."
I listen. The harmony is really good, and the melody is catchy. Not too bad, either. I'd never listen to it on my own, but I'm not choking on my own vomit like I'd expected to.
Before I can say anything, she's got another song playing. "You might like this. It's 'Four on the Floor' by Lee Brice."
It's filtered, slightly distorted, and has a rock edge to it. I dig it. "I could get into this. It doesn't sound like country, really."
She nods, and I can tell she's passionate about this. "I think a lot of people who say they hate country are thinking of like, Vince Gill and Randy Travis. Old school, traditional country. All slide guitar and twang. Modern country isn't like that. Not as much. I mean there're still artists like Easton Corbin and Joe Nichols who are closer to that traditional sound, but if you listen to Jason Aldean or Luke Bryan or Lee Brice, it's not like that. It's got a more mainstream sound, more of a rock music undertone. I mean, it's still unmistakably country for the most part, but it's not your preconceived notions of country."
"This is a big deal to you, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is. I like all kinds of music, Oz. I liked what you played. I really did. It was different than what I usually listen to, but if you'll notice" --she rubs at her nose, grinning at me sarcastically-- "no nosebleed."
I laugh. "Fair enough. I misjudged you. I apologize."
She frowns and shakes her head. "We're both always misjudging each other." The song ends, and she puts something else on. "I really like this guy. Brantley Gilbert. I think you'll like him, too. This song is 'Hell on Wheels.'"
There's a hard edge to this song, guitar work that I can actually move to, rock-n-roll riffs that touch on my ear for the-harder-the-better music. When the song ends, I nod at her. "Okay, that I actually like."
She squeals and claps, literally giddy with happiness. "Yay! I knew I could convert you." She pulls her phone off the dock and points at me. "Your turn. Play me something you listen to."
I think about putting something really hard on, like Spineshank or something, but I don't. I turn on "The Sadness Will Never End" by Bring Me the Horizon. As the slow, melodic intro plays, I tell her the name of the song and the band, and I watch her expression shift to surprise when the guitars and drums hit all at once. Her features turn tight with focus, listening. The song ends, five minutes of screamo angst-driven glory. I love that song. I cue up another song, a little harder: "In Place of Hope" by Still Remains. She remains focused, listening, dissecting.
When that song ends, she's quiet for a few minutes. I let her sit, let her process. "There's a lot of anger to that. A lot of...bitterness."
"Yeah. That's the point of it."
"Why?"
I shrug. "It...I don't know, I've never tried to explain it before. Um. It's about understanding. Someone else understands how you feel. Understands how anger can be...in your fucking blood. Part of you. How bitterness and rage and sadness can be all-consuming. They get it. They express it. It's commiseration."
She nods. "I can see that."
"And really, that kind of music, it's not as deep as it goes. It's not as hard as it gets. There's more melody and a variety of emotions and sounds and styles to it. You get into stuff like death metal and black metal, it's just...rage. Pure hate made into sound."
She frowns. "Show me."
"Really? Why? It's..."
Kylie's response is almost angry. "Stop thinking you can tell me what I like, or what's not good for me. That's as bad as Ben trying to tell me who I can hang out with."
"He means well."
She gapes at me. "Why are you defending him?"
I wish I knew. "I'm not," I say. "It's just true. And fine. If you really want to hear something truly hard and dark, then here you go." I scroll through select a song. "This is Amon Amarth. The song's called 'A Beast Am I.' They're actually a lot more melodic than most other death metal bands."
She listens, and her eyes are wide, the edges of her mouth tight. She doesn't like this. The other stuff, it's not as bleak and fury-rife. There's no lightness to this music, nothing redeeming. It's unrepentantly black and edged and bloody.
She's visibly relieved when the song ends. "Jesus, Oz. That's...wow."
I laugh. "Yeah. Told you."
She bobbles her head side to side. "I can see the talent, though. I mean, to play that hard, that fast, for that long? Every song? The amount of sheer energy it must take to play that way is...just staggering."
I'm impressed that she can see past her initial, visceral reaction. "You should see a live show of that kind of music. People leave bloody. For real. Broken bones and shit. It's brutal. But you're right, it takes a sick amount of speed and technical precision to play like that."
She shudders, making a face of disgust. "I'll pass on the live show, thanks. I can imagine."
I laugh. "No, I really don't think you can." I lift up the sleeve of my shirt to show her a thick ridge of scar running along my left bicep. "I got this at a death metal show. It was...shit, I can't even remember who was playing. I was a little...blasted, I guess. Some local band at a dive bar in the back end of Denver. I shouldn't have even been allowed in, 'cause I wasn't even seventeen yet, but security was a little...lax. Anyway, this guy in the pit had spiked bracelets on his wrists, the spikes were wicked sharp and two inches long, and he was flailing around, kicking, thrashing. He must've slashed a dozen people to ribbons, and the band was egging him on. The harder he thrashed, the harder they played. The bouncers had to finally throw him out because he was getting little too psycho even for a death metal show. Well, I got too close, and he caught me on the arm. The spike actually got caught, and I had to kick him away from me to get it loose. It was insane. My mom was so pissed. I needed like, thirteen stitches, and we really didn't have the money. She was late on rent because of my ass."
Kylie is justly horrified. "That's...awful." She shakes her head. "I didn't mind the other stuff you played, the first couple of songs. But that's not really my cup of tea."
"I didn't think it would be. I wasn't trying to tell you what to do, or anything. I just really didn't think you'd like it." I pause to formulate a thought. "But then, it's not really music you're supposed to like. It's music you feel. Experience."
Kylie nods. "Yeah, I can see that. But anyway, about this open mic night."
I sigh. "Really, Kylie? You still want me for that?" I frown. "I'm really not sure I can even play like that. I've never even touched an acoustic guitar. I can't read sheet music or anything like that. I play by ear."
"Just try? Please?"
I really don't want to. Really, really don't. I mean, it's not that I give a flying fuck what people think about me. But then...that's bullshit, because everyone cares what their peers think of them. If you don't care, I mean, really don't care, not even deep down where you don't dare look, then there's something truly psychologically wrong with you. Either you're trying to get their approval and trying to fit in and be cool, or you're just one of the crowd, or you're like me, on the outside acting hard and aloof, when inside you wish you knew how to be like them. You don't fit in, and you never will.
Could I do this open mic night? Yeah, probably. I mean, if I can teach myself to shred via YouTube videos and library books and hours of practice, I can probably learn to play some simple acoustic chords, right?
I groan. "Fine. I'll try. But I make no promises."
She does the squeal-and-clap-her-hands thing, and then flings herself across the room to hug me. I'm stiff, frozen. No one hugs me. Mom doesn't hug me. Overnight hook-ups don't hug me. I don't know what to do with a hug. Her arms are around my neck, her body pressed up against mine. Her face is against my chest, and she's up on her toes to reach, 'cause I'm tall and she's maybe five-six. She doesn't let go, but she sinks down on her feet, leans back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes accusing.
"You suck at hugs."
I laugh. "I don't get a lot of practice."
"Well, now's your chance. You're supposed to hug me back. Let's try again." She lifts up again, slides her arms around my neck, and pulls at me.
I try, because she wants me to. I let my arms slide around her back, high, just beneath where I'm guessing her bra strap is. Platonic, non-threatening. This girl ain't a hook-up, and I'm not gonna go there with her, not even a little bit. So I hug her. At least, I think that's what I'm doing. I hold on to her, feel her body swell with each breath, ignoring the softness and the way she seems to fit just so, and the fact that I can feel her curves like temptation. It's just a hug. I breathe and hold on to her back, my hands splayed on her shoulder blades.
After what seems like a ridiculously long time for a simple hug, Kylie steps away, nodding seriously. "That was better. We'll get you up to speed in no time."
"Up to speed?"
"Yep. We've got to work on your sub-par hugging skills."
"Work on my..." I trail off.
"Your sub-par hugging skills," she finishes.
I nod. "Okay. If you say so."
She nods with me. "Okay, then. I'll figure out a practice schedule with my parents so we can use their studio. I'll get a list of possible songs together, and we'll pick one together. We've got over a month, so that should be plenty of time to get something ready."
I feel like I've been snowed. "Um. Okay. Nothing stupid, though."
She just laughs. "Trust me, Oz."
Yeah, see, that right there is not really my thing. People say that all the time--trust me--like it's so easy. There's one person in the whole world I trust, and that's Mom. And even she doesn't really have my full trust, because she's lying to me and hiding the truth about my father. But other than that, she's always been there for me. I've never starved, never been homeless. Well, except for that two weeks between when one lease ended and another began. We lived out of our truck for those two weeks, but it was okay because it was summer in Mississippi. Mom is my only family, and my only friend, and the one constant in my life.
And Kylie's saying trust me like it ain't no thing. I almost laugh out loud.
Maybe Kylie sees something in my expression. "I meant about the song, Oz. Trust me about the song."
I lift an eyebrow. "We'll see, I guess."
FOUR: Warning Signs
Colt
The Harris Mountain Boys are good. Really good. They're a folk-bluegrass trio: a stand-up bass, a banjo, and a fiddle. Gareth Fink, the banjo player, is incredible. I'm sitting in the booth, watching him pick so fast it's inhuman. Buddy Helms on the bass is a solid presence, head bobbing forward as he thumps the rhythm, fingers slapping and walking across the strings. And then there's Amy Irons on the fiddle. She's a whiz, a whirlwind of frenetic energy. Their name is funny, a kind of thumb-of-the-nose to the established idea of a folk trio, since one of The Harris Mountain Boys is actually a girl, and a gorgeous one at that, but it works for them. Their lyrics are often humorous, tongue-in-cheek, often belying the insane amount of talent the three of them have. I found them busking on Broadway, and asked if they'd like to record a demo in my studio.
I remember busking, sitting on the street with my guitar, playing for the love of playing, sitting on a stool in some dive, no one paying attention. If I'd had a demo, I might've gotten somewhere faster. Which is a moot point, and I'm kinda glad it didn't happen, because I probably wouldn't have run into Nell on the street that day. But I can help these talented kids by letting them record a demo pro bono, just because everyone needs a kind gesture once in a while.
And then, once they got the demo down, they saved their bucks and managed to get it pressed into a hundred and fifty discs, which they promptly sold out of after only a handful of gigs. So I had Nell work up a loosely worded contract, basically just saying that if they want to accept a deal with an actual label, they need to let us know beforehand. And voila, Calloway Music LLC had a band signed on. We used our contacts around Nashville and places farther afield to get them a tour of the East Coast and select Southern cities, the bars and coffee shops where Nell and I started out and still play regularly, nearly twenty years later. The Harris Mountain Boys' tour starts in January, right after the New Year, so we've got a couple months to get a full album down for them to tour with.
I hear the door from the basement stairs open into the studio, and I turn to see Kylie enter. She slumps into the chair beside me with the lazy grace of a teenager.
She watches the band play for a few minutes, and then turns to me. "Can I use your studio?"
I shrug. "Sure, when we're done. I wanna cut this last track, and then it's all yours." I turn my attention to the trio beyond the glass. "Good! Let's try it one more time, except Amy and Gareth, you need to actually slow down just a hint." I swivel back to my daughter. "What're you up to?"
She fidgets with a knob on the board. "Practice."
"For what?"
"An open mic night at the college coffee shop."
I nod. "That's cool. Yeah, sure. We're gonna be in here most days until probably around six, so if you can wait until after we're done, you can use the studio for practice." I point at her. "Just make sure you shut everything down when you're done."
She's not done yet, though, I sense. "I was thinking...Oz is going to play the guitar for me. Since I suck. So he'll be practicing with me." She glances at me, nervous. "If that's okay. With you. Please."
I'm a little surprised. "Oz? He plays guitar?"
She nods. "Yeah. He's really, really good."
"Huh. I wouldn't have guessed. Judging by the T-shirt he was wearing, I would've thought he'd be more of a hard rock kind of guy."
She shrugs. "He is. But he's going to try to play a few songs for me." She gives me another hesitant glance. "Do you have an acoustic guitar he can borrow?"
I sigh. "I guess. Just...it's not that I don't trust him, but...keep an eye out, okay? This stuff is expensive."
Kylie shoots me a dirty look. "Seriously, Dad? What's he going to do, smuggle the mix board out in his pants? God." She stands up. "I'd think you of
all people would be less judge-y."
"I'm not judging him, hon. I'm just saying. You never really know a person." I wonder if I should say something about them being alone down here. I decide to go for it, since I'm a dad and it's my job to be suspicious of guys sniffing around my daughter. "One more thing, Ky. You're down here to play music. That's it, okay? You get me?"
She blushes. "Dad. God. You're so embarrassing. Yes, I get it. We're just friends, okay?"
The blush says she's thought about it being otherwise, but I take her at face value. I rub her back. "I'm just doing my job as your dad."
"I know, I know." She's out the door and up the stairs before I can say anything else.
After another two takes, I'm happy with the cut, and the band packs up and troops upstairs. Nell, Kylie, and Oz are all in the kitchen, munching on hummus and pita. That's a Becca thing. She's got this recipe for hummus that's heavy on the garlic. It's addictive as hell, and she's always bringing over giant Tupperware tubs of it for us, since we eat a metric shit-ton of it. Looks like Oz is chowing down, laughing at something Nell is saying. I watch him from the doorway to the basement. He's a big kid, over six-four, lean and hard, with long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, hidden under a backward Broncos hat. He's wearing a pretty garish-looking T-shirt, some metal band logo, and a pair of old blue jeans, combat boots. There's a biker jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs, and it's got all kinds of patches on it. I glance at his forearms, and my stomach seizes a little. He's got scars. Not cut marks, but some kind of scarring. It doesn't look accidental. There are circular marks, rows of them near his elbow. Intentional cigarette burns, maybe? I can't tell from here. There are other marks, too, irregular patches of smooth, shiny skin, the edges twisted and crimped.
Oz notices me, follows my gaze, and immediately tugs the sleeves of a white long-sleeve shirt down to his wrists and shoves his hands in his pockets. His expression doesn't shift, and he doesn't look away, doesn't act guilty, but he covered up nonetheless. My own experience--not to mention Nell's--makes me suspicious. Worried.
The kids from The Harris Mountain Boys have trooped out of the house, and it's the four of us in the kitchen. Should I say something to him? Not yet, I decide. Give him a chance. Maybe it wasn't self-mutilation scars that I saw. I hope not, for Kylie's sake. That shit ain't no joke, and it's not something I want my daughter caught up in. She's gotta make her own choices, and I've got to let her, but I don't have to like it if she gets involved in something so nasty as cutting or burning one's self. I've been there. Nell's been there. It's a fucked-up place to be and, at almost eighteen, my daughter is still impressionable. I don't want that for her.
Falling Under Page 5
