Lemonade Mouth walking down a city street.
Lemonade Mouth leaning against a brick wall.
Lemonade Mouth trying to keep straight faces while pretending to shove lemons into our ears and up our noses. (Wen’s idea. Mr. Decker bought the lemons from a Haymarket grocery stand.)
We ended up having a great time that day, goofing around in front of the camera and acting as if we were celebrities. You can see it in our faces when you look at those pictures. In a lot of them we were trying not to laugh. The whole thing felt crazy and exciting. Sometimes when the limo stopped and we all got out, small crowds would form—people who didn’t have any clue who we were but who stopped to watch anyway, probably figuring from our clothes and the limo and the photographer that we must be important. Maybe some of them recognized that one of the adults waiting inside the limo was Earl Decker—I don’t know. What I do know is that I already felt a little bit like a celebrity. We all did.
It was our first small taste of what it felt like to be famous.
Mr. Decker’s plans didn’t end there either. He had us working on our new recordings right away. We showed up at Z-Division Studios in Woonsocket, the place where The Deadbeat Fingerwaggers did some of their most creative stuff just before they went country. I think all of us still felt a little bad about abandoning the recordings Lyle had been working so hard on, especially since Lyle had been with us from the very start. Lyle had told us not to worry about it, though, that he was psyched for us and that we would’ve been crazy not to jump at the chance we’d been offered.
Lyle is a good kid and a great friend.
We were shown around Z-Division and my eyes nearly popped out of my head at all the equipment. The place was like a rock-and-roll dream, with vintage instruments hanging everywhere, gigantic rooms with hardwood floors, even two cushy lounges for hanging out between takes. We were assigned to Studio B, where a producer named Chuck Fowler, a solemn-faced guy who had done some work with the Fingerwaggers and Monica Maybe, met us in the control room. On that first day he talked with us for two whole hours about our new songs (he’d heard our demos) and his ideas for how they could sound on these new, professional recordings. The plan was to lay down the basic tracks for ten songs—our new album—as quickly as possible, hopefully in ten days, and then add effects and do the mixing after that. It was going to be a lot of work, he told us, but he was going to make sure we sounded great.
The experience of being there that day was kind of overwhelming. The whole time he was talking, the five of us kept exchanging glances. I don’t think any of us could believe this was happening.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Mr. Decker said as we left the studio.
That Thursday he made sure all of us went with him to see Run Dog and JJ Slim at the Providence Civic Center. “We need to start getting you guys seen in the right places with the right people,” he told us. “In the music industry, as in life, it’s where you are and who you know, kids. Never forget that.” Now, it should be noted that I’d already tried to get tickets to this show but couldn’t because it was sold out. And yet my mother was actually pushing back on Mr. Decker about this, with the ridiculous objection that my family was planning to get up early the next day and drive to Philadelphia for the long Fourth of July weekend. But there was no way I wanted to miss Run Dog, and fortunately Mr. Decker was persuasive enough that my mother relented. He convinced her that if I was tired in the morning, I could just sleep in the car.
The show was mind-blowing. We were front and center, and afterward Mr. Decker surprised us by escorting us backstage, past a long line of screaming fans. Before we knew it we were standing face to face with Run Dog and JJ themselves, actually shaking their hands. We found ourselves rubbing elbows with a bunch of big-shot reporters too, along with music industry executives and even a photographer from the magazine New Music Weekly. Just about everybody knew Mr. Decker and greeted him like an old friend.
“This is Lemonade Mouth,” he kept telling everyone, grinning as he led us around. “Remember that name. You’re going to hear a lot of it very soon.”
My friends and I were too overwhelmed to talk much. In fact, as I remember it, we hardly said anything at all.
CHARLIE
Nailing It in Front of a Stressed-Out Hit-Maker
INTERIOR. Z-DIVISION RECORDING STUDIOS—AFTERNOON
As Mr. Decker watches on, Mo, Wen, Stella and Charlie look over the shoulder of middle-aged record producer CHUCK FOWLER (serious expression, hair gray and slicked back, flashy earrings), who sits at an enormous old-school mixing console. On the other side of a window we see Olivia standing all alone at a microphone. She looks anxious. Through headphones she’s listening to the recorded instruments of the song “Let Us Begin” as she waits for her vocals cue. She keeps glancing back into the control room while we hear Charlie’s VOICE-OVER.
CHARLIE (V.O.)
Mr. Decker wasted no time getting us started on our new recordings. Now, I’d be lying if I said that working in a high-tech studio came naturally to us. Our new producer had his own way of doing things, and it was way different from what we were used to with Lyle. But we had to adjust fast because we were on a tight schedule. It was only our third day of recording and already we were falling behind.
Chuck silently counts out three beats with his hand and then points at Olivia to let her know she should start singing, but Olivia is flustered and misses the cue. Chuck takes a deep breath and hits a button. The music stops.
OLIVIA
Sorry! I can’t believe I did it again! Just once more, Mr. Fowler, okay? I promise I won’t mess it up this time.
Chuck flips a switch and his voice carries into the studio.
CHUCK
(barely hiding his impatience)
Okay, Olivia, one more time then. Let’s do this. Get ready.
STELLA
(quietly, to Chuck and Mr. Decker)
I know what the problem is. Usually we play everything live—all five of us in the same room. Whether we’re on a stage or recording in Lyle’s garage, it’s always been the same. For this song Wen and I normally start off standing next to her and the three of us kind of … I don’t know … play off each other’s energy.
MO
It’s true. I felt weird too, being all alone in there doing my bass part. But Olivia’s going to nail this. You’ll see.
From the looks on everyone’s faces, nobody seems confident about that. Chuck doesn’t answer. He glances at his watch. With Mr. Decker still looking on, Chuck takes a moment to reset the system.
CHARLIE (V.O.)
What most people don’t realize is that making those recordings—“The Z-Division Sessions,” as they eventually came to be known—was a huge change in the way we did things. Up until then we’d made all our own decisions and everything was a lot more relaxed. But when you’re working with professionals with platinum records on their walls, it only makes sense for them to call the shots. The pressure was definitely on.
Ready now, Chuck presses a button and the instrumental opening to the song starts up again. All eyes are on Olivia, who takes deep breaths to calm herself. As the music plays, the camera pans across the nervous faces of Wen, Mo, Stella and Charlie watching her through the window.…
CHARLIE (V.O.) (CONT’D)
I remember the first song we recorded. It was “Let Us Begin,” a midtempo rocker that was one of my personal favorites of this new batch from Wen and Olivia. It started with Mo playing a slow, walking bassline and then Stella chiming in with moody uke chords over my congas. As good as the song was, recording it in pieces like this turned out to be a challenge for us. We were sweating it out, every step of the way.
CUT TO: Olivia, eyes closed, standing at the microphone. On cue, she takes a deep breath and begins. At last she’s found her voice. Her sound is amazing—as big and gravelly and as filled with emotion as ever.
OLIVIA (singing)
I’m a child …
I’m a wil
d naked child in a storm.
I am reborn.
Let my feet squish the mud.
Let the rain wet my skin.
Now … let us begin.
I’m a note …
I’m a full-throated note in a song.
I am sure and I’m strong.
Set my melody free.
Let the rhythm soak in
Now … let us begin.
Destination unknown but never alone …
Let us begin.
Let us begin.
Let us begin.
REVERSE ON: The relieved faces looking back from the booth. Thumbs-up signs.
CHARLIE (V.O.)
As anyone who ever heard those recordings knows, we did eventually make the adjustment to working in the studio. “Let Us Begin,” “Blastoff Castaways,” “Wrecking Ball,” “Street Corner of Condiment Dreams”—gradually, layer by layer, track by track, our new tunes took the shape envisioned by the hit makers working with Decker and Smythe. In the end, even our cranky new producer was pleased.
MOHINI
A Hummingbird into a Magpie
As if things aren’t already exciting enough, Mr. Decker sets up a video link from his office in Boston to tell us he has even more news: Too Shy to Cry, one of the hottest pop bands in the country and, as it happens, another act represented by Mr. Decker’s agency, is starting a concert tour in late August and Mr. Decker has arranged for Lemonade Mouth to do a short stint as their opening act.
“Get ready to end the summer with a bang,” he says, taking a puff of his cigar. “You guys are going on tour.”
The enormity of this news hits me in waves. Okay, so it’s only for two weeks and a total of ten shows, but it’s the real thing. My brain can hardly process it. I feel like at any moment I’m going to wake up and realize this whole strange experience has only been a dream.
Those first days of our association with Earl Decker are like a blur—a series of momentous messages from Mr. Decker and his assistants, commuting back and forth to Woonsocket as we work on our new recordings, meeting famous and important people who could end up having a real impact on our futures. Half of our universe feels like it’s transforming before our eyes, which is why it feels so strange to us when we go home and find the other half continuing as if nothing much has changed.
Whenever the five of us aren’t working on the recordings, we still live pretty much the same, hanging out with our families and doing normal things. I’m still squeezing in volunteer hours at the clinic when I can, and my family still expects me to work at the store. It might sound weird, but it sort of feels like we’re living double lives. Going back and forth between these two very different worlds is sometimes unnerving—even a little surreal.
Case in point: one night we’re shaking hands with Run Dog and JJ Slim, and the next day I’m hiding in my bedroom waiting for the dreaded guest from India to arrive—Rajeev, my childhood sandbox buddy and would-be future husband. God forbid.
My parents and my ten-year-old sister, Madhu, have already gone to the airport to fetch him. I refused to go with them, though, so instead I’m next to my bed with my bass and bow, taking out my frustration on Eccles’s Sonata in G Minor. Before she left, Maa spent the morning making none-too-subtle comments about my hair. “Don’t you think you should put it up today? Don’t you think it looks prettier that way?” She also kept pulling out different outfits she thought I should wear, mostly skirts or summer dresses. Just suggestions, of course. The whole time I acted like I had no idea why it should matter.
If my parents aren’t admitting what’s really going on here, then why should I be the one to drop the bomb?
Just before she went to the car Maa abandoned the innocent act and gave me the evil eye. “You will not be rude to him,” she said. “Rajeev is our guest. You will show him courtesy.”
“Yes, Maa,” I said, unable to look at her.
Now I want to scream. For my whole life I feel like I’ve been forced to walk the tightrope between showing respect for my parents and pushing back on their old-world expectations. None of my friends have to deal with stuff like this. Other than me, I don’t know anybody who does.
They’ve been gone more than an hour now, and I’m trying not to think about my parents, or Rajeev, or any of that. I’m focusing only on the Eccles piece, concentrating on nailing each rapid-fire note. This sonata is perfect for venting frustration—lots of left-finger action and quick, stabbing bow movement across the strings. It’s working too. For a while I feel a little better.
It’s then that I hear commotion on the front steps. Mid-phrase, I stop playing. I stand totally still, listening.
The front door opens. Baba and Maa are talking in the entryway, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. There’s another voice too—Rajeev’s, obviously. Madhu giggles.
“Monu!” Baba calls up the stairs. “We’re home! Come down and say hello to your old friend!”
I don’t move. I know it’s silly and that there’s no getting out of meeting him, but I can’t bring myself to do it just yet. My pulse is racing. I can picture him down there, a prune-faced, closed-minded boy with nothing in common with me—a kid raised in a world where it’s perfectly normal for parents to pick spouses for their children. He’s probably expecting me to be thrilled to meet him. At this moment I can imagine him thinking he’s about to be introduced to his future wife, an obedient girl who’ll be happy to spend her life wrapped in saris and serving him luchi every day with his afternoon tea.
If that’s what you’re looking for, Rajeev Kumar, you’re in the wrong house.
“Monu!” my father calls again.
I take a deep breath. Okay, time to get this over with.
Everyone is already seated in the living room. When I appear on the stairs, the conversation stops. Maa looks disappointed. I’m wearing an old T-shirt, a pair of plaid Bermudas and my favorite faded Red Sox cap. My hair is down, not up. As ridiculous as it sounds, a part of me can’t help feeling bad for my parents. I don’t want to hurt them. Really, I don’t. But I also could never be exactly who they want me to be, so it’s better for them to realize it now than to spend a lifetime trying to turn a hummingbird into a magpie.
I see Rajeev for the first time. He stands when I appear, and I’m surprised at what I see. Broad-shouldered, with thick, curly black hair and deep-set eyes, Rajeev is undeniably good-looking. He’s also taller than I imagined—maybe even taller than Baba, who’s six foot one. Not that it matters to me what he looks like. Still, I keep my expression blank while he and I take each other in—I’m sure he’s doing the same thing I am—both of us trying not to be too obvious about it.
“Hello, Mohini,” he says with a shy smile. “It is nice to meet you.” He looks a little rumpled and scruffy, but then it must have been a long flight, and this introductory chat with my family can’t be easy on less than a good night’s sleep. But I keep my sympathy in check. I remind myself not to let pity soften my will to detest this boy.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Rajeev,” I say as coolly as I can get away with. My parents are still smiling, but I know that Maa, especially, is watching my every move. She sends Madhu into the kitchen to make tea, and then for a few minutes we all sit around and talk about nothing. Rajeev’s flight. How his parents are doing. How he’s changed since the last time Baba and Maa saw him. (No surprise there—the kid was barely out of diapers at the time.) Rajeev is polite. He smiles a lot and speaks with a thick accent, but his English is good.
I sit with my arms crossed, hardly saying a word.
After a while Baba clears some of the empty teacups and takes them back to the kitchen. Maa gets up too. “I need to attend to the tarkari,” she says as she collects the rest of the cups. “You two stay here. Sit and talk. You have a lot of catching up to do. Madhu, come with me.”
Madhu looks annoyed. She’s hardly taken her eyes off Rajeev this entire time. “What? Why can’t I stay too?”
“Because,” my mother
says, “I need your help.”
I shoot my mother a glare. I can see what she’s up to, but there’s nothing much I can do to stop her. Madhu is already heading out of the room all pouty. Fighting panic, I flash Maa one last pleading look. I don’t want her to go! I don’t want to be left alone with him! Just before she disappears into the kitchen Maa secretly gives me the evil eye again, the one that says You will not be rude to our guest. You will show him courtesy.
And then she’s gone. Rajeev and I are alone.
There is a long, awkward silence. We’re sitting on opposite ends of the sofa and I’m staring at the coffee table. All I want is to run back up to my room and shut the door. Rajeev seems just as uneasy. His thumb keeps tapping on the arm of the sofa and his knee keeps bobbing up and down.
“So …,” he begins, “my parents tell me you play the classical bass, and that you are in a band. They say you are thinking of going to medical school.”
Okay, so this is how he’s going to play it. Cards on the table for all to see. But two can play at that game. “Is that so?” I ask casually, pretending to pick an invisible speck of dust from my shorts. “Well, parents say a lot of things. What mine told me is that your grades are excellent, and that you’re a lovely boy from a good family.”
There. Right back at you.
Puckers Up Page 4
