“I’m beginning to,” I replied, and after glancing at the wine list, promptly ordered a very expensive glass of Barolo. I’d call AC when I was done writing. Maybe he’d like to pass judgment on one of their wines.
An hour and a half in, and after a plate of quite acceptable amuse-bouche—little fancy savory snacks—compliments of the hotel, and another glass of the admittedly excellent wine, I felt slightly more relaxed. I read through part of the blog piece I was about to send to Dave. There was so much to say, but this would have to do—for now.
Research unveils a lot of hidden truths. What it doesn’t reveal are the unselected people along the way, who regardless of their contributions to science, music, revolution, you name it, were dropped from the story. Who was it who decided to rewrite a bit of history to make it more mainstream? As they say, “History is written by the victors.” Maybe. Maybe not. Because information is out there if you look. So the best weapon they have to stop us from looking is to try and convince us that whatever we find on our own is wrong, or incomplete. In an emergency, it could be said that all the choices made for us were for our own good. That we already have all the information we need.
Interesting then, that privacy and information are so closely linked. What they know, is private. What you know, isn’t. Everything depends on whose information, whose need for privacy. Personal everyday privacy, like yours and mine, may be under threat, but the decisions are taken by those in charge are carefully guarded. Even seemingly unimportant choices, like who to screen at the entrance of a hotel, or who to reject from a list of musicians, are still beyond scrutiny, obscured under a heading that could read “Obvious Decisions.” Who makes these choices? And how do these half-truths have such a long half-life?
Back to my research then, on the apparently superficial and non-political world of music. For instance, I’m astonished to find that although Kate Bush really was the first one to use a jerry-rigged wireless mike, she gets no credit for that innovation. That honor usually goes to the more visible Madonna. The fact that Kate Bush was the first woman to reach number one on the British charts with a self-penned song, is also low down on the credits of time. Did she shift Madonna from the number one spot in the UK? She did. Ignored. She was interested in the use of production, so was accused of over-producing. She wanted a family, so she was described as putting a desire for children above a desire for making another record—some weakness she was incapable of resisting. Her fellow male musicians manage to produce offspring without being subtly accused of the chronic illness of irreversible nesting. Her wish to retreat is seen as a flaw, some incomprehensible absence of ambition, despite everything she achieved. Her desire to disengage from the madness of the music business, becomes only female, not rational. Her music and her breakthroughs, like those of many other musicians who happen to be born without a Y chromosome, or the more evocative description of “meat and two veg,” are held to different criteria. That might explain why Kate Bush isn’t in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and probably will never be.
Before we are accused of leaving out that other 50 percent, let’s remember that this caging-up does happen to people in a whole range of other, awkward, finally human categories. Even men get told. I read a blog post once about a song written and performed by a musician who happened to be a man. The post said something like, well, he used to be great, but no one is ever good once they get married and have a child. A list of people who have done their best work after that dreadful event formed in my mind. So many rules out there. But nothing beats getting us to police ourselves. All those limits, usefully applied to people we admire. It’s preventative—maybe. Preventing disobedience, just in case the artists we love do have real power, and can inspire us to do what we really want. Because normally, they do their thing, and we do ours. We stay within safe limits, while baiting them, begging them to really go wild. Drag us where we wish we could go. That could actually be dangerous. It might even make a person research the rest of history.
It’s a difficult question. Can’t we just discuss the art? The music, not the person? Sure.
I make no claim to speak for everyone; it’d be insulting to even try. But I wasn’t that keen on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It feels a little like someone Photoshopped history. I’ll let Kate Bush sum it all up better than I can.
“We’d give you a part my love but you’d have to play the fool.”
I read it again, and emailed it off to Dave. I flagged down the server, and ostentatiously taking out my room key to read the number, signed for the glass of wine I did have to pay for and left a nice tip. At least I could show I wasn’t an asshole. I looked at the time. 3 p.m. They were probably all at sound check. I suddenly felt drained. Maybe I was coming down with something too, or maybe the feeling of being itinerant and under observation was getting to me. I packed up.
The lobby was busy with people checking in. Mostly conventioneers, it looked like. I wondered for a moment why they were all there, then decided I didn’t care. I needed a shower, and some down time. Guiltily, I wondered if I even had to go to the show tonight. The elevator pinged and the doors opened on our floor. It felt like a lifetime since I’d been here. I reached for the key, and almost on cue, my phone started buzzing. I managed to answer it before it stopped and without dropping it on the carpet covered in fleur-de-lis pattern. Dave. Fuck.
“Dave. How are you?”
“Lily. How are you? Testosterone overdose, it looks like. Do I need to send you on an Indigo Girls tour? Ani DiFranco?”
“Yes, Dave, you do. How pleased I am that you’ve heard of them.” I snapped.
“I’ve heard of everyone. I think.” He paused. “So. The tour. Going ok? You seem a bit…”
“Yeah, Dave. It’s fine.” I suddenly remembered he wasn’t all bad. And he was my boss. “Thanks for asking. I think Tristan has a cold, and I’m a bit tired, but otherwise all good. I’m not even really doing anything, though, and it’s still a lot. This touring thing.”
“Yes.” I could see him nodding on the other end. “Some bands manage to cope with these huge, grueling tours. I’m not sure how. But this is your first one. You’re doing fine. You haven’t passed out naked under a table yet.”
I laughed. “Yeah, but. The hotel staff thought I was a hooker today. Tried to keep me out when I came back from the Hall of Fame. Still, silver lining. Got a free glass of incredibly expensive Barolo out of it. They had to open a new bottle.”
Dave was laughing. “Ah, Lily. Well, that partially explains the ranting blog post. But you know—you seem to have a little fan base of people that like your acerbic view of the world.”
“Fucking miracle.” I sighed. “Dave, I’m really tired. Do you want me to edit it? That’s fine. Not the best thing I’ve ever written, I’m sure.”
“No worries. I’ll do it. Editorial mandate, man—date, get it? Such wit.”
I groaned. “Dave. Really? And are you going to carve it up?”
“No, just fact check it and simplify a few things. Nothing too major.”
“Fine. I trust you.”
“Giant mistake. Now go enjoy hotel life. I think you’re coming up to a couple of nights on the bus. My advice—stay in the tub and order room service, if it’s decent.” He sounded concerned.
“Good advice. Not sure I like it here. I may not even go to the show.”
“You get a pass for one. Maybe two. Don’t abuse it,” Dave said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“You got it boss.” And I hung up, and managed to get the key in the door after only three tries. A bath. That sounded good actually. But not for the first time, I wished we were getting back on the bus tonight and getting the hell out.
chapter ten
Chicago
Tristan and I came back from a light dinner together to find that backstage was the usual tangle. One of the roadies had been sent on a las
t-minute dash to get a new rack effect, and the crew were giving each other worried looks, in between checking the wiring and pounding on the drums, while someone tuned the guitar. I popped out to look at the crowd filtering in to the concert hall, measuring how many rows back the crush of the most serious fans went back. Six. That was pretty good, considering the rest of the place was still filling up. I had planned on watching from the front, but Tristan had, oddly enough I thought, put his foot down. “You’re going to be back here, so I know where you are, and I know there is someone to look after you.” I quizzed him, asking if he was worried about what I’d do. He looked at me oddly, and kissed my forehead. “Whatever you want to believe. But I think your crowd days are coming to a close, Lily.” He wouldn’t be drawn on any explanations, other than to repeat, “It’s best, please believe me.”
So I did, and here I was, wandering around backstage, watching the final approach to a concert. A lot of pieces to be put into place, in just the right order. It was a little strange to be on this side of the stage. And everyone knew my name now, not just because I was there following the tour as a journalist, but because Tristan had apparently pulled everyone aside and let them know in no uncertain terms that we were together. I supposed it was inevitable that he had to make it clear I wasn’t a passing fling. Yesterday I’d been somewhat invisible. Now everyone tiptoed around me. I figured it would wear off with time, at least I hoped so. Everyone stopped talking the minute I came near.
I stepped carefully over the wires, and around the cases, and made my way back to the big room with the food, and the sofa, and the TV, where everyone was hanging out. The drummer, Pete, was demonstrating his moonwalk, while Jack tapped out the rhythm of “Beat It.” He was really pretty good at it, then he dropped to the floor, and spun around on his back. Everyone applauded. He jumped up when he finally stopped spinning, and grabbed one of the beers from the tub filled with ice. “Dancing. Shows you got rhythm. You should try it sometime, Jack.”
“Hey fuck you too. Dance on this,” he shot back, and did a few pelvic thrusts that a pole dancer would have been proud of. “Did that last night. You seemed to like it.”
“It didn’t wake me up, so maybe, maybe not, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, suck this…” and then Jack fell silent. The drummer gave him a filthy look and flipped him off. It seemed a little more than the usual banter.
I glanced around. AC had just come in. He waved at everyone, then walked over to the table and poured a glass of the organic red from Oregon. I had been wondering who had put that on the rider. The two musicians pulled each other over to the TV, and started flipping through channels, and I walked up to AC. He looked a bit lost today. We’d been on the road for a week, and he didn’t look that thrilled. He smiled at me though, as I approached. We’d never really sat down again for the talk that we joked about, the follow-up from our moment in the hotel room, AC with his bottles and red wine, and his attempt to seduce me, and my anger and flight from discovering Tristan doing drugs with his ex-wife and the other guitarist from Devised. It had been an interesting conversation, in retrospect. And coupled with everything else I’d overheard AC and Tristan saying, it had the potential for a pretty complicated situation. But I didn’t want to blow it up. Danger was like a big balloon—easier to burst open than you expected. I did want to talk to him though. And I needed to write something up about him, so an interview was on the cards. I didn’t want AC to think of me on the other side though—doing what was necessary to get the information I needed, a parasite feeding on its host. I didn’t think I came across that way, but people were easily confused. I’d seen that happen, and with my position straddling tour girlfriend and tour journalist, it only seemed to be getting worse.
“So, you going to give me a taste guide to the wine?” I held up a red plastic cup. “My goblet is all ready.”
He laughed. “Nice euphemism. Oh, you meant the wine.” And he punched me lightly in the arm, and went to pick up the bottle, when we both heard Tristan’s voice, and we both turned around to look for him at the exact same moment.
I waved at Tristan, and he waved back at both of us, AC raising the bottle to him in salute, like he’d been meaning to all along. The bass player and drummer had turned away from their TV show to watch the commotion that had changed the atmosphere of the room. They both looked over at Tristan, then at AC, then saw me looking at them and turned quickly away. I caught the bassist’s eye for a minute and he looked guilty.
AC interrupted my thoughts. “So, cup, cup. Give me your cup. We’ll toast,” he said in a kind of sing-song. He poured and we each had a swig.
“It’s good,” I said. “Even in plastic. And healthy.”
AC snorted. “Yeah, more or less. More or less.”
I touched my cup to his again. “You know we still need to talk—and do an interview.”
AC gave a hollow laugh. “Aren’t they the same? Everything I say will be used against me?” He saw my face, and raised his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Lily, but you know it’s a little awkward, not knowing what you are going to write.” He lowered his voice. “You saw them.” He nodded over towards Pete and Jack. “This is more…uh, complicated, I guess. Than you know.” He glanced over at Tristan again.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I started to say, but he stopped me.
“More wine? Just a little. We’re going on in 30 minutes. I want to be buzzed, not angry. Lily, it’s ok. I’ll just be glad when you’re not a journalist anymore. Or I trust you.” He toasted the air. “Whichever comes first.”
I looked up at the pipes and air ducts that criss-crossed the ceiling. It made me feel boxed in suddenly, so I looked down at my feet. I wished I didn’t agree with him. It wasn’t exactly the dream job at the moment. It just seemed to be causing a multitude of problems. I observed him. His green eyes seemed softer, but there was an emptiness there that made me worry. I wondered if he was using again. “AC, I know you haven’t known me for very long. But what you said in the hotel room in London…” I stopped. He looked very uncomfortable. “Look it’s fine. Forget it. I have a very selective memory, that’s all. And I try not to fuck over my friends. Let’s talk when you have a chance, right?” He finally smiled, and we watched the group.
James had come in. Tristan was talking to him about how long he was willing to spend outside afterwards signing autographs—“You go out there James, bring the band, tell them I’m doing an interview but I’m supposed to come—hell, I pay you, invent your own lies—and I’ll go out for a bit.” James looked put out, but Tristan put his hand on his shoulder, and leaned down and said something to him quietly that made him nod, and leave the room. It was probably nothing, but it seemed that there was something in the air, something up. I looked over at AC, but his face revealed nothing. We talked about the hotel, the room service, whether the towels were better in this one than the last one. We were on the bus for the next few nights, so the fact we had gotten used to having things done for us, showed we were about to be schooled in how to deal with road camping.
“I actually like the road better,” he suddenly burst out. “It’s good. You’re not attached to anything, any place. If you’re pissed off, it doesn’t matter. You’re leaving.”
I nodded. “I know what you mean.” I swept my arm around. “All this, the waiting. The playing around. There’s no more waiting on the road, you’re going.”
AC laughed. “Yet all people do on the bus is kill time, waiting. Forgetting they’re living.”
“Yeah, I guess. I like to look out the window. Imagine what my life would be like if I lived in that town, wonder why people are taking the exits. And I’ve even become used to the windowless bedroom.”
“Yeah, it’s rough for you, in there. With him.”
I looked at him, quizzically. But AC didn’t say anything else. Neither did I.
Luckily, the prep call for the band had just come
in, which meant that the lead-on band were on their last song. I excused myself, and thought I’d go watch them. I squeezed Tristan’s arm as I passed, and he held up a hand to the music tech, and followed me out of the room.
“What was that with AC? You two looked pretty serious over there.” Tristan was standing over me, his arm against the wall. I could hear the final chorus of the band—it was too late now to watch, and I suddenly felt both a little guilty and a little trapped.
“We were talking about the road, the towels, life in a small town.”
“AC? He’s never lived in a small town in his life. I think he feels a bit alien sometimes, when we’re not in a city, like he’s going to be captured and examined. But Chicago,” Tristan did a wide sweep with his arm, “is a pretty big place. Of course, we’re leaving after the show.”
“Does he feel strange? He hides it pretty well. But you know him better than I do.” I paused. “A lot better.”
Tristan gave me that searching look, the one that sometimes made me burn, sometimes made me feel like I was being examined. “Does that bother you?”
I shook my head. “No. Not really. Except he doesn’t trust me. Should it?”
That little smirk appeared at the side of his mouth. “It depends.” Then he leaned down, tall against my smaller frame, and all I could feel was the strange softness of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue, insistent until it all kicked in and then there was nothing but his heartbeat strong against me, and the dark curtain of his hair, brushing against my face, thick and soft,. He pulled me closer to him and I could feel him hard, growing harder. “So good, Lily, so good,” he whispered, as his mouth slowly descended down my neck, his touch so light it made me want more of him, now. I couldn’t explain why this happened, or why it happened every time, or why I didn’t care who saw us. It was though his hands were tracing all the nerves in my body. Now his mouth was up against my ear. “You’re more than I ever thought you’d be, Lily.” His tongue traced the edge of my ear, and I shivered, eyes shut tight. “I fucking trust you. I don’t say that to many people, so please remember that, no matter what anyone says or does, ok?”
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