Rules to Rock By

by Josh Farrar

  I kissed my mom on the cheek, then turned and ran up the stairs. Crackers and Jonny had already been checking cords and amp levels for a minute.

  “You’re all set,” Jonny said. “Everything’s ready to go.”

  I looked over at Jake, who gave me the thumbs-up sign. Then I called the band over to a corner of the stage behind the drum set. We formed a circle, and I put my hand out. This is how Ronaldo would do it, I thought. It felt cheesy, but it also felt right. Jonny, Crackers, and Darren put their hands on top of mine.

  “This is it, guys,” I said. “Everything we’ve been working on for the last two months comes down to the next ten minutes. This is the biggest stage we’ve ever played. I’m glad you guys are my friends, and I know we can do this. Let’s let them know who we are.”

  “The biggest losers in school?” Jonny said.

  “Exactly,” Crackers said. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Belle,” Don whispered to me, putting his hand over the mic so he wouldn’t be heard. “Raising Cain is just a good cover band. You, my friend, are a songwriter.”

  “Thanks, Don,” I said as he turned back toward the audience.

  “Ladies and gentleman, rockers and metalheads, dorks and dweebs, please give a warm welcome to … The Bungles!”

  After a smattering of applause, I took my place behind the mic and a spotlight hit me right between the eyes. I could make out Crackers on my right, and Jonny and Darren right behind me, but I couldn’t see anybody in the crowd. I started to panic, just like I had when Egg Mountain had opened for Deerhoof. Throat-sewn-shut syndrome again. I looked over and saw Christine holding her hand to her forehead like a visor, trying in vain to shield her eyes from the blinding light. My palms were sweating like crazy.

  “Just breathe, Annabelle,” someone said from behind me. It was Darren. “Three deep breaths. There you go.”

  I did what he said. One breath, then two more. I looked into those brown eyes of his, and they made me relax. Darren calmed me down the way Ronaldo used to. He made me feel like there was nothing but music—music and us.

  “So let’s tear the roof off this place,” Darren said.

  “We’re outside,” I said, looking up. “This place doesn’t have a roof.”

  “True,” Darren smiled. “You cool?”

  “Yep,” I said, turning to look at him. “Thanks, Darren.”

  “No prob. We’re gonna knock ’em dead.”

  I looked out at the sound guy. “Can you put a little more bass in my monitor? Thanks.”

  Then I moved back a foot, and the new angle made it easier to see the audience and my bandmates, too. Crackers did the same, and nodded in my direction. All four of us met eyes, and Darren counted off “Is This It.”

  “One, two,” he shouted, clicking his sticks in time. “One, two, three, four.”

  Crackers and I came in with vocals right away, trading verses, and we were each off-kilter at first—I could barely hear my own voice through the monitors, and Crackers looked a little confused herself—but by the time the first chorus came, we were locked in. A few people in the front started to clap along.

  “Sing it, Belle!” I heard Jake yell at the top of his lungs.

  By the time we got to the bridge, where Crackers really got to sing out, the whole audience was standing for the first time since the Raising Cain set. Darren was pounding out a clean, clear beat, Jonny was slashing away at the rising chord progression, and Crackers and I sang out confidently. We cruised through the final verse and finished with a bang. The audience clapped enthusiastically. It might not have been the total madness that greeted Jackson and his thug-buddies, but it was respectable.

  “Thanks, everybody,” I said to the audience. “This is our first gig as a full band, and we’re really glad to be playing for you tonight. It’s a long story, but it almost didn’t happen.” The Mohawk sound guy, manning the console way in the back, gave me a thumbs-up. At that moment, he seemed cool, and I thought, We can still win this. But Jackson stood just in front of the soundboard, preening.

  I brought out the new-and-improved lyrics I had scrawled on paper only a few minutes earlier. I had changed the title from “Where Do I Go (From Here)?” to “Not Goin’ Anywhere.” I might not have ever performed it before, but I considered it the first full-fledged song I’d ever written. I started, as planned, completely alone. I made sure to look up, using a trick my mom had once taught me: look directly at the last row. Those people are far enough away that it’s not scary to look right at them, but the fact that you are focusing on the audience makes a huge difference. It makes you look strong, passionate, and intense. And that was exactly how I felt, like there was nowhere else in the world that I’d rather be.

  It wasn’t my choice

  To come to this town

  It started off ugly

  But I’m turning it around

  I’m not goin’ anywhere

  I came here with shorts on

  But now I’m wearing sweaters

  Some days are bad

  But other days are better

  I’m not goin’ anywhere

  After eight bars, Darren kept time quietly on the high hat. After another eight, Jonny came in and Darren switched to the snare drum.

  I came here desperate

  To take back what I’d lost

  But there wasn’t a line

  I wasn’t willing to cross

  I wasn’t goin’ anywhere

  The series of verses—that’s right, Mr. V, no chorus!—started its build toward a U2-style climax. Crackers played a synth line and we all locked in, building tension as we went.

  But now I’m back

  And I know what I need

  I’m not the best singer

  But I’m learning how to lead

  I’m not goin’ anywhere

  But suddenly, I couldn’t hear my voice. I couldn’t hear the Beatle bass or my own vocals, either. All I could hear was Darren’s popping snare. I checked my cord, and it was fine. But when I looked at my amp, the power light was out. There was no electricity onstage! We were still playing, but to the audience it must have looked like I had lost my voice in the middle of the song! I tried not to freak out. I stepped away from the mic that wasn’t even working and belted out the last verse with all the power I could muster.

  I still don’t know

  How this story’ll end

  I might be pushed, might be punched,

  Might be picked up by friends

  But now at least

  I’ve got some things to defend

  And I’m not goin’ anywhere

  I drew my finger across my throat, giving the band the kill sign, and just like that, the first performance of a song I had written all by myself puttered to a halt, in like a lion and out like a mouse. I looked at the crowd, and people—not just the back row, either!—were looking up at us in complete confusion. A few started giggling, and, worse, others clapped mockingly.

  “Nice one, Cabrera!” someone cried out.

  “That’s why they call ’em The Bungles!” said somebody else, to a chorus of laughter.

  Don was making wild gestures to the sound guy, trying to figure out what was up. Mohawk put on an Oscar-worthy performance, flailing about, switching cords around and generally doing everything he could to mask what I now knew—that Jackson had bribed him into sabotaging our performance. (He had the money, after all!) The audience just got louder, talking, laughing, and enjoying the huge joke that The Bungles had become. Don couldn’t even use the mic to tell the audience what was going on and that it wasn’t our fault that everything had gotten busted halfway into our set. I made eye contact with him, and all he could do was give me a helpless look.

  I tapped on a distortion pedal nervously with the toe of my yellow Chuck, and an embarrassing squawk of feedback burst out. Gliding my hand along the neck of the Beatle bass, I suddenly wished I had Satomi. And for a second, I wished I were on Central Park SummerSta
ge being cheered by thousands, rather than booed by a bunch of tweenage goons in Nowheresville, Rhode Island. But as I looked up and gazed out powerlessly at the sea of people in front of me, I saw a face I recognized—a face that I instantly realized could turn The Bungles into the band to beat again. I knew exactly what to do. I put my bass down and headed into the crowd.

  “Belle, where do you think you’re going?” Jonny asked. “What is going on now!?”

  “Hey, Angelo!” I called out, plunging into the audience. I had to fight my way to the middle of the crowd, and it took a lot of pushing and shoving, a lot of sorrys and excuse mes to make it to the boy with the bumblebee shoes.

  “Hey, Annabelle,” he said, and I whispered in his ear. At first, he looked totally mystified, but as I went on he started to nod slowly. By the time I left him and started fighting my way back to the stage, he was sporting a sneaky smile.

  “Tell all your friends,” I said.

  Angelo turned to a couple of friends and whispered the news to them. Soon he was moving through the crowd, and so were his friends, each finding someone new to share the secret with.

  By the time I got back to the stage, a big chunk of the audience—maybe twenty or twenty-five kids—was whispering to each other. It was like a massive game of telephone. I looked out and I could actually see a wave of turning heads. A kid would get the message, turn to pass it on to whoever was standing on the other side of him, and then start walking toward the front of the crowd. They eventually formed a line and snaked their way up to the stage to join us. It was stage invasion by an army of the littlest and most picked-on kids at Federal Hill. They were our reinforcements in the war on Raising Cain.

  “What’s going on?” Jonny asked.

  “Oh, just an idea in the we’ve-got-nothing-to-lose category, I guess. Hey, help those guys get up here, will ya?”

  “Some of these kids aren’t exactly my biggest fans,” he whispered.

  “Well, now’s your chance to start making up for it.”

  Jonny and I both moved to the edge of the stage and reached our hands down to pull up the kids. Others scurried on from the stairs at stage right, where Crackers and Darren greeted them.

  Angelo tugged at my sleeve. “I’m into the idea, but I don’t know about him,” he said, pointing to Jonny. “Or him,” pointing to Darren.

  “They’re done with that, I promise,” I said. Jonny gave him a hesitant wave and kept his distance. Darren just slunk away, staring intently at his drumsticks.

  “Hey, Bass Goddess.” X jumped on the stage, armed with his clapping monkey and a pair of mini-maracas. “Can I join in?”

  “Sure thing, X. Just make a lot of noise, okay?”

  “Done.”

  “Okay, all you guys, gather over here.” I directed the kids to the space between the drum kit and the back of the stage and started singing the chorus to “A Place in the Sun.” “So Christine here is going to sing all the verses, okay? She’s the only one with a voice big enough to sing on her own. But when we get to the chorus, I want you guys to sing out as loud as you can. Sing it right to you-know-who, okay?” They nodded.

  I walked to the front of the stage and started waving my hands, trying to get the audience’s attention. The crowd was still murmuring, so I had to really yell to be heard.

  “Well, as you can see, we’re having some technical difficulties, but we’ve been practicing too long and hard to quit now,” I said. “So we’re going to try a little sing-along and see how it goes.”

  Jonny pulled out his acoustic guitar and Darren got ready on the drum set—these were the only two instruments that didn’t rely on power at all—and started playing the opening chords to the song. I motioned to the kids to clap along with me on beats two and four, and Crackers started in on the first verse as loudly as she could.

  She sang it with more feeling than ever before, and when the crowd got a taste of what she could do, they started to quiet down. Her clear, urgent voice rang through the air, and it worked its effect on the audience. I looked around at the motley crew of bullied kids in front of her and made sure they were ready to sing the chorus. Twenty-five eager nods. All set.

  Those Stevie Wonder lyrics definitely fit the moment perfectly. They’re all about how there’s a place under the sun for everyone and how no one should feel left out and how bullies are lame. Stevie said it a little differently, but that’s the idea. When the little dudes joined us, their voices easily carried out into the audience. We sounded like more than a band; it was now a full-on rock ’n’ roll choir—the acoustic instruments, plus twenty-five children’s voices rising up in song. It might not have equaled the honed metallic attack of Raising Cain, but The Bungles had given birth, again, to something new and different.

  I looked out at the crowd and saw that most of the audience was now swaying in rhythm and singing along. My mom was smiling from ear to ear. A few people were waving lighters or cell phones in the air. Don Daddio and Shaky Jake had their arms around each other’s shoulders, rocking back and forth and joining in with The Bungles Children’s Choir.

  Suddenly, I got a wave of inspiration. “Darren, Jonny, keep going, okay?” I said, climbing up on one of the monitor speakers. I’m not 100 percent sure of this, but I think Darren winked at me, super quickly. I chose to pretend that he didn’t—I refused to have a maybe-crush on a winker.

  “We’ve got a dedication of our own to make,” I yelled out. “This one is for our good buddy Jackson Royer, and it’s brought to him directly by the kids whose hard-earned cash he’s been stealing every day.”

  Eight or ten kids in the crowd gasped “Oooooh” in unison. Others looked around, still not getting it.

  “Yep. Jackson plays a mean guitar and sings for the best band in town, but that doesn’t mean he has the right to mess with me and my friends over here.” I walked around the stage, looking out across the tightly packed audience. “And it doesn’t mean he has the right to pull the plug on our performance.”

  Jonny couldn’t stop smiling. He raised his acoustic up in the air and strummed skyward.

  The band continued the slow, insistent groove behind me, underscoring each word. Suddenly Don appeared onstage, handing me a second acoustic guitar.

  “Hey, Jackson, you’re right,” I said, strapping it on and strumming the chords along with Jonny. “It’s a humbling thing to have friends. That is, when you actually do have some. You should try it sometime.”

  The audience started making noise, and some started chanting, “Bungles, Bungles!”

  “We’ve had enough of your strutting around, Jackson,” I said, to cheers.

  “And enough of your lame jokes,” Darren yelled.

  “And enough of your bad breath,” screamed Jonny.

  A few audience members walked toward Jackson and his bandmates. Within seconds, Raising Cain was surrounded. I never thought I’d see Jackson look even so much as slightly off his game, but he looked truly intimidated. He was a smart kid, though, and motioned for the rest of the band to follow him out of the lot before things got out of hand.

  “I’ll be back, Annabelle, you can bet on it,” he called out, beating a quick retreat onto the street and disappearing into the night.

  “You suck,” Jackson’s new drummer called out weakly to us.

  “Dorks!” yelled the bassist. But Raising Cain’s lame parting words were swallowed up by the cheers of the crowd.

  I saw Don at the edge of the stage and approached him.

  “Do we have time for one more, Don?” I asked. “The one that got cut off?”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  I motioned to Crackers. “Hey, you think you could sing ‘Not Goin’ Anywhere’? I’ll give you the lyrics.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good, because you’re the only one who can carry it without the PA.”

  “No problem. I’ll belt it out.”

  “Ready, guys?” I asked Darren and Jonny. They gave silent nods, and the army of kids, re
alizing their role was over, formed a phalanx behind us.

  Darren counted off, and Crackers sang my song better than I ever could have myself. I couldn’t have been more pleased. For once I was happy to be the bassist—just the bassist. I had to laugh to myself when she sang, “I’m not the best singer / But I’m learning how to lead.” She was one of the best singers I had ever heard, and the audience obviously agreed. They stayed quiet so they could hear every syllable that Crackers uttered. Jonny, Darren, and I huddled toward the back of the stage, playing our acoustic instruments as loudly as we could, building toward a luminous crescendo. As we held the last chord, Crackers belted the last note and added a series of breathtaking trills and gospel-style flourishes.

  The audience roared its approval, and I knew we had won. First place or not, we had won the battle of the bands.

  Finally, to a chorus of cheers and whistles, we put our instruments down. Crackers, Jonny, and Darren joined me at the edge of the stage, and The Bungles Children’s Choir formed a line behind us. The crowd went absolutely bonkers. I looked over at my mom, who was wiping away tears. Don was on her left, Jake on her right. As the last light disappeared from the sky, the four of us linked arms and waved to the audience. They only yelled louder. We bowed three times, and the crowd screamed our name over and over. The chants of “Bungles, Bungles!” bounced across the buildings on Thayer Street and echoed through the night.

  ENCORE

  My Work of Art (Revised)

  by Annabelle Cabrera

  Today I listened to a recording of my band playing live at the Minor Threat Battle of the Bands a week ago. (We came in second—because half the audience wound up onstage with us during our best number, our cheers never eclipsed Raising Cain’s—but I prefer to think of it as losing the battle, winning the war.) The last song we performed was the same one I had turned in earlier as my “work of art.” And it sounded … just okay. It’s definitely no work of art.

  But I realized that’s okay.