by Cara Nelson
You’re not doing a write up for the Girl Scouts—don’t be so nice.
That’s sweet but not interesting.
Ach!
Are these guys applying to be good Samaritans or are they bad boys?
Yawn.
Of course, Laurel added “great start” to her email message, but I wasn’t feeling like it was a great start at all. Then she added the real stinger, assigning me to do a review of the Liverpool concert. I was back to my largest concern about this entire assignment, my lack of connection with ProVokaTiv’s music. I had hoped it would grow on me by now, but it hadn’t. Hunter had grown on me faster than their music. That was a testament in its own right.
I’d seen about half of the shows for the band by this point on the tour, and I went into the stadium in Liverpool where they’d be performing—a great outdoor venue at Liverpool Stadium, where their soccer team played. I wasn’t about to call it a football club in my mind. To me, football was American.
Standing on the side of the stage, I looked out at all the fans starting to file in and did my best to stay out of the way of the techs. They were efficient and ridiculously fast, the tour set-up down to a science by this point. In my hands was their line-up of songs that they were going to play. It added up to eighty-five minutes of all out performance. No breaks for these guys. I was impressed, and made a note to remember that.
“What are you taking notes for?” Simon asked me as he walked by.
“Just clearing up a few loose ends while I wait for the show,” I said.
He looked at me suspiciously. “You never do that. Must be behind on your work.”
I wasn’t pleased at how observant he was of my behaviors. I needed to be less predictable. I was supposed to be mysterious and someone everybody feared—the person whose words could be poison if I chose for them to be. Wow! Laurel’s critiquing had really gotten to me.
“Good luck tonight,” I said, smiling and then diving back into my tablet. On occasion, I’d look up and snap a picture of one of the guys or some of the fans. Mostly women with cleavage popping out of their tiny tops and daisy dukes or micro minis were in the front. I don’t think they had a clue that those guys could barely see them when they were on stage and the lights were blaring. Plus, the music never sounded as good when you were right up front.
My presence on stage seemed to be a source of intrigue for Gauge and the others. I had to gain some distance in order to evaluate the concert. Looking down at my credentials and then up at the scaffolding that led to the lighting platform, I found my place—the place where no one could easily come and chat with me or ask what I was up to.
I stared down at my boots, assessing the heels. They weren’t too high, but not really practical for climbing nearly thirty feet up into the air to a four by eight platform. Breathing in and flinging my messenger bag around to my backside, I began to scale up the ladder, holding on as tightly as I could with each step. Heights had never bothered me before, but I wasn’t really a fan of the open breeze or the swaying as I approached my destination.
Donavan, the guy who did the lighting, looked at me curiously when my head popped up over the platform.
“You don’t mind, do you?” I asked. “I just need a different view of the show.”
“Well…” he began, but he cut his words short. I knew that he wouldn’t protest because Dave had given me free reign to go where I needed to at the beginning of the summer. Today just happened to be the first time when I boldly went where I was probably not welcome.
“Just tell me to move it and I’ll be careful, stay out of your way, too. And—no questions. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” Donavan said, finally showing me a smile.
His chipped tooth interested me and I found myself breaking my rule before I had even started. “How’d you chip your tooth? An incident on the crew?”
“No,” he said, turning away.
Ah yes, he was going to help me keep my word.
I turned into the eagle with impeccable vision, taking in everything from the way the fans acted to how the guys went out on stage. Were they flawless? Would I consider them giving their all during the performance? Did the fans really watch them, or simply have a conditioned response to their music like a chimp might have to get the coveted banana? All of these thoughts were going into my review. I was going to make sure it was honest, not one that swayed by my interests in a certain lead singer.
When I watched Gauge walk out onto stage, I embraced the brooder in him, but thought it was a bit of overkill. He didn’t stare at the fans or even wave, just walked to that center mic with his brown electric guitar slung over his shoulder, his arm holding the neck of it and showing off his muscles.
My attention turned to Hunter, who kept getting the crowd more amped up. He stared out into the lights and put his hand over his eyes like a visor, winking at women and blowing them kisses. Someone tossed a small red lace bra at him and he held it up, swirling it around on his finger. I had to admit, it looked like an expensive bra, and either that girl didn’t care about matching coordinates or else she’d tossed her panties at a previous concert, so it didn’t matter.
Back behind the drums, Simon was busy looking at everything and doing a last minute check. He clearly expected Hunter to do what he was doing and didn’t care. Unlike Gauge, who finally took command of the microphone and decided to talk to the people. How big of him, I thought as I rolled my eyes.
“Hello ,Liverpool, this is one hell of a crowd,” Gauge said, looking out at everyone. He sounded like a robot on the ‘different town and one more show’ mode. He began to play a few cords from one of their number one hits from their last album, Slow Drip, and everyone erupted. I noticed that once the music started, the audience seemed to be quiet so they could actually hear the artist sing, compared to the off-tone guy next to them—unlike American concert crowds. Fascinating.
From where I was, the sound was a bit muffled, the words not really clear. Gauge sounded pretty good—bias aside—but Hunter seemed slightly off key. Although he was constantly on the go, it was like he was getting a bit winded and having a challenge enunciating the words. Simon sang the least out of the three, and when he did, I detected a slight nasal tone to the parts he sang solo. Hence why he barely ever had any solo performances, I guessed.
I reached into my bag for my phone to take a few pictures from my perch in the lighting nest, then posted them on my Instagram. It would be a fun perspective for some of my friends to see. My photography skills had improved since starting my job, since I was the journalist and photographer both. Now I knew what to look for, what was truly interesting, and the timing of the show, so I could capture the best shots.
An hour and a half later, the show was wrapping up and I was climbing down from my perch and making my way back to the hotel room. I had to have the review out in three hours, which meant I didn’t have any time to dick around with chatting or doubt what I was writing. Clear. Precise. Efficient. I was about to become every quality my writing teachers had always favored.
The hotel was about twenty minutes away from the venue, and I let Boomer know I was heading back in case anybody asked. Didn’t want anyone to think I’d gone missing in a foreign country.
Once at the hotel, I sat down at the small desk and opened up my tablet, staring at it and going through the visuals of the concert in my mind. I began to write: We all know that sex sells, but when it comes to music, it’s certainly not synonymous with a great performance…
Chapter Ten:
Don’t Hold Back
I was running on the treadmill in the exercise room, trying to relax and recharge. Admittedly, I’d longed to lose a few pounds, because life on the road wasn’t quite as healthy as life at home. It was harder to eat decently, Although I was always busy, analyzing, observing, and evaluating for the article, I was still amazed at how much of the tour lifestyle really was one big party.
My review of the concert last night for The Rift Online had fl
owed from me rather freely, and it felt good to express my own perspective on ProVokaTiv’s concert. It gave me a bit of insight on how to approach the rest of the project with the group for the magazine article. I’d always known how challenging it was to create journalistic pieces with integrity if you knew someone, liked them even, but this project was more ‘in your face’ with each passing day.
Pound. Pound. Pound. My feet were moving in perfect timing and rhythm on the treadmill. It felt good, but my nerves were still frayed. If the guys saw my concert review, they wouldn’t be very happy about it. That much was certain, and that made me very uncomfortable.
“Hey!”
I jumped and looked over. Of course, there was Gauge, and his eyes had a different kind of an expression in them. It was more like ‘I’d like to knock your ass right off that treadmill right now.’ Yikes.
“Hey,” I said less animatedly, removing my earbuds and placing my feet on the sides of the treadmill. “What’s going on?”
“That review,” Gauge said. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Hey, calm down,” I said. “I have a job to do, Gauge. You know that. What’s one average review matter to you, anyway?”
“Average. I started to trust you and warm up to you. This is bullshit.”
Now my voice was loud, too. There was one middle-aged woman riding a recumbent bike in the corner. I glanced at her, and could tell that she felt uncomfortable staying, but wanted to hear every word. I knew better than to indulge her in the opportunity.
“When you want to have an intelligent conversation in a more private place, I’ll be glad to discuss my highly accurate review with you.” So okay, I was fueling the fire a bit. I did have pride, however, and I didn’t like being attacked.
“Fine, let’s go,” he said quietly, crossing his arms and staring at me. Was it just me, or did his eyes turn black as he stared at me? They were like a mood ring and I’d never seen them quite so…alive.
Not happy to go but not willing to stay, I walked out with Gauge and went down the hallway, not saying a word. He had his tablet in hand and it was pulled up to the review. I hadn’t even had a chance to view it online yet, and this wasn’t how I planned on celebrating my review.
There was a series of doors along the corridor of the hallway. Finally, Gauge reached one that was unlocked and swung it open. It was a conference room. He walked in and I followed, taking a large gulp of air to calm my nerves and help me keep my backbone. I suspected that this wasn’t going to be pleasant at all.
“Why?” he asked, staring at me critically.
“I had a job to do and I gave a fair assessment,” I said.
“We sound like a joke. Is that what you think?”
“I think you guys are what your public wants to see. There’s nothing wrong with that. A lot of people do it.”
“Do I seem like I’m someone who wants to be like everyone else?”
“Not off the stage, but on…you give them what you want,” I said, folding my arms and looking at Gauge. We were standing there, each wanting the victory, words still controlled for now.
“Broody bad boy,” Gauge began. “Captivating good looks that they use to turn usually smart people into screaming nits…”
I’d loved that line. Gauge, not so much.
“Our music sounds forced, like we’re trying to overplay each other and change the world through overly complicate lyrics. What the fuck?”
“Sometimes things are more meaningful when they’re simplistic,” I said. Now I needed to be on the offensive and stand my ground.
“The show itself is pretty entertaining,” I offered.
“Thanks for that insincere comment,” Gauge said.
“What do you want me to do? I stand by my words, Gauge.”
“You know, this sucks, Brynn, really sucks,” Gauge finally blurted.
I looked at him and saw a vein pop out in his neck. It was throbbing, making me realize the full impact of my words on him.
“Look…”
He cut me off. “I have looked. It’s all here to see.” Gauge pointed to the tablet for emphasis.
“This is what I feel,” I said. I wish I could have sucked the words right back in my mouth again. They were honest but not really applied properly in this case.
He gave me the most scrutinizing glance I’d ever witnessed. His face scrunched up like he’d just tasted something vile, poisonous. “Now I know,” Gauge replied. He turned around and left me, slamming the door and leaving it rocking back and forth as he exited.
I stood there alone, feeling guilty, and whispered, “Yeah, this does suck, Gauge.”
Although I’d done my job and stood by my review, I was feeling terrible. Maybe I could have handled the entire situation better. This was a low; one of my first major dilemmas. Honest journalism confronts personal curiosity.
I went back to the exercise room, but couldn’t get in the flow of things. More than anything, I wanted to work off my anxiety and put it all into perspective, but it wasn’t happening. Now I was feeling a bit moody, too, but for completely different reasons. Part of me felt like I was being played by Gauge and he was manipulating me to take back what I’d written. Well, that couldn’t be done. It was a permanent record, accessible by all.
Sweating but not satisfied, I took a shower and then decided that I had to go and talk to Gauge. Even if I didn’t regret what I’d written, I did have regrets about the way that I’d handled it. Why would it have been bad to give a heads up?
As I stood in front of his door I breathed in slowly, trying to calm my racing heart. I clenched my fists and noticed that my palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans. “This is ridiculous. Get your act together.”
I knocked and then pressed my ear against the door, listening to see if anyone was in there. I heard the soft strums of a guitar and paused, listening to see if it would stop and anyone would walk over. The playing didn’t stop, but the door did swing open.
I about fell into the room and into Simon’s arms.
“Well, how nice to see you, Brynn,” he said.
“Are you pissed, too?”
“Pleased, no, but not pissed,” he said. “Bad publicity is good publicity at times and there’s some value to what you said.”
“Thanks,” I said. I realized that it wasn’t really something he was saying out of gratitude, though, by the way he looked at me as he walked out the door.
I stared at Gauge, who obviously knew I was there but wasn’t going to acknowledge me. All I wanted was a chance to explain, hoping and praying that the words would flow freely from my lips and come out as logically as if I’d written them.
“Hey,” I said. He didn’t respond. Whatever I had to say wasn’t going to be made easier for me to do by Gauge. Maybe I deserved it from his perspective, but from mine, it was a bit extreme. Part of me wanted to just walk out and remember why it was a bad idea to have an emotional connection to anyone on this assignment.
“I’m sorry about not telling you about the review beforehand,” I said. “I should have given you a head’s up.”
“Sorry about not telling me?” he said, still strumming and staring down at his fingers as they moved from chord to chord.
“I should have mentioned it,” I said. “That melody is nice. Is it new?”
“No need for shallow conversation to appease me,” Gauge replied.
Okay, I’d had enough. I walked over and placed my hand on the guitar, disrupting his playing. “Can you please look at me and listen?”
“Fine.” He set the guitar down and stared at me.
I paused for a moment. He was listening and I hadn’t quite figured out where to start. “The concert review has nothing to do with how great you guys are as people, or even how hard you work at what you do, you know.”
He stared at me and didn’t respond. I didn’t want to start rambling. I put my hand down, biting my lip to remain quiet. As I looked around at the immaculate, modern room, with everything looking
sterile and precise, I suddenly felt lost. The only thing that gave me comfort was the coffee table full of sheet music and the man sitting on that couch, looking at me with no emotion or signs of forgiveness.
“Look, Gauge, I came to apologize, and I am genuinely sorry. You’re a great guy and I like you a lot. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. If you don’t think we can talk or be friends anymore, so be it. I understand.”
I turned around and left. The walk to the door was about eight steps, but my legs felt like lead weights. My hand reached the doorknob, but I felt an arm on my shoulder.
“An apology hardly takes back the betrayal this feels like. Why the hell are you here if you can’t stand our music? There are a million journalists who do and would give anything for the opportunity you have. Are you just that eager to get your name in a headline?”
“Oh, and you weren’t? You became famous so no one would know who you are. Grow up, Gauge. If you can’t handle this, how are you going to handle anything else in life? This is pretty damn minimal.” I stared at him and felt the anger rising again; then I realized that I’d come to offer a genuine apology and I would be the better person and stick to that. I wouldn’t get involved in a debate to which there was no right answer, or logical explanation he’d explain. “See you later, Gauge.”
“Don’t go.”
I turned around. Gauge was standing there, looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“I am sorry,” I said again.
“I know.”
He put his other hand on my other shoulder and pulled me in, wrapping me in his embrace. A feeling of complete safety swept over me. It was brilliant and it felt so right; it was one of the more perfect surprises I’d ever received.
Gauge moved closer to me. His lips parted ever so slightly, pressing against mine. My lips tingled. I felt a boom inside of me, and everything came alive. His hands traveled up and he placed them on each side of my head, his touch making me alert, desperate to experience more.
