by Jeff Strand
Hope for the best. Hope for the best. Hope for the best.
The owner takes the stage. “Thanks for coming out tonight,” he says. “We’ve got a great show for you. Our headliner is the one, the only, the legendary, the angry, Fist Knuckles!”
The crowd goes berserk.
“But to start things off, please welcome Vampire Grapefruit!”
Close enough.
The crowd’s level of berserkness (not a real word, but it should be) drops a bit, but we still get an enthusiastic greeting. Mel, Clarissa, and I walk on to the stage, and excitement shoots through me like electricity surging through Frankenstein’s monster. I step up to the microphone.
“Thanks for coming to Blue Green Pink Glow! We’re Fanged Grapefruit! Are you ready to rock?”
They sure are! No prepping needed for this crowd! They’ve arrived with every intention of rocking, and they’re more than happy to answer my rhetorical question in the affirmative.
The audience is ready to rock. The band is ready to rock. Everybody is on the same page here. It’s time to get this party started!
Good luck to all of you.
I wish I knew what Blake meant by that.
“All our songs tonight are originals,” I tell the audience. “Have you ever tried to get a fish to catch popcorn in its mouth?”
I know perfectly well that they haven’t, and they know that I know. But that doesn’t stop the audience from cheering at the question. “Well, that’s what this first song is about. It’s called ‘You Can’t Train a Goldfish to Catch Popcorn in Its Mouth, So Don’t Even Try.’ One, two, three, go!”
We launch into the song, providing the audience with the raw material they needed to begin rocking. I’ve been to plenty of shows where the crowd treats the opening act as if they’re purposely delaying everybody’s fun, but not this crowd.
Good luck to all of you.
I glance around the club. I don’t see any boxes that look like they could contain sewer rats.
I flub a chord, but I don’t think anybody notices.
We’re only on our first song, and the audience loves us! Oh, how Audrey would have loved this. She will regret breaking up with me! We’ll be playing sold-out stadiums in London while she’s still in biology class, identifying spleens.
Good luck to all of you.
I need to forget about Blake. There’s simply no way he’s going to try to ruin our show. If nothing else, he knows that we’d abandon him here. You don’t sabotage somebody when they’re your ride home.
I begin singing the third verse. Then I realize that I skipped the second verse. I wish I could say that it doesn’t matter; however, these are story-driven lyrics, and I’ve left out a significant plot point. The arc of the fish and the feeder won’t make sense now.
The audience is still rocking out, but I notice Clarissa giving me a funny look. It’s okay. Punk rock is supposed to be rough around the edges, and only a few people were recording us with their cell phones.
The crowd’s berserkity (This should also be a word.) increases as we do the big finish. Performance glitches aside, this is still the most receptive audience we’ve ever had.
“Thank you!” I say. “It’s an honor to open for Fist Knuckles!”
The audience cheers at the name of the headliner. This is a common technique in the world of entertainment. If there is a more popular act playing later in the evening at the same venue, you mention them by name. This will cause the audience to react in a positive manner. Their response is goodwill toward the more popular act, but since you’re onstage at the time, you’re the recipient of the enthusiasm. It’s win-win. If you go into the performing arts, I highly recommend this move.
We begin our second song.
Good luck to all of you.
Enough! I need to get Blake out of my head before I completely mess up my guitar playing like I just did.
We play our entire half-hour set. Here are some important details:
1. In terms of the size and enthusiasm of the crowd, it’s the best show Fanged Grapefruit has ever done. And I don’t think Blake bribed them, which makes it even more satisfying.
2. It is the best show Mel has ever played. His guitar playing is flawless. His energy level is amazing. His background vocals support my lead vocals in a way they’ve never been supported before.
3. It is the best show Clarissa has ever played. I’ve always been impressed by her drumming skills, but tonight it’s like she’s the human equivalent of an electronic drum machine. Actually, that’s the worst possible description. She is raw and unplugged. Suffice it to say, she was awesome.
Before we move on to item #4, let’s recap the first three.
1. Best Fanged Grapefruit show.
2. Best Mel show.
3. Best Clarissa show.
And now on to the fourth detail.
4. I mess up. A lot.
Does the audience notice? I don’t think so. But Mel and Clarissa definitely notice. I fumble through some of my audience banter. I play quite a few wrong notes, and I screw up the lyrics on several occasions. I’m not saying that my performance was a complete disaster. Most of the time, my playing and singing were really good. But yeah, I play like it was like a practice session instead of a real show.
And, no, Blake didn’t pull any stunts.
Unless you count making me so paranoid that he was going to sabotage the show that it impacted my music.
I’ll count that.
23.
The four of us sit in the greenroom after the show, eating apples.
“That was fantastic,” says Blake.
“I want to move here,” says Mel. “I want to drop out of school and play here every night.” (Important note to students: Mel is kidding. Do not drop out of school.)
“Best show we’ve had yet,” says Clarissa.
“Yep,” I say.
Everybody crunches their bites of apple. The other four members of Fist Knuckles congratulated us on a job well done, which was one of the greatest honors of our lives. (At the time, the lead singer could not be found, though he was located a couple of blocks away and brought back in time for them to take the stage.) We can hear them playing now, and as soon as we finish our apples, we’re going out to watch.
“So, Rod…” says Mel.
“Yes?”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “Nerves, I guess.”
“You’ve never had nerves like that before.”
“I know, but we’ve never had a crowd that size before.”
“Well, the plan is for the crowds to get bigger and bigger.”
“I apologize,” I say. “That was a long way from my best performance. I let you guys down. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Mel seems satisfied with that answer. “Time for us to get used to success. Fanged Grapefruit is now on the map. Thanks, Blake!”
• • •
“Do you want me to ask the audience if they’re ready to rock?” Mel inquires before we take the stage for our second gig of the weekend.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Club Marrow is about halfway between the Lane and Blue Green Pink Glow in terms of cleanliness. Your feet don’t stick to the floor, but you’d put down a tablecloth before you ate off it. They gave us free nachos before the show, though the three of us had to share. The cheese-flavored sauce product was quite tasty.
The crowd is even bigger here, although I get the sense that we’ll have to work harder for their affection. It’s going to be a great show. Don & the Keys bombed, which will make this experience even greater because we are going to rock.
“Good luck to all of you,” says Blake.
We take the stage.
Here’s another help
ful tip for those of you who may be considering a career in the musical arts: if you’re obsessively focused on trying not to make mistakes, it can take some of the soul out of your performance. I screw up fewer times than I did last night (though I still screw up), but though I hit more of the correct notes, my singing and guitar playing don’t have my usual passion.
Mel and Clarissa are in top form again, and they help balance things out. But still, it’s a below-average show for Fanged Grapefruit. The audience likes us, but they don’t love us. Nobody is particularly disappointed when I announce that we’re on our last song. A couple of people in the audience are clearly playing games on their phones, and when we depart the stage, I know that nobody is going to drive home saying, “I was all excited for Krab Salad, but much to my surprise, one of their opening acts blew them away! Fanged Grapefruit rules! Wooooooo!”
Nobody says much of anything as we break down our equipment and load it into my car. When we’re done, we sit quietly in the greenroom, which does not have apples.
“Hmm,” says Blake.
“I thought that went okay,” says Mel.
“Yeah,” says Clarissa.
“It was a pretty good show,” I confirm.
Clarissa turns to face me. “We can say that because we’re trying to make you feel better, but you’re not allowed to agree with us.”
“What was wrong with it?” I ask. When deciding how to handle an uncomfortable situation, it’s rare that I select the “play stupid” option, but that’s what I do this time.
“You weren’t any good,” says Clarissa. “You were generic.”
I expected her to say something like terrible, awful, disgraceful, wretched, dismal, or horrendous. I never imagined that she would be so hurtful as to use the G-word.
“Generic?” I repeat. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t connecting with the audience. You weren’t Rod Conklin. You were some guy with a decent voice who knows how to play a guitar.”
“Do you agree with her?” I ask Mel.
Why did I ask that question? Of course he agrees with her! She’s absolutely right! Now I’ve forced him to say it out loud! What’s the matter with me?
“Yeah, I agree,” says Mel. “You did okay with the technical stuff, but your performance was kind of hollow.”
Hollow. Generic. If I had to list all the words that I would not want to appear on my tombstone, those would be in the top ten.
“Look, it wasn’t my best show,” I admit, “but you’re both being harsh.”
“No, we’re not,” says Clarissa. “We’re being gentle. We whispered the harsh stuff to each other while we were loading my drums.”
“I can’t help but feel personally responsible for this,” says Blake. “I’m the one who got you these higher profile gigs, and I didn’t consider the extra pressure it would put on all of you. It was unfair of me to do that to Rod, and I apologize.”
“I can handle pressure,” I insist.
“Of course you can,” says Blake. “And I agree with you. Mel and Clarissa are maybe being a smidgen too harsh. As the lead singer, if you fail, the band fails, so you’re under even more pressure than everybody else. In your position, maybe Mel would’ve cracked too.”
“I didn’t fail,” I say. “And I didn’t crack.”
“I never said you did,” says Blake. “Nobody said you did. Or if they did, they didn’t say it to me. If they had, I would’ve disagreed with them. I’m on your side, Rod. Sometimes we simply don’t deliver. What’s important isn’t whether or not you let your bandmates down but whether you recognize what happened and apologize.”
“Can you excuse us for a minute, Blake?” asks Clarissa.
“Certainly.” He stands and walks over to the door of the greenroom. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He leaves.
“We thought this conversation should be private between the band members,” says Mel.
Suddenly, every part of my body itches. I resist the urge to start vigorously scratching.
“We appreciate that your cousin gave us these opportunities,” says Clarissa. “But we really need you to step up your game. This can’t happen again. Tomorrow we’re the main act. We can’t mess this up.”
“Or else what?” I ask.
“There’s no ‘or else.’ We’re not making threats. We’re only asking you to do better next time.”
“I will,” I promise. “You have my word. This was my last soulless show.”
Everybody falls asleep on the drive home—well, all except for me. I’m the one driving. And I’m too worried that Blake’s snoring is going to put the tires out of alignment to doze off. I have no idea how Mel and Clarissa can sleep through that. Then I wonder if they’re pretending to be asleep so they don’t have to talk to me.
• • •
Miami. The club is a lot smaller than we expected (No way does this hold five hundred people, unless they’re all wearing mandatory corsets.), but it’s still bigger than the Lane. It’s probably better that the venue is small. Less empty space if we don’t pack ’em in.
Our opening act consists of three high school freshmen who pretend to be playing instruments but are actually strumming along to background tracks they’re playing through their phone. They’re singing for real though. We know this because if the vocals were recorded, they definitely would have done another take.
“At least we won’t have any trouble competing with that,” I say to Mel and Clarissa as we watch offstage.
“We’re not trying to compete,” says Clarissa. “We’re trying to be the best Fanged Grapefruit we can be.”
I knew that.
As the opening act announces that they’re on their last song, Blake asks if he can talk to me for a minute. We walk to a private corner.
“You’re not going to mess this up for me, right?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“You made me look bad the past two shows. I put my neck out for you, Rod. These venues expect one hundred percent commitment, and the last two places only got two-thirds of that.”
“Are you questioning my commitment?”
“No, but Mel and Clarissa are.”
“They may be questioning my ability to handle stress, but they’re not questioning my commitment. Nobody is more committed to Fanged Grapefruit than me. Nobody.”
“All right, all right. But you do realize that you weren’t awesome Friday or Saturday night, correct?”
“It’s already been discussed. We don’t need to revisit it.”
“I understand. But again, these gigs weren’t easy to set up. I promised a certain quality of product, and I need you to deliver.”
I clench my fists. “And I’m sure it’s a coincidence that you’re bringing it up now, minutes before we go onstage?”
“When else would I bring it up?”
“Anytime in the past twenty-four hours would’ve been better. I know what you’re doing, Blake. You’re trying to make me choke.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because you’re trying to ruin my life.”
Blake laughs. “If I wanted to ruin your life, I wouldn’t set up amazing gigs for your band.”
“I disagree.”
“Seems like a lot of work. There have to be easier ways to ruin somebody’s life.”
“Don’t talk to me anymore.”
“Okay, Rod, I can see that I’ve upset you, and that wasn’t my intention. You’ll be great tonight. You won’t play any wrong notes, and you won’t accidentally switch around any lyrics. And your stage presence will be better than a robot. I have faith in you, cousin. You’ll totally redeem yourself.”
“This isn’t going to work,” I tell him. “It’s obvious what you’re trying to do, so your negativity can’t have any impact.”
“Good. I’m gla
d it can’t have any impact. Because the last thing I want is for you to go out onto that stage and do poorly. I’d never want to see a situation where Clarissa and Mel have to question your future with the band.”
“You’re still trying to sabotage me, and you’re still being obvious about it.”
“All I’m saying is that sometimes we squander the opportunities we’ve been given, and it haunts us for the remainder of our days. Clarissa and Mel don’t need it, but good luck to you.”
Fanged Grapefruit takes the stage. The lights seem brighter. They kind of hurt my eyes, but I don’t stop the show to whine about it.
“Thanks for coming out tonight! We’re Fanged Grapefruit! Are you ready to rock?”
The audience cheers.
Oh, by the way, it was Mel who said that, not me. Yeah, I know. I’m not happy about it either. He offered again, so I accepted through gritted teeth.
I’m ashamed to admit that I secretly hope he’ll mess it up (“Are you ready to tap dance?”) so that the fingers of blame won’t all point at me if the show goes badly. But he does fine. If I was in the audience and I heard his yes/no question, I’d answer yes.
Blake’s mind games worked on me the first time, and they worked on me the second time too. But they are not going to work on me a third time! I know what he’s doing. I’m immune.
Good luck to you.
See? That sentence, even in italics, doesn’t stress me out anymore. His attempt to psyche me out is laughable. Totally laughable. I’d laugh out loud about it right there onstage, but, no, that’s something a crazy person would do.
Good luck to you.
Yes, his words are playing through my mind on an endless loop, but that doesn’t mean they’re having an effect.
He threw me off because I was sure that he had plans to sabotage the show. Now that I know he doesn’t, I can ignore him and focus on…
