Reaching over, I pat him on one broad shoulder. “Just pretend you’re on a date. They don’t give you a list of questions for that, and you do just fine.”
“I know what women want, Jera.”
“Modesty?” I ask tartly.
“Radio wants the same thing girls do.” Danny’s hands remain loosely linked behind his head. “Charisma and confidence. Just talk about the music.”
Jax snorts. “Yeah, and Jera’s all charisma over here.” He plucks at the sleeve of my faded pink Race for the Cure 2009 tee shirt.
I slap his hand away. “It’s a radio show, not a TV spot. Besides, charisma is a state of being, not a characteristic of your wardrobe, Mr. Kettle Black.” I aim a look at his brown UPS uniform shirt and clear my throat.
“What are you, twelve?” But despite his bluster, I’ve got him laughing now.
I reach over and tousle his wavy, dirty-blond hair so it falls forward, brushing the line of his jaw. “That sounds like a challenge to give you a wedgie. Don’t tempt me, Sterling. I’ll go atomic on your ass.”
The studio door opens and we stop mid-bicker to jump to our feet. A short guy smiles up at us—well, at Danny and Jax. I’m still a few inches below eye level, even for him.
The interviewer wears pleated-front khaki slacks that bag at the ankles and a hoodie unzipped over a shirt that says “It Takes a Viking to Raze a Village.”
I step forward with a smile. “Hey, Martin.”
Surprise lights his eyes, and I realize he didn’t connect my band name to me. It’s not like I really know the guy, I’ve just been to a couple of barbecues at Bear’s house when he was there.
“Oh hey. Jeri, right?”
“Jera.” I shake his hand.
He winces. “Sorry.”
“No worries. Thanks for having us. This is Danny, our bassist, and Jax, lead singer and guitar.” I gesture the introductions and Martin shakes everyone’s hands so fast it’s almost rude.
“We’re just on a quick commercial break.” He ushers us into the studio and points us to seats. “There are only two guest microphones, so you’ll have to share. We had three but I was interviewing this lady about her permaculture classes last week and she busted one.” He makes a face. “Farmers.”
“No worries. I think we can handle microphones.” I wink.
“It’s in the blood, right?” He laughs as he skirts a bank of sound equipment to take his seat across from us.
Oh, so it’s going to be one of those interviews. The ones that are more about who my dad is than what kind of music we’re making. I grimace. We’ve only been featured a few times: in the Willamette Week, Portland Mercury, and on a couple of blogs. Almost all of them wanted to talk about The Heat more than The Red Letters, and I can never tell if they think we’re measuring up or not.
The first band I started, in junior high, sounded like a cover band for the keyboard-heavy signature of The Heat. By high school, I was trying to sound like anything but my dad, but I would still practice until my fingers bled, trying to earn more than an indulgent smile from his old bandmates. Now, I play the hell out of the songs that appear in my head, and tell myself that’s enough.
From the sound booth, Bear waves at me, and I grin and wave back. His long, graying ponytail tangles in the collar of his shirt as he swings his chair away from us and hits a button. My pulse picks up. This is exactly the kind of distraction I need today, and I love the rubber scent and vaguely electronic bite of the air in a studio. It always makes me feel like something incredible is about to happen.
“So, it’s a pretty short spot,” Martin says. “I’ll introduce you all, we’ll play one of your songs, couple of questions, and then you’re out of here.” He pops on a set of headphones and adjusts his microphone, which is suspended on an adjustable arm hanging down from the ceiling.
There are three microphones in front of our table but one is pushed up out of the way, a sticky note dangling from it that says, “Fix me!” Jax commandeers one of the two working microphones, and after Danny shows no interest in following suit, I take the second and put on a set of headphones so I can hear what’s going out over the air. I chew on my bottom lip, wondering if Jacob might be listening since I told him this station sometimes plays our songs.
“Is PhantAsmic coming in here?” Danny eyes a smooth stain on the edge of one of the office chairs that might be old gum. I poke him with a set of headphones, gesturing for him to put them on.
“Nah,” Martin says. “They’re phoning in. They’re on tour and won’t be in town until the night before the show. Ready?”
We don’t even get a chance to nod before he un-mutes his microphone. Nerves flutter in my stomach as he begins his intro.
“Welcome back, folks. You’re listening to KKSX, home of the loudest music in the greater Portland metropolitan area. Today we have some special guests to start your weekend off right. They are one of the young and very talented bands that will take the stage at Things That Go Bump In The Night—sponsored by KKSX—which, as everyone knows, is the best Halloween music festival around. Though, awkwardly, this year it’s not on Halloween.”
He gives a dry chuckle and I wince. He’s probably had to do that bit a million times this month in promos.
“Mark your calendars, friends, and this weekend we’ll get you into the Halloween spirit early. If you’re good, we’ll even still let you wear a costume. Now, I’m excited to introduce...” He glances down at his printed schedule. “Jackson Sterling, Jera McKnight, and Danny O’Neil of The Red Letters!”
We all say a quick hello.
“And from their second, self-released album, this is the song that’s been heating up the airways lately. They call it ‘Out of Order.’”
This song has been getting a little play on two of the local stations, but this is only the third time I’ve heard it over the air. It gives me a thrill when Danny’s bassline stomps into my ears, unvarnished and alone for just one beat too long so you start to get uncomfortable before my drums kick in and Jax’s voice, raw and urgent, drops the first line. It’s provocative, but we maybe should have gone with something catchier for the lead single on the album. Hooky, like Adele, but hardcore, like AVA. I wonder where Jacob’s favorite band falls on that spectrum.
I swallow and push the thought aside as I glance over to check on my nervous bandmate. Now that he’s got a microphone in front of him, Jax sprawls in his chair, everything from his loose muscles to mussed hair giving the impression that he just finished having fantastic sex. The corner of my mouth kicks up. Even straight from work in his UPS shirt, Jax always manages to look like an ad for the kind of jeans your mother would never buy you.
The song is over before I’m ready, three deep drumbeats blasting out at the end gauged to leave your mind vibrating, wishing for an easy fadeout.
“Well...” Martin gives a little unnerved chuckle. “That’s not exactly your mother’s hit single, is it?”
Jax laughs, deep and slow, and damned if it doesn’t almost make my nipples hard. “Depends on the mom. I think you might be surprised.”
“It seems like a song about hopelessness is an ironic way to start a career.”
My skin prickles with irritation at Martin’s comment. Before I can take a breath that will carry words I will no doubt regret, Jax says, “It’s a song about the one part of yourself you wish you could change. I think that track’s catching on because it’s pretty hard to find a person who couldn’t identify with that, whether they want to admit it out loud or not.”
“But you admitted it out loud,” Martin says. “What spurred you to write the song?”
Danny stiffens and dodges a quick glance my way, but I don’t correct Martin’s assumption.
At first, it was tough to write songs that worked for Jax. I wasn’t going to be singing them so I couldn’t exactly write a lament to my bra size or bash my ex-boyfriend’s morning breath in B minor. But I figure all really good songs are written like a mirror: anybody who looks sees th
emselves in it. And if I do it just right, what they see is the truth.
“What would I change about me?” Jax scratches the back of his neck. “Give you about thirteen to start. You got a pen?”
Martin laughs, his eyes lifting at the corners.
“Honestly though, you’d have to ask Jera. She’s our go-to songstress.” Jax props his arms on the table in front of us. “I can sing her lyrics because they get to me, but she’s the only one who knows what’s behind the songs, and most of the time, Martin? She’s not telling.”
I’m barely holding in a grin as Jax settles back into his chair. He always smoothes out for the actual interview, but he’s selling the heck out of us today.
Martin turns to me. “Jera? What about you?”
“Things about Jax that I would change? Oh, that’s a whole different song.” I duck closer to the microphone. “It’s got a killer drumbeat, though.”
Danny smirks and everyone else laughs.
“We’re running out of time for this intriguingly reticent new band,” Martin says, “but I promise you will not want to miss seeing them live.” He rattles off the venue information for our show tomorrow. “After this break, we’ll be talking with PhantAsmic, electronica and rock visionaries that are coming soon to a stadium near you.”
He cuts to commercial and hits the mute button for our microphones. Reluctantly, I take off my headphones and set them on the table. Wow, that was over fast.
“Nice job, folks,” Martin tells us. “Always leave them wanting more.” He stands up and we follow suit, but before he can finish taking off his headphones, he frowns and pauses to listen, pulling over a second microphone that is probably wired into Bear’s sound booth. “Are you serious? Okay, yeah. No problem. Just let me know when you have them on the line.”
Martin looks up at us.
“Is there any chance you guys have an extra few minutes to spare? PhantAsmic is running a wee bit late. I could fill the spot with music but—”
“We can stay,” Jax interrupts, and I nod enthusiastically. Danny just shrugs.
“Great!” Martin smiles. “Back on in two minutes. Follow my lead and we’ll fill the extra time just fine, okay?”
We grab headsets and seats again, my heart pumping at the idea that we’re about to double our exposure today, plus we’re fully stealing the audience that will have tuned in for PhantAsmic’s highly-publicized interview slot.
Martin goes through his whole intro again and then says, “So, over the break I happened to discover an interesting fact about our enigmatic guests, The Red Letters.”
Danny slumps a little farther in his seat. I swallow a sigh and straighten my back, because I know they’re about to flog the famous-dad angle again, and I don’t want to look as annoyed as I actually am.
“Jera McKnight, drummer and songwriter for The Red Letters, is actually the daughter of Hank McKnight of the old-school, hard-rock sensation, The Heat.”
I try to scrounge up a smile, suddenly hoping no one I know is listening.
“For those of you too young to remember The Heat, The Simpsons, or anything else good and holy in this world, a quick reminder...” Martin says, “The Heat was one of Portland’s very own that blew up quick in the late ‘80s, did two huge international tours and then disappeared, to the horror of loyal fans everywhere.”
It’s a kind summary, because they hardly disappeared. My dad’s band got pissed at their record label, bought out the rest of their contract and tried to go independent, which in those days was little better than a quick leap off a tall cliff. They couldn’t get distribution and outside of Portland, basically no one has ever heard of their two self-released albums. They tried for a new label, but by then their following had faded. They couldn’t find a company who was willing to take on a band that was known as inflexible and hard to work with.
Dad is a real estate agent now, but The Heat didn’t quit playing locally until they lost their lead singer to cancer when I was in high school. I still remember how they seemed to speak to each other through their instruments, their fingers fast and almost supernaturally precise. How Dad’s forehead would crease when I couldn’t get my transitions as smooth as his.
“Jera, what was it like growing up in a house with such a dedicated musician?” Martin asks.
My fists clench under the table as I deliberately glance away from our interviewer. I don’t have to watch him and rate myself by his opinion. I gave up on that crap, and if he doesn’t think we’re as good as my dad’s band, or if he doesn’t like us, that’s his problem.
I take a breath and tell him the truth. “Well, Martin, it was kind of a pain in the ass.”
Martin laughs, but Jax sends me an alarmed look.
“Dad started me on the guitar when I wasn’t even big enough to hold it, which I hated because the strings hurt my fingers. So then it was on to the piano, which was painfully boring.” I shudder. “It wasn’t until I met Danny that I really got into music on my own terms and asked for drumming lessons for Christmas.”
Dad may have taught me to play, but Danny taught me how to love it. He didn’t follow any rules, and he never took any lessons. From him, the night-toned twang sounded like something more essential than air, more real than time. Listening to him, I realized that rhythm drives everything. I bought a set of drums, and with the sticks in my hands, I learned to translate the pulse beneath the skin of the world around me.
“When did you two meet?” Martin prompts, sending a glance at Bear’s sound booth. Bear shakes his head and the interviewer returns his attention to me.
“That would be in eighth grade, when Danny was puking in the girl’s bathroom.”
A faint smile flickers over Danny’s face. He leans forward and steals my microphone. “Thanks for sharing that, Jimi.”
“Anytime.” I stick my tongue out at him for using my nickname on the air, and Martin’s grinning again.
“So was Jackson in the next stall down?”
“Nope.” I snag the microphone back. “We met Jax in the auditions we held after our second band broke up.” That one fell apart because Caitlyn, our guitarist, decided yearbook editor would look better on college applications. “That was, what? Three, four years ago?”
I make it sound like a question, but it’s actually kind of a sore spot. Jax is a year older than we are, and he played his audition not realizing the other two band members were still in high school. After we chose him and the truth came out, Dad had to do a lot of fast talking to get him to try playing a couple of songs with us. But once he did, not one of the three of us could have walked away.
“And The Red Letters were born...” Martin finishes. “Since we have a few extra minutes, why don’t we share a virgin-to-radio cut off your new album?”
Jax slants a quick look my way, excitement vibrating beneath his lazy smile. The boy has a taste for fame. I wish I knew for sure how he will handle it if we ever do hit it big.
Martin pauses to listen to something Bear’s saying in his headset. “This one is called ‘Don’t Ask My Name.’ Before he hits play, can you give me a quick inside lane on this song?”
I want to slam my head against the table. Please, not this song.
The lyrics are two-faced: they sound like they belong to Jax, singing about how he just wants to be in the moment with all these beautiful girls, but they always interrupt with wanting all these details about him. What it’s actually about is my love affair with music and all the things that keep getting in the way, including my history-laden last name.
No way am I saying that on the radio, especially not with Dad listening, even if I could do it in a sentence.
Danny claims the microphone just as my silence is starting to become noticeable. “Funny story: she wrote half the lyrics to this song on my shower curtain. Little tip? Never leave a Sharpie anywhere Jera McKnight can get her hands on it.”
Great, and now everyone who is listening—including maybe Jacob—is going to think we’re sleeping together.
Whatever. People can think what they want.
Martin laughs. “There you have it, folks, The Red Letters. The next big thing and the terror of shower curtains and girls’ bathrooms everywhere. Now, here’s ‘Don’t Ask My Name.’”
As we pull off our headsets, Jax’s voice explodes onto the air, and I have to hold back a proud smile so I don’t look like an amateur.
Martin grins. “That was some good radio. Nice to start our festival publicity off with an interview that doesn’t make me want to duck out for a coffee.”
“Happy to be of service. Thanks for the extra spin,” I say.
“Anything for Hank’s daughter.” He rises to shake my hand again. “You’re making some decent music, Missy. Keep it up, okay?”
“Will do.” Something about the tone of his voice tells me that we just got a serious compliment, and my pulse kicks up. I blow a kiss to Bear in the sound booth, and he winks, miming a phone to say he’ll call me later.
We stroll out of the radio station, and it’s an effort not to start skipping as I pass the receptionist. As soon as we hit the parking lot, Jax slings an arm around me and starts to swagger, the sight tugging a smile onto Danny’s lips.
“Look, I’m sorry about all that stuff about my dad...” I begin, but Jax shakes his head.
“Doesn’t even matter. Not today.”
He’s beaming in a way that is totally unaffected by the light rain misting down on the pavement, and I’m right there with him, so excited it feels like my body is straining with the effort of keeping all of me contained. Never mind who heard that interview or what they thought of it. My songs are on the radio, and they sound good.
“And that’s what it feels like,” Jax announces. “That, my friends, is what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Chapter 12: Ten Thousand Hours
A Cruel Kind of Beautiful (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Series Book 1) Page 9
