by Sara Quin
“Alright, here we go,” he said, spinning the volume knob up.
“We sound like a real band,” I yelled as “Here I Am” blasted through the massive speakers in front of us.
“You are a real band,” Brian said, shoving me playfully. “Believe it.”
“Not bad,” Sara said.
“Yeah, not bad at all,” the engineer said, smiling. “Turned out pretty good actually.”
“You guys sound fantastic. I can’t believe it.” Mom looked proud, and on the way home we played the copy of the recording as loud as it would go in her Jeep.
The next afternoon we took the tape to a warehouse where they dubbed cassettes. I placed the tape down on the counter gingerly. “We need fifty copies of this,” I said. Filling out the order form, we chose a yellow label and wrote out the names of the songs as they appeared on the tape. We decided half would have our phone number on them and would go into our press kit to give away to industry people. The other half we could sell at shows.
“Band name?” the guy asked as he checked the details one final time.
“Sara and Tegan,” I said proudly. It was official.
41. SARA WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LOVE?
Tegan played The Yellow Tape in Mom’s Jeep over and over again. Bruce nearly wore his copy out in the truck and Dad had us sign a stack to sell at work. Everyone was happy with it except me. (And Uncle Henry, who told Mom the squeaks of our guitars’ strings were distracting.) I latched on to this criticism, unable to hear anything but these mistakes on future listens. I spent hours in vain trying to figure out how to move my fingers from chord to chord without creating those squeals of imperfection.
“I’m worried it’s not good enough,” I told Tegan finally.
She groaned and rolled her eyes. This was oddly comforting. Like pushing on a bruise.
Our first official support gig was opening for Hayden at the Multicultural Centre. It was another bonus prize of winning Garage Warz, and that we were opening for an artist whom we loved only added to our excitement. On the way to sound check we listened to our favorite Hayden song, “Bad as They Seem,” over and over. Singing loudly in the back seat I couldn’t stop smiling at myself in the rearview mirror. We were about to play our music in front of an audience that was there to see a real artist perform. A professional musician with a record deal and a merch table full of T-shirts. We were about to experience firsthand the life that we wanted for ourselves.
We’d only ever been inside the Multicultural Centre on Sunday afternoons for all-ages punk shows, and when we arrived for sound check, half the room was drenched in fluorescent light. The other half, nearest the stage, was all shadows.
“Look,” Tegan whispered.
She was pointing in the direction of a man taking small steps in a circle, strumming an acoustic guitar near the stage. It was Hayden. His neck wrapped in a white scarf, his face all stubble.
“I can’t believe he’s just walking around!” I gasped.
We’d never met anyone famous, and we nervously approached him and introduced ourselves. He smiled and shook our hands. When he turned back to the stage, picking the strings of his guitar and singing softly, Tegan and I looked at each other in disbelief, then clutched at each other’s arms.
Because the venue was all-ages, our friends were allowed to come. And after the doors opened, they noisily filed in and dropped their backpacks and coats near the front of the room. They sat in a straight line as if at assembly, calling out our names as we tuned our guitars and prepared to go onstage. There weren’t many people there when it was our turn to perform, but my heart beat faster nonetheless. The room was silent, a welcome reprieve from the loud clubs we’d been performing at. There was no alcohol being ordered, no clinking of glasses or shouting voices. Just our music bouncing off the wall back at us. We’d become brazen about trying out new songs any chance we got, preferring to play them over the ones that our friends called out for again and again.
“Play ‘Here I Am’!”
“ ‘Just Me’!”
I smiled, shaking my head. I felt a strange pleasure in disappointing them, as if it were a test of their devotion. Tegan settled into a song that I’d heard only twice before, but in the chorus I sang along off the microphone, like a fan in the front row.
“Keep them close ’cause they will fuck you too, I will keep you close! I got nothing better to do.”
I cut Tegan’s meaning away from the bone and heard the words as if they were my own. I’d missed the rapturous applause of our friends and family and the way it suggested to anyone who didn’t know who we were that we were worth paying attention to. I searched the small crowd, hoping and fearing that I’d see Hayden watching us.
After we performed our set we sat with our friends on the floor. More people gathered near the microphone onstage, standing in the halo of lights. I sometimes felt more nervous after our set than before we performed. It was as if we’d survived something dangerous and I had only just realized it. There was also a bittersweet comedown after what we’d looked forward to was over. When would we play our next set? Were we still good? While we watched Hayden’s show, I kept staring at his feet and the black stage where we’d just been standing, searching for any reminder that we’d been up there, too.
After the show was over, half a dozen adults crowded around us near the merchandise table, telling us what we did well, and what we could do better. Occasionally, they turned and gave Mom feedback right in front of us, as if we weren’t even there. Tegan passed our demo tape to the ones who seemed interested. Beaming, flipping her new short hair, fidgeting with her lip piercing, she was completely comfortable, in her element.
As we filed out of the venue with our guitars, a man yelled into my ear, “I hate that kind of music, but I like the way you and your sister do it.” His next statement seemed to suggest something was not quite right about our songs. Smirking at me, he asked, “What do you know about love?”
* * *
On the drive home Mom shared suggestions through the rearview mirror for future performances. Someone had said we should talk more, while another warned we should talk less. The consensus was that we spoke too quickly. The chairs we sat on were too low and we should consider ditching them altogether, since it was difficult to see us from the back of the room. These details fired into my head like punches.
“I can’t wait for our next show,” Tegan said, grinning to herself. She was immune to Mom’s buzzkill. But she wasn’t immune to mine.
“You only hear the negative,” Tegan said during one of our fights that week.
“You only hear the positive!” I shouted back.
“I’d rather spend my time focused on the good things, and not fucking obsessed with the one bad thing some random person said about us.”
It was as if each of us were only capable of hearing what the other wasn’t.
* * *
It was Christina’s reassurance that we were just as good as we were before the adults discovered us that finally cut through the feedback loop. In front of Bruce’s wall of stereo equipment, ominously black, we played her The Yellow Tape. The imperfections didn’t seem to bother her one bit.
“You don’t think it sounds out of time?” I asked.
“Out of what? It sounds fucking amazing.”
“Right? I keep telling her that!” Tegan said.
“Do the guitars sound lame?” I asked.
“Lame? No. They sound . . . sparkly?”
“But are they girlie-sounding?”
She shook her head, baffled. “I don’t think they sound girlie. They sound fucking perfect.”
“See?” Tegan said, dragging the word out.
“This one sounds so good,” Christina said, rolling over onto her knees, leaning in to the speaker. Sitting close to her, I could almost feel the high of performing under my skin. The muscles in my face pulled into a smile, a tic I couldn’t control when I sensed something important was happening between the music and our voices. There was
a brief reprieve from self-doubt. As if Christina’s ears were suddenly my own, I heard a song I loved playing back from the speakers.
“I want to hear it again,” Christina said, turning the tape over in the deck, hitting Play. And then, so did I.
42. TEGAN THE PRESS CLUB
We left for Vancouver with Mom before the sun came up. Bruce helped us load our suitcases, guitars, and merchandise into the teal Jeep in the dark and then stood back on the front lawn with his arms crossed against his black T-shirt.
“Bye!” Sara and I screamed out the windows as we pulled away.
As a family we’d driven the twelve hours to Vancouver through the Rocky Mountains to visit Bruce’s family every summer since we were seven, but things between Mom and him had felt increasingly strained, and she suggested he stay home to take care of the cats and he didn’t put up a fight. We had been accepted into an industry festival called New Music West last minute. Mike Bell, one of the judges from Garage Warz, had arranged it. Sara and I had begged Mom to be allowed to go after Mike called and told us we had been given a showcase. Mike had come over one night to reassure her it was worth it to go. “They could get a record deal,” he told her. “Or meet someone who might eventually offer one.” After that she had agreed to let us skip school to go.
I slept the first three hours until we hit Golden, just over the border into British Columbia. Mom woke me up after she parked in front of a McDonald’s for breakfast.
“What if someone offers us a record deal after our showcase?” I asked between bites.
Sara smiled back at me. Mom just said, “I sure hope so. This is a long drive.”
I ground together our futures as I daydreamed through the mountain passes, dozing off again until we reached Hope, a town an hour from Vancouver. After that, I watched anxiously as Vancouver appeared in front of us, and a thousand butterflies came to life in my stomach. Our showcase was at a small club on Granville Island, a busy market near downtown. The market was teeming with tourists, but the club we were playing was quiet when we arrived. As we loaded our stuff through the front door I almost turned around, thinking we were in the wrong place. I fidgeted with the strings, tuned and retuned, next to the stage, and tried not to look at the empty tabletops. Each time the front door would open, I lifted my head, thinking this was the moment a flood of sunglasses-wearing, contract-wielding agents and record execs might spill in from the outside. But most of the people glancing in were just tourists, and when they saw it was a club, they’d back out.
“How long?” Sara asked.
“Forty minutes,” I said, eyeing the clock above the bar.
When the sound guy came over and told us, “I’m going to put you two on a little early,” we were naturally confused.
“We’re not supposed to start until six-thirty, and it’s only after six,” I stammered.
“Yeah, well, she”—he pointed toward another artist lingering nearby—“has some people coming right at seven, so I want to get you on and offstage in time so that she can be up there for the people coming to check her set out.”
“People are coming to check out our set, too,” Sara asserted defensively.
“We came all the way from Calgary,” I interjected. “We told people six thirty.”
He shrugged and walked off. “You’ve got five minutes.”
I tuned my guitar slowly and watched Sara do the same. I willed myself not to cry. Onstage, I reached for the cable to plug in my guitar as I sat down. Sitting up, I took a breath and shouted “Hi!” as enthusiastically as I could to the dozen or so people there. “We’re Sara and Tegan.” A few people clapped, including Mom.
“And we’re from Calgary,” Sara added. “And we skipped school to be here.”
“Woohoo!” someone yelled.
“This is called ‘Just Me,’ ” I said into the mic.
“And it’s on our tape,” Sara quickly added. “For sale by our mom.” She pointed.
A guy up front chuckled.
As I started to pick the opening of the song I tried to relax. I closed my eyes and began to sing.
Talked myself into being you, it seemed easier than finding something new.
And I broke them down did it all for you, no need, no need for thank yous.
I backed off the microphone to let Sara sing the next lines.
Go ahead and change, go ahead and change, go ahead and change.
Weaving our voices in and out, I retook the lead.
Talked myself into being strange, to take your very breath away.
And I asked myself why love won’t change, if I could take your very breath away.
Someone brave the waters for me, and for you, I will do the same.
Sara leaned in and finished the verse.
No one’s very real today, no one’s very real today.
The two of us returned the lyrics of the pre-chorus back and forth after that.
All I have to give this world is me, and that’s it.
And all I have to show this world is me, and that’s it.
And all I have to face this world is me, and that’s it.
Just me just me just me,
Just me just me just me,
Just me just me just me.
And that’s it.
Sara barely let the cheering die out before she launched into “Kissing Spiders.” Halfway through our third song, I saw another cluster of people arriving through the Press Club’s front door. Mike, who’d arranged the gig, was with them. I let out a sigh. The people with him weren’t wearing sunglasses and suits, but I was so relieved I didn’t care. It’s all happening, I thought. Sara told a simple story between songs and I teased her about a tiny detail, something small and inconsequential. She stopped the story and teased me back. “Why does it matter?” she asked, feigning annoyance.
“All these people traveled a long way to hear the truth,” I said, deadpan. “Don’t you think?”
The crowd laughed.
I could feel each joke, each moment of conversation between songs slicing away the tension in the room. As people took seats up front, Sara asked them where they were coming from, making small talk as they settled in. I felt us take possession of the stage, of the room, of the set. The fear and disappointment I’d felt twenty minutes earlier was a distant memory. But as I started to introduce our next song, the bartender gave me the “wrap it up” motion.
“This is our last song,” Sara interrupted.
I thanked the crowd, disappointed our showcase was already over, as Sara strummed out the first notes of “Hello.” After we finished, Sara and I went to the side of the stage to pack up our guitars.
“I think it went well.”
“Yeah, I think so, too. I think those were industry people out there, right?”
“I think so. Mike was with them, so probably?”
“Can I ask you two a few questions?” I heard from behind me. I turned. “I’m from the local news. I’d love to talk to you about this incredible thing you two have. Those harmonies are something only family is capable of. Do you mind?” He motioned toward a guy near the front with a camera on a tripod. “There’s more light there in the window.”
“Sure!” we shouted, leaving our guitars and following him to the front.
After the interview, a dark-haired man with black glasses and a leather jacket approached. “I’m Bryan Potvin. I work for PolyGram. I already talked to your mom, and I don’t want to bug you but, is this really your phone number?” He held up The Yellow Tape. “Like, to your home?”
“Yes,” Sara said.
A crooked smile spread across his face. “Okay then,” he responded. “I’ll be calling you first thing on Monday.”
When we got back to the hotel, we jumped between the two beds in the room as Mom told us about each person she’d talked to after we played, handing us their business cards as she did. Cheering with Sara, I forgot the disappointment of being put on early, the anxiety I’d felt imagining we’d missed our shot. I ke
pt thinking about Bryan while Mom listened to the messages on the phone.
“Get me a pen, get me a pen—quick,” she said, flinging her hand around. I raced to grab one and gave it to her. She scribbled out a long line of numbers and hung up. “They’ve offered you a chance to go up and play a song on another show tomorrow, to make up for your early start tonight. And there’s press who want to interview you beforehand.”
“Oh my god!”
“It’s a real show, with other artists, at a theater or something. I have to call him back. Yes, right? Yes?”
“Yes!” we screamed.
Sprawled in varying positions on the floor backstage, Veda Hille, Kinnie Starr, and Oh Susanna were midstretch when Sara and I were led into the green room and introduced quickly before the show the following night. I felt immeasurable shyness as we left. These were professional musicians. Good ones. This was a theater, not a bar. I felt underwater, out of our depth, on the verge of a total meltdown. Between Mom and Sara in the theater, I watched the women perform while holding my breath.
“And now,” Veda announced after an hour, “we have a special surprise for you all here tonight.”
My stomach dropped.
“Go,” Mom whispered, pushing me out of my seat, toward Sara and the aisle. “Good luck.” As we dodged across the stage, I heard Veda say, “Sara and Tegan are going to come up here—here they come—and play us a song. They’re from Calgary, and they are in . . . high school.” As I sat down with my guitar, she leaned back from the mic. “Is that right? You’re in high school?”
“Yes,” I said, startling myself; my mic was on, and my voice blasted into the theater. A chuckle rippled through the audience. “Yes,” I said more softly. “We skipped school to come here. We’re in grade twelve.”
“Well, then we’re even more happy to have you. Let’s give them a big cheer, you guys. Sara and Tegan.”
We leapt into “Here I Am” like runners off the line. We had chosen the song because it was five minutes long. Though far from our favorite, we had agreed beforehand that if we had only one song to make an impression, we should choose the longest and the most emotional. I forgot about the other artists onstage and the audience as we started to sing. Weaving our way through the different sections, I listened intently to the reverberation of our voices and instruments off the back walls. I had dreamed of record deals, but not of this. It felt immensely satisfying to play in such a big and beautiful space. In the final minute of the song, as Sara screamed, “Louder and louder it will build and fade, and soon your love will turn to hate,” again and again, I layered my final line, “I’m underqualified, I’m undersatisfied, and I lie,” into the beats between her own words. Smacking the strings for the final refrain, Sara yelled, “I will take you to the end of tomorrow, I will take you to the end of my world,” and when I joined her, the two of us singing loudly in unison, our bodies nearly lifted off our seats. I felt a collective intake of breath from every person in the room, including the women on the stage with us, as we abruptly stopped. The ending of the song was intentionally ragged and sharp, to leave listeners feeling uncomfortably unresolved. There was a pause that felt minutes long, and then the crowd erupted. As it subsided, Veda leaned over to Suzie next to her. Suzie did the same to Kinnie.
