Rocked Up

by Karina Halle

  “A girl? Hmm,” Calvi responds stiffly, staring into nothing, thinking of god knows what.

  “A girl?” Switch repeats, his eyebrows scrunched together and the corner of his lip curled into a smile.

  “Yeah, a girl…so…” I answer.

  Knock-knock.

  Here comes the moment of truth.

  Arnie opens the door and in walks Lael with bass in hand with all the ease and confidence of a professional, her thick teal hair looking striking. She’s dressed to impress. Lael glances at the three of us lounging with beer and chopsticks in hand and gives us an unimpressed look. Then she scans the room and struts over to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier.

  Leather pants look much better on her than on Jazz McKinnon. Her sleeveless shirt has a White Zombie graphic, and the collar is artistically torn and split, exposing her tawny skin.

  “I’ll have the engineer set you up,” Arnie politely says to Lael.

  “Thanks, but I’m good,” Lael responds, keeping her attention on the bass amp that’s taller than she is.

  She takes off her small purse that’s the exact same shade of teal as her hair and pulls out a guitar effect pedal. Mr. Robson used to call those pedals dirt boxes. She gets down on one knee and plugs her guitar into the pedal that happens to be the exact same color as her purse and hair.

  She then plugs another cable into the opposite end of the pedal and stands up to finally plug into the large amplifier. With a snap and crackle, the amp comes alive. Lael reaches up and twiddles the knobs on the amp.

  Then she slams her foot down on her pretty little effect pedal and the sound that comes out is anything but pretty—a mean growl shakes the room. Her knees bend slightly every time she hits the top string of her bass. Her right arm rises up and slams down aggressively every time she hits the note. Finally, she turns toward us sitting at the edge of our seats, where we are watching her every move, and puts one hand on her hip.

  Arnie knows very well who she is, but we agreed we would keep her lineage a secret for the audition at least. The band has never had to meet or deal with her before, and even if they did, it would have been back in the day. Arnie stands between us and Lael like a social referee and makes his introductions doing his best to ignore the strange energy in the room.

  “Lael, meet Calvi, Switch, and Brad, collectively known as the band And Then. Gentlemen, meet Lael. She’s here to audition to be the interim bassist for the upcoming American tour. I will let you get acquainted.”

  Arnie opens the door and walks out backwards, giving me a smile just before it closes.

  “Hey,” Calvi says to Lael after an awkward silence.

  “Hey,” Lael responds, just as casually.

  “You have a pretty killer sound there,” I speak up.

  “Thanks,” she says, trying not to smile.

  “What kind of pedal is that?” Switch asks.

  “It’s one of a kind.”

  I stand up and walk toward Lael, extending my hand. She takes it, and while we shake hands and hold eye contact, she very briefly breaks away from the tough girl routine.

  “Nice to meet you, Lael,” I say with a smile.

  “You too,” she says almost shyly.

  I’m tempted to wink at her but I don’t.

  “Lets have some fun, fellas, shall we?” I say and walk toward the equipment.

  Switch walks behind his drums and Calvi to his guitar. Switch does a few rolls and hits on his drums as he always does, as if to make sure they still make a sound when you hit them. Calvi tunes his guitar. I feel like if I don’t just count off the song they’ll be adjusting their instruments all day.

  “All right. Rust in My Bones, in one, two, three, four.”

  We’ve played the song a thousand times but it’s never sounded as good as it does right now, with Lael on the bass. She is fucking wild. Her overdriven sound makes the song meaner, heavier, while she adds notes, slaps and slides in the perfect spots. She holds a wide powerful stance, like she owns the room, owns the song, as her bass guitar hangs almost to her knees. Her entire upper body thrusts into each and every note. At every change in the song, Calvi, Switch, and I exchange a look of amazement and joy and begin to play with more enthusiasm, trying to match her. Lael’s over-the-top approach is infectious, and by mid-song the whole band is playing at full throttle.

  Toward the end of the song it’s like we’re all competing to be the component with the highest energy. Switch is standing up when he rolls along the toms, and slams his drums harder than usual. Calvi has his foot on an amp, playing harder than he normally does. Rather than tapping my foot, my entire leg bounces up and down.

  The song usually has a tight ending but this time we hold the last note for what seems like days, everyone building and building. Lael reaches down and makes her teal pedal go into oblivion.

  Finally, with our guitars raised high in the air, Switch does his final roll on the drums and we all slam down and end the long crescendo. For some reason, as it sometimes happens when we’re jamming, we all laugh.

  “Duuude,” Calvi says to Lael.

  I’m still laughing, overjoyed and completely blown away as I reach for my beer. I take a long swig and exchange a look with Switch. It seems he feels the same way too.

  “That was pretty bad-ass,” I manage to say to her when I’m done swallowing.

  But Lael is already unplugging her pedal and putting it back into her purse, ready to go.

  Arnie opens the door and addresses the room, “Thank you, Lael. That was fantastic. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks for having me. See ya, boys.” She smiles at each of us and heads through the door that Arnie is holding open for her with the same confidence she walked in with.

  When it clicks shut, the air in the room changes.

  “I never really thought about having a girl in the band, but why not, I think it’s cool,” Calvi says while he rests his guitar on a stand.

  “I like her,” I tell them. I liked her before, but after seeing her actually play? Shit, we would be fools not to take her.

  Well, aside from the messy complications of who she really is.

  “Yup,” Switch agrees.

  Arnie, however, doesn’t share the same enthusiasm. I can tell he’s being a little cautious with her, and for all the right reasons.

  “You know,” he says carefully, brushing his long grey hair behind his ears. “She’s pretty young. Maybe she needs a little more experience. I mean, it’s a long tour and demanding as hell. I thought Beddis sounded pretty good.”

  But in this moment, there doesn’t seem to be any choice. I choose to ignore Arnie’s warning as we all take our seats, open fresh beers, and look at each other with confirming smiles.

  “All in favor of Lael say aye,” Calvi says, raising his beer, insinuating if we agree it will be a binding contract.

  “Aye,” Switch says, holding up his beer. They both turn to me.

  “Aye,” I say and hold up my beer. Then we bang our cans together.

  “Majority rules, motion passed,” Calvi says with a laugh.

  Arnie stands in front of us with his arms crossed, stroking his long grey beard.

  “Oh boy,” he says under his breath.

  Chapter Six

  Lael

  My life has come full circle.

  Well, if full circle includes me with my hand over my mouth, feeling like I’m going to vomit. Because I might just do that.

  I’m backstage with And Then, hanging around outside their dressing room at the Palladium Theater, just as I did back when I was fourteen at their very first show.

  Only now I’m part of the band.

  I’m officially their bassist.

  I have been for a few weeks now.

  And this is our first show.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve rehearsed with the band (not enough, in my opinion, it’s like trying to herd cats), or how many times I’ve done it on my own, I’m not ready.

  How could I
ever be ready for this?

  “Breathe,” Brad says and I look up to see him staring at me with a bemused smirk on his face.

  I try and breathe but all I can do is gulp for air. Does he even realize that he said that exact thing to me all those years ago in this exact same place?

  It’s hard to tell with Brad sometimes. He keeps mainly to himself, even at rehearsals, and while he’s not stingy with the praise and has been pretty encouraging, it usually stops at that.

  “I’m trying to breathe,” I tell him. “God, weren’t you this nervous for your first show?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. I hardly remember it.”

  “How can you not remember it? I think this will be branded in my brain for the rest of my life.”

  He scratches at the stubble on his chin. Sexy stubble, I might add. Brad’s dressed pretty low-key for tonight’s show: a black t-shirt that shows off his muscles, black jeans just tight enough to show off his ass. His hair is pushed back off his face, his eyes are dark and smoldering as always. Sometimes I wonder how I’m able to play my bass, let alone talk to him, without drooling.

  But I have an image to obtain and that’s one of being a consummate musician and a total professional. Of course I feel like I’m failing at both right now. Because, you know, wanting to vomit and everything.

  “I’ll tell you that I remember playing the first show ever by myself. I opened for Iggy Pop…somehow.” He grins at me, flashing me his pearly whites that make me weak at the knees. “The stars aligned that day. My birthday. Anyway, that show I’ll never forget. But all the rest of the shows kind of blend in with each other.” He gives me a sly look, leaning in closer. What little breath I have hitches in my throat. “I’ll tell you something. Before every show, I go into a zone of sorts. It’s probably why I don’t remember them all so well. But it gets the job done.”

  “Are you in the zone now?” I ask quietly, conscious of how close we are to each other.

  “I will be in a few minutes. So don’t take offense if I seem a bit standoffish.”

  “I would never. You do what you need to do…I’ll…just try not to throw up.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I feel waves of mild current flow through him to me, heating my skin. I know it’s all in my head but I’m feeling so alive right now so who knows. Everything is heightened for good or bad.

  “You’re going to do great, Lael,” he says to me. “Trust me. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in you. You want to know the trick?”

  “What?” Yes. Yes, give me all the fucking tricks.

  “Show them no respect.”

  I frown. “Ummm.”

  He explains. “The reason you’re nervous is because you care too much about what they think. The audience. The crowd. This isn’t about them. They’re here to see you but you’re not here to see them. Give them no respect. Play for you. Don’t worry what they think. You have a story to tell and a show to give and you’ll do it because they’re here for you. Don’t forget that.”

  “It sounds a little crude.”

  He shrugs casually. “Rock and roll is crude, baby.”

  I smile at him, feeling some of my nerves wash away. “That it is.”

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says with a wink, “I’m going to go into beast mode. I’ll see you on the other side. And remember, you’re going to do fine. Just be yourself.”

  “And show no fear.”

  “No respect, but that works too.”

  Then he turns and walks off toward the back wings of the stage.

  Oh shit. Oh shit, does that mean it’s almost time? What do I do?

  I catch Arnie walking past me, his face furrowed in concentration, staring down at his phone.

  “Arnie,” I call out, running beside him. “Where do I go? When do we start?”

  He glances at me briefly. “Oh, it’s you. Just find the rest of the band.”

  “Brad already went on stage.”

  “He’s in the zone.”

  “I know. So what do I do? How much time till we go on?”

  He glances at the phone. “Two minutes, love.” Then he walks off.

  “Two minutes!?” I shriek.

  Just then the dressing room door opens and Switch and Calvi and one of the guitar techs step out.

  “Hey, you didn’t run off,” Calvi says with a smirk.

  “No, I didn’t,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m ready. At least I think I am.”

  “You’re ready as you’ll ever be,” Switch says, patting me on the back and turning me around toward the stage. “Come on, the stage is this way.”

  Fuck. I’m not calm, not even in the slightest. The minute Brad went into beast mode and walked off, all my confidence went with him. I have to repeat to myself over and over again, as crude as it sounds, show them no respect, show them no respect.

  By the time I’m waiting in the wings of the stage beside Switch and Calvi, Brad off in his own world, looking like a madman, I’m practically shouting the mantra to myself.

  Show them no respect!

  And yet there they are. I can see them, the audience. They are loud and the show is sold-out and absolutely crammed full, from the fans being squished against the barricade to the line of photographers between them and the stage, looking bored out of their mind as they wait, to the people up in the rafters practically leaning over the railings. This is utter madness.

  This is my dream.

  A mix of adrenaline and anxiety and pure fucking joy courses through my veins until I’m sure I might just explode right here and all that will be left will be Lael pixie dust. Something I’m sure Calvi would snort up his nose right away.

  “You ready?” Switch asks as one of the techs goes out and starts adjusting Brad’s microphone, saying, “Check one, check two, check, check” and the crowd goes absolutely wild.

  I shake my head, biting my lip though I can’t tell if it’s because I’m trying not to puke or trying not to smile.

  This is unreal.

  This is so unreal.

  “Ready or not,” Switch says, “it’s show time.”

  He glances across the stage where Arnie is standing, arms folded across his chest, and he nods, giving a signal.

  “We’re not going to huddle or something?” I ask Switch in a panic, pulling on his sleeve. His t-shirt already feels soaked in sweat and he hasn’t even started drumming yet.

  “Huddle?” he says, then his eyes turn salacious. “I’ll gladly give you a private huddle, darling.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and push him out of the way. “Pass. You go drum your drums.”

  “You go rock that bass.”

  And then Calvi stalks off onto the darkness of the stage, almost in a huff, and I know I have no choice but to follow and find my mark and my instrument, just as we went over during sound check.

  It’s surreal.

  That’s the only way to explain it.

  I walk through the blue dark of the stage over to my bass while the crowd gets louder and louder. I try not to look at their faces, I try to pay attention to just the bass strap going around my shoulders.

  But I can’t help but glance at the crowd. Harsh blue light shines down on them and I know they can’t really see me but they’re waiting. Waiting for when Brad walks on stage, when the main lights go on, when we launch into “Fuzzface” our first song.

  I’m waiting too.

  Heart pounding against my chest.

  Stomach swirling.

  Breath hitched in my throat.

  This is it.

  Then the crowd roars, a crescendo that climbs higher and higher and I feel like my soul is being lifted up on a wave.

  Brad is on stage.

  Though I can’t see his face, he glances over his shoulder at me and nods.

  The lights go on.

  We go on.

  And just like that the crowd only exists to feed me. I go into my own version of beast mode. I am a monster that
thrives on cheers and cries and the sweat of everyone in this theater.

  I pummel the bass, whipping my hair around, putting every ounce of energy into every note and for now I feel limitless, like my energy has endless reserves that can never be exhausted.

  And through it all, I feel intensely connected to Brad, more than I thought I could. I feel connected to everyone. On the stage, in the crowd. We’re all one, all feeding off each other, all lifting each other until we come together in the song.

  It’s the best feeling I’ve ever had in my life.

  And I know I want to keep doing this until the day I die.

  ***

  “This is a little ridiculous,” I yell up at George, the driver of the bus.

  As in the driver of my bus.

  As in, I have a fucking bus all to myself because my father doesn’t want me riding with the rest of the band for who knows what reason. He probably thinks they’re a bad influence on me, as if I can be so easily coerced.

  Either way, it’s ridiculous.

  “I know,” George, a heavy-set guy with a perpetually sweaty forehead, says. “Believe me. Every single tour is an even greater pain in the ass. Why the hell can’t Brad fly? I mean, a private jet? Your father would surely get him a fucking private jet. So he’s afraid of flying? Just drug him up.”

  “You know what they say about rock stars and airplanes,” I tell him, coming up to sit beside him in the passenger seat. I sigh as I look ahead of us, the back of the tour bus that the rest of the band is on. My band.

  “This is just another way to segregate me from them,” I say, crossing my arms. I’ve been floating through most of the day on a high from last night but now that it’s stretching into the evening and we’re speeding up the I-5 to Seattle, I’m losing a bit of the buzz.

  Mainly because I’m annoyed.

  I don’t know if at this point it’s my father or the band who really want me traveling back here. After last night’s performance, I was certain that I would feel one step closer to the band. I certainly did when I was on stage.

  But when we walked off stage after the encore, everyone went their separate ways. There were no pats on the back, no jobs well done. Nothing. It’s like the show didn’t even happen. We just got on our separate buses and that was that.