brother comes out the worst. Confused and bereft, he won’t understand a damn thing about the politics that surround him, only that he’s lost another friend.
Is my father right? Am I dragging Conner through a maze of uncertainty and instability? Is my uncle miserable, faking wanting to be here only to make sure I don’t destroy his nephew?
Too bad I can’t simply say “things were better before, let’s go back to that,” cause that’s certainly not the case. Before sucked colossally, no one happy or stable.
And now’s not looking real great either. Which leaves only future…so I guess we’ll see what happens.
***
Tonight’s show is at Fletcher’s, a skeezy, way too big and too questionable venue for my brother, so not only am I dismal from today’s events and our wanderer having wandered, but I made Bruce and Conner skip the show, giving them free run of my credit card for a movie or something else fun instead.
With some last minute adjustments, Jarrett’s got his bass in hand and I’m about to shred on the guitar strapped around my neck. I usually prefer to play piano, but tonight I need raw, soul-searing metal in my hands—and we need a guitarist.
“Who’s already hammered out there?” I yell into the mic, pressing my boot to the foot pedal, ready to melt faces and ears alike.
The crowd roars and wolf whistles in response, feasting off my aggression. “Well good. After the show, I just might join ya. We’re See You Next Tuesday, but I won’t. Rolling out of here later, headed for some other bullshit. Anyways, this first one’s a favorite of mine and grossly appropriate.”
I lead into “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins, not found on our set list. The boys catch on seamlessly and join in, I knew they would, but cared nothing if they didn’t. Even if by myself, it’s my battle cry, to Cannon, Rhett, life…all disarming me, testing my strength.
Eyes closed, head back and whole world spinning around in my head, I leave everything in the song. Painfully personifying lyrics burn their way up my throat and damn near cry out my mouth, the words objectifying me so much so that I’m drained when it’s over, yet tempted to sing it again.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Jarrett laughs into his own microphone as I fall silent, pulling my eyes open.
It’s probably stupid and unrealistic, but I know who he means without the slightest movement of my head. Amongst the noise of the bar and the heat of the lights—more than anything, I can feel his return.
“Sorry I’m late,” that seductively rich voice rings out. “I must’ve misplaced our schedule.”
Frozen, losing my anger-fueled showmanship all at once, I fight to keep my focus straight ahead. Thank God Jarrett knows me so well, immediately commandeering the lead.
“Give it up for Liz on guitar!”
I use the break to unstrap and take the guitar to side stage, almost not wanting to walk back out. But I’m back, front and center, by the third bar of our original “Unapologetically,” a ditty written by all three of us, featuring jovial, more on the country side, lyrics with a mean bass line. One of my faves. Rhett sings this one with me from behind his drum kit, the ray of sun returning from behind the clouds evident in his harmonious tenor.
With Jarrett at the helm, of course there’s double meaning banter in between every song; he loves playing with the crowd. And his ornery segue to our fifth number seems to be a crowd favorite, judging by applause and raucous laughter.
“Say Cannon?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Say what?” the man to my right, who I still haven’t looked at, answers.
“I believe you may be in the doghouse with our lead mistress, bro. What’re you gonna do about that?”
My head flings to the left, shooting Jarrett a viscous scowl. How dare he broadcast band problems on stage? This isn’t a stand-up routine, especially at my expense.
“Well, if she’d afford me so much as a glance, I’d
Is my father right? Am I dragging Conner through a maze of uncertainty and instability? Is my uncle miserable, faking wanting to be here only to make sure I don’t destroy his nephew?
Too bad I can’t simply say “things were better before, let’s go back to that,” cause that’s certainly not the case. Before sucked colossally, no one happy or stable.
And now’s not looking real great either. Which leaves only future…so I guess we’ll see what happens.
***
Tonight’s show is at Fletcher’s, a skeezy, way too big and too questionable venue for my brother, so not only am I dismal from today’s events and our wanderer having wandered, but I made Bruce and Conner skip the show, giving them free run of my credit card for a movie or something else fun instead.
With some last minute adjustments, Jarrett’s got his bass in hand and I’m about to shred on the guitar strapped around my neck. I usually prefer to play piano, but tonight I need raw, soul-searing metal in my hands—and we need a guitarist.
“Who’s already hammered out there?” I yell into the mic, pressing my boot to the foot pedal, ready to melt faces and ears alike.
The crowd roars and wolf whistles in response, feasting off my aggression. “Well good. After the show, I just might join ya. We’re See You Next Tuesday, but I won’t. Rolling out of here later, headed for some other bullshit. Anyways, this first one’s a favorite of mine and grossly appropriate.”
I lead into “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins, not found on our set list. The boys catch on seamlessly and join in, I knew they would, but cared nothing if they didn’t. Even if by myself, it’s my battle cry, to Cannon, Rhett, life…all disarming me, testing my strength.
Eyes closed, head back and whole world spinning around in my head, I leave everything in the song. Painfully personifying lyrics burn their way up my throat and damn near cry out my mouth, the words objectifying me so much so that I’m drained when it’s over, yet tempted to sing it again.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Jarrett laughs into his own microphone as I fall silent, pulling my eyes open.
It’s probably stupid and unrealistic, but I know who he means without the slightest movement of my head. Amongst the noise of the bar and the heat of the lights—more than anything, I can feel his return.
“Sorry I’m late,” that seductively rich voice rings out. “I must’ve misplaced our schedule.”
Frozen, losing my anger-fueled showmanship all at once, I fight to keep my focus straight ahead. Thank God Jarrett knows me so well, immediately commandeering the lead.
“Give it up for Liz on guitar!”
I use the break to unstrap and take the guitar to side stage, almost not wanting to walk back out. But I’m back, front and center, by the third bar of our original “Unapologetically,” a ditty written by all three of us, featuring jovial, more on the country side, lyrics with a mean bass line. One of my faves. Rhett sings this one with me from behind his drum kit, the ray of sun returning from behind the clouds evident in his harmonious tenor.
With Jarrett at the helm, of course there’s double meaning banter in between every song; he loves playing with the crowd. And his ornery segue to our fifth number seems to be a crowd favorite, judging by applause and raucous laughter.
“Say Cannon?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Say what?” the man to my right, who I still haven’t looked at, answers.
“I believe you may be in the doghouse with our lead mistress, bro. What’re you gonna do about that?”
My head flings to the left, shooting Jarrett a viscous scowl. How dare he broadcast band problems on stage? This isn’t a stand-up routine, especially at my expense.
“Well, if she’d afford me so much as a glance, I’d
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