Parallel Roads ↠ Daisy Jones & The Six

track 006: our house

TRACK SIX:
OUR HOUSE

❝ our house is a very, very, very fine house
with two cats in the yard
life used to be so hard
now everything is easy 'cause of you ❞
— graham nash, joni mitchell (demo)

.•° ✿ °•.

     To say that they bombed might be putting it a little harshly; but that's as nice as the assessment of Rusted Rose's set could be. Without Richie, as loathsome as he was, they all fumbled after the carpet had been yanked from beneath their feet. Hank seemed lacking in his usual energy, Goldie was struggling to keep up after learning Richie's parts last minute, and Carlo counted them in too early on 'Rumble'. Francesca remembers her palms sweating against the guitar strings, as her eyes scanned the crowds for any sign of a producer keeping an eye on them...

     But nothing. There was no one there, not that she could see, anyway.

     All of that was for nothing.

Dejected, the band exit the building and lean against the outside wall, Hank taking out a cigarette to light (which Goldie keeps away from; she abstains from smoking, a firm believer that her vocal chords will then be better maintained, and how could any of them argue with that?). The night air is suddenly a little cooler, Francesca shivering slightly as her hairs stand on end.

"I mean... it could've been worse," says Carlo, at last breaking the silence.

     Hank lets out a harsh laugh. More than anything, he seems embittered at the way things have turned out.

     "Yeah, there could've been a big-shot from a record label in there to watch us crash and burn..." Victoria adds glumly. "Did you guys see anyone in there?"

     "Nope," Francesca sighs with a shake of her head.

     "Look, this doesn't have to be it," Goldie interjects, hoping to raise their spirits. "People bomb onstage all the time. You just have to get up again and keep trying, trying and trying."

     "Easy for you to say..." Hank mumbles. Then, catching himself, he stubs out his cigarette. "Sorry, forget I said that, I just..."

     Victoria entertains the idea of a witness to their disaster for a moment. "Imagine if you'd looked into the crowd and seen, say, Eddie Kramer, or—"

     "Teddy Price," Goldie says.

     "Yeah, him too I suppose, but—"

     "No, Teddy Price," the singer says again, stunned, as she starts looking pointedly over Victoria's shoulder. The rest of the band turn around to look themselves, onto where the marquee lights splash onto the pavement. It takes a moment for the figure to register in her mind — but surely enough, Francesca soon registers who it is. But no... it can't be... could it? Sometimes she forgets that they are in L.A. now, and this place is crawling with star-studded faces up and down the Hollywood hills.

     It is the producer, Teddy Price, in the flesh.

     He's smaller than Francesca thought he would be. Once she thinks it, she cannot believe herself — that's the first thing that pops into her head? Maybe it's because she has always built up the giants of music as gods, and to see them as normal humans in front of her is something else entirely. His leather jacket squeaks around his movements as he squints at the band.