Julien Baker: One-Shots and Stories

Conversation Piece - Part I

I drop down onto a loveseat in the corner, tipping back my beer to finish it.

I place the empty bottle on the coffee table and scan the room. Try desperately to act casual, to plaster on my usual understated, yet confident grin - the consummate pop star, ready with a laugh and a warm greeting for anyone.

But underneath, my insides tremble.

Jesus, why had I allowed myself to do that?!

She'd run me through with that trademark brand of electricity, until my self-control cracked, and for a brief moment, I'd given in to it. To desire.

I can hear the thump of bass behind Dua Lipa's husky voice, lilting over the din of the crowd congregating around Terra, my guitar tech's, birthday cake, set on the dining table in the next room.

Lucy is slicing and passing pieces of the huge chocolate confection as everyone sings tipsily along: I got new rules, I count'em . . .

The label had spared no expense for this, the last night of our North American tour. I normally don't like to make everyone bend to my whims -- even though, as the headliner and star, they really would do most anything I asked.

But after four straight months of gigs, with rarely more than two days between shows, I felt it would be ok, just this once, to request a hometown tour wrap, in Chicago.

I'd still felt a twinge of guilt, though, so I'd offered up my condo as the location for the wrap party. I'd recently bought these spacious digs with the influx of cash from the success of my first album, that I still couldn't wrap my head around. Three bedrooms, a huge living area, two balconies, a kitchenette, and a built-in stereo system.

But I'd barely spent any time there - I'd spent six of the last eight months on the road. So this party was nearly as exciting for me as for everyone else.

And it had just gotten quite a bit more exciting.

I smile inwardly at the excited thrill that runs through me, despite my long-held trepidations. Maybe just maybe, I'd been all wrong about her . . .

I thought back to that first night of tour.

The boys - as everyone lovingly referred to our opening band for this tour, boygenius - had been halfway through their soundcheck when I arrived at the Orpheum.

I stumbled in through the side door of the theater, tripping over things and apologizing to people, as usual . . . I always seemed to have a million bags over my shoulders, no matter how many people offered to help.

My sunglasses slid down my nose as the opening chords of $20 began. I looked up when I heard her voice, which, having listened to their new album, I knew was coming.

But in that moment, all I'd really seen was her.

That tiny body filled with the energy of a mustang, her eyes closed but her mouth open wider than seemed possible. Her voice, clear and strong as a French horn, filling the auditorium. Her thick hair whirling as she poured her life force into the song.

The lollipop in my mouth lolled sideways as my mouth hung open. Thank God she'd been too wrapped up in the music to look my way, or she'd have caught me gawking like a teenage boy.

"Zoe . . . Zoe babe, could ya --"

Terra's voice had roused me from my haze and I jumped sideways from the doorway, apologizing profusely to the crew who streamed into the theater.

Later, just before their soundcheck, we'd had introductions backstage. Lucy was as lovely and Phoebe as hilarious as I'd expected.

When Julien approached, hand outstretched and smile beaming, I'd swallowed hard before responding in kind.