A Year Of Living Stupidly

10. Seventeen Steps

I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm ready.

Ready to give music another shot. That's what I tell Threeb. It's been two months since she, Ex-Partner, Drummer, and Very Dear Friend all strongly 'suggested'  I put down the substances that have commanded a little too much of my attention. I'm not mad at them, especially not Threeb. She's not the one who nearly got us killed on our honeymoon hunting down blow from strangers.

I will do things differently this time. I'm going to pick one style and stay within the lines. I won't allow myself to get bored or restless and stir things up. I'll stay focused. Many people I know in the business still have jobs. Maybe I'll listen to their comments instead of automatically telling them to keep their ignorant opinions to themselves and leave the art to the artists. They are the professionals. And it takes a village to make a music career. No reason everyone can't contribute and enjoy the process.

Write. I must write. Need songs and a new band. I've made enough friends I can piece together a tight unit. But before I do that, I must woodshed and come up with the material. A little time by myself to probe the recesses of my soul and pan for gold without the distractions of others inserting themselves into the process is all I need. I'll let people give me notes once I finish the initial writing. But it's my job to do the first round of heavy lifting. You can't let anyone hear anything incomplete. No one has ears anymore. They can't hear a work in progress and imagine the finished product. You have to spoon-feed them every detail. There's no such thing as a demo. The first thing you play them must be the final version, complete in every aspect, with no need for polish, even.

...

"That seems like a lot of pressure," She says.

"It's what I do."

...

The songs are pretty good. Pretty good. They're utter shit. I toss them all out and start over. Twice. I can't write about love or any other basic human emotions. I'm spent in that area. Maybe I have something to say about being spent. Or not. I'll just open a newspaper and write about what's going on in the world. There's always something to get riled up about—wars, poverty, injustice. You've got to be poetic about it; too 'on the nose,' and you come off as trite.

Focusing on my job is difficult. The work is literal, and my mind constantly searches for metaphors. It's a nonstop conflict of synapses. I get more done the nights Threeb is at her acting classes. We sometimes argue when she's home and I'm in the middle of writing. She's upset I'm not paying enough attention to her. I don't understand how she's able to turn off her acting when she walks out of the classroom, the same way I can't understand how someone can go to a bar and have one drink. How do you do that?

More time. Just a little.

I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm almost ready.

Fuck. I'm twenty-eight. The career roadblock that is thirty looms.

Okay—I've got songs. They're good. Instead of trying to knock down the walls from the outside, I'm writing songs that sound like they belong in music today. It's not selling out. It's called being smart for a change.

I've got a band. They're all good players, all on the same page. I don't have to dictate anything. They hear the music in the right way and come up with parts that improve.

I book a show at one of my regular clubs late on a Sunday night and do nothing to promote it. The act is not ready. We need more stage time, but I can't risk playing in Hollywood. You can't guarantee that the person you want to do business with won't show up by chance and catch your set before you're ready to present.

It's taking the long way, and it will cost money, but I book a brief tour, starting in Milwaukee. I haven't lived there in five years, but my name still carries enough weight to get a couple of nights in our former residence club. The old fans fill the room and are receptive to the new act. I treat them to a few favorites from the old days. I'm not stupid. It's a low-pressure way to start the tour.

BF shows up. No sign of 3a, which is for the best, since Threeb has flown in. Maybe that's why Threeb came. I regret leaving things dangling with 3a. Part of me would like to finish business with her face-to-face.

The crowds in St. Louis and Oklahoma City are sparse, but it forces us to work harder to win the audiences over. We need that discipline. Austin is almost completely empty, but those in attendance wish we have CDs or merch to sell. Didn't think of that. Phoenix has new owners who won't honor our contract. I'm not in the mood for a fight, so we press on homeward.

Our tour succeeded on every level for my purposes. The band is ready. We book shows and my new seventeen-year-old Manager hits the ground running. I refuse to do private showcases. The suits must witness the energy of a full room.

The response to the first six shows is positive but no one's put a ring on my finger yet. Manager and Lawyer conduct the serious phone meetings I avoid. I have second thoughts about a few of the songs, and I'm tempted to make changes, but everyone convinces me to leave well enough alone for now. I follow the advice and step out of my own way.

At last, one exec steps up into the serious phase of the courtship, so I book a show just for him. I've taken the day off from work. My pulse stays elevated all day. I change wardrobe choices and rearrange the setlist until I lose all perspective. I'm being a lunatic, I know. Threeb resorts to giving me a blowjob to get me down off the walls. It does the trick for a while, but before long, my mind races again.

One drink would take the edge off. I know what I said about not being able to stop at one, but that's really all I need. It's been so long since I've touched alcohol and I never eat the day of a show. There's no telling how much even one would impact me. Best to not tempt fate. I wish I knew how to meditate.

The air in Hollywood is it's usual May cool as Threeb and I pass the line to get into the club. I ask the Side of Beef manning the door about the size of the crowd inside. He responds with a succinct, "Monday," and lifts the velvet rope.

Ex-Partner makes an entrance above the pay grade of his celebrity. No judgments. He offers support in the verbal shorthand we developed over the years, and I thank him in similar code. I wish Drummer were here.

The crowd inside is a mix of fans, fame vampires thirsty for their moment in the spotlight, and a smattering of the actually famous sequestered in the V.I.P. I'd say about sixty percent are there to see my set. The rest will be mine within three or four songs. Till then, I'll pace the dressing room and ignore the alcohol on the table. Sober is almost habitual now. I'd never deny the others' needs to put on the best show possible. I have to live in the real world.

I've instructed Manager and Lawyer I don't want to meet the Suit before the show. I can't let myself get distracted by small talk or business. The pre-show conversation backstage turns to cars and suddenly 3a sits on the center console, caressing my leg in the dark.

"We're up," the stage manager calls into the dressing room. 3a evaporates. It's seventeen steps to the stage.