Monday morning, I was at the studio promptly at eight. It was located in the Bowery just off the East Village. The building was a hundred years old with the original ornamented triple layer of brickwork with exposed massive arched steel supports. The receptionist directed me to Mike's office.
Mike was sitting at his desk reading. He looked up as I came in the open doorway.
"Hey nice to see you again."
"You too."
I approached the desk and shook his hand.
"At Probability we're always looking for great studio musicians—essentially guns for hire."
"Like the Wreaking Crew?"
"Exactly. This might surprise you, but some popular artists are not always the most musically talented so we might have our guys jump in for a session or two to get a good clean recording. You interested?"
"Yeah of course."
"You might have to fill in for someone at a concert or two. Maybe even go on tour once or twice. Rock stars live turbulent lifestyles. They're often getting sick or require occasional stints in rehab. We don't like to cancel shows unless we absolutely have to. Promoters get testy, understandably so because it gets messy giving out refunds and radio ads and publicity are expensive. If we can avoid it, it's for the best. Anyway, we've got a studio in the basement, I'd like to hear you play again and maybe record a few tracks for a demo tape, if that's OK?"
"Sure."
He led me down the elevator to the basement. They had the coolest recording studio with the biggest mixing board I'd ever seen in the control room behind an eight-foot-wide fixed glass window. The recording studio was sound insulated with thick dark colored foam and fabric materials on the walls and ceiling. The room was filled with microphones in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some hung down from above, others rested on stands. There was a stage with a drum set and other instruments including a few guitars.
"Have you ever used an Ibanez Tube Screamer?"
He was referring to a foot pedal used to create a variety of cool sound effects on an electric guitar.
"Nope."
"I want you give it a whirl."
"Sure."
He already had a blue Fender Stratocaster guitar amped up and ready to go.
I strummed a few notes. It sounded good. I adjusted the reverb settings, gave it another strum or two, finetuning the settings. I grinned and nodded my head, then played the opening riff from the Rush song, Tom Sawyer.
"How do you like it?"
"I love it."
He handed me a few pages of sheet music.
"I want to hear you play a few songs from, Gravity Source."
I couldn't believe it. They were one of my all-time favorite bands. I positioned the sheet music on a stand as Mike walked out of the room. I curled and uncurled my fingers a few times to stretch them then played a few notes, and then cut loose and tore into the music. Mike smiled and nodded his head from inside the booth.
"You want to start recording now?"
Mike gave me a thumbs up sign from behind the glass.
The first song was a popular ballad that was on the radio quite a bit my sophomore year in high school. Next was another song with quite a bit of radio play as well. I played a few more of their more popular songs and ended with their big hit, Demon Lover. Mike was nodding along as I jammed. It was a good sign for sure.
After I'd played all the songs, I set the Stratocaster down on the edge of the stage as Mike emerged from the recording booth.
"I guess the reason I'm here has something to do with Gravity Source?"
"That would be a good guess."
"So, what happens now?"
"Go home. I'll call you if we need anything."
I couldn't believe he was going to leave me hanging like that. I assumed he'd play my demo to the band, or to some of the other guys from the record label and they'd come to a decision as to whether I was good enough. They obviously needed something, but maybe there were other candidates too. Maybe I was competing against a bunch of other great guitar players. The more I considered it, the slimmer my odds were of landing whatever the gig was—probably recording a CD. But still, it felt great to meet a guy from the record label and jam in their studio for a while. It was definitely a step in the right direction. I was networking with the right people. If they liked me, maybe I wouldn't get the Gravity job, but there might be other projects they could use me for.
As I was leaving, I turned back to Mike.
"Hey, can I keep the sheet music of those songs? I want to keep practicing."
"Sure."
I ran back into the studio and grabbed the pages of sheet music and then went home.
I waited on pins and needles for his call. Three days went by. Nothing. It was so aggravating he hadn't told me anything. In the meantime, I practiced playing every Gravity song I could get my hands on sheet music for. Thursday afternoon the phone rang.
"Hey Oliver, it's Mike, how you doin'?"
"Alight man. How 'bout you?"
"Fine."
Cut to the chase, spit out it.
"You got plans tomorrow night?"
"Nope I'm free."
"You want to go to Atlanta?"
"Sure, what for?"
"Gravity Source concert. We want you to fill in for Allen Raines for one night. We'll fly you down, put you up in hotel and fly you back on Saturday. Sound good?"
I couldn't believe it. I was stunned.
"Yeah."
The next morning, I stopped by the studio to borrow the Stratocaster and foot pedals. Mike wasn't sure if they'd have gear for me to use and wanted to be sure I was all set. After that I caught an UBER to La Guardia Airport and was soon airborne headed toward Atlanta. The flight touched down on time and I went straight to Lakewood Amphitheater. It was a sweet outdoor concert venue. I couldn't believe my eyes. There was seating for seven thousand, but beyond that there was a lawn area that could accommodate another seven thousand or so. It was unreal to think I'd be playing in front of that many people.
The roadies were just finishing setting up for the show. They told me the band wouldn't show up for another two hours or so. They didn't mind if I plugged in my foot pedals and guitar to do a quick sound check. I strummed a few chords and was blown away by the booming sounds coming from the array of speakers. It was awesome. I took a bunch of pics with my phone. This was definitely a day to remember. My dream was coming true. It was my first big show. To think just a couple years earlier I was playing at Starlight Coffee Shop back home for the first time and now here I was playing a real rock concert.
I got a bite to eat next door at the Food Mart and killed time waiting at the venue.
Around six pm the band showed up.
Riley Jones the front man, slash, lead singer introduced me to the other guys.
"This is Oliver. He's from New York. Mike says he's the real deal."
Joe Cantore, the drummer frowned.
"Yeah, but have you played in front of an audience?"
"I've played smaller shows, nothing like this, but I'll be fine."
He shook his head.
"It's not the same thing."
"Just ignore him. He's always grumpy."
I turned to Riley.
"So, what's up with Allen Raines?"
"We don't know. He was pissed off about something and just walked out in the middle of a rehearsal last week and we haven't heard from him since. He won't answer our calls or emails. He's not even talking to his wife."
Joe piped into the conversation.
"I'm telling you; he ran off—probably to Puerto Rico with that hot little Hispanic gal and he's on a bender again."
"He does have a problem with alcohol."
"And drugs. He likes coke...a lot."
"Don't we all?"
"Yeah, but not like Allen..."
I shook my head.
"Sorry to hear it."
Joe laughed.
"I'm sure you are."
I was glad to have the gig, obviously, but not at someone else's expense.
"When's he coming back?"
"No idea."
"Can I keep playing for you guys until he comes back?"
"Whoa, just settle down now Gus. Let's see how it goes tonight first bub."
I was starting to dislike him.
"Yeah, of course."
We did a sound check all together and ran through a few songs so the guys could hear me play.
Riley nodded.
"You'll be fine."
We went backstage and had some dinner a catering company had prepared for us. There was fried chicken and baked beans with pecan pie and the whole southern barbeque spread.
I changed clothes in the dressing room. I wore my black outfit. I spiked up my hair with lots of hairspray and coiffed and preened in front of a mirror painstakingly creating my iteration of the rock star look.
The weather was unbearably hot and humid during the day, but as the sun went down it cooled down a bit.
"Fixin' to be a gorgeous night," the stage manager said.
I nodded.
The band members hung out backstage in the air-conditioned dressing room playing, Rainbow Six Extraction, while the crowd slowly shuffled in. I sat discreetly backstage in a corner watching the crowd shuffling in as I reveled, soaking in the moment.
The cover band was a local, up and coming Georgia group. They killed it. The crowd was fired up when we came on.
I nonchalantly found my spot and plugged in the Stratocaster. Riley had set me up in a less visible spot behind the others. He said it was nothing against me, he just didn't want to draw attention to the fact that Allen was missing. Makes sense, I guess. I didn't mind being invisible for my first big performance.
I was nervous as hell but focused on the music sheets in front of me and the sweet sound of my killer guitar. I put every bit of energy I could muster into that performance. I was in the zone. The crowd cheered wildly for us, and it felt amazing. Eventually the night came to a close. The roadies worked the crowd and found a dozen hot women they invited onstage.
The girls mingled with the band members for a while, and I stood by watching in amusement. They had a few drinks, joked around, and the band invited a few of the women back to the hotel for a more intimate party. A few women initiated small talk conversation with me, but I wasn't in the mood--wasn't my thing. I was polite, and as soon as they sensed I wasn't interested in their advances they abandoned me.
I packed up my gear and moments later a stretch limo pulled up and escorted the entire entourage to the ritzy Omni Hotel. I skipped out on the party. I wanted to get to my bedroom, shower, change, unwind for a while, then go to sleep.
I went to the desk to check in, but they didn't have a reservation for me. I called Mike and he said the room they booked me a room at the airport Holiday Inn, not the Omni. Figures. I jumped in a waiting cab and rode to the Holiday Inn.
The next morning, I grabbed an Egg McMuffin and orange juice at McDonalds, then caught my flight back to New York.
As soon as I got in, I called Soph. She wasn't busy so we met in Central Park for a walk. I proudly recounted every detail of my adventure. She listened sympathetically and congratulated me and compared my experiences on stage to hers in the ballet.
"I love that feeling of being on stage with a spotlight on me and looking out there and seeing a huge crowd. It feels amazing. They don't cheer as loud or get as rowdy as your crowd probably."
Who was she kidding? She was a much bigger star than I was, but I was headed in the right direction, on my way up. It was nice to have something in common with her.
"How's everything with Brad?"
"Fine."
She didn't elaborate any more than that, so I didn't pry. Her eye twitched as though there was something she didn't want to talk about. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part.
Monday morning, I stopped by the recording studio and returned the guitar and pedals to Mike.
"How was it?"
"Oh man, it was amazing."
He gave me a fist bump.
"I heard you were great."
"Thanks man. I appreciate it. Oh, hey, it's not a big deal, but we never discussed what I'd get paid."
"They didn't pay you?"
"No."
"They were supposed to pay you. I don't even know how much—the standard rates are usually around three or four hundred bucks a night. Everything's negotiable of course. Essentially, it's a deal between you and the band, not us, we're just the record label. I set it up and sent you down there as a favor because, well, let's just say they're not the most organized bunch. I can deduct travel and lodging expenses out of the recording contract we've got with them, but I can't get any performance fees for you."
"What should I do now?"
"Since you didn't sign a contract, it's tough to try to get paid after the fact. I can make a few calls and see what I can find out. Their manager will probably cough up at least a couple hundred bucks. I'll see what I can do. Between you and me, I wouldn't make a big deal over it. Allen is probably out for a few weeks. If you play your cards right, you might be able to play a few more shows."
"Alright I won't worry about it."
"I'll call if they want you again."
"Thanks."
Lesson learned. Next time get a contract. I didn't regret it for a second though. It was the best weekend of my life.
Gravity Source had another concert on Wednesday in Orlando, then another on Saturday in Miami. I waited on pins and needles to see if they wanted me back again. Monday went by and I heard nothing. Tuesday, I crossed my fingers but still nothing. I guess Allen returned or they got someone else. Wednesday morning, I got up early to go for a bike ride in Central Park, and almost left my phone at home because I hated bringing it with me on a sweaty workout. But at the last second, I thought, well, just in case...
I was riding past, Tavern on The Green, when it rang.
It was Riley.
"Where the hell are you?"
I was taken aback by the question.
"I'm in New York."
"We need you in Orlando by seven o'clock tonight."
He was acting like I blew him off, or it was somehow my fault.
"Nobody said anything to me about it."
"I'm telling you now. Get your ass to the airport immediately."
"Alright, I'll swing by the studio and pick up the gear I borrowed last time and then I'll head straight there."
"Forget the damn gear. You can use Allen's stuff. If he were here, he'd be royally pissed at the thought of someone touching his guitar. But it serves him right--he deserves it for ditching us like that, and hey, what he doesn't know, won't hurt him. Right?"
"I guess."
"Cool. I'll get you a plane ticket out leaving in two-ish hours and call you back."
"I turned and pedaled fifty blocks back to my apartment in South Bronx as fast as I could. I ordered an Uber and threw together a change of clothes in a backpack and hightailed it to La Guardia.
Twenty minutes later Riley called back with my ticket information. He had me on a place leaving in fifty-five minutes—from JFK Airport. I cursed him under my breath then quickly hailed a cab across town to the other airport. I barely made the flight. They were about to close the gate as I rushed from the terminal down the jetway onto the plane. Phew, what a relief.
I arrived in Orlando at two twenty-five pm. I Uber 'ed my way to Addition Financial Arena. I made it a little after three—way before the band showed up. There was a big shopping area around the venue, so I walked around exploring and grabbed a burger for a late lunch. I killed another hour at a Barnes and Noble.
The band showed up at six. I immediately asked Riley about payment.
"Dude, I don't deal with that stuff. You'll have to talk to Marty, our manager."
Once again there was a catered meal of steak, sushi, baked potatoes, steamed veggies and a whole assortment of sides. There was enough food for fifty people, but there were only four band members and a dozen roadies. I could get used to rock star life. I ate a loaded plate of food and was just finishing up when Marty showed up. I rushed over to him.
"Hey Marty, I'm Oliver, the studio musician from the record label. We need to talk about payment."
Marty's hair was a mess. He wore dark sunglasses concealing his eyes. There was a slight trace of white power around his nose. He seemed fidgety or agitated, possibly strung out. I thought I saw needle marks on his arms.
"Oh, hey Oliver. Thanks for coming man."
"No problem. I love the gig."
Marty headed straight for the food.
"I'll have to get a contract next time I'm at the office. I don't have any on me right now."
"Well, I'd kinda like a contract before I play."
"Oh man I'm sorry. I totally forgot. I should have brought one with me, but everything's so chaotic right now. I'll pay you in cash tonight, and we'll get you on contract this weekend in Miami. Cool?"
"Yeah. How much am I getting paid?"
"You rock man. You really killed it in Atlanta. You get a thousand bucks per show man. Sound good?"
"Yeah. That's great. Hey, I never got paid for the Atlanta show, can you pay me cash for that one as well?"
He patted me on the back a few times and nearly lost his balance.
"Of course. Catch me right after the show and I'll pay you for both nights. Good luck buddy, knock 'em dead tonight."
Allen's gear was stowed away in a padded trunk. I didn't dare touch anything, so Riley opened it, pulled out the Gibson Custom guitar and tossed it to me like a dirty rag. I held my breath as I precisely caught the twenty-thousand-dollar instrument. I stroked it. It felt good in my hands. I plugged in and warmed up for ten minutes while the sound engineer tuned the speakers on the mixing board.
Once again, I watched the gathering crowd. There weren't as many as Atlanta, probably by about half.
Riley was standing nearby. I turned to him.
"Why is the attendance so low?"
"Probably because it's a Wednesday night. Maybe there's some other big events going on tonight. I don't know. Don't worry about it. We don't ever lose money playing shows. It's the promoter that takes all the risk and loses money on the bad nights. We always get paid in advance. Sometimes Marty will cut the promoters a discount rate to fill in empty calendar spots on bad nights and stuff like that. Always make sure you get paid in advance in this biz."
"Good advice."
I sat behind a curtain offstage while the opening band got the people pumped up. Cheers erupted when we went on. Again, I was set up toward the back, I wouldn't say hidden, but out of a direct line of site from most of the audience. I played my heart out and gave the crowd an outstanding show.
As soon as it ended, I looked for Marty. He wasn't backstage. I checked the dressing room. Empty. I asked around, but nobody had seen him. There was another afterparty at the hotel. I only went to get paid, then I'd split. There were pills, other drugs and alcohol and eww, people having sex. It was a complete drunken orgy. I felt uncomfortable, but I desperately wanted to find Marty. He was gone. They hadn't booked me a room for the night. I thought about kicking everyone out of one of the suite bedrooms, then locking the door, but there were already people in bed having sex and the thought of sharing the same bed after them was disgusting.
I googled hotels in Orlando and found a cheapo place for a hundred bucks and took an Uber to it. In the morning, I returned to the scene of the debauchery from the night before. Unconscious bodies were strewed all over the sofas and the floor.
I woke up Riley. He wasn't eager to be disturbed.
"Hey, I really need to get paid. I'm leaving for the airport in a few minutes. Marty was supposed to give me cash after the show, but I never ran into him. Do you know where he is?"
"No man. I gotta go back to sleep. We were up all night. It got pretty wild. I thought they were gonna throw us out of the hotel."
"I really need to find Marty."
"We want you back again in Miami this weekend. You can catch up with him then."
"You don't have any cash, do you?"
"No man, someone hired strippers last night and I had to pay them in cash with every last dollar I had. Sorry. Talk to Marty this weekend, he'll square up everything with you."
I didn't really have a choice.
"Alright, see you Saturday."
In New York I asked Mike for advice on how to get paid. He printed out a generic contract and suggested I request payment sometime before the show starts and if they don't come up with the money in advance, then I should refuse to play until they at least sign the contract which is then enforceable by law. I really enjoyed playing with these guys, but I'd spend a few hundred dollars of my own money on food, transportation and one night's stay in a hotel room. I mostly wanted reimbursement for my expenses.
Marty acted like the money wasn't a big deal and seemed intent on paying me. They all just lived a whirlwind lifestyle with many of the small details in disarray. Paying me was miniscule in comparison to all the other planning and logistics they were dealing with living on the road, travelling, setting up and taking down shows all over the country. I'd get paid eventually. I had to be persistent and catch Marty at the right time.
Saturday, they got me another plane ticket to Miami. It was becoming routine. I got to the venue in the early afternoon. I killed time for a few hours. That was probably the part I disliked the most about musician life. Waiting, and more waiting. I couldn't take an afternoon flight and risk delays that might make me miss the show. I had to get there early—and then wait.
It was getting tedious. I'd have to pick up a good book to read or play video games or something. I did a sound check. Warmed up. Had dinner. There was another great catered meal. I stood around while the opening act played. They were just finishing when Allen Raines showed up out of nowhere.
Riley was pissed.
"Where have you been?"
Allen played dumb as he shrugged.
"What?"
"Where the hell have you been?"
"I needed a break."
He turned to me, then glanced down at his guitar in my hands.
"Who the hell are you, and why in the name of all that's holy are you touching Kate?"
I felt defensive.
"I'm just filling in man."
"Not anymore."
I handed over his guitar.
"Alright. Cool. You're back, I'll let you take over. Soon as I get paid, I'll be on my way."
"I can't believe you touched my guitar. Get the hell off my stage."
He shot Riley a disapproving glance.
"You let him play on my guitar?"
"You should've been here. You should've answered our calls. He came all the way down from New York. He's playing tonight's show while you go backstage and think about whether you want to be in this band or not."
It grew increasingly heated. I tried to stay out of it.
"The bloody hell he is. No one touches Kate but me."
He turned to me.
"Get off my stage before I have security throw you off. Security! Get this wanker off my stage."
"Calm down Allen."
"Don't tell me to calm down."
Riley conceded and allowed Allen to take his spot onstage. It was clear I wouldn't be using his guitar and I didn't have a backup of my own. They probably had one in a crate somewhere, but I'd already lost the battle. No point trying to fight for Allen's place. I was merely his substitute, but now that he was back, my services were no longer required.
"Alright, we got a show to play, then we've got a lot to talk about."
He turned to me.
"Dude, I'm so sorry about this. We were in a pinch, and you came through in a big way. I really appreciate it. I'll make sure you get paid for tonight and I'll get Marty to throw in a bonus payment, just for everything."
"No problem. I really enjoyed playing with you guys. I want this life. If you ever need me again, call me."
"Will do. Keep rockin'."
As I walked off stage Allen was still ranting.
"Why the bloody hell did Bart set up my gear on the back of the stage? I play up front."
I looked around for Marty, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. I was depressed my tenure had come to an abrupt end. I just wanted to leave. Once again, I didn't have a hotel room, but my parents had a condo an hour away in West Palm Beach where I could crash. I had clothes and stuff I wanted to retrieve anyway.
I found the bus schedule and caught a Northbound ride into town then walked a mile to the condo. As I approached, I cautiously peered in the windows to make sure it was vacant. It was getting dark, and I surreptitiously scaled the fence into the backyard. I jiggled the window on the back side of the garage. It was unlatched—just as I'd left it four years earlier.
The security alarm started beeping a countdown. I punched in the old code, hoping it hadn't changed. The light turned green. I was good. I thought of the time when a bad roof leak had caused significant water damage. It seemed like so long ago. Repairs had been made. The floor was a new burgundy colored bamboo hardwood. You couldn't even tell it had been damaged. Otherwise, everything else looked the same.
I had a lot of memories in that condo, but most of them really weren't so good. I went up to my room and my clothes were still in the drawers where they'd sat untouched the entire time. I didn't take everything, just a few of my favorite shirts and pants and left the rest.
I slept in my bed and if felt weird being back. I felt bad about abandoning my parents. Maybe I shouldn't have cut them off. Someday when the time was right, I'd reconcile. I should at least talk to them.
At least my mother. But not yet. I had to find myself. I had to make a life I could be proud of, because whatever I did, my father would be unsupportive and critical, and I'd inevitably come under a blistering attack. I'd have to be prepared to defend myself. I wasn't ready for that yet. But one day I would be. It would be a lot easier when I was successful at something. Not that I wanted to rub it in his face. It would simply diffuse the situation in advance--he wouldn't be able to claim I was a failure.
I woke early and looked for anything I could scrounge for breakfast. The fridge was empty, the cupboards mostly bare. I'd grab something from McDonalds. I left no sign I'd been there and snuck out early before any of the neighbors discovered me. I reset the alarm and exited the same way I'd entered. With a ballcap pulled low over my face, I beelined out of the neighborhood.
I caught a bus to the airport and flew back to New York. I called Marty's cell phone, but he never answered.
"Marty, this is Oliver. I haven't been able to find you at the last two shows to get paid. Could you please send me a check?"
I left him my address. I waited several days, then called a few more times but never got paid so much as a dime for my work. I couldn't believe such a big-name band was so poorly managed. I got the sense if I hadn't showed up, they wouldn't have had any other back up guitarist ready to step in and subsequently would've cancelled their shows. It was frustrating but it was a big step up for me. This was what I wanted to do.