The fluorescent lights were working in the room, but I left them off. I'd have more than enough lights on me in a mere minutes.
With the only light to guide my feet shining from the slightly agape door, I moved forward across the dressing room covered in ghostly blue sheen until I reached the sink on the opposite wall. Bracing my hands on the porcelain, I just looked up into my reflection, my skin taking the same eerie glow the room possessed.
It was really incredible what makeup artist could do when you were forced to give them a half an hour of uninterrupted work time. They'd managed to whisk away any remnants of the road worn face I'd had just an hour before, leaving a smooth, and rather unemotional, palate beneath the professional styled messy ginger curls framing my face. No one would guess that beneath that so well put together persona all that existed was a girl who had bypassed tired and was reaching exhaustion that had built up over three years.
But that was not what the program wanted, they wanted to have a smiling, happy, witty and well spoken rock star to show to the world, not a weary musician that had spent months on tour with only five days for a break during the entire trip. So that's what they'd get.
All I have to do is slip on the mask, the metaphorical one of course though the makeup one put on for me always helped to hide behind.
Slowly, one breath in, one breath out; repeat.
Following my own thoughts, I focused solely on my breathing, dropping my eyes from the mirror. As I swallowed a breath of the stale television studio air, my gaze found its way down to my hands gripping the edge of the sink. With the spooky light creeping into the darkness from the doorway, my hands looked much to fragile and pale, almost matching the sink.
The room was abruptly showered in light with the squeak of the door. Without so much as looking, I closed my eyes, dropping my head and allowing my hair to hide my face as I pulled in one last breath.
“What?” I asked, immobile.
A suspicious voice answered, “You're not thinking of blowing this off, are you?”
An unamused laugh bubbled out of my chest, and I tipped my head back, letting out the noise. Finally opening my eyes, I looked into the mirror, my gaze meeting the cold blue one flat on. “When have I ever let you down, Mark?”
He just sent me an evenly flat look as he stood stiffly in the doorway. “Do you want me to name the times?”
This time I just snorted. “I never fail in making you money, and we both know that's the only reason you stick around.”
“Most artists aren't so ungrateful to their managers.”
I smirked, shoving off the sink steadily as I kept him in my eyesight, though I'd long since named Mark with his black greasy hair and patchy beard one of my least favourite people. “Most artists aren't as intelligent as me; they don't always know when their managers are just in it for the money.”
“Every manager is just in it for the money.”
Memories flickered across my mind, but I held them at bay, answering simply, “Not all.”
It was his turn to snort. “Well, thank you for doing this show, anyways.”
Sending a sharp glance in his direction, I stepped to the side momentarily, picking up my guitar familiarly by the neck. “I'm not doing this for you,” I told him shortly, brushing past him.
Not bothering to stop to talk to the people crowding the halls who were either lounging around or running about wildly, I walked evenly through the halls. I knew exactly where the stage was, I'd done this show before in different times, but it was still me in the end, despite the euphoria or depression that the shows were played in.
“Thank god!” exclaimed a faceless woman, “It's two minutes until the show starts!”
“Then I better get on, right?” I replied, walking past her onto the stage.
My back up band was already waiting, as they always were. Their instruments were set up, the chords carefully smoothed out of the way of any stray feet as the both the lead guitarist and bassist huddled about the drum kit.
“Decided to join us finally?” asked John grumpily.
Not fazed by the surliness, I slipped the plain guitar strap over my shoulders. I'd long dealt with John, for my first tour and then the past three. He wasn't about to change.
“I'm here, aren't I?” I answered vaguely, plucking a few testing chords on the maple Stratocaster, finding it tuned already. Stepping up to the microphone, I fidgeted with the bottom of the black Ramones tank top absentmindedly, it went well with the ripped up jeans and boots, very punk rock all in all. Sometimes television producers did get it right, but I maintain that it was rare.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in, just letting myself feel the smooth body of the guitar beneath one hand and the strings beneath my heavily calloused fingers, knowing the microphone was just in front of my mouth. Yes, this was simple. Music.
Slowly opening my eyelids again, I took in the curtain that was in front of us, although that didn't stop the chatter of the crowd on the opposite side. I could imagine just what the crowd looked like, I'd seen them screaming and jumping up and down in their seats the times I'd preformed here before. Although the second time I'd been on the stage the crowd had been in a grip of mania I'd never seen before, but that wasn't a time I was excited to think about.
“You guys ready for this?” I asked, turning around to the backup band I'd pieced together over the past three years.
John stared at me glumly. If it wasn't for his skill on the guitar, although I'd never call him brilliant, I'd played with brilliance before and he wasn't it, the man would have been gone a long time ago. My cheerfull drummer sent me a smile, while my bassist, Fiona, just nodded.
“Well, I guess so,” I muttered, looking back to the curtain.
Almost immediately, I heard the sound of Peter Thompson's deep and booming voice on the other side of the solid curtain. He'd been the voice of music with his own television show for a long time; it was when you were offered a slot during his show that you knew you'd made it. But it had been a long time since I'd felt the excitement when my manager had gotten me on the show the first time, I could still remember the giddiness that had welled in my stomach, but it felt like centuries ago.
“And now, breaking records wherever she goes is one of the nicest musicians I've ever had the pleasure of meeting time and time again, Keely Staub!”
At the sound of my name, the thick curtains pulled back, but at the sight and roar of the crowd I didn't feel the jolt in my stomach, I almost missed that. Not saying a word, I simply listened as John started the song off with the guitar rift.
Taking in a deep breath, I stepped forward to the mic, putting one hand around it as the other gripped the guitar neck, pulling it to the side as I began to sing.
It was a song that we’d been playing together every night for god knows how long anymore. It all felt like a confusion of venues, shifting through my head. But I honestly did know the length we’d been on tour, John kept me well informed. Twenty months, although this leg of the tour had been going for about half of that.
Even if I no longer got that jolt of nerves in my stomach when I saw the small crowd of a couple hundred that packed into the theatre, music still had the same effect. Almost a drug that took up all my senses at once, music would forever a saviour if I needed it. There was nothing else I could give myself to so completely, at least not in front of a crowd, when I played, I gave my heart and soul away whether I liked it or not.
My voice was smooth as I simply let it go, letting go of the microphone and swinging the guitar back in front of me as I took over rhythm.
I finished off the song completely submerged in my own mind and the music. Coming out of the trance, I finally sent the crowd my first smile of the evening, stepping back from the microphone stand momentarily, bringing my mind back to itself.
My smile broadened as my hearing finally allowed the sound from the crowd to reach me, the deafening cheering and applause echoing through the proper theatre. Something that had never changed, that I doubted would ever change, was the ecstasy that grew in my stomach, pressing into my brain when I performed. But it still wasn’t the same, it wasn’t as bright as it had once been, half covered in a dull pall.
“Thanks,” I told them simply, stepping forward to the microphone to renewed loud shouting and screaming.
Turning around, I sent a half smile at my back up band only to see them with exhilarated expressions gracing their faces. And that was half the reason I had handpicked them in these past few years, their skill the other half. It was enough that they loved music; they didn't have to be brilliant. Although, now, I was finding I was almost jealous of them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter gesturing wildly for me to walk to him over near the two armchairs.
Instantly apprehension flooded my stomach, but the mask was on, no one would see.
Sending them one last smile, although it had lost the elation that had powered it moments before, I slipped the strap of my guitar off my shoulder, placing it carefully on the stand. I kept the dull smile on my face even though it was threatening to slip away, knowing that the camera would be following me for the next hour.
The mask was good and secure as I walked across from mid stage, nearing the hardwood floor of the interview area quickly. Yes, music was simple, but this was what I was dreading. I had become quite good at interviews over the years, but I wasn't exactly brilliant and had numerously put my foot in my mouth over the years, even splitting up an entire tour at one point.
“Hi Peter,” I smiled, hoping it would look warm on the television screens. Letting him take my hands securely in his, I leaned forward, pressing the customary distant kiss on his cheek. As I pulled away, I hoped lightly down from the stage down to the ground of the interview spaces.
His smile was warm when he looked down at me. Was he really happy or was he just a good actor? “Hello Keely,” he replied, placing his hand on the small of my back, “Come, come, sit, sit.”
Allowing him to guide my to the two armchairs set up with the almost nonexistent pressure on my back, I sunk into the cosy looking chair waiting for me. Even though it was designed for a person to lean back and relax in, my spine stayed straightened as I leaned forward instantly, grabbing at the coffee mug on the table between the two closely placed chairs. After a sip I realized that there was in fact no coffee waiting, in its place chamomile tea. Apparently the show directors thought I’d need to stay calm, understandable logic considering it was an unscripted interview, but unnecessary all the same.
I’d just gotten off a tour bus and hadn’t slept for two days. I could use all the coffee I could get. Hopefully I wouldn’t nod off in the middle of the interview. Although, it wouldn’t be altogether unexpected if I did, I’d never found my life interesting enough to be questioned about.
“So, Keely... it’s nice to have you on the show again.”
Arching an eyebrow slightly, I took a long sip from the mug as I watched him. And putting the tea down, I made a show of slouching back in the chair. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to see you again,” I replied.
There was one good thing about Peter’s show although I wasn’t fond of doing interviews to be honest, while you couldn’t exactly let your guard down on the show, you could be assured he’d do his best to put you in the best light possible. You only got on the show if he liked you. I wasn’t sure if I appreciated the fact that he liked me or not though.
My pointed answer didn’t get past him, not much did. “Not happy to be doing this exclusive, then?”
“No,” I told him honestly, not looking away from his eyes, “No, I’m not. It wasn’t my idea.”
Peter just laughed, “Honest as always, then?”
My lips just twitched in amusement as I thought of my history in interviews. I’d never been one to hold back on my opinions of the music business. Honesty was a nice way for him to put it. “Being honest is an artist’s job – whatever medium they work in – and I’ve believed that for a long time.”
“But,” I continued, cutting off him before he could jump on my words, “It’s honesty about certain things. Plus honesty is one of those in the eye of the beholder things. I’ll be honest about my music and my thoughts revolving around it. But there are things I won’t talk about, some things are my business.”
“Good to know, then. We’ll start at the beginning, shall we?
This time a smirk rounded its way to my face, “Really? You get the first exclusive I’ve ever done, and you want to ask me about what everyone knows already?”
“Well, I thought we’d cover all our bases,” said he, sending me an amused glance as he leaned back, his mug in hand.
I gave a great sigh, wondering what it would be like to walk into my apartment after ten months away from it as I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “Let’s see, I grew up on farm in Bellingham with my father, was taught how to play the guitar by my mother who died when I was very young. I was discovered by Maureen Jones literally in my backyard when I was eighteen years old. But that – and more – has been public knowledge for a long time.”
“Yes it is. How long would you say it’s been since you went back home?” he asked comfortably.
My eyes narrowed ever so slightly on his face, my fingers beginning to drum on my leg. I didn’t mind talking about my family with interviewers when I knew where they were going with the questions, but I had no idea where this might lead. “I think by now it’s been about four years altogether.”
“So let’s talk about your first album” – I sent him a knowing look, I knew exactly where this line of questioning would lead, I’d known it would come up before the interview even started – “Your self-entitled debut was a hit worldwide, not just in the USA. With three out of the four singles released hitting number one on charts across the planet, Yesterday’s Gone was number one for eight weeks in this country, and the album was certified platinum years ago, that could be considered a good start, don’t you think?”
I just sent him a bland look. “I’d say it was a pretty good one, yeah.”
He looked at me exasperated from my unwillingness to open up to the questions. “How do you feel about your first album now, eight years later?” Peter prodded.
Keeping my mind carefully blank, I picked up my mug again. “If I go back and listen to it, I pretty much cringe. I love that album, I put everything into it that I had at the time and so did others around me. But I’ve grown so much as a musician and a person that I’d do so many things differently now. Still, though, I wouldn’t change a thing about it. Every note, every chord, everything in that album made me who I am if that doesn’t sound too cheesy and idiotic.” Keeping the casual look on, I gulped down the tea, wishing for something altogether stronger than tea or coffee.
Peter sent me yet another warm smile, and I could even see an almost fatherly expression as he picked up my first album in CD form from the side of the couch. “When you go back and listen to it, do you get memories of that time?” he questioned, tapping his finger lightly to the black and white cover of my first album.
“Of course,” I told him genuinely, blocking my mind from said memories forcefully.
“And what are some of those things?”
At his question, I found the urge to frown and smile at the same time, it was an odd sensation yet sadly completely familiar. I’d felt it all too much over the past four years. But what else was I supposed to feel? Up until that point, those had been the best times of my life, a kid swept up in the wings of nothing but music. Stardom hadn’t settled in yet, I’d been too wrapped up. But those memories were painful now too, tainted as most of mine are now.
And, still, I answered him evenly, “Well, all sorts of things, to be truthful. It could be memories from what I wrote the song about, how I wrote it, how I recorded the vocals or the guitar or one of the times I preformed it. Really, it could be anything.”
Although he nodded wisely, I couldn’t help but feel that Peter had noticed the obvious omission, but his next inquiry didn’t directly bridge on it. “What about your first tour? You went from the opening show to second act only days after your first album was released. To be shot up that fast, at eighteen years old no less, there had to be a lot of pressure on you. Most people would have, and have had mental break downs from that kind of stress after being in the business for years. Were you ever close?”
Thoughtfully, I propped my elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned my head into my palm, knowing full well the hair stylist would be cursing me at this point. “On that first tour?” I returned, my nose crinkling slightly with thought. “No, not really, I was in such a whirl wind I didn’t even know what was going on. I mean, yeah, I felt overwhelmed at points, but what was happening just hadn’t truly set in at that point. Sleep wasn’t easy to get those days, I was dead tired and road worn as time went on. Touring like we did just wears a person out to the point that they don’t really notice what’s going on in the world besides what’s happening in the shows and in the tour bus.”
“When did you first know that you were getting more and more popular?”
“Well, I guess it would be when I realized the same amount of people knew the words to my songs as they did for the main act.”
The glint awoke in Peter’s eyes, and this time I just bit back a groan, rubbing my finger over my temple wearily, closing my eyes. I’d backed myself into that corner nice and cleanly for him.
“The main act, NSR, who had just released a critically acclaimed album that was suddenly brilliant in the eyes of the press, making all their previous albums not matter anymore. How did you feel to be on tour with them?”
Gaining my slightly mechanical voice, I gave him the same answer I’d been giving for years. “They were amazing to tour with, they always had really good shows that I could watch and the whole band never ceased to make sure I stayed grounded despite everything go around.”
“What would you say to the people who call you the Yoko Ono or Courtney Love of this decade?”
My eyes snapped open to his face, “Huh?”
“Well, NSR had been a happily functioning band” – I just barely resisted the urge to snort there – “to public opinion. But then Seth Ryan began to produce your album, you went on a tour with them and just weeks after said tour had ended, when your relationship with Seth Ryan became public that the band officially broke up.”
At his words, those walls I’d be creating in my mind against the memories crumbled.
“Are you sure that you want to do this?” I asked in a thick voice, keeping my eyes squeezed shut. It was my hope that if my eyes were closed, no tears would fall.
The chest I was pressed closely against gave a slight rumble against me in a chuckle. I ignored it, keeping my arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders in a hug, refusing to let go just yet. “Keel, you’ve asked me this about a hundred times, we all decided it would be best.”
Regretfully, I finally pulled away.
Grasping my arms tightly around my stomach, I looked up slightly to see Marco’s bright hazel eyes shining brightly despite everything. “I just want to be sure,” I told him defensively.
He grinned at me, nudging my arm friendlily. “It’s a bit too late now,” he replied, holding up the suitcase in his hand and the guitar case in his other for me to see. “We’re already at the airport.”
Like I needed to be reminded of that, I knew very well where we were.
Feeling my eyes well up again, I retorted, “It’s not too late, you don’t have to go.”
Suddenly his gaze softened and he just shook his head. “I want to Keely.”
“Just tell me it’s not because of me and Seth,” I pleaded, guilt curdling in my stomach heavily.
Marco shook his head, his tidy blonde hair moving slightly with the motion. “It’s not because of you two finally getting it together, if you didn’t I think we might have killed you guys by now. I told you before the only reason me and Colton started playing was because we wanted to be famous and that it was different for people like you and Seth.
“And I got to be famous for four years, and you know what? I’m done. I’m only twenty one, I want to go to university and get a degree. I don’t want to spend every moment of my life wasting away in a tour bus. I’m just so freaking sick of it. I don’t want to go on another nine month tour when we’re playing six shows a week, doing the same songs over and over again. I’m just done Keely.”
“Oh, c’mon-” I started.
But he cut me off quickly. “Anyways, it’s better this way. Seth hates this band, he has since our first album; he just would never end it when it’s his best mates in the band. But he’s a lot better than this band ever was and it doesn’t matter what he does to change it, NSR is always going to be followed around by its first three sell out albums.”
Now a tear finally did slid from my eye, gliding down my pale cheek gently before I thumbed it away, because I knew he was right and I knew it was all over. “You’ll at least come back to New York every once in a while? Seth is going to miss you so much; you three boys haven’t been apart for more than two weeks since you were ten years old. He loves you and so do I.”
Laughing, Marco wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in for one last familiar hug. “Stop with the tears, I’m not being noble or shit, I’m just moving away. It’s not that easy to drop us.”
Rolling my eyes even with the tears, I elbowed him in the stomach, “Oh, shut up.”
Glancing away, I saw the tight hug happening by the other two young men and when they pulled away, their eyes were dry.
How could they be so easy going about this? It was their band that was ending, after almost eight years of being in a band together, they’d ended it and they were just letting it go this easily?
However before I could chastise them for the behaviour, the words I’d been dreading finally rang through the crowded terminal.
Giving Marco one last pat on the shoulder in farewell, I took a step away, wrapping my arms tightly around Colton’s slightly scrawny waist. He returned the pressure easily, but it was ended soon as he leaned down to grab his bag.
Brushing the bronze curls from his forehead, he sent me one last catching grin. “I’ll see you guys around.”
And that was his farewell.
The two boys walked away easily to where they handed the lady their tickets without a glance back while the tears started to flood my cheeks, making me wipe them away clumsily with the ratty sleeve of my worn in sweater.
Yet I was not allowed to wait until the plane took off, though it would have taken hours, because a warm arm wrapped itself around my shoulders comfortably before tugging me in the opposite direction.
“We’re not watching the plane take off, that’d be much too cliché.”
Despite myself, I chuckled wetly, leaning my head against Seth’s shoulder easily. “How are you so casual about this? Those are your best friends that are leaving.”
At my words, he pulled us to a stop, ignoring the incredulous looks being sent to us as we stopped in the middle of people’s paths as he stepped in front of me. “I’m going to miss them like hell, they’re like my brothers. But if I was to cry they’d both punch me in the nose for good measure.”
This time I laughed loudly, tipping my chin up to look at him. Even through the joking demeanor, I could see that he wasn’t as okay with this as he seemed. His golden hazel eyes looked a little sunken and his dark hair even messier from an obvious lack of sleep, still he didn’t look heartbroken. It wasn’t the end of the world that the band had ended.
As if to answer my thoughts, he said, “I’m going to miss my friends, but not the band.”
Lightly, I reached up, my fingers tracing the side of his cheek as I realized that he was holding back how sad he was that his friends were leaving.
“What are you going to do about it?” I questioned, keeping my touch light against the slight rough stubble.
Smiling at me with the dimple that leapt to his left cheek, he grabbed my hand, pulling it up so he could kiss the pulse in my wrist that quickened immediately. “I’ve got an idea,” he assured me, “Do you want to go to the warehouse?”
Feeling that his smile was contagious, I responded, “Of course.”
Pulling myself from the flashback, I blinked up at an expectant looking Peter.
“I am not like Yoko Ono or Courtney Love,” I informed him firmly, trying to act as if I hadn’t been flung years into the past by my own thoughts. “I was very good friends with both Colton Neilson and Marco Stevenson, they were almost like older brothers. And it broke my heart when NSR broke up, even if it was what they all needed.”
“How was the breakup of the band? After all, some have gotten very ugly in the past, but how was theirs?”
Trying not to grimace, I kept a hold of my unemotional voice. I wasn’t playing music; these people didn’t need to see what I was feeling. “I’d only been living in New York for a couple weeks at that point; I still hadn’t unpacked all my stuff into my apartment. Marco came up to the three of us one day and said he wanted out; he was done with being in a band, just sick of it. Seth and Colton talked for a while about keeping the band together and just getting another bassist, but it was over, and they knew it then. Anyways, they would have thought it disloyal to continue NSR without him, there would never be NSR without Marco or Colton or Seth.”
When he just sent me an encouraging look, I gave a sigh; I should have known I couldn’t get away with it that easy. He wanted more out of me, and he wasn’t going to let it go until I did. “But it was all rather amiable, they didn’t break up because they were feuding, they broke up because that was what they wanted and it was time.”
Peter stared at me for a second too long in silence as waiting for me to add something to my words, but this time I wasn’t cracking. Apparently I didn’t give juicy enough details. Still it was he that relented. “What are Marco and Colton doing these days, then?”
“Marco is teaching music in an elementary school, he’s married and has a little girl named Emily. And, as far as I know from the last time I saw him, Colton was just starting law school.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”
I kept my gaze even, my voice as casual as a shrug even though my fingers were gripping the arms of the chair rather tightly. “It’s been about four years for them as well.”
Suddenly Peter sent me a brilliant toothy smile before looking straight to the audience and the camera. “Well, we’re up for a commercial break, but we’ll be back in a few moments with more from Keely Staub. And we’ll talk about the failure of The Spares.”
My eyes flashed dangerously to him at the word “failure” but before I could correct him, the cameras had been shut off for the commercial and Peter was standing up.
“So far, so good, Keely,” he told me, patting my shoulder warmly before walking away.
Letting out a shaky sigh, I leaned forward, cupping my head in my hands. I really did not want to do this. I had a feeling that we’d be speaking more and more about the things I’d prefer to keep to myself until the end of time.
Remembering that there was a whole studio audience watching my every movement, I straightened up.
Sending them a tight smile that caused more than a little screaming I dug my phone out of the pocket of my ripped jeans. Holding my head in one hand, I dug my fingers into my hair easily as I pressed the phone to my other ear. I wanted to be as far away from here as I could get, but I’d be murdered if I got up and ran as tempting as it might be.
“Hey!” greeted the low voice on the other line excitedly.
I smiled slightly, shifting around so I could lean my head back against the chair with my eyes closed. “Hey.”
Apparently not fazed by my simplistic answer, he replied enthusiastically, “I’m watching the interview right now. You look amazing and so far everything’s going better than you expected, right?”
Not bothering to voice my emotions, I just said, “I haven’t said anything to get me hated in the press yet? Oh my, how could this be?”
In my ear, he laughed, “So are you still coming over tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll catch a cab to your place after the show.”
“I’ve missed you; you’ve been on tour for so long.”
Seeing Peter walking towards me from back stage, I gave a hasty farewell, “Yeah, missed you too. I’ve got to go, see you tonight.”
“I love you,” he called.
But I wasn’t listening, just ending the call hurriedly as I watched my interviewer walking towards me.
Yeah, I definitely wasn’t ready for this.
- So this is all I have written so far, but whatever. Any predictions? The band on the side is a personal favourite of mine, they're called Hey Rosetta! -