Page 15 of More Than Scars
“Ha,” he actually smiled. “I mean band-wise.”
“Gotcha. I figured we’d hash that out at Stoli’s tomorrow. Hopefully this week we’ll have our bassist and drummer. You said you have a few songs written already?”
“A few hundred’s more like it.” Bowie patted the backpack at his feet. “Been writing for years. Not sure they’re any good, but,” he shrugged, “we’ll see what the rest of the band thinks.”
“From what I understand and from the one I heard you play, they’re more than worthy. Your performances resonated enough with Wolf that he’d already had you in mind by the time we got there for the final round.” Mentioned a possible attitude problem, but I had a feeling that had phased itself out. Pride in self can go a long way, and with Tony in the group, I’m sure being together gave them the boost they’d both need. “Were all three songsyou played yours?”
“Yup.”
“Then I’d say we’re good to go once we hit the studio. Use the first few practice sessions with existing songs so the four of you can get a feel for how each other plays, and then launch into writing the music—collaboratively, to songs the four of you have. Asking each person to submit a couple of their own to the group will help build comradery.”
“Yeah, that’s fair and totally makes sense. I know Tony has notebooks filled too. Most musicians do.”
“That will likely be what Joey and Stoli suggest.” I’d mention to them ahead of time what Bowie and I had talked about and let them get a feel from there. They were the experts, after all. “They might be a great resource for putting the lyrics to music as well.”
“I just can’t believe this is my life. I mean, I was raised in a musical family. My mother is a professional concert pianist, and my dad and uncle have a classic rock band. My brothers are in the industry too, but I’m the first one to sign with a big management company.”
“Wow, lots of talent under one roof.”
“And lots of support. I’ve been lucky in that respect. My dad and uncle taught us all to play from a young age. Still, man, I can’t believe this is my life. It’s like a total holy shit moment playing on repeat.”
I was right there with him. The more people I talked to, the more excited I got for the coming days.
“What’s Tony’s musical background? I understand he actually tried out as a guitarist.”
“He’s not too bad, but I have a feeling this tryout was all about getting me out of my own way.” Interesting way of putting it.
“So, you didn’t want to try out?”
“Honestly,” he shrugged, “I’m my own worst enemy, and Tony knows that. He’s my best friend, and we’ve always been there for each other even when the other didn’t realize they needed help. His home life is shit, so my parents basically adopted him. Talk about an asshole father. Tony got that and more.”
Not touching that one. If Tony wants to share it, that’s up to him.
“Hey, what do you think about stage make-up? Not heavy like a clown but more like, I don’t know, gothic kinda, but designing our own brand type of deal.”
“Personally, not a fan. It’s heavy and hot, and why hide your face?” Bowie turned away and stared out the window, reaffirming my guess. He was hiding something. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“If you’ve got a legit reason, I’d be willing to listen and consider it.”Push, but don’t push, Pressley.
“Nah, it was stupid.”
“The only stupid ideas are the ones we never voice.”
Music filled the cab in lieu of talking. It wasn’t as comfortable as the silence had been between Wolf and me. For some reason, the desire to learn all I could about Bowie while watching him grow as a musician and come out of his shell was at the forefront of my mind. Using the butterfly cocooning metaphor wasn’t quite fitting, yet at the same time it was.
As the butterfly emerges from its cocoon, so young and full of life.
Jesus, now I had some bland-ass narrator's voice stuck in my head. No wonder kids fall asleep in class. These voices would lull my ADHD-riddled brain into submission.
“Alright,” I opened the garage door for us to unload through. “Home sweet home.”
“Nice.”
“Grab your pokey princess, and let’s head inside.”
Ha, got another laugh from the surly guitarist. He seriously carried that cactus in both hands, taking nothing else but her, as if he were afraid of breaking even a single needle. He talked to her the whole way, telling her she was going to have a new window to sit in. He used the same soft, cooing voice as he’d used on the ride, the one time I’d had to slam on my brakes after an idiot had whipped out in front of me. His tone was one I’d heard used on frightened critters, but never houseplants.