Page 21 of More Than Scars
Something told me Joey and Stoli had already filled him in on how the auditions for a singer had gone, and I had no doubt that Mickey would touch base with him, if he hadn’t done so already, to tell him about bass auditions and the method he’d used to move things along and allow us to find Tibby.
It still blew me away that so many people had thought nothing of clogging up our audition line just to have the chance to meet their idols. Come on, seriously, had they really thought about how unimpressive that would actually be, not to mention time-consuming? On one hand, I had to agree with Pressley’s suggestion about requiring videotapes to be submitted before someone was given the nod to audition live, though there was another part of me that worried about it alienating someone like me, who wouldn’t have had the confidence to send in a tape and maybe didn’t have someone in their lives like Tony, who’d have taped one of our practice sessions if he needed to, just to make sure I had the chance to audition. Yeah, that one was gonna eat at me ‘cause I knew how hard it was to love something as passionately as I loved my guitar yet be fearful that something about you was going to put people off before you had the opportunity to show them what you could do.
Twice I’d tried to audition for new bands only to have them glimpse my scars and grow so uncomfortable that I’d excuse myself and never finish the audition process, yet another reason Tony hadn’t told me where we were headed last week. He’d known how gun-shy I was, and yet with this group, I don’t know, I wasn’t feeling the same level of tension I had before. I didn’t get that kind of read off any of the guys, even Tibby, who we’d just met a few hours before. Was it a Masterson thing? The whole family vibe they put out and all that. That would explain everyone else, but Tibby, I know he glimpsed something when we were leaning over the notebook with our heads pressed together, yet he’d just smiled a little wider and kept right on helping narrow down the list of songs for us to practice together. It had happened so fast, I hadn’t even had time to duck away and rearrange my hair.
Still couldn’t figure out how the hell I’d gotten maneuvered into sitting in a middle seat at the table either, but Stoli had done this awkward-ass stumblehip-check thing that I’d swear was deliberate, and the next thing I knew, Tibby had claimed the end, Mickey had claimed the seat across from him, and I’d been left no choice but to sit my ass down beside him and across from Tony, who’d almost lost that seat to Stoli, who hadn’t looked happy about it at first. Yeah, these guys weren’t oblivious, and I’d definitely done exactly what Tony had warned me against doing. I’d called attention to there being an issue by fussing so much with my hair and where I sat. Perception at its finest, that was my best friend.
Now we were back at Pressley’s, and I was having a bitch of a time settling in for the night. I’d heard him go into his room, so I slipped silently out of mine and down the hall, notebook in hand, to quietly open the door leading out back, where everything was lit up with solar lights, including a bowling ball-sized one at the base of the small bird fountain that gurgled and trickled as water flowed from the top to the pool at the bottom, creating an endless loop of sound. Something about it soothed the restlessness that had hit me as soon as we’d arrived back at the house. There was a sort of harmony to the ebb and flow of it, a rhythm I knew I’d be able to capture if I slipped back inside to grab my acoustic, but I didn’t dare risk him hearing me move around because I knew he’d ask if I was okay, and I wasn’t ready for that conversation yet. Instead, I pulled out my cart, tipped my head back, and stared at the stars while I sucked in a little mellowness and let the sound of flowing water wrap around me.
As they always did, words started swirling through my head, just a few at first, edgy and disjointed, waiting for me to put them together. I jotted them down as they came, tangled strands with glimmers of deep, intense meanings and emotions that hadn’t evolved to their fullest potential yet.
They’d get there though, eventually, especially after I passed them off to Tony. A couple more tokes and several more scribbles, and time just sort of melted into this beautiful haze. Lost in the rhythm of the water, free from the worry and the what-ifs, I filled pages without a care in the world, at least until the first shimmer of sunlight broke through the treetops and bright, golden-tipped crimson smacked me across the face.
Shit.
I hadn’t even closed my eyes tonight. Something told me this was no time to attempt a power nap situation either, not when I still had a few more words to jot down, as well as a shower to take before we jumped into what I hoped would please, for the love of the metal gods, be the final day of band auditions.
At least traffic proved to be shitty enough that I was able to slip a nap in, slumped in the backseat of Pressley’s truck, which was surprisingly comfortable, or maybe it was just how exhausted I realized I was once the notebook was out of my hands and reality replaced the smoke and water haze I’d been wrapped up in. One look at the fierce, formidable drummer awaiting us, and Tony and I both took two steps back while Tibby, who’d arrived just as we were pulling up, let out a softeepand shuffled over until he was clustered up with me and Tony. He peered over the top of his dark sunglasses at us and nodded.
“Clearly, you three know who I am, so let’s get our asses in gear and find you a drummer.”
Mouths shut, we hurried to keep up with him, already bonding over how completely overwhelmed we were by his presence and the aura rolling off him. We’d learn something today, that was for damn sure, I could tell that just by the way he carried himself and the first words to come out of his mouth as he eyed the first group assembled.
“Listen up and listen good, I’m only gonna say this once,” he announced, not even bothering with the seat we’d left open for him, he just paced in front of the stage. “You’ve got thirty seconds to grab my attention, twenty if you kick shit off too slow, and ten if you start playing wild and out of control. I’m not gonna be here until my kids graduate from high school trying to pick a fuckin’ drummer.”
Unlike Mickey and his batch of ten strategy, Diamond had all fifty-two drummers standing at the back of the stage, and damn near every last one of them looked like they wanted to puke, flee, or were hoping for a hole to open up beneath them. Even the three who didn’t watched him with some level of awe mixed with cockiness. Something told me they’d be among our finalists, so I made a mental note to keep an eye on them.
“Alright, let’s get rolling,” Diamond said, nodding to Wolf to do his thing.
First guy up hit the skins exactly seven times before his drumstick flew out of his hand, forcing a couple of the guys behind him to duck. Diamond pointed at the door, growlingtake a walk, and that was the last we saw of him. Second guy lasted twenty seconds before Diamond dismissed him, while the third guy decided to treat the drums like a fucking machine gun. Diamond never sat, he just paced and glared at them, occasionally turning enough that we caught sight of the resting bitchface he was wearing and cringed, sinking lower and lower into our seats. In an impressive display of drumming, one guy was allowed to play for a minute before Diamond told him to stick around for round two. Sure as shit, he was one of the three guys who hadn’t turned green when faced with the rules Diamond had laid out for them at the start.
Half of those who showed up never made it past twenty seconds, less than a quarter made it to thirty. Only five guys were allowed a minute of his time, and those were the five he had left at the end of the first two hours. If it wasn’t for seat and pedal adjustments, which sometimes took more time than the audition, he’d have probably had the pack whittled down in half of that.
“Alright you five, this is what we call the lightning round,” Diamond said as the last of the dismissed drummers trudged towards the door. “Raise your hand if you know Iron Maiden’sBe Quick or Be Dead.”
All five hands shot up. I sincerely hoped no one was bullshitting because he hadn’t tolerated a single shred of bullshit over the course of the morning. One guy had been so wild and out of the pocket when he’d started his audition that Diamond had slammed his hands down on the stage and glared at him until he’d stopped playing and had silently taken his sticks and skittered for the door like a scalded cat, and all without a word from the terrifying man who looked like he could bench press half the room.
Tibby, Tony, and I had silently passed a clipboard back and forth, each with a different name out of the top five that we thought would be the final drummer, not that I was about to voice my opinion when I knew nothing about the technical aspects a drummer needed to have to make an impact in the industry.
“Good deal,” Diamond said. “I’m gonna give you each one shot at it. The guy who stands out the most gets the job. If no one stands out, I’ve got abackup song. If only a few of you stand out, then the ones who don’t can hit the bricks, and whoever’s left will keep on playing until somebody earns the job, or I get so damned sick of listening to you that we toss names in hats and draw one, got it?”
Various responses ranging from nods to murmurs to one grumbled-out ‘yes, sir’ made up their collective responses, and then bang, we were kicking off round two of the auditions. These five that were left had some serious skills, but the third one in blew them all away, the same as he did in round one, playing tight and controlled but fierce as hell when he’d banged out his song. He was also one of the two guys none of us had circled. There was a reason for that, too. As soon as he was done, he knew he’d fuckin’ nailed it and crowed like a goddamn rooster about it too.
“Now that’s how you play the fuckin’ song, baby!” he howled, waving one of his sticks in the air.
“Yeah, that’s how you play the song. Now get your ass back in line and shut up about it while we let these other two guys audition,” Diamond snarled.
While he didn’t dare say another word about it, no one could miss the sour-ass look on his face when Diamond didn’t heap praise all over him. According to the clipboard, his name was Claude, and that look on his face turned from sour to pissed when Diamond announced that there would be a drum-off between him and a drummer named Slade, especially when Diamond declared that Slade was gonna go first. Claude looked like someone was taking steel wool dipped in gasoline and scouring it over his skin as Slade played AC/DC’s Back in Black, the round two song Diamond had laid out for him.
All I could think, the whole time Slade was playing, was please pick this guy, please, for the love of the metal gods, pick this guy because Claude was already coming across as a showboater, reminding me way too much of the guy I used to be. The clipboard nudged my leg, and I accepted it from Tibby, who’d circled Slade’s name, the same as Tony had. Now I circled it too and hoped like hell Claude fucked up the song somewhere, especially after Slade flubbed a tiny section, though he recovered beautifully.
Claude didn’t flub, he didn’t falter, and he didn’t miss a goddamn thing, at least not to my ears, and I had damned good ones. He also didn’t holler and hoot about it when he finished this time, just sat there smirking triumphantly, while Tony mutteredson of a bitchbeneath his breath and Tibby just groaned.
Yeah,son of a bitchwas exactly my way of thinking too, especially when Diamond turned to look at us and announced. “There’s your new drummer; you’re welcome.”
A glance right and left showed the same look on Tony’s face as the one Tibby wore. None of us could muster up the words to saythank you.I knew I couldn’t not when the only word running through my head wasfuck!
Chapter Ten