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Bob pushes back the curtain and slides out of his bunk as quietly as he can. The bus is still rumbling along, and someone, Branden most probably, is snoring like a hog: Bob gathers what he needs and tiptoes along to the back lounge. Privacy’s hard to come by on a tour bus: the guys are always in his face, watching the game he’s playing over his shoulder, grabbing the mag he’s reading, trying to see who he’s texting. Even in his bunk there’s always people brushing against the curtain as they pass, scuffles spilling over, Bert peering in with his dorky grin and Whatcha doing? But there are some things a guy likes to do without being disturbed, and early in the morning is the only time. He makes it unobserved into the back lounge and turns the lock behind him. It’s not exactly salubrious, the floor heaped with gear cases and the sofas piled with junk, but it’s fine for his purposes. Bob pushes aside a heap of unwashed clothes and stretches himself out, the gentle vibration of the engine underneath him.
He puts on his headphones, then clicks the CD from its case and slides it into the player. Rush in Rio. Any Rush record is fine by him, but a new live album is a gift, because it’ll have Peart’s drum solo in its full twenty-minute glory. He cues it up and closes his eyes. Rush are his guilty pleasure, flagbearers for the kind of music that everyone in this scene despises, and drum solos are a joke, boring and pretentious, for musos only. But for Bob Neil Peart’s playing has always been an inspiration, shaping his vision of what a drummer can be. From the first time Bob saw him, treating the drum kit as an instrument, playing music instead of bashing out a beat, the flame of ambition was lit in him. He sails on the music, Lee’s soaring voice winding through and under the complex multi-layered songs, feeling the sticks in his hands as though he’s part of it.
Someone rattles at the door and Bob starts so hard he falls to the floor. ‘You jerking off in there?’
It’s Jepha, of course; Bob rights himself with as much dignity as he can muster. ‘Of course I’m jerking off. You come to watch?’
‘Open up, bozo, we need the gear,’ Jepha orders, and Bob realises that the bus has stopped while he was lost in his album. He opens the door and Jepha leers in; his gaze falls on the CD cover and Bob curses inwardly. ‘I know why you were hiding – you were listening to some prog shit, weren’t you?’
‘Fuck off.’ Bob hates the fair skin that makes him flush so easily.
Jepha cackles. ‘Mandolins and doubleneck basses. Drum solos.’
Bob wishes he had been caught jerking off – better than having his crew pity him, Bob the frustrated musician. ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll drown your bass in the mix’, he threatens.
Jepha follows him back through the bus like a puppy unwilling to let go of a bone. ‘What’s the crowd at Warped, twenty thousand every day? And every single one of them hates Rush. You’re never going to find your soulmate here, Bryar.’
Even this early the heat hits when he steps from the bus to the asphalt of the parking lot: by this afternoon the air will be shimmering and the buses stewing. The place is a hive of activity, roadies unloading gear and rolling amps and cases off to the stages, merch staff towing bins of shirts, managers yelling and Warped crew directing with practised detachment. It might look like chaos, but the setup’s a well-oiled machine and Bob slots into it easily. The Used may have pitched up late to the tour, but everyone knows him, he’s got a solid reputation, Bryar the sound guy, burly and unflappable.
He gets some breakfast to set himself up, then goes to check the show times. Warped is a lottery, an exercise in egalitarianism: big though his band are, they take their slot like everyone else and today they’ll be playing early. At least they’re on one of the big stages: he makes his way over to check out the tech, shaking hands and slapping backs as he goes.
‘Bryar, thank God.’ Sonia the stage manager crawls out from under the sound desk: she looks harassed. ‘Can you fix the connectors for me? Sound was fritzing yesterday, probably the plugs. Must have got damp, I swear I don’t know how the gear takes the punishment we put it through.’
‘Sure,’ promises Bob, ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Knew you’d come through.’ She thumps him on the shoulder, then darts away to wrangle the next problem. ‘Bryar’s got it,’ he hears her shout. ‘It’s all good.’
All good. If you look at it rationally, his life is all good. Sound teching is great, it’s absorbing and worthwhile: he stands in the shadows and knows that he’s holding the gig’s success in his hands. He’ll never lack for work, and it’s got to the stage where he can choose who he tours with; he shouldn’t complain. But however much he tells himself things are working out, he knows deep down there’s a life he’s not living, the one where he sits on stage behind a drum kit, driving the sound and putting his signature on the music.
Good, but not quite right: it’s the theme of everything he does. He should let Jepha’s crack about his soulmate bounce right off him: he’s not ashamed of his weird soulmark – hell, at college he even met a couple of other people with odd marks, or none – but he figures it means there’s no one out there for him, and he made his peace with that a long time ago. He’s had his share of experience, but lately it’s just not seemed worth the effort, setting up a relationship that’s going to fail, when one day out of the blue his mate runs into a stranger and lights up with a golden shine. One-night hookups and just-for-the-tour relationships do him just fine. It’s all good.
It takes a bit of squeezing to fit himself underneath the desk, some finicky testing and a lot of swearing, but he finds the problem Sonia was talking about, and manages a fix that should hold at least until The Used are done. He gets the levels zeroed and works through his setup until he’s satisfied; he takes his time, but no one comes in to chase him out – fucking amateurs – and when he’s done his attention strays to the practice pads pushed hastily to one side out of the way. Memories of the morning’s music pulse in his brain: he could give himself ten minutes here. He eases himself onto the stool, puts on the headphones and picks up the sticks. It’s been a while since he sat at a full-size kit but muscle memory settles back in as he works through a warmup. Drumming is where everything falls into place for him, like he sets the tempo for the rest of the universe to follow, holding everything together with the steady beat of his bass and letting the rhythm absorb him.
He’s so caught up in what he’s doing, it takes him a minute to register that someone else has come in and is waving for his attention. Bob takes off the headphones and looks closer. Small, skinny, sideburns: Schechter?
‘Bryar,’ he greets him impatiently. ‘Any of your guys here?’
‘At this time of day?’ Bob scoffs. ‘They’ll still be asleep, except for Jepha – he’ll be out somewhere getting on everyone’s tits. Why?’
Schechter’s mouth turns down. ‘Thought they might know where my guys are.’
‘What, Death and Romance?’ hazards Bob vaguely.
‘My Chemical Romance,’ Schechter corrects him. ‘They’re playing at noon. If they haven’t broken up in the meantime.’
‘They giving you shit?’ Bob’s glad Schechter seems too distracted to register what he’s been doing as he puts the sticks down and stands up.
‘And some. All drama and hairpulling, like a bunch of girls.’
‘So dump them.’ Bob gets out a box and starts sorting spare cables and tape. ‘Plenty more could-bes hanging round here.’
‘I should. I would. But this band – I thought I’d found it, you know?’ Schechter has picked up the roll of tape to fiddle with and Bob takes it away from him. ‘The diamond in the rough. The golden egg.’ At Bob’s sceptical look he sighs. ‘I know I sound like an asshole, but these guys are the real deal. Or they could be, if they weren’t such hopeless dicks. They can play, really play, and the kids know it, they’re getting some solid traction. But they’re falling apart, like they don’t want to succeed.’
Bob shrugs. ‘So kick their asses.’
Schechter looks rueful. ‘I did, and the drummer split. Big picture, it’s for the best, but there’s an overseas tour booked in…’
‘Bummer,’ says Bob abstractedly.
‘Tucker’s sitting in, but he’s not an option long-term. I’ve been scraping round, but...’ Bob tucks his box under his arm and shoulders past him; he has no idea why Schechter is sharing all this, and he has a job to do. Schechter calls after him. ‘You should go and see them, you know, then you’ll get what I’m talking about. Maurice stage, at noon.’
By the time Bob’s finished his round of tasks the gates have opened and the punters are streaming in: metalheads and scene queens, tattooed punks and misfit teens, herds of frat boys and gaggles of self-conscious girls in Fall Out Boy shirts, plus the odd dad in a joke T-short and shorts being towed along by an orange-haired tweenager. He considers forging his way against the tide back to the bus, then takes the line of least resistance and lets himself be carried along towards the stages. Why not? He’s heard manager hype a hundred times and mostly it’s bullshit, but Schechter knows his stuff, and he seemed genuine about his wayward protégés.
The Maurice stage isn’t big, and he’s able to plant himself towards the front where he gets a good view. The stand-in drummer’s first on, waving to a couple of fans, then the rest of the band shuffle on stage, dysfunction written all over them. The two guitarists, a pretty little punk and a curly-haired nerd are looking daggers at each other, the singer’s dishevelled and clearly out of it, and the skinny bassist is so hunched in on himself that he’s practically standing under his own grey cloud. Bob shakes his head: best thing Schechter could do with this lot is put them out of their misery.
The singer mutters something incoherent, then the drummer counts them in and – OK, Bob gets it. He really gets it. This isn’t the straight-down-the-line unimaginative punk rock that Warped bands pump out: their music’s got ambition, complexity. The pretty guitarist is hot shit, the nerdy one is better, and they’re interweaving the melodies between them like they actually know what they’re doing. And the singer – Schechter said, diamond in the rough, and he’s right. The guy can sing, and once he has the mic in his hand he transforms into a tornado of charisma, reaching straight for the crowd’s collective jugular and making them his own. What they’re missing, though, is a drummer to match. This guy’s solid, he’s got his own style, but what he’s playing is safe, predictable, no fills or finesse. Bob itches to shove him off the stool and pick up the sticks, give this band what they really need.
As soon as the music stops, though, the failing dynamic becomes obvious. The singer throws an arm over the lead guitarist’s shoulder, and the rhythm player skewers them with a glare, then turns his back. The bassist is hunched over his instrument, obviously struggling with the tuning, and Bob’s fists curl in frustration. Why isn’t anyone helping? Someone needs to bring the rhythm player back into the group, reassure the bassist, make sure the singer shares out his attention and fix that trailing cable while they’re at it. These guys are great, but they could be so much more: all it would take is someone who could be the calm centre for them, absorb the tension and get the engine running smoothly again.
With his own show and the maelstrom of aftershow partying that is Warped, it takes him a while to track down Schechter again, but eventually he finds him sipping morosely on a beer at the barbecue. ‘Those guys of yours,’ Bob starts without preamble. ‘I thought you were just
talking shit, but you’re right, they’re something else.’
Schechter’s face lights up. ‘I knew you were the answer, it was, like, a sign, seeing you sitting there playing drums like a human octopus.’
‘I haven’t drummed regularly for years,’ warns Bob, ‘and I trained for band, not as a rock drummer.’
‘Technicalities.’ Schechter’s enthusiasm is plainly not going to be dampened. ‘How are you fixed for the next few months?’
Months? Bob blinks. ‘Don’t the band get a say?’
‘Oh, yeah, sure. Mikey’s round here somewhere, I’ll introduce you.’ Schechter darts away and comes back dragging the skinny bassist. Off stage he seems more confident, less gangling and more arrogant. ‘Mikey, I want you to meet someone,’ Schechter beams. ‘This is Bob.’
Mikey’s gaze sweeps him up and down: there’s something admirable about his complete lack of interest. ‘Sup.’
‘Hey, man,’ says Bob.
‘Bob’s a drummer,’ Schecher cuts in.
‘Well, kind of.’ Before Bob can explain further Mikey interrupts with a complete lack of affect.
‘Cool.’ If it was anyone else handing him this shit Bob would shrug and walk away, but Mikey intrigues him, with his skinny hipbones and the jut of his jaw: he looks to Schechter.
‘I was thinking maybe you and the guys could give him a shot,’ Schechter urges.
For a moment Bob thinks Mikey is going to refuse outright, but instead he crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself. ‘I’ll talk to them.’
Schechter nudges Bob, clearly expecting him to push his case, but Bob’s voice has died in his throat, because there, on Mikey’s bony wrist, is a soulmark of two parallel lines, the match to his own. Is Mikey his soulmate? He can’t be, because there’s no pull between them, no golden glow; Mikey’s already turning away.
‘Nice to meet you,’ says Bob hoarsely to Mikey’s retreating back.
Schecter sags. ‘You changed your mind now you’ve seen what you’d be getting into? He’s been through a bad breakup, but I’d be lying if I said it made him very different from normal.’
‘No,’ says Bob. He wants this like he’s never wanted anything before, this band with the misfiring heart. ‘If they’ll give me a shot, I’m in.’
‘No shit?’ Schechter grabs Bob’s bicep. ‘The tour starts right after Warped, it’s the UK, then Europe and back again for a four-month run here.’
For a moment Bob feels like he’s standing outside himself. His job. Letting down Jepha and the others. His friends, his plans. Is this what going insane feels like? ‘No problem,’ he says. I think – I don't know why, but I think I’m the answer. I think this band needs me. I think this what I’ve been looking for my whole life – 'I think it’s all good.'