“Well, the plan is for the crowds to get bigger and bigger.”
“I apologize,” I say. “That was a long way from my best performance. I let you guys down. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Mel seems satisfied with that answer. “Time for us to get used to success. Fanged Grapefruit is now on the map. Thanks, Blake!”
• • •
“Do you want me to ask the audience if they’re ready to rock?” Mel inquires before we take the stage for our second gig of the weekend.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Club Marrow is about halfway between the Lane and Blue Green Pink Glow in terms of cleanliness. Your feet don’t stick to the floor, but you’d put down a tablecloth before you ate off it. They gave us free nachos before the show, though the three of us had to share. The cheese-flavored sauce product was quite tasty.
The crowd is even bigger here, although I get the sense that we’ll have to work harder for their affection. It’s going to be a great show. Don & the Keys bombed, which will make this experience even greater because we are going to rock.
“Good luck to all of you,” says Blake.
We take the stage.
Here’s another helpful tip for those of you who may be considering a career in the musical arts: if you’re obsessively focused on trying not to make mistakes, it can take some of the soul out of your performance. I screw up fewer times than I did last night (though I still screw up), but though I hit more of the correct notes, my singing and guitar playing don’t have my usual passion.
Mel and Clarissa are in top form again, and they help balance things out. But still, it’s a below-average show for Fanged Grapefruit. The audience likes us, but they don’t love us. Nobody is particularly disappointed when I announce that we’re on our last song. A couple of people in the audience are clearly playing games on their phones, and when we depart the stage, I know that nobody is going to drive home saying, “I was all excited for Krab Salad, but much to my surprise, one of their opening acts blew them away! Fanged Grapefruit rules! Wooooooo!”
Nobody says much of anything as we break down our equipment and load it into my car. When we’re done, we sit quietly in the greenroom, which does not have apples.
“Hmm,” says Blake.
“I thought that went okay,” says Mel.
“Yeah,” says Clarissa.
“It was a pretty good show,” I confirm.
Clarissa turns to face me. “We can say that because we’re trying to make you feel better, but you’re not allowed to agree with us.”
“What was wrong with it?” I ask. When deciding how to handle an uncomfortable situation, it’s rare that I select the “play stupid” option, but that’s what I do this time.
“You weren’t any good,” says Clarissa. “You were generic.”
I expected her to say something like terrible, awful, disgraceful, wretched, dismal, or horrendous. I never imagined that she would be so hurtful as to use the G-word.
“Generic?” I repeat. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t connecting with the audience. You weren’t Rod Conklin. You were some guy with a decent voice who knows how to play a guitar.”
“Do you agree with her?” I ask Mel.
Why did I ask that question? Of course he agrees with her! She’s absolutely right! Now I’ve forced him to say it out loud! What’s the matter with me?
“Yeah, I agree,” says Mel. “You did okay with the technical stuff, but your performance was kind of hollow.”
Hollow. Generic. If I had to list all the words that I would not want to appear on my tombstone, those would be in the top ten.
“Look, it wasn’t my best show,” I admit, “but you’re both being harsh.”
“No, we’re not,” says Clarissa. “We’re being gentle. We whispered the harsh stuff to each other while we were loading my drums.”
“I can’t help but feel personally responsible for this,” says Blake. “I’m the one who got you these higher profile gigs, and I didn’t consider the extra pressure it would put on all of you. It was unfair of me to do that to Rod, and I apologize.”
“I can handle pressure,” I insist.
“Of course you can,” says Blake. “And I agree with you. Mel and Clarissa are maybe being a smidgen too harsh. As the lead singer, if you fail, the band fails, so you’re under even more pressure than everybody else. In your position, maybe Mel would’ve cracked too.”
“I didn’t fail,” I say. “And I didn’t crack.”
“I never said you did,” says Blake. “Nobody said you did. Or if they did, they didn’t say it to me. If they had, I would’ve disagreed with them. I’m on your side, Rod. Sometimes we simply don’t deliver. What’s important isn’t whether or not you let your bandmates down but whether you recognize what happened and apologize.”
“Can you excuse us for a minute, Blake?” asks Clarissa.
“Certainly.” He stands and walks over to the door of the greenroom. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He leaves.
“We thought this conversation should be private between the band members,” says Mel.
Suddenly, every part of my body itches. I resist the urge to start vigorously scratching.
“We appreciate that your cousin gave us these opportunities,” says Clarissa. “But we really need you to step up your game. This can’t happen again. Tomorrow we’re the main act. We can’t mess this up.”
“Or else what?” I ask.
“There’s no ‘or else.’ We’re not making threats. We’re only asking you to do better next time.”
“I will,” I promise. “You have my word. This was my last soulless show.”
Everybody falls asleep on the drive home—well, all except for me. I’m the one driving. And I’m too worried that Blake’s snoring is going to put the tires out of alignment to doze off. I have no idea how Mel and Clarissa can sleep through that. Then I wonder if they’re pretending to be asleep so they
