“Well, she’s come to her senses. Since that one time, Savy’ll barely hug me goodbye. The music comes first, and I guess most of me agrees.”
Doesn’t make it easier.
“No. Sooner or later, I’ll be writing a song about her.”
Half the tracks on my first album were about girls I’d loved and lost. Nothing wrong with a little pain in a songwriter’s life.
Clay ventured over to Crossroads and sent the silver pinball rocketing up the launch. “We’re almost ready to record our demo. Our next gig will be fast on its heels. You think there’s something to worry about? Will the Hailmaker honestly give a shit about us?”
You put his top moneymaker out of commission. He’ll admire your ambition, if nothin’ else.
Slamming the flippers, Clay sent the ball ricocheting around the playfield of bleeping bumpers and spinners, soundtrack tires screeching, wrecking havoc. “And if he comes looking for us? Are you keeping a bandolier of holy water under the floor? How do we fend him off?”
If I could answer that, I’d be sittin’ here in the flesh. I think a lot of people would.
“You know, I saw him once. In Philadelphia. He was a she back then—and she knew my name. Whispered it to me on the other side of a peephole.” Clay shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like she’s still watching me, in the most random places.”
Boyle paused for a long time. Fuck. That can’t be good.
“What are my options then? Quit music? Find a good place to haunt?”
One thing I know:The Hailmaker plays by his own set of rules. He won’t make you do anything. That’d be too easy. He’ll want you to force yourself. ’cept don’t think knowin’ that will be enough. If The Man wants something, he’ll be damn determined. And his toadies are everywhere in this business. If someone offers you something that sounds too good to be true, it is. Don’t sign anything till we’ve talked…. And be especially wary of offers to go to Maui.
“I’m sorry—I think I have a little tinnitus ringing. Did you say Maui?”
Or some paradise they’ll take you to, under the guise of gettin’ high, gettin’ laid, recordin’ a record. And after a few days, you’ll be as good as bought. It’s where I shot smack the first time. I was easy to manipulate after that.
“What’s the alternative? Even if we could resist, what would the punishment be? Slow dismemberment? Watching terrible things happen to my friends? I think I’d rather give in.”
He’d love to know you think that way. Boyle was close to Clay now, leaning in to emphasize the point. If he can’t have your soul, he won’t want the rest of you. I think he feeds off it, breathes the corruption in like we—or you, at least—breathe air. So don’t bite at his seduction, no matter how good it sounds. Eventually he’ll discard you, and find someone else to suit his needs. You’ll survive. Like I might’ve if I hadn’t been so desperate for fame.
The pinball rolled straight down the center of the table and dropped into the black hole at the bottom. Almost instantly another ball entered the launch, but Clay laid off. He stared down into that black hole like it was a bottomless chasm. “All I want to do is play music. Bring a little excitement to a room full of people. In my wildest dreams, I change a few lives, the way you changed mine. Why does that cost so much?”
I’ve come to believe flies show up wherever there’s something sweet. And what’s sweeter in life than music? Boyle didn’t bother waiting for a response. There was none. It’s our gift, and our curse. But you understand what’s comin’, at least. Most of us never had that advantage.
Clay felt himself nodding. His head hurt, as if a thick length of barbwire was being jerked back and forth through his temples. He thought, My best friend is a ghost and the devil is coming for me.Then he was doubled over, shaking with laughter, cracking up loud enough to quiet the songbirds outside. “I think I need Advil. Hang on to that Telecaster.”
Clay?
“My mind’s going to burst, Roc, we’ll have to revisit this another time.”
I wanted to say thank you. For jammin’ with me. It was damn good to get the dust off.
“Oven mitts, my ass,” Clay said, and swatted the lights off.
19
SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT
In track recording, vocals were put down last. So, after Clay had laid his riffs over Fiasco and Spider’s parts, everyone was left waiting for Savy. Unlike at practice, where her playing was spontaneous and raw, recording brought out Savy’s inner-perfectionist. She was self-conscious and short-fused about everything, fiddling endlessly with her tuner, changing pickups, complaining how the Generator was too hot (despite the cranked a.c.)—the guitar was a highly sensitive instrument, after all, susceptible to the most subtle temperature changes—and she demanded retakes on everything. “Christ, Sav, it’s only a demo,” Spider dared to remind her.
“Yeah, what are you, the Stanley Kubrick of session players?” Fiasco added, sitting a good distance away—and with Delilah Jane and her porcupine quills of white hair to shield him.
Savy looked around at her bandmates, saw their general agreement, and cracked a frustrated grin. “I don’t want anyone who hears us to even think about turning us down. I want it to be our passport into every club, into everything. That’s what we should be going for here. If any of you half-assed even one second of your parts, rip it out and let’s go again. Call me ego-fucking-tistical but I—”
“Ego-fucking-tistical!” her band replied.
In this fashion, it took them four nights to lay down the music for five songs, and they spent a fifth recording “In Rolls the Storm” live. They were going for a “big garage sound” (so Spider informed them)—with tremblingly amps, concussive drums, echoes and sustain—and that took time and patience.
On the sixth evening, Clay ascended to the loft
