Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [30]
And that’s when the activity inside the studio stopped, and five pairs of eyes stared right back at me.
I walked through the door and stood before them, sighed deeply as I recalled the opportunity we’d thrown away. It was too wasteful, too frustrating to comprehend. And even though I knew I should apologize for contemplating quitting on them, I couldn’t do it. I was too angry. So angry I needed to hit something. Which is how my fist came to make contact with the cinder block wall.
“You idiots!” I screamed. “You’ve got free use of a studio, a professional mentor, and you still can’t even pretend to play together. Well, that’s about to change. You’re gonna work your butts off for the next hour, or I’m pulling the plug on everything: the MySpace page, the radio shows, everything.” Josh raised his hand, but I shut him down. “Whatever the hell it is you think you’re about to say, Josh, forget it. Just shut up. Right now, all of you should be ashamed to be heard by anyone. Right now, I’m ashamed to be your manager.” No one moved a muscle. “Now, I’m going to beg Baz to give us one more hour. Just one hour. Unless you can make a song work by then, he’s done with you. And so am I.”
I turned on my heel and strode into the control room, where Baz greeted me with a subtle nod that assured me he approved of the plan. And for the next hour—while my knuckles bled and my hand throbbed—Dumb worked hard. My eyes told me that no single rendition was perfect, but after each one they compared notes, and listened as Baz offered suggestions.
When the session was over they looked exhausted, packing up their instruments in silence. One by one they filed past me without a word of support or dissent, and I realized that in forging a group from Dumb, I might have alienated myself. But then Ed shuffled by, and the grin he wore told me I’d done exactly what I needed to do.
In the far corner of the room, Baz ejected a CD and handed it over. “Here’s the best track—not perfect, but useable. If this is who Dumb is going to be, then send it out to radio stations, put it on your webpage. Start generating buzz. Get people listening.”
“Okay.”
“Look, you’ve got one recording session left. Do us all a favor and wait a while before booking it, okay? There’s a whole world of rock music out there, and you should get acquainted with it. Get everyone up to speed. Learn new material. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
He held out his hand and I shook it gratefully, and as our eyes met I had the feeling I’d earned that most elusive prize—his respect.
“One more thing,” he said, letting go of my hand. “I know the sacrifices rock bands make for their image, but people are going to notice if one of the members isn’t even playing.”
I gasped. “What? Who?”
“That new girl. Tash told me you wanted her microphone turned off. . . . Didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer that question, because I didn’t have to. Baz shook his head sympathetically, but as I left the studio I knew that whatever respect I’d just won had already evaporated. Maybe it was deserved too, because instead of thinking about how I should bring Tash back in line, I spent the rest of the day wondering if I could just cover the whole thing up.
But when had things ever been that easy?
CHAPTER 21
The following day I received an e-mail from Phil:
Got your MP3. Dumb’s a go. This Wednesday.
8PM. Arrive EARLY. Go to 4th floor, suite 416.
Please confirm. P.
Everyone was gratifyingly enthusiastic about the news, even though they still thought soft rock completely sucked. Tash made sure her mom let her off work that Wednesday evening, and after reminding me that school nights are for homework, my mom gave the go-ahead too.