Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [61]
I spent the session taking photos, posting comments to rock music blogs, and researching Seattle Today. But even then I’d run out of projects about half an hour before the session was over. Finally, out of boredom and desperation, I began to draft a letter to the school principal, requesting that Piper Vaughan be granted absence from two periods plus lunch break on Tuesday, November 5 to participate in Dumb’s live performance on Seattle Today. And since Baz had a printer in the control room, I ran off a copy and forged my father’s signature right there and then, before I had time to second-guess myself.
Even so, by the time I folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, I’d read it at least a dozen times. I wondered if the wording was too formal, or the sentences too long. I imagined that the signature was too legible, the paper too fancy. In my mind I’d been tried and found guilty of impersonating a stay-at-home dad, and the sentence was too appalling to contemplate. I even began to doubt I’d have the courage to hand it in to the school office, but really, what other choice did I have? Ask Mom? Ask Dad? No thanks. Just because Mom knew it was coming up on Tuesday didn’t mean she’d let me attend, not after Friday’s showdown. Anyway, it was about time I capitalized on my reputation as the school’s most upstanding student. The moment had come for Bad Girl Piper to test the theory that it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. It usually worked for Finn.
When our three hours were up, Baz ejected another new CD and handed it over. “Tracks one, two, three, five, eight, and ten are good,” he said, all business. “And believe me, I don’t use that word lightly.”
“Thanks.”
“I still wish you’d waited longer before coming in. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but Kallie just isn’t ready for this yet. When the band got off track, it was almost always because of her.”
“She’s getting better.”
“But how long are the rest of them going to hang around waiting for her to get good enough?” he asked. I shrugged, and Baz seemed to understand that I needed him to let it go. “Seriously, though, they’re so much better than the first time they came in here. They just need to attack every song with the same energy and commitment, you know?”
“I know. But we’ll be back. And next time I hope we’ll be able to pay our own way.”
Baz raised his eyebrows like he admired my optimism, and possibly even shared a little of it. “Well, if you do get some paid work and want to book another session, let me know. I really believe we could get some good material—the kind that generates real interest.”
“Thanks, Baz. Thanks for . . . well, everything.”
“You’re welcome. You’re not exactly in an easy situation here.”
I waved off the remark. “Deafness is overrated.”
“I’m not talking about your deafness.” Baz pointed to a framed poster for The Workin’ Firkins—a performance at something called the Showbox back in 1985. “We fired our manager just after this concert. Biggest mistake we ever made.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Thought we’d made it, see? Thought the only way was up, so we figured there’d be a little more cash to go around if we ditched him and arranged things ourselves.” He tapped the poster, gazed at it like a long-lost friend. “It worked for a while. We played bigger and bigger venues. Even had one show at Key Arena, back when it was the Coliseum. I’m talking eleven thousand people, you know? It was insane. But by then my brother and I were fighting pretty much all the time.”
“Hold on. Your brother was in the band?”
“Yeah, lead guitar. And let me tell you, the fights are so much worse when it’s family. Just look at Oasis.”
“Who?”
Baz frowned. “Never mind. Anyway, it turned out the only thing that had kept us together was that we all hated our manager. So when he wasn’t around anymore, we just went at each other instead. We held it together