“You’ve got to be joking,” I said, aghast.
“You get some publishing money over the years, if you wrote the song – but if you didn’t, then once the advance is gone, you’re probably fucked.”
“That’s why so many bands tour relentlessly,” Ryan explained. “Touring is where the money is for most artists. Not the actual songs.”
“But you guys are different, right?” I asked. “I mean, you’re independent, so you’re actually making money on the songs, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed.
“A lot of fuckin’ money,” Derek said, then took a sip of his scotch.
“Then… why tour so much?”
Derek and Ryan looked at each other – and then burst out laughing.
“Because I love it,” Derek said, just as Ryan said, “Because he wants to.”
I looked back and forth between them, settling on Ryan. “Um… Derek loves it, so you do it?”
He shrugged. “I mean, I like it, too… but he loves it.”
“If I could be onstage 24 hours a day, I would,” Derek said. “There’s no drug, no feeling like it in the world. Ten thousand people shouting your name? Ten thousand people singing along to your songs?”
Ten thousand women who want to fuck you? I thought bitterly.
“Nothin’ better in the world,” he finished.
“Obviously you don’t agree,” I said to Ryan.
He gave me a mysterious little smile. “The Beatles gave their last concert in San Francisco in 1966. You know why?”
“Because they hated touring?”
“Maybe that was part of it.”
“Fuck that, all of them toured separately after they broke up,” Derek scoffed. “Lennon, McCartney, George Harrison, Ringo Starr – all of them toured.”
“That was years later,” Ryan said, then turned to me. “When they first formed the band, the Beatles toured non-stop for six years. They finally quit because they couldn’t hear each other onstage for all the screaming.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. The crowds were literally screaming so loud, nobody could hear them play. Not the fans, not the Beatles, nobody. Plus, they were sick of getting mobbed everywhere they went. I mean, it’s tough on us – ”
“Speak for yourself,” Derek said.
“Okay, it’s tough on me, and we’re not even one tenth as big as the Beatles were in 1966. They were gods. And when they were big enough, they just decided to pack it in, and never appeared in public again.”
“They did the rooftop concert in ‘69,” Derek pointed out.
“That was an impromptu appearance for a small audience, not a concert. Plus, they only did it so they could film it for Let It Be. They went out in a huge way at Candlestick Park, and they concentrated on studio recording after that.”
“And broke up, too,” Derek said.
“Yeah, but they probably would’ve done that anyway. And we got Sgt. Pepper’s, The White Album, and Abbey Road in exchange. I’ll take that any day of the week.”
“Mm,” Derek said. He apparently had no comeback.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Ryan said, and slid out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” I asked, suddenly nervous about being alone with Derek.
“Um… the little boys’ room?”
“You can go with him if you want,” Derek said, an irritated edge in his voice.
I just glared at him.
“In America, we go to bathroom by ourselves,” Ryan said with a fake Russian accent.
“Not if you’re a real rock star,” Derek said.
Ryan laughed and walked off.
Now Derek and I were alone.
32
There was maybe ten seconds worth of silence.
It felt more like two minutes.
Then we both spoke at the same time.
“Look, I just wanted to say – ” I started.
“Aren’t you going to ask another question?” he said, overlapping me.
We stopped and looked at each other.
Then we both smiled – me shyly, him grinning.
“You were saying?” he asked.
“Um… I just wanted to say that I really liked your song. Back there in the hotel room. I wasn’t criticizing you or anything.”
His smile faded. Between his mouth and his sunglasses, I couldn’t read anything about his expression.
“So… that’s it,” I finished lamely.
He sat there, silent, just watching me.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked, annoyed.
He shrugged, then looked away. “You were right,” he said, and took another sip of scotch.
“…what?”
“You were right. The second and third verse need a lot more work.”
I sat there staring at him. “You agree with me?”
“Yeah.”
“So why’d you bite my head off?”
His lip turned up in the tiniest of smirks as he stared off into the distance. “Sorry.”
“…um… okay…”
Then he looked at me again, and I could see my own reflection in his sunglasses. “But don’t do it again.”
“What, criticize the great and mighty Derek Kane?”
“No, when we’re in the middle of creating a song, don’t speak up. Don’t talk. Don’t say anything.”
Now I was really getting angry. “Why? Because I won’t sleep with you?”
His expression didn’t change in the slightest. It was blank and emotionless as stone.
“No, because you fucked with Ryan’s head.”
“Oh, really?” I asked sarcastically.
“Ryan is a great songwriter. He is. But he’s insecure as fuck until it’s finally recorded and set down in final form. He’s always second-guessing things, he’s always wondering if it could be better, if it’s good enough, if he’s good enough. It’s a process. He needs to work through his own shit. We all do. We don’t need somebody coming into the middle of things, giving us their opinion. That’s why we work with the best producers out there – after we’ve decided on what songs we’re taking into the studio and we already have them 80% finished. And that’s why we don’t work with a record company.”
My cheeks flushed hot. “But he asked my opinion – ”
“Because he’s insecure as fuck.”
“Riley said it sucked – I was just saying that it didn’t.”
“Riley says everything sucks. And Riley has that right. She’s a member of the band. You’re not.”
Now my face felt like it was on fire.
But he didn’t stop.
“Did you see Miles giving us his opinion? No, even though he’s our fucking manager. You know why? Because he respects us enough to give us our space. He does his thing for us, and we need him, but he doesn’t tell us how to play our fucking music. Especially when we’re at the very beginning, just figuring it out. I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but in the future… if you’re around during another practice session, don’t say anything. Just give us our space.”
I felt several things at the same time. First and foremost, like I should apologize.
But I was also angry at the way he was treating me – and I was skeptical. Everything he was saying was a little too pat and easy. Made him look a little too good.
“Interesting that you didn’t cut me off in the hotel room until after I criticized your verses,” I seethed.
He snorted, looked away, and took another drink.
“Maybe he’s not the only one who’s insecure as fuck,” I added.
“I’m sure there’s something to that,” he said. “But you fucked with all of our heads, whether you meant to or not. All I’m saying is, don’t do it again.”
“It would be nice to be asked, rather than ordered.”
He turned his head slowly and stared at me.
It sent a cold chill down my back.
“Alright,” he said coldly. “Pretty fuckin’ please. With sugar on top. When the band’s practicing, shut the fuck up.”
“Fuck you,” I snapped.
“Is this how you do all your interviews?”
“We both know this isn’t about me interrupting your band practice. This is about me not sleeping with you last night.”
He grinned. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, and you know it.”
“You remember what I said last night?”
“I remember you saying a lot of things last night.”
“Well, I remember saying, ‘I’ll be the rock star and you’ll be the journalist, and we’ll be cool. But no passive-aggressive bullshit or snarky comments.’”
“That was about other women sleeping with you, not about your precious little musical ‘process.’”
“Yeah, well, consider you not butting your nose in where you’re not wanted as part of the deal now.”
“Your deal sucks.”
“If you don’t like it, leave. I’m sure you’ve got enough to write something for Rolling Stone.”
“Why are you being such an asshole?”
“I’m not. You’re acting all entitled, like our past history gives you permission to act any fuckin’ way you want.”
“That’s not true.”
“Looks that way from where I’m standing.”