Band On The Run

Under Pressure

Even the completely glazed over expressions that faced me were not enough of a deterrent when I'd stumbled onto a topic I felt particularly passionate about.

And, of course, the only topic I felt that way about was music.

"So, what do we do?" I asked the table at large, leaning forward onto my elbows upon the standing table. My father and Linda just stared back at me, both at a loss. On the other hand, Jake just hid his wide grin into the drink he raised to his mouth. "Do we not listen to any of the music because the producer is a piece of shit? But what about the artists? I don't get to listen to Ronnie Spector because of him? Fuck off with that. Then we couldn't listen to Imagine or End of the Century or Death of a Ladies' Man or..."

As I rattled off more albums, Frank and Linda just blinked blankly at me. It was as if I was speaking a different language. And yet the fact didn't faze me at all, I just kept chattering away. Although that might've had more to do with the drink in my hand – the only reason I stopped to take a breath. 

It was the fourth gin and tonic that had been in my hand that night.

"I hate him. I hate Phil Spector," I declared, using the drink in my hand as emphasis. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick's hand dart out, clearly concerned that the drink was about to fly out of my hand. That boy was always trying to avert disaster. So, I pulled my hand back, placing the cold glass against my collar bone.

"But," I pressed them, and I saw my father physically take a deep breath across the table, "The wall of sound. The fucking wall of sound," I said wistfully, looking above their heads thoughtfully, the chilly glass against my skin the only thing keeping me rooted to the moment. "Where would we be without it?"

That was enough to have me pause finally. It was quite the question, where would music and producing be without it? It was revolutionary. As I pondered the thought that I had posed, my eyes flicked over to Jake to see him wearing an equally thoughtful expression, lips pursed, and head tilted slightly to the side. 

Apparently that was all the encouragement I needed. 

Once again, I leaned forwards, eyes bright with excitement. I was too focused to notice how the hope on everyone else's faces crumpled when the realized I wasn't done yet. "Have you guys ever really listened to Be My Baby?" I asked them urgently. Despite their glum expressions, all I noticed was that they shook their heads in the negative. 

"You guys need to hear it," I announced, "It's the perfect example of that wall of sound. The layering, oh my god, it's fantastic."

With a new goal in mind, I lifted my drink and promptly drained whatever was at the bottom before dropping it on the table with a clatter. Then I spun around, eyes scanning the crowded floor of The Cellar. And I muttered, "Where's Seth? He can get the song on. I know he made this playlist – who else would play Prince, then the Dead Kennedys, and then That's The Joint?"

"Keely," began Nick wearily.

But I wasn't listening to him, because I'd caught sight of Seth. He was on the opposite end of the room, standing with Colton and Marco, a rueful grin on his face as he spoke to them and a glass of whiskey in his hand. His dark hair was stuck straight up at the front.

I just waved wildly until I caught his attention.

"Christ," Nick muttered.

Seth just frowned over at us, clearly confused. Between the buzz of chatter from the crowd and the sound of the Funky 4 + 1 pulsing above them, there was no hope of hearing each other at such a distance. So, I wasn't sure whether he mouthed the word or shouted, "What?"