"Why do we have to tour?" Krista wailed.
"To promote the album and sell cassettes, to build our reputation as a band," said Wirebound, who in everyday clothes looked more like Cheryl Wilenska.
"To keep our edge. To pay off the loans on the gear and van," said Ginger.
"Because we like playing for people: that's why we're musicians," said Mary.
Krista wasn't giving in. "I am in school. I've got, like, exams and some big ski meets. I can't just, like, bag all my classes and go on the road for a month. Once I graduate, I'll go. Seriously."
Ginger stood up, looming over the rest. "Would this be a good time for some long-term thinking?"
Mary shrugged. "Not my strong suit."
"Okay— here's the picture: Krista's graduating from Jackson High and getting serious pressure to start college. Mary's got a year in at UW, and no plans. My Dad is threatening to ship me off some bad-girl college in Switzerland where they modify the behavior of troubled young women. If I don't come up with a plan of my own, well— you know my Dad."
Krista grimaced.
"Right— so what if we all scam our way into colleges in the same general area? Which has to have good skiing and a music scene. We could keep the band going."
"Part-time," Mary said.
"That's enough. The kind of crazy shit we like to play," Ginger said.
"Yeah, right. Thank God," Mary said. "You're covered for school. But me and Wire have to raise our own financing."
"Who said I even want to go to college?" Wirebound scanned the group. "I hated school. Casino gigs sound fine to me: six days a week, get a booking agent and a motorhome. It's a job."
They left it there, and started to work on a new song, that Mary thought of as The Sugarcubes meet Godzilla. The rhythm section part was relentless, Ginger and Wire locked and thundering, while the guitar and keyboards and vocals built and built, pleading and threatening, until it ended on a breathy shriek.
"Wow. That was— pretty good," Krista said, in the lull.
"Pretty good?" Ginger was wiping the sweat off her bass with a towel. "I assume that's supposed to be, like, the most extreme understatement in the history of the English language."
"I thought it was pretty good, too," said Wire.
"I thought it was excruciatingly brilliant," Mary said. "Wish we'd had that one on the tape."
"I recorded it," Krista said. "On my computer. Didn't say anything— I didn't want to make you nervous."
"No lie? Let's play it back."
Krista rolled her stool from the bank of keyboards to the little Macintosh, a beige box with a glowing blue-gray screen. She fiddled with the keys, and the opening chords of the song boomed out of the monitors. The others crowded around her. On the screen were a bunch of luminous squiggles, dancing across a grid.
"That's our waveform— isn't it cool?"
YOU ARE READING
THE FERAL STRUT
Misteri / ThrillerEscaping her trailer-trash background for a summer job as a forest ranger in Wyoming, Mary Browne deals with various hazards, natural and human. But when she moves to Jackson Hole, and starts playing with her band, The Feral Sluts, she steps unwit...