“What the fuck are we doing?”
Ray Brannigan looked up from his keyboard. “Destiny Averted… I thought….”
Paul Winthrop ceased his drumming. “Destiny Averted? I thought we were doing Chained?”
Chris Lytle, singer, songwriter, guitar player, and the last American Rock Star lifted the guitar strap over his head and placed his 1972 “worth more than your life” Les Paul on the stand… carefully. A relic from days of futures passed. “I’m not even sure what the fuck song we were trying to do. But that’s not what I mean. Let’s take five, I wanna talk to you guys bout something.”
“Oh shit, Mr. Emo again,” Paul muttered to be heard. “Soon as we make it big, I’m going Travis Barker and covering shit on youtube.”
“That talent isn’t going to magically appear P. So shut the fuck up and ride in my emotional baggage to the top.”
Paul knew talent. But more important, he knew Chris. So, he got up and moved four feet to an old love seat. Ray was already sitting down on a wooden chair, patient to a fault. Chris made his way over, nudging a cymbal. Ray clasped the armrests and lifted his bum a millimeter, but relaxed seeing the tension not escalate. Paul was irked, but could bare it.
“So…” Chris claimed the superior version of Ray’s seat. “What are we doing?”
The garage was soundproof. Screams of agony and defeat could not be heard by the adoring public. Neither could songs of trysts and breasts if you asked Paul. Ray’s parents were wealthy and offered their only son a perfect soundstage for his friends to practice. Ray appreciated the gift even if his friends thought it too perfect. They would remind him that garage bands are not offered the luxury of carpet. But it was the only way they could get anything done. Paul’s garage housed a truck belonging to his well-intentioned but ignorant father. Chris’ parents could afford to rent out their luxurious four-car garage, but he would never ask.
“We’re trying to be a band. At least, that’s what I think we’re trying to do.” Paul, to his credit, waited until the cymbal completed its final vibration to respond.
“Yeah, ok. But these songs, why the fuck are we doing these songs?”
“Because you wrote them, moron. I could write a song, but apparently I’m not deep enough.” He gritted his teeth.
“Hey, you were the one who said I should write the songs. And we’re allowed to do each others songs for Christ sake!”
“Oooooooh no, you ain’t getting me with that crap. We asked Ray who he thought should be writing the songs, and he said you.” Two pairs of eyes shot towards Ray, minding his own business. Ray smiled until the gazes pierced him, dropping into bemusement.
“Look, I just uhhh, may have, maybe said that I liked Chris’ songs just a little bit better. But yours were good too.” Ray pointed to his shaking head.
“Nah, but you liked C’s. Look, it’s cool that he’s making the songs. I just don’t like dealing with these gay little pow wows.” Paul took a deep breath. “So what do you mean exactly when you ask why are we doing these songs?”
“What I mean is, P, do we really believe in these songs? And I mean all of us. I don’t want to be speaking just for me. I want to reach a lot of people with these songs. I’m thinking if we all at least gave some input on the themes – even if we’re not all writing them – then that would mean more than just people like me might appreciate it.” Chris wondered what he meant by “people like me.”
