*completed*
A young girl joins a band and go through the ups and down over a decade long career in rock music.
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Debra May was held back from life by her overbearing religious mother until she heard the soft melody of 'Stairway to Heaven'. The...
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1976
Harry
Brooklyn, New York
3:26 am
A few weeks passed by since I had fired our old manager Jules. It goes to show you that even your heroes will disappoint you. Not to say that he was my hero, but he was a man of business that made bands rise to the top. Now, well now, we had no manager or person to set us up for gigs.
After the tour, we got paid and came home, but not before we made a friend by the name of David Bowie. He was a great guy and we told him we would love to work with him, exchanging information, we parted ways.
It had now been two weeks and he had decided to call us and ask if we'd like to have a coffee and talk. With this happening later today, I couldn't sleep at all. I sat in the living room with Mitch and Deb, working on a song. There was no tension between us anymore, the guys realizing how little money we actually received, thanking me in the process.
"Billie wrote a song and I don't have the nerve to tell him that it's not that good," Mitch spoke up. Deb was walking back and forth singing lyrics differently each time.
She stopped to turn to Mitch with a frown. "You don't start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it's good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it."
"So you agree," Mitch says back.
"No I don't, what I'm saying is that he might actually like what he made, so don't be an asshole." he was about to speak up but Deb continues. "Besides it's not like we all haven't written shitty songs. It takes hundreds of bad lyrics and tunes that don't work to get one decent song. Right hon." she said towards me.
"Yes dear." I strummed my guitar. "One of my worst songs was this one I wrote when I met Deb. It makes no sense but it was how I felt." both of them turned to look at me in confusion. "Ignore me I'm sleep deprived."
"Smoke some grass and go to sleep then, we're only up because you're up playing your guitar loud and stuff." Mitch tied his hair up. It was like we were competing to see who would cut their hair first and I think he was going to win because I was getting sick of my hair.
"Deb won't kiss me if I smoke weed." he looked to my wife for confirmation.
"I don't like the smell." she agreed once again singing a lyric. "can someone please play something and get me out of this hole I'm in?" she came over to sit on my lap.
“Stop stressing, or all that blonde hair will fall out.” Mitch jokes.
“If all that bleach hasn't killed her hair, the stress will definitely do it- ow!” I yelled at the feeling of Debra's nails pinching my nipple.
“Don't make fun of me, I am your wife.”
“Ah okay, I'm gonna get you back,” I warned her in her ear.
