Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 1

    Delicate piano notes drifted through the air in the empty studio, pieces of songs long admired and songs yet to be born. It had been a long, sometimes frustrating, but fulfilling process, working on this new album, but the finish line was in sight. Soon the days of sleeping in the studio would be behind them. No more working through the night, wracking his brain for a better way to phrase a line or endless questioning of every note: "Is it good enough?"

    Absently, Brandon Flowers' long fingers drifted over the piano keys, mixing bits of his own songs with snippets from Elton John, U2 and Midnight Oil, creating a kind of bizarre, impromptu medley. The Killers were working on their sixth album now, nearly two decades into the band's lifecycle, and each album had been more difficult than the last. 

     The pressure of the great musicians who had come before them, and their own innumerable hits, weighed on him more heavily with each passing year. He couldn't help dwelling on doubts every time they set out to make new music: is this worth putting on an album? What do we have left to contribute? Can we still make an impact?

    Sometimes he felt unbelievably confident and proud of the works of art they were producing, and then minutes later he would be seized by the sudden urge to throw everything away and start anew. But this wasn't his first rodeo, and he knew once they released the album into the world, once their fans embraced it and began to hold the new music at the same hallowed heights as their classics produced over the years...once the fans claimed their new music as their own, he would feel differently and his confidence would be bolstered.  They only had to release it, and they had finally finished recording - they only had to wait for the final mastering.

    A heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts - he jumped and twisted, momentarily alarmed, before relaxing.

    "Hey, Ron." He greeted his drummer and longtime friend with a smile. "What are you doing back here? There's nothing else we can do now." Ronnie, dressed in a blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt and shorts, snorted and held up a white bag of McDonald's.

    "I could ask you the same question, B. It's almost one in the morning, go home already." Ronnie unfolded the top of the bag and passed a hamburger to his friend with a smile, before pulling a pouch of french fries out of the bag for himself.

    "Oh, is it? I didn't realize...time got away from me, I guess." Brandon paused in unwrapping his dinner to gaze through the window at the control room, with its metallic panels and countless switches. "Just...worried about the album, that's all. I don't know...it's amazing, but what if the fans don't like it? We owe them everything, you know?"

    Ronnie fiddled with his paper napkin and shrugged. "If there's anything we've learned from the last seventeen years, it's that you can't please everyone, no matter how much you kill yourself trying. Besides, we've seen the same pattern with every album, the fans aren't sure at first and then over time - bam, it's a classic. I believe in these songs, I think they're some of our best work in years! 

     "But there are people who would never be happy with anything except Hot Fuss 2 or Sam's Town 2, and nobody in this band wants that...I don't even think the fans do, really. How stale and boring would that be? 

     "We've had more fun with this album than I can remember since...well, since making Hot Fuss in that dinky little home studio. We're keeping it fresh and having fun and exploring new territory- we know dozens of bands who flamed out by now because they couldn't do the same, they kept trying to recreate their first album. We won't fall into that trap, Brandon."

    The corners of Brandon's eyes crinkled as he grinned, nodding at his friend. "You're right as usual, of course. We've definitely had more fun with this album - can you believe we really got all those people to make music with us? I mean - Johnny Marr, The Edge! I keep thinking maybe it's just a dream and I'm gonna wake up and it's all gonna be over. They really wanted to create music with us - with us, Ronnie! 

     "It just doesn't feel real, we're just a couple of kids from Vegas still...it's like, what do they want to work with us for? Even though I know we're huge, bigger than most bands can dream of, it still feels weird, doesn't it?" 

     Finished with his burger, Brandon folded the wrapped into ever-smaller squares, momentarily focused on his task, before looking back up at Ronnie with a giggle. "It's just so cool, I kept staring at them in the studio, like 'Are you really here right now?' It's unbelievable."

    Ronnie nodded emphatically, gesturing at the door to the studio. "I thought I was gonna have a heart attack when Johnny walked through the door. I kinda wish we had done that ages ago, it was so inspiring to have all those people, our idols, making songs with us...and intimidating as hell. But you know, even if we had been in a position to do this years ago, I doubt any of them would have given us the time of day back then. 

     "We've paid our dues now, we're almost on their level...and you're right, it feels weird to even think that sentence. It's like blasphemy. Me, up there with The Smiths? U2? Like I texted you the other day; someone asked me when I think we'd be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yesterday and it hit me, it really hit me...that probably will happen one day, won't it? It's not even really a question anymore."

    Brandon's eyes widened, and he looked down at the table, studying the wood grain. "God, I hope so...can you imagine? We've spent so long working our asses off trying to touch people with our music, that would be...wow. We really would live forever in a way, you know? That's...wow."

    Ronnie gathered their trash and stood to toss the bag in the garbage can by the door, and grabbed Brandon's truck keys off the hook by the door, tossing them on the table in front of him.

     "It's gonna happen, just wait. We deserve it. Now go home to your wife and your nice cushy house you worked your ass off for, won't you? See you on Tuesday for the final listening and our tour planning meeting with the label."

    Ronnie closed the door behind him, and Brandon was again alone in the dim studio, listening as his drummer's truck started and then drove away, leaving silence in its wake. Brandon sighed, thinking of the work to come, then picked up his keys, turned off the studio lights and locked the door behind him, ready to go home and leave the band on the backburner for a while.