Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 3

    Backstage at the Borgata, Brandon and Ronnie's dressing room was a hive of activity, the door propped open as several people milled around and ran in and out on errands less than two hours before showtime. Brandon sat alone in the corner, dressed in dark gray slacks and a white button-down shirt subtly interwoven with fine silvery metallic thread - his matching jacket hung on a peg near the door, proudly displaying its silver embroidery, an intricate pattern of stars that seemed to fade and then pop in the changing light. Brandon clutched a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola in his hands, spinning it nervously and staring blankly at the bright red label as the bottle rotated. His first in-person interview about the new album was in a few minutes, and he knew once this one was published, they would learn where they stood with the fans. Wishing desperately that the magazine had asked Ronnie to interview with him, Brandon bit his lip, then rubbed his hand over his face to wipe away the layer of sweat. Ronnie was so much more confident than he was, even in the face of the unknown - a quality that Brandon had never admired more than in these last several months, as it became clear that this new album would need to dip into uncharted waters. Never before had they needed to rely so heavily on outside musicians, but as they progressed in the album's creation, Dave continued to focus on his fledgling solo career and new marriage, and he hadn't been able to find the time to work with them. They had needed to outsource guitarists - circumstances in Mark's life made it difficult for him this time around, too, and so they found themselves recruiting guest bassists as well.

    It had turned out to be a welcome, if unexpected, change, definitely; Ronnie and Brandon had had many late-night conversations about how invigorating and rejuvenating they had both found the experience. It had been indescribably inspirational, to have the honor and privilege of working with so many storied musicians. It was something Brandon never could have imagined even in his most ambitious daydreams, back when they were merely a garage band performing to a handful of people in a Las Vegas club who had found their drinks more interesting than the band in front of them. Still, no matter how serendipitous the turn of events had been for them, he knew many of their fans would be dismayed...perhaps even genuinely angry, once the news broke officially. He couldn't blame them if they were; he was still adjusting to the change himself. It was a big adjustment, almost as difficult and jarring as his first foray into a solo career, his first serious attempt at making music without Dave, Mark or Ronnie by his side. But, he mused, they had lasted a long time, longer than most bands before them had under the kind of pressure that came with being a rock band of their caliber. And perhaps for their next album, things would be back to normal.

    "...you ready?" A man's brusque voice interrupted his thoughts suddenly, startling Brandon so much that he jumped, nearly spilling his soda. He looked up at a tall, reedy blond man about his age, holding a small portable voice recorder and microphone and a spiral-bound notebook. "Mr. Flowers? Bobby Jindal with Q, are you ready for our interview?"

    "Oh! Um - yes, please!" He jumped to his feet to shake the man's hand, realizing too late that it would have more polite to skip it as the reporter hastily juggled his items to free his hand. "It's so nice to meet you, Bobby - uhh, Brandon is fine. Please, sit!" He said, waving at the empty chair in front him and sinking quickly back into his own seat. "Thank you so much for having me, I appreciate it."

    "Of course, of course, can't pass up The Killers, can we? Everyone is chomping at the bit to be the first big cover story for your new record, we're just so honored you chose the Q. I understand you'll be premiering a new song or two tonight, is that right? How do you feel about that? Must be exciting."

    "Definitely, new songs are always some of my favorites. If I could, I would just play the whole new album every night for every new tour. But - but obviously that won't be happening," he added with a nervous giggle. "Ronnie and I think the songs we've got for tonight will be a hit, though, and we can't wait for everyone to hear the whole album in a few months."

    Brandon could see something sharpen in the reporter's eyes at Ronnie's name, and he pounced. "I wanted to ask, it's not a secret that things didn't quite go to plan on your last album with your guitarist, Dave Keuning. How did everything shake out this time? Who is playing and writing with you on the album?"

    "Dave couldn't - couldn't make it out for us on this one, and Mark is on about half the album, so it's mostly just Ronnie and me and then we were lucky enough to invite some people we admire out to play with us to fill in the gaps, and they said yes. It was a great experience, really. I had big dreams all along, that's not a secret, but I...I never, ever imagined when we were starting out that one day we'd be writing songs with Elliott Easton or Johnny Marr. It's just incredible and it was so much fun to have the privilege to work with them. It really...it made us feel lazy, to get to see how some of those people work, you know...we idolize them."

    Bobby Jindal nodded. "But everything's good with the band?

    This man was fishing and Brandon refused to take the bait. "Everything is fine," he said firmly, and fortunately the reporter accepted the answer and moved on, but he kept prodding for information about the band dynamics every few questions. Half an hour later, the interview concluded and Brandon gratefully stood from his chair, stretching his back lazily, and caught a welcome glimpse of Ronnie leaning against the wall, nodding to the reporter as he left their dressing room.

    They both waited until the reporter was out of earshot, then Ronnie quietly closed the door. He looked to Brandon expectantly, an amused quirk to his eyebrows as he noted Brandon's sweaty palms and glistening face. "Well, how'd it go?"

    Brandon shrugged, heaving a great sigh as he fell backwards onto the scuffed gray leather couch. "Ohhh, I don't know...he just kept grilling me on Mark and Dave mostly, they want dirt. Some drama or whatever."

    Ronnie let out a barking laugh and settled onto the couch beside him. "Oh, I can give them dirt if they want dirt. Sorry, you know I would've done it with you if they'd wanted me. I hate to make you do our first big interview alone."

    Brandon heard the slight note of apology in Ronnie's tone and smiled softly, leaning into him briefly in response. "Oh, I'm sure you're sick of me by now," he teased, "You were probably off on a mini date with Olivia, huh?

    Ronnie smiled. "Obviously. We went for frozen yogurt, her choice."

    Nodding, Brandon fiddled with a loose string in the stitching of the couch arm. "Nah, it's just part of the job, you know, they always want me...and I didn't think about it when we started, that I'd have to do a lot of this stuff alone, but I know the drill by now. It's alright, mostly," he added with a wry smile. "It's just way more fun with you there, especially with things...being the way they are right now, with The Killers. I do...I do really, really appreciate you being there with me, you know, Ronnie. I don't think I could ever tell you that enough. It's so much easier than doing it by myself. So thanks, Ron, really."

    Ronnie grinned at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "No problem, B, really - I can't let you have all the fun, can I? I want my share of irritating, dirt-digging reporters, too. Anyway, I actually came down to tell you we've got less than an hour til go time, just wanted to check up on you and see if I needed to crack some skulls over at the Q when we go back to England."

    Brandon's giggle, Ronnie imagined, was something like the sound a mouse would make if mice had been blessed with the ability to laugh. It never failed to cheer him up, that ridiculous, stupid, precious, mousy giggle coming out of a nearly 40-year old man.

    "Let's go kick some ass, chuckles."