Chapter 2

Roxy

My mom says that I was born singing. When I hit puberty, I developed this husky tone in my voice, which made my sound edgier. After joining the school choir and singing solo in competitions all around the states, I knew that singing would be my career. I love it. I’m singing all the time. Hell, I’m even singing when I’m thinking out loud. What’s more is my voice holds out. Sure, it’s great to have a nice, versatile voice, but once you start getting gigs, singing two and three hours a night, sometimes more, and singing over badly tuned instruments, if your voice isn’t strong and you lose it, you’re done.

Sometimes I use my voice too much, like when I yell, which I do a lot. Problem is, there are so many assholes in the music industry, and I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with any of it. I am a lone woman. I’ve never had anything more than a solo career and I intend to keep it that way. There are too many assholes out there. Sure, when I first started out, there were a few artists that claimed to be my friend and all, but in the end, all they ever wanted was pussy. Straight up. I don’t give myself away that easily. Sure, I fuck around with my drummer, Stix, every now and again, but I can trust him.

Stix and I go way back. He’s been my drummer since the beginning, and as much as he’s a genius behind his kit, he’s a dumb fuck about everything that isn’t sex. He’s great in bed, and he’s got a big heart, but he’s pretty stupid. And that’s okay, because I’m the brains behind this band, and he’s okay with that. My other bandmates have been piecemealed over the years. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s been a rough go. Since high school, I’ve been performing all over, in backyard parties, small venues, high schools, things like that, and then I got into clubs.

When I got my first record deal, it was a mess. We were happier than pig and shit, but it fell apart quickly. My guitarist couldn’t nail it in the recording studio, and my bassist was nailing everyone else, and couldn’t focus. The label almost dropped us because we were going to miss our deadline, but then my producer saved my ass, finding us studio performers who kicked ass, and I asked them to come on board. With the exception of my guitarist, who left for another band, because he wanted more than to be just my bandmate, we’re in good shape now.

We hit number one with our first album, which floored me. Chick lead singers are hot in music, what with artists like Madonna and Alannah Myles, and I guess I resonated with many listeners. After hitting the road on tour, I learned the ropes quickly, keeping it real with my audience, and never forgetting that this is a male-dominated industry, and that men only want one thing, which I never give out. They don’t like that, and a lot of them give me attitude, but I don’t bend the rules for anyone.

But after hitting number one in my first shot, it was tough to live up to that after our first record, and each record has never been able to cut the mustard as well. Our stuff is still selling enough to keep our label happy, and we hover around the top ten, so it’s nothing to cry over, but we still haven’t been able to crack a number one hit since that first go. It takes a toll on the band sometimes, and if I’m honest, it knocks me down a peg or two when some other band, and it’s always a male band, gets to hit number one. We’ve never hit platinum, either, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. It’s almost like, yeah, we’re good, but we’re not great. The respect is there for the most part, and we’re asked to do spots for radio and television all the time, so that’s something.

When we were asked to do this event, I wondered if my miracle worker producer had something to do with that. Word got out that we are one of the lowest paid bands to be invited, and I got pissed. This band, Wired, who is on before us, yeah, they piss me off to no end. Not only have they got a number one hit, but their first album hit fucking gold, and the word is that they’re being paid a million dollars an hour to show up to this shindig. Now that pisses me off big time. Sure, their stuff sizzles, and they get tons of radio play. Hell, I hear that their new album isn’t even released yet, and they’re getting radio play.

So when I see their shit all out after their soundchecks, I figure they need to be put in their place. Their equipment is all over, and their hideous banner is tacked up so that we have to put ours over theirs, and then chances are they’ll bitch at us for getting holes in it. No fucking way. This one amp of theirs looks like something from WWII, what’s left of it, that is. Their guitarist has pedals that have duct tape on them, too. You’d think that with what these bastards are paid, that they’d have the dough to cough up to get decent equipment.

I hear that Jett, their guitarist, is spending enough money on hookers and groupies. He was caught fucking a groupie in the back seat of a limo recently. And I bet that they all have decent coke habits, too. Me, sure, I dabble in it. Who doesn’t? I like to hit the bottle, too, but then again, like I said, who doesn’t. When I get pissed off, I hit the bottle, and when I’m going on stage, I hit the coke. It gives me that little bit extra when I’m singing in front of a zillion people. Stix is into it, too. He’s my in for supply. That’s another reason why I keep him around. He makes sure we have enough of the white stuff.

Anyway, as soon as I pick this asshole’s amp up, he’s on me like white on rice, and I want to punch him so bad. Apparently, he regards this half-cooked piece of shit like he would his first born. He gives me flack for touching it, and he practically rips it out of my grasp, and then the motherfucker has the balls to grab one of my amps and start walking. I follow the sonofabitch to the green room, where he slams the door and we get down to brass tacks. We exchange a few insults, and then I’m about to hit him, when he grabs my hand.

“You’re fucking baked.” He says, almost scoffing. “Why don’t you get a hold of yourself.”

I loosen my grip. He’s got a lot of fucking nerve. “You asshole. What is it to you what I do in my life, huh?”

“When you touch my amp, it’s my business, you fucking cokehead.”

“What the hell is your problem? What, like you don’t do the shit, you fucking goodie-two-shoes, pussy!”

“I don’t do it, as a matter-of-fact.” He says, putting my amp down. “And maybe if you laid off of it, you’d have the right temperament to deal with shit like this.”

I feel so pissed off it’s taking everything not to try to drive one through his skull. “You don’t know anything about me, you pansy.”

“I know that you’re a cokehead with little patience.” He guffaws, righteously, making me want to slap him.

“Give me my goddamn amp and go clean up your fucking shit off my stage, asshole!” I shout so loud that spittle flies out of my mouth.

He wipes his face where a gob of spittle lands. He’s glaring at me. “Look, I don’t have to put up with this shit. We’ve both earned rights to that stage, and our crew did everything they were told to do. So, this, lady, is all about you.”

My nostrils flare. “You think you’re so fucking special. I heard about you and your little whore. Maybe if you didn’t spend all your money on fucking hookers, you could afford to buy a decent amp and pedals, so yours don’t burst into fucking flames while I’m on stage!”

I want him to be angry, but the sonofabitch is as cool as a cucumber. He just smiles without a trace of mirth. “You think it’s about money, do you. Not that I expect you to know, since you’re not a guitarist, but that amp makes a particular sound that can’t be replicated. And that pedal board does the same thing. I spent years perfecting the sound of my equipment, and I don’t give a shit what you or anyone thinks it looks like. Our sound is the reason why we climbed the charts. Deal with it.” He licks his lips. “And what I do in my personal life is my business, but I can tell you that I don’t associate with hookers or coke, and I don’t really care if you believe me or not. So you can stick that in your pipe and snort it.”

“Fuck you.” I blurt, feeling my jaw clench. “I don’t know why they’re paying you a million dollars an hour for this gig—”

“I don’t know why, either, but I bet you they’re not paying you half as much.” He chuckles. “I wonder why that is.” He puts his finger on his chin, mocking me, as if he’s thinking about it. “Maybe because my band and crew are more amicable…oops, sorry, too big a word for a cokehead…more agreeable. We also don’t have a rider the size of fucking California, either. I heard about yours. You and your fucking specialty wines and shit. I bet you can’t afford half of that shit on your own with your snowy obsession, honey.”

My chest is heaving. He’s enjoying this. I want to punch him. “Get your shit off my stage or I’ll fucking set fire to it.”

“Well, good luck with that, considering that you go on after us, sweetheart.” He sucks his teeth righteously. “And our stuff is in no way impeding your ability to perform, either, honey. That shit’s all in your head. See what happens when you clog your brain cells with the white stuff?”

“Fuck you.”

He tips his chin upward. “Good comeback.” He plays with one of the knobs on my amp. “What have you got this thing set at, anyway. No wonder you sound like shit live.”

“What?” I shriek. “I don’t sound like shit live. Not by a mile.”

“Have you ever listened to yourself after a performance?”

I place my hand on my hips, tilting my head, growing tired of his lecture. “No, I don’t watch myself, asshole.”

He chuckles. “Jesus. How much did you play live before you got a record deal? Didn’t you ever record yourself back then, or were you too busy bumping lines backstage?”

He’s on my last nerve. “You are such an asshole.” I feel tears starting to prick the backs of my eyes I’m so pissed off.

He lifts a hand. “No, man, I’m serious. You never listened to yourself after a performance?”

“No, I didn’t.” I say through gritted teeth.

“Well, you should, man. You wouldn’t believe the shit we figure out from feedback. You don’t even need to record the whole thing or record it on video, just audio. Listen carefully. You’ll hear little nuances that get picked up and can spoil the sound quality. Seriously.” He nods once.

“Why do you fucking care how I sound?” I sneer.

“I don’t care.” He scoffs. “But this little setting on your ‘oh-too-perfect’ amp tells me that you don’t listen to yourself live. That setting should never be used live, and that’s how it was set during your soundcheck, sweetheart.”

“So, I’ll fire my sound guy. He’s clearly incompetent.”

“Is that how you roll?” he asks, like he’s disgusted. “Just…fire people for making a mistake?”

“Yeah, asshole. I don’t have time to rehabilitate the idiots out there.”

“But you’re not a guitarist. Your guitarist should know to check that amp. Maybe in your little meltdown, it was overlooked, honey. A little patience goes a long fucking way in this industry.”

“Listen, as much as I’m enjoying your little enlightening tips, pansy-ass, I’ve got better things to do.”

He ignores me. “You should tell your engineer about that setting, too. I bet if you changed it, your recordings would be sharper.”

“You just don’t stop, do you?” I chuckle without a trace of mirth.

“And maybe if you’d stop seeing everyone as the fucking enemy, you might not be so inclined to dig yourself into a pile of snow every time you hit the stage.” He adds, and then he walks towards the door. “Use my amp…if you’re not fearful that it’ll burst into flames…like you said. And I’ll set out my recording crew for you after our set. See for yourself the difference it makes.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet and tosses it to me. “Try this, too.” I catch it and look at it. It’s a packet of chamomile tea. “Drink some before you perform or whenever you feel anxious…or…pissed off.” He gives me a knowing look. “Trust me, it helps.”

I laugh at him angrily. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll want to fuck me later for all the advice, huh.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Honey, with that attitude, I don’t think any man would want to come within ten feet of you, and that includes me. Good luck, Roxy.”

He closes the door. I’m so angry I look around the room, trying to find something to throw. The only thing in here is a couch, coffee table, a television set bolted to the wall, and a long table with a coffee carafe and a desk-sized water cooler on top. I look at my amp, but I can’t throw that, so instead I resign myself to just sitting on the floor. With my legs crossed, I lean my head on my hand, biting my lip, rewinding what Jett just said to me. The packet of tea crinkles in my hand and I look at it. He really is a fucking pansy. What real man drinks tea? The men I know hit the snow harder than I do. Booze, too. The amp sits next to me, mocking me, and I look at the setting. I’ve never looked at the amp this closely before, and I suddenly feel like maybe I should have…a long time ago.

The door knocks, and I see Stix on the other side of it. “Hey, babe. What are you doing back here?”

“I just tore a strip out of that fucking Jett asshole, that’s what.”

“From ‘Wired’? That Jett? What the fuck for?”

“His crew was tearing the shit out of the stage, man. Didn’t you see it? Their shit was all over the place, cramping my style. I told him where to go, and the sonofabitch tried to steal my amp, so I let him have it.”

Stix looks at me, confused. “Babe, the stage is fine. Both crews figured it out. The banner’s all fixed and they’re sharing some lighting and shit with us. Our soundcheck was a little bit fucked up, so they’re going to loan us some of their shit, since their soundcheck was fine. It’s all good, babe.” He tips his chin up. “You need another bump?”

I throw the teabag at him, shouting, “No, I don’t need another fucking bump!”

He lifts his hands in the air defensively. “Whoa, babe. What’s up your ass!”

“Nothing is up my ass!”

He patronizes me by ignoring my outrage. “Oh, and babe, we’ve got to get a better amp, man.” He gestures to the one next to me. “Jett’s guitar tech had a look at the other one, and he said that it’s fried. It’s a piece of shit.”

“What do they fucking know.” I snarl.

“Nothing, babe.” He shrugs. “Just trying to help out, man. Why’d Jett get your goat? You want me to go crush him?”

Stix is no slouch physically. He’s built like a brick shithouse, and I know that if I told him to do as much, he would go pound the shit out of Jett, or anyone else I asked to be pounded, for that matter, but it isn’t worth it. Fact is, we already said what needed to be said, and the proof is staring me straight in the face. The guys from Wired aren’t half bad. No other band has ever offered to help us before. Usually, it’s a cat and mouse game. Sure, when the cameras are rolling or when the fans are watching, they’re all nice and sweet, but when it comes down to it, none of them are on our side.

Until Wired, that is. Unless they’re just a bunch of actors, out to sabotage.

“Yo, Stix. What do you think if we taped the performance? You know, so we can hear it later.”

He shrugs, scoffing. “I’ve been telling you to do that for a long time, babe. I guess you just never heard me.”

“You never said shit like that to me.” I insist, annoyed.

“Whatever, babe. Sure, we can record some of it.”

“Good.” I say pointedly. He picks up on the tension and gives me a ‘fuck you’ kind of look, and leaves. Still pissed off, I stomp after him, passing him, and walk to the staging area, where my bandmates are. “All of you.” I shout and gesture with my head for them to follow me. Blaze, my bassist, looks bored. He rolls his eyes and sets his guitar down. Cruz, my lead guitarist, is busy with his technician, but he stops dead in his tracks, glaring at me, and walks towards me. Stix is right next to me, knowing full well that I’m riled up already, and it’s best not to fuck with me. The stage and sound crew just stare at me blankly.

With my band and crew in tow, I head back to the green room and slam the door, feeling my blood boil. “Now I don’ t know what the fuck is going down here, but this is bullshit. How come we’re letting Wired walk all over us? I thought I said I wanted their equipment moved, so it’s not in our way.”

“It’s not in our way, Roxy.” Cruz says. “We figured it out.”

“Why are we figuring shit out for these assholes?”

Blaze shrugs. “Why not? They’re not giving us a hard time or anything. We’re just trying to make it so we both rock on stage without all the hassle.”

Dave, one of our sound technicians, intervenes. “Yeah, it’s not a problem, Roxy. Their stuff isn’t anywhere unsafe or anything. We’ve got our lighting and sound all worked out now, and it works better from what they did.”

I point at Greg, one of our guitar technicians. “And you,” I kick the questionable amp softly with the side of my heel. “This amp is set wrong. What the fuck are you trying to do, make me sound like shit? I should fire your ass on the fucking spot.”

Cruz scoffs. “Since when do you fucking care about the amps? They were set properly for the soundcheck. Maybe you fucked with them. Why the fuck are they in here, anyway?” he asks, bending to look at it. “It’s set right, Rox.” He shakes his head like I’m an idiot.

“Evidently it was not set right for soundcheck.” I say firmly.

“Says who?” Greg barks.

“Jett looked at it and said that it was set wrong.”

Greg and Dave exchange a look that infuriates me, even though I have no idea what it means. I’m guessing that they think I either fucked him and I’m taking his word for it for that, or that I’m too spun out on coke to know what I’m talking about. Either way it pisses me off.

“It doesn’t matter, Roxy.” Blaze says. “We’re using their amp for the show, anyway. He’s probably right though. We had a few things to adjust just before the shit hit the fan during soundcheck.” He points out honestly. “How about you let me worry about it, okay?”

I hate it when these guys patronize me. Talk to me like I’m a child. They think I’m all about coke, sex and screaming, but I just want the best…for my audience. I want them to have the best of me, the best of my band, the best of my crew, and the best show that we can muster. I stop at nothing to give my fans what they want, and goddammit if sometimes I try too hard to do that. That’s why I scream a lot, because otherwise nobody listens, and that’s also why I do half the things I do, because that’s the only way.

Blaze looks as pissed off as me, and it infuriates me that he regards me like that. I mean, I’m the lead singer in this band, I’m the one who put this band together and made it what it is. I’m not saying that the guys don’t pull their weight, but sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who is as passionate and caring about the details. It’s because of me that these guys were put on the map, and I hate it when they forget that sometimes. The look on Blaze’s face says that this is one of those moments.

We’re in the eleventh hour. We go on in three. The stage needs work but only I agree to that. The boys look like if they could carry me off the stage and lock me in a room, they would. “Now, wipe those ugly fucking mugs off your faces and make this stage sizzle, before I lose my cool and do something that I regret.”

Blaze looks at me and says the one thing you never want to hear come out of a bandmate’s mouth three hours before you’re on.

…”I quit.”