The band was set up in a large, open warehouse. The walls were painted black. Lightbulbs dangled on cords from the ceiling.
At the back of the room, a low stage had been constructed from four-by-eight-foot sheets of thick plywood resting on concrete building blocks. Drums were at the back, stage left. Microphones rested on stands. Cables with quarter-inch jacks snaked across the plywood, giving band members easy access to plugging in their instruments. Monitors were placed in front of each chair so the band members could hear the sound mix as they played.
The band consisted of a guy on drums, a young woman at a keyboard and another guy on bass guitar. All three wore black T-shirts showing the name of their band, Deus Ex Machina. Off to the side, a soundman stood in front of a mixing board.
The bass player riffed on his guitar. While not a melody, the sound was not unpleasant.
The drummer watched Webb and Elle approach.
“You guys sent in emails about the audition, right?” he said, touching a drumstick to his head and raising it in salute. He had a round face, short ginger hair and a goatee. “Then you’re our last two.”
“Last one,” the bass guitarist said. “Just the girl.”
He was skinny. Not skinny weak, but the kind of skinny that had grown up learning how to fight in alleys. He stared at Webb. “Sorry, dude. This won’t be your gig.”
“I’ve got the email giving me the audition time,” Webb said. “So if the spot isn’t filled—”
“Won’t be by you.” The bass player crossed his arms.
“Is the spot open?” Webb said. “I mean, if you’re giving her a shot, I don’t understand.”
“Maybe return those guitars to Gerald Dean,” the bassist said.
Webb squinted in confusion, but the guy was already looking past him.
“Come on up,” he told Elle. “Let’s hear what you have. Dean said you rocked.”
She shrugged and without looking back at Webb stepped onto the stage. She plugged in her Stratocaster.
“Give us a solo,” the bass guitarist said. “Then we’ll try you with a couple of our songs. You gave them a listen, right? Or do you want charts?”
“No charts,” Elle said. “Up-tempo solo?”
“Dean said you were working on something that had a lot of potential. Said if we did it right, the song could take us all a long way. He said something about getting a label behind you and taking us along for the ride.”
Elle grinned. Webb had to admit she had a great grin. Lots of charisma.
“Just a little something we’re batting around,” she said.
“Dean sent us some charts, and we’ve had a chance to rehearse. How about we give that a shot first? If you sound as good as he promised, that’s all we’re going to need. We can break for lunch and all of us can get to know each other a little better.”
“Cool,” Elle said.
The bass guitarist looked at Webb. “You still here?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I’m wondering how you know you have the best guitarist before you hear both of us.”
“They know,” Elle said flatly to Webb. “Trust me. Even if they didn’t, who would want you anyway? Gerald told me all about you.”
Told you what? Before Webb could croak out the question, the bass player set down his guitar and took a step toward Webb.
“Take a hint,” he said. “You’re not welcome here.”
Webb’s face burned. He’d received an email invitation to audition, but now it seemed rigged. He’d done nothing to deserve this hostility. Or the humiliation. But clearly, nothing he could do would help the situation.
He picked up his guitar case to leave.
The bassist spoke to the woman behind the keyboard. She had a pinched face and blond hair in a long straight ponytail.
“How about you get us started?” he said.
She gave a quick nod.
“Then,” the bass guitarist said, turning to Elle, “you jump in with guitar and vocals. You know the song better than we do, so that should be simple.”
“Ready to rock,” she said.
Webb was halfway to the door when the first simple notes of the piano reached him. Catchy beginning, he thought. Clean and simple.
He was almost at the door when the bass guitar and drums kicked in, and he reached it as Elle jumped in on guitar and hit her opening vocals.
You gonna have to know we’re gonna mess up
You gotta know we might wreck stuff
Webb froze. Those were his lyrics.
He didn’t turn, but listened.
You’re gonna see us learn our lessons
But it’s gonna be our best of…
Webb felt blood rush to his face again. This time it wasn’t from embarrassment or humiliation but from anger. Those were his lyrics.
He spun around, anticipating the chorus, and the white heat of his anger took him back toward the stage as he heard, feeling a combination of disbelief and certainty:
Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat
That’s the only way to know
We’re gonna have to rock the boat
Yeah, that’s the only way to go.
Webb kept marching. He stopped in front of the stage. He didn’t flinch as the bass guitarist put up a hand to stop the music.
“What’s it going to take for you to figure out you’re not welcome here?” the bass player said. Once again he put down his guitar and took a threatening step toward Webb.
“Step off that stage,” Webb said, “and you’re going to regret it.”
Something in the coldness of his voice must have sent a clear signal. Webb was in no mood for anyone to mess with him.
“That’s my song,” he said to Elle. “My lyrics. My music. Every note, every word, every chord.”
“Shocker,” she said. “Like the two Gibsons missing from Dean’s studio were yours too?”
The bass guitarist held up his cell phone. “Check it out. I’m five seconds away from calling 9-1-1. You’ve been asked to leave, and you’ve threatened us with physical violence. When the cops come, you’re going to have to explain a lot more than missing guitars.”
“That’s my song,” Webb said again.
Elle shook her head, her face laden with scorn.
“Go away,” she said.
So Webb did.