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THE VERY THING THAT WE JOKED ABOUT a month ago happens almost exactly as I described it. I stopped listening to the rock stations weeks ago, and since then, I’ve kept the dial fixed on NPR—until tonight, when they begin their usual pledge drive. After already donating a hundred bucks to the cause, I’m not in the mood to listen to them try to convince me to chip in, so I switch over to satellite radio. I’m tuned into my favorite station, The Edge, which has obscure recordings from ‘90s artists and interviews.
Tonight—of course—they’re interviewing Hydra. My first instinct is to turn it off. Listening to it would be disloyal to Tim and can only undo all the progress we’ve made in repairing the damage to our marriage. But—of course—I’m curious to hear what they have to say. How could I not be? Will they talk about me and Tim? I tell myself that I’ll listen just this once; I pull the car over so I can listen without distraction. Tim doesn’t have to know, and I don’t think it’s that big of a deal to listen to one measly radio interview, is it?
Moira Black, the velvet-voiced interviewer on this show, is quite possibly one of my favorite rock-and-roll interviewers. I guess you could call her my girl-crush. I Googled her once, to see what she looks like. I imagined her looking like an ‘80s metal sex kitten, with the big hair and low-cut top. But instead, she has cropped gray hair, wears little makeup under her heavy-rimmed glasses, and is usually wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans. Not at all sexy, the way she sounds on the radio, and definitely not the way a woman who knows her way around rock and roll typically looks.
She asks why they decided to record in Rhode Island, and Keith tells the whole story about how he came here to meet me. Moira lets out some intimate um-hmms as he speaks, sounding as if she’s almost purring. Then Keith talks about how he got the idea for a song while at my house, hearing wind chimes. Moira asks if those were the same chimes as on the track “Green Sky.”
“Yes, they are. And I am afraid I still owe the Dunkirks a set. They were nice enough to let me dismantle them for the record,” he says and laughs.
“Maybe someday they can put them up in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,” Ben chimes in and laughs. I giggle and cover my mouth; it would definitely be cool to have my wind chimes hanging in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been parked in the breakdown lane on I-95; I am completely sucked into this interview. Any guilt about listening to it is completely gone. I’ve laughed out loud at a few of the things the guys said. Then Moira asks about the inspiration behind all the songs. She asks about “She Thinks.” I hold my breath; I can feel my heart beating in my throat.
“So, what was the inspiration behind that one?” she asks.
“That would be Brenda Dunkirk,” Keith replies.
“Brenda Dunkirk, the fan from Rhode Island you came to meet in July?” Moira asks, skillfully pressing. “So, does she know about it?”
“Yes. And, you know, I feel kind of awful about the way that turned out,” Keith says. “See, the Dunkirks were nice enough to let us stay in their house while we recorded at Del Riccio’s studio.”
“Really? You lived in their home? What was that like? Maybe we should have invited the Dunkirks to this interview.” She lets out a deep, sexy giggle, and I have to laugh because I know that she looks a bit like a younger Judi Dench. I wonder, what was their impression of living with us? At the time, it didn’t really seem to matter to them that my marriage was falling apart.
“I guess for Brenda and Tim, it was about what you’d expect when you have rock stars and their entourage descend upon your home,” Keith says, chuckling. “I don’t think it went so well for the Dunkirks. We haven’t spoken to them at all since we moved out. I know it put a great deal of stress on them, and I hope that, now, all is well with them.”
“Well, let’s play Mrs. Dunkirk’s song,” Moira says and switches over to the opening chords of “She Thinks.”
It is the first time I’ve ever heard it all the way through, and it’s not at all what I expected. For starters, I thought I’d love hearing a song written for me on the radio. But I am sitting here in the car and my stomach is lurching. I want to turn off the radio, but I need to listen to it all the way through at least once. I really hope that this isn’t the big hit song that I’ll hear everywhere I go: I don’t think I could deal with all that nausea until the next big thing comes out.
“‘She still thinks I’m an asshole, but I want to be her lover...,’” Ben sings, with a bluesy voice that, I have to admit, is very sexy. I think this song alone will get Ben the distinction of People magazine’s sexiest man alive. The song sounds very different than what I heard in Del’s basement that day. Somehow it sounds more modern than the traditional Hydra sound.
The song starts off with me thinking that Keith’s an asshole, and throughout the song he’s chasing me around and trying to convince me that he’s not. It’s nice to see that he hasn’t taken any poetic license with the story—for the most part: whereas, in reality, I still think he’s an asshole, the end of the song actually has my character coming around. I know that someday Tim’s going to hear this; I wonder what the hell that will do to our recovery efforts in our marriage. Will he think that I’m secretly in contact with him and haven’t told him? Will it be the same scene all over again, where I’ll have to tell him that I wouldn’t have told him, the way I did with the kiss?
I hate to say it, but the song is amazing. The arrangement is absolutely perfect. It has the loose, bluesy feel of a rock song that you’d hear from a band like The Rolling Stones or even Stone Temple Pilots. After the song ends, I imagine Moira fanning herself off and is likely swooning over Ben Taylor, sitting with her in the studio. I probably would be, too.
The ensuing silence is a little too long for radio, until she finally clears her throat and continues with the interview. She asks about the upcoming tour and about their reaction to the fact that they’re selling out arenas all over the U.S. again.
“The human interest story behind this album is lighting up the Internet right now,” she says.
“Yes, our publicists are quite busy,” Ben says, laughing.
“You’re now outselling Jamie Fire left and right, even with her feature film in theaters right now,” she adds. Somehow, even with all the promise of hot teenage-girl promiscuity, Jamie Fire’s getting out-sold by a bunch of old guys from Australia. Her publicists must be livid that these same old guys are actually beating out Jamie’s well-planned public deflowering for media coverage. Erik must be dancing in the streets.
“Yes, I guess we are,” Ben says with a hint of modesty. And Moira eats it up. She comments on how approachable the band has become, as they get older, and I picture Erik popping open a champagne bottle, his brilliant marketing scheme having worked according to plan. After all that has happened, I can’t help but still feel a bit happy for the band. It can’t be easy to compete with Jamie Fire.
“Now tell me,” Moira continues, changing the subject, “you’ve had a shakeup in the band’s management as a result of the release of this album.”
“Yes, we have as well.” This time, it’s Keith who answers. “We parted ways with Erik Murtaugh as this album was being recorded. You know, creative differences and all that.” He chuckles. “Our former publicist, Toni Wallace, has taken over management of the band. Her first order of business was to hire her boyfriend, Nick Fenton. Nick is a composer and a brilliant arranger. He took over the arrangement of all the songs on this album and gave our sound a much-needed face lift.”
My mind goes back to the night of the great Motel 6 debacle. I am amazed that they really did go through with firing Erik. That must have been a brutal divorce. Still, it’s such great news for Toni and Nick. I’ve seen how hard Toni works for Keith and the rest of the band—she deserves this promotion. I wonder if I should call her to congratulate her, but then think better of it. I need to not contact the band at all, ever again.
“You’re right, it’s more upbeat than your former albums,” Moira chimes in. “It has a younger feel to it.”
“Exactly,” Ben replies. “A more modern sound has helped us to compete with the likes of Jamie Fire.”
Compete? Try annihilate. I can’t help but smile. They sound so cool, so modest. I am proud of their success, even if it means that the whole world now knows that Keith wants to be my lover—and that I think he’s an asshole.
They are winding down the interview. It’s getting close to the top of the hour when Keith speaks up. “Moira, if I may say something?” He pauses. “I feel awful about how things ended with us and the Dunkirks. Brenda, if you’re out there and you’re listening, will you please give us a call? I am sure you still have Toni’s number. Please. I hate that things ended that way with you.”
A public plea? Yup, he’s still an asshole. What if Tim hears?
When the interview ends, I pull out of the breakdown lane and back into traffic. I turn the radio off, afraid that I’ll hear “She Thinks” on every station. I let the quiet in my car surround me. Listening to the interview has me feeling empty, and now I kind of wish that I hadn’t listened to it. I mean, I’m glad that everything turned out so well for them, but I hate the way that living with the band had affected my life.
I also hate that it didn’t work out. All I’d wanted was to be a part of the creative process and to help them make something fantastic. But, in a way, I guess I did. If I hadn’t kicked the band out, then they wouldn’t have fired Erik and hired Toni and Nick. Now they’re on top again. So, in a way, I did help them—just not in the way I’d initially hoped.
But now there’s a whole other dilemma. Should I call Keith? Should I give him another chance to explain himself?
My gut instinct says, hell no. But I, too, hate the way things ended with them. It’s just that I wish we could have stayed friends with the band after they moved out. Still, I’m pretty sure that, if I try to explain myself to Tim, he won’t get it. And Keith does sound more approachable on a radio interview; but I don’t really think he’s changed all that much. I know I should leave well enough alone.
Hearing the song has had a different effect on me than I’d thought it would, too. Secretly, I really like being the rock-and-roll muse. I liked reading Keith’s lyrics over my kitchen table and telling him what I thought. I liked having that frank discussion about what I thought about him, and I think I started to get through to him. I also liked that I was able to contribute something to the band’s creativity. I will never forget that morning when I got to read the lyrics for “Green Sky” and told Ben and Erik what I really thought. I was part of something bigger than me.
Some days, I wonder what the point is, when I’m working to improve the reputation of some faceless corporation. In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? Will I look back on my career and think that I’ve wasted my time on media campaigns to help corporations sell more crap that nobody really needs? Helping Keith with his lyrics, and even with his personal life, made me feel like I had a purpose. I wish I could have found a way, but apparently it is impossible to be one man’s muse and another man’s wife.
When I get home, I pay close attention to Tim, and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t heard the interview. He normally listens to the comedy stations on satellite radio, while I’m the news junkie—it’s an occupational hazard of mine. The last thing our marriage needs is a rock song written about how another man wants to be my lover. I need to put it behind me and focus on the present.
Tim is setting the dining room table; we’ve been making more of an effort to eat at the table and not in front of the TV, as part of Operation Reclaim Marriage. We always start off asking each other about something good that happened during the day. Today is no different. “So,” he says, over dinner, “anything interesting happened during your day?”
“Oh, just the usual,” I answer, but I can see by the look on his face that he can tell I’m distracted. Putting the radio interview behind me is clearly not working.
“You seem a bit out of it,” he says, prompting me while he pokes his salad with his fork.
“Just tired, I guess.” I push my dinner around. I am in a complete funk after hearing the interview, no matter how hard I try not to think about it. I should have just turned it off. I don’t know how I’m going to shake this mood. How could I possibly tell Tim how I feel about hearing the interview? I imagine saying, “Honey, I heard Keith on the radio, and I miss the band, and I miss being a part of that.” There is no way in hell he’d be okay with that. And there is no way in hell that I should even be thinking it, as the mere mention of it could destroy the fragile ecosystem of our marriage. Annie was right: Tim is way more important to me than Hydra.
“Okay,” he says, setting his fork down. “But listen to me. If we’re going to make this work, then we need to be completely honest with each other. If something is bothering you, you’ve got to tell me, okay?”
“Yes, I will,” I say, putting on a fake smile and forcing down the rest of my dinner—even though “She Thinks” still has my stomach lurching. Tim watches me from his side of the table, and I can tell he’s concerned. I try to smile wider, hoping that I’ll be more convincing, but I know I’m really only kidding myself.