Nibbling At the Mushroom

Troped — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 16:00:22 +0000

The weather’s cleared up by the afternoon of the big party at Elm Hollow, shifting to pleasantly warm and dry. What is left of the clouds, pile up nicely in the sunlight. And from the looks of the arrangements when he arrives, the occasion is also going to be everything promised. The apartments are set into a hill, laced with concrete stairs that wander down together to a large parking lot that has been vacated of cars and roped off. On every landing of the stairs sits two or three unopened kegs, while opposite this life-size scene from Donkey Kong, a kind of stage had been built from two flatbed trailers. Travis smiles. Some people have hauled old love seats and couches out into the yards and flat part of the small valley. The scenery speaks of no simple party, but of a private concert—which meant a wild one. From the look of it, there was already a hundred people. Travis parks Mary Jane at the top of the hill near a restraining wall where it looks like she will be out of the way, but within view. He gets off and makes his way down the hill, where he is greeted by two guys who charge him five dollars in exchange for a plastic bracelet. They don’t check his ID. Properly tagged, Travis pours himself a beer from one of the open kegs at the top of the stairs. He sits himself down on the grassy hill to the side, in the sun. After a while, an unmarked, piece of crap van is allowed past the rope, the band, no doubt. Two guys get out long hair flowing, flannel shirts ripped, and Travis recognizes them: the guitarist and bassist of Half Gray, Robert and Jay. He had opened for them once on short notice at the Georgia Theater. That had been the biggest crowd he’d ever played in front of, and after listening to his voice pour out into the openess, and not close set comforting walls, he had decided it would be the biggest crowd he would ever play to. He thinks about the Rock Star, and he just wants to play, not turn into a machine. Travis wants to see his music in his listeners’ eyes, see it in their faces; in fact, he doesn’t want listeners. He wants to meet each of them. He wants friends—wants love.

He decides to wait to say hello so as not to get recruited into unloading gear. Stretching out on the hill, he relaxes and watches clouds, letting the air of anticipation linger. It is his favorite time, the next—the time before the Thing—whatever it is—that’s going to happen. It is the moment before walking out on stage. It is the moment before he strums. It is the moment before the kiss. It is the threat to time—the infinite present. He is never nervous when he senses something afoot, the reversal of the equilibrium, the change in the tide—he’s ecstatic—the next is everything—because once the change comes, it will be over.

The Rock Star

Troped — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 21:00:11 +0000

After having dropped by DT’s for a check, Travis wanders in to 283 to avoid going home for a little while longer. 283 looks different with the daylight just barely managing to get past the first table before getting exhausted by the dark decor. It sits down and buys a drink. The rest of the place is pretty much empty except for Harris, the bartender, and a disheveled Rock Star. Travis does a double-take and is suddenly unsure if he should sit down at the bar or not. He acts casual—too casual, damn it. But finally he sits down two stools down from the famous and waits for the bartender. The Rock Star hasn’t even looked up.

“What do you know, Travis?”

“Not a lot.” Did he say that for the Rock Star? Would he normally say that?

“I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”

“Yee-aah.”

“Watchya’ havin’?”

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. “Uh, boy… I dunno.”

Then a gravelly voice without the tint of radio or tape—which is shocking to Travis—says, “Gin and tonic.”

Travis looks, and sees that the man himself is holding up his glass with a smile. He gives away his hidden joy and beams. “What the man said,” he says to Harris.

The Rock Star says, “S’okay. If Harris here, says you’re okay, then you’re okay.”

Harris, mixing the drink, shakes his head, “He’s not okay.”

“Oh,” says the Rock Star. He drags on his cigarette. “Well… you play decent.”

Travis squints one eye, “I think you might have me confused…”

“Nah. I get around. S’my town, too, you know?”

Travis can’t deny it, and Harris gives him his drink. Beyond paying for it, Travis can’t do much but sit on his tongue.

“You got an album?”

“Uh…”

“Sorry, man—not to pressure you.”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly, most of the guys I know have at least one. I don’t know.”

The Rock Star smiles and scoffs. “Yeah, I know you.”

Travis looks perplexed.

“I mean, I know the guy you are—had a friend like that. Wouldn’t go in the studio. Hated it.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I don’t what my problem is. It’s not the place… you know… the room. It’s not a phobia or anything.”

Leaning over to look over his sunglasses, the Rock Star makes a gesture—maybe catching something in a jar. “It’s trapping the sound.”

Resigned, Travis says, “Yeah.”

“S’cool, man. Not everyone wants to be famous or whatever.”

Was that the only way to get there? Travis hasn’t made the connection before. “It’s not really that. I just… uh… I hate the sound of a recording. It’s so… stuck. You can’t mess with it. It’s permanent.” The Rock Star laughs again—at what—the naiveté? Suddenly, Travis wonders if this guy could actually be an asshole.

“I love that, man. I really do. That’s soul. You got soul.”

Travis smiles.

“Le’me ask you this—do you even wanna’ go pro?”

“I guess.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but if your answer is ‘I guess’ then you never will. Good or bad, you gotta’ want it. And it’s okay not to want it. Your talent is not defined by your success—most definitely not. Success, man, success has a price—don’t doubt it. But success also will give you the opportunity to do more with it. It does free you up. Shit. I don’t want to sound like a prick, but you know when was the last time I thought about paying a bill?”

Travis makes a must-be-nice face.

“Yeah. That was a dick thing to say. But all I really mean is that if you work hard, not play well—that’s kinda’ optional for a lot o’ people on the airwaves these days—but if you work hard, you get to a place where you don’t have to sweat the small stuff, and that’s not bad.”

“I think you’re right. I might be a little afraid of some hard work.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. I know your plan, man, because you love it right now. You’re gonna’ get better, a lot better, ’cause you do it with love.” The Rock Star laughs as he thinks back, “We did… we did.” He hangs out in the past a bit and then, “But you have to get better and you have to do it more, and it gets harder to love it. You might not think so, but sold out tours, city after unrecognizable city… the work isn’t playing it after a while. The work is lovin’ it. I can see anyone being a little apprehensive about that.”

“That—working to love it—is seriously frightening.”

“Yeah, but, I tell ya’—so far—it’s always come back around again—even when I thought I lost it. There’s really nothing to be afraid of.”

Troped » The Rock Star

Nibbling At the Mushroom

The Rock Star