Cy said, “Maybe the others could be for an album later on.”
“Or bonus tracks for a special edition,” Braden said.
“Would we still play them on tour?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Zack swiped at his phone and said, “I haven’t given them all titles yet, but most of them have lyrics already—and there are three I want to keep for sure.”
“Well, let’s hear ‘em,” Braden said, his enthusiasm evident in the pitch of his voice.
“Okay.” Zack rolled his chair to the computer in the corner and, after a few clicks of the mouse, we were listening to the opening I’d heard just days ago at the diner: a somewhat mournful harmonica easing into a section where a guitar played one note and then another. After a few bars, a washboard added some rhythm. A soft tune played for a bit, and I noticed Zack mouthing words, but not loud enough for me to hear. My stomach knotted, because even though he’d assured me at the diner that we’d still “sound like Riot,” this was way different. It was slow, soft, and mournful, and I imagined all those thousands of enthusiastic fans who’d filled all those huge rooms on tour throwing tomatoes at the stage.
This wasnotRiot—not by a long shot.
But then the tune slowly built up steam until there were full instruments, loud and heavy.
Thatwas Riot—and maybe the slow intro was okay.
About a third of the way in, Zack paused. “What do you think so far?”
I said, “You had me worried for a sec—but this is really good.”
Braden nodded and Cy said, “I love the slide. Would you be playing that part or me?”
“Up to you, my man. But I paused here because I only have a few starts on the solo and wondered if we could work together to finish it out.”
“Hell, yeah.” Cy didn’t start waving pom-poms or anything, but it was clear that he really loved that idea.
It was so not Zack. Maybe this was growth…maturity. Not feeling like he had to do it all himself—I wasn’t going to take that as weakness but as strength.
We spent the better part of an hour listening to all the songs—some complete and others needing filled in here and there. Afterward, Zack said, “So first things first—I need you guys to tell me which songs to cut.”
I already had an opinion. “I think maybe it was the third one—where there was some piano at the beginning.” I wasn’t even going to address all the new instruments he’d decided to add to our sound, but it felt like he was trying to prove something…like “Hey, I’m a real musician, even though I never had any formal training.”
But that wasn’t why I didn’t like it.
“It’s too slow and sad sounding. I vote for that one.”
Zack shook his head. “That’s one of the keepers.”
“Why?”
“It’s a power ballad, Dani.”
“Do bands even do them anymore?”
Zack started laughing. “Don’t you ever listen to Pop Evil?”
I shook my head, feeling like an idiot. Back when Zack and I had torn through every single hard rock band’s catalog through YouTube and Spotify, Zack had often given me musichistory lessons—and power ballads had been a big thing in eighties’ rock. I’d been hearing and enjoying plenty of power ballads in newer music but hadn’t realized it. “Okay, got it.”
“They’re a great way to appeal to other audience members.”
“Yeah,” Cy said. “All our male fans who drag their girlfriends along? The women might prefer that sound.”
“Jesus. Here we go again,” I said, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Why can’t a woman like hard rock regardless of who she’s dating?”
“That’s not—”
“Knock it off,” Zack said, reclaiming his spot as our leader. “We’re not gonna rehash any of that shit right now. It stays.”
