Mick said, “Son, everybody’s a critic nowadays. All you need is a phone, two thumbs, and a mediocre grasp of the language, and you can write whatever you want.”
“That was fromFerocity, not just some asshole blogger with nothing better to do.”
“It doesn’t matter. You guys listen to any songs by The Black Crowes?”
I hadn’t, but Zack said, “Yeah.”
“Their albumLionsgot a lot of bad reviews—but the fansate it up. Critics are mean girls, Zack. That’s how they sell their shit. They’re not the ones buying your album. Your fans are—and I saw ‘em last night. It was pretty evident that they disagreed with what this particular basement-dwelling mama’s boy thought about your music.”
Braden said, “Yeah—he’s missing out.”
Cy nodded. “Nobody reads that shit anyway.”
While they continued pumping Zack up, I took his phone from Braden and read more of the review—out of morbid curiosity, perhaps, but I wanted to know if there was something in particular that had gotten into Zack’s head to bring him so far down. Back when we’d first started playing, Zack had had enough confidence for all of us. In particular, I would never forget when, at our second ever “concert,” he’d told us we needed to rock the audience so hard, they’d roll into the next week.
I scanned the first three paragraphs and started reading. “Take, for example, the title track, ‘The Voyage.’ It’s fairly easy to read between the lines to realize that Ryan likely did have a drinking problem and went to rehab. The lyrics all but scream it—but that doesn’t make it a good song. Far from it. Even the guitar solo, combined with Cy Gilliam’s mournful notes, can’t salvage it.
“You’ve no doubt heard ‘Sweet Love,’ which has been playing ad nauseum everywhere. That one is almost good, so close that most undiscerning listeners will like it, because it hearkens back to the band’s first album. It’s a lively tune, but it’s obvious that the insipid lyrics were written with one reason in mind: to make women hot and bothered for Ryan as he croons them from the stage.”
I scrolled to the bottom to see just how long this asshole ranted and raved and to see if he found any redeeming qualities in this album—but I had to agree with Mick’s assessment.Had the guy even given any of the song’s a real listen? I noted his name in case I ever saw him in person.
“Dani?” I looked up at Zack’s voice. “Can I have my phone back?”
“Oh, yeah. But you should close that window. That guy’s obviously got a problem.”
“Dani’s right,” Mick said. “Don’t make me take your phone.” Zack rolled his eyes and tried to soften his features—but I could tell this had hit him hard. After emptying his glass of iced tea, Mick said, “I wouldn’t do that, but I’m tempted. You’re gonna go out there and play tonight, and when you’re done, I’m gonna ask you what theaudiencethought. They’ll let you know. If half the crowd leaves to fill up their beer, then you’ll know they hate it—but if they wait till intermission and then buy all your t-shirts, you’ll have your answer.”
“Yeah, okay,” Zack said without an ounce of conviction in his voice.
“Critics are called that because their job is to be critical—and they don’t give a shit if they’re accurate. It’s their opinion. Every asshole’s entitled to one.”
At that, we all laughed at the way he’d twisted the old saying…and I hoped that was the end of it.
But, as always with all things Zack-related, I was dead wrong.
CHAPTER 21
Aweek later at a show in San Francisco, the way Zack was handling the criticism became crystal clear to all of us. As he’d done many a time, he was turning inward. On stage, he was as electric and magnetizing as ever, and it was clear to me on my higher-than-ever platform that the audience absolutely loved this album. Yes, we played old favorites from both our first and second albums, but they were just as enthusiastic about the new songs—and I caught lots of them singing the words to more than one new tune.
But Zack was keeping to himself, sleeping later in the day, not interacting much—including not partying.
And then, at the show in San Francisco, we all saw just how much he was struggling.
Unlike many times past, Zack wasn’t throwing up or coming late to a sound check. He was on time—and subdued.
Until he opened his mouth.
Like we had for every show on this tour so far, we started out with “Where I Belong” off our first album, a tried-and-true fan favorite. The house lights would fade and we’d takeour places, starting to play before the lights slowly came up along with cheers and hoots from the audience. Then, after the song, Zack would thank the crowd for being there and get them pumped for the show.
Although it became evident when he spoke the first time, there were hints during the song. One wrong chord struck, an almost-sloppy solo, coming in late on the last verse. But when the crowd’s cheers died down, Zack confirmed what I—and likely our bandmates—suspected.
Zack was off the wagon in a major way.
“Holy shit, Sacramento. This is gonna be a great show!”
Fuck.Sacramento? We’d be playing there in two days but not now.
Cy said, trying to cover the gaffe, “Very funny, Zack. Could Sacramento rock out this hard?”
