I wipe the mic with my sleeve. “All right, Matt. You’re going to rock out with us for this last one, okay?”
“Hold on,” he says, and pulls something from inside his tweed blazer. It’s a fifth of Bulleit whiskey—contraband on Theo Ford’s stage. “I’m going to stress–black out this entire experience anyway,” he explains, unscrewing the cap. The crowd’s back to chanting “Matt, Matt,” as he tosses his head back and drinks, then hands the bottle to me.
In the wings, Theo shakes his head and mouths,Don’t.
I lift the whiskey and frown. “My manager says I’m not allowed.” The crowd boos.
Theo crosses his arms. I bring the bottle close enough to sip and our eyes lock. We’re in front of hundreds of people and yet we’re alone in a private battle of wills. I wink, then tip my head and swallow as the crowd whoops, and I can’t tell if it’s the whiskey or the heat of Theo’s glare, the strangely satisfying glow of his disapproval, that warms me all the way down.
Chapter 15
Theo
Sunday, April 28, 2024
I confront Bowie as soon as we climb off the bus in Haight-Ashbury. It’s one a.m. and the San Francisco air is cold and dense with fog, which I hope lends me gravitas. “Seriously, Bowie—where are these new songs coming from? I can barely get the band to concentrate during practice. It’s like herding a bunch of bickering, stoned cats. And as far as I can tell, the cats aren’t making new music.”
We’re the first ones off the tour bus—the band’s still in the back, playing Matt some home videos that no reporter has any business seeing. I’m letting it happen because I needed to get Bowie alone. It works: facing my glare in the swirling mist, he finally cracks. “They’ve been holding secret practices without you.” “What?When?” From where I stand, the Future Saints’ schedules are packed with drinking, smoking, skating, complaining, and inventing new ways to make my life difficult. He blinks nervously. “Sometimes early in the morning before you check in with them. Sometimes at night, when they tell you they’re going to the bar, they actually go play.” It’s the last thing I expected to hear. “Am I . . . Jesus, am I proud?” “You shouldbe,” Bowie enthuses. “I haven’t seen them this purposeful in almost a year. No offense, but banding against you is exactly what they needed.”
“Glad to be of service.” Matt and the others are tumbling off the bus, so I shut my mouth and paste on my appeasing-the-reporter smile.
“And that song you played at the end, ‘Little Beasts.’” Matt’s shak-ing his head. “The lyrics were brutal. Thatdrumsolo was brutal. It’s so unlike your old stuff. Sorry, but I wasn’t a huge fan of your previous work—too much like Wavves. Most bands can’t pull off this kind of creative pivot, but somehow, you’re doing it.”
A frown deepens on Hannah’s face. “You thought we sounded like Wavves?”
“Where to next?” I cut in. “Hotel bar for a drink, or straight to bed?”
Ripper snorts. “Suit, you crack me up.”
Hannah drapes her arm over Matt’s shoulders, just like she did in the greenroom, and I recognize the look he gives her in return. She’s turned on her magnetism, shared a hit of her rock star magic, and it’s a drug he doesn’t want to quit. “We’re going to Adam Gunther’s house.”
I blink. “You don’t mean Dr. G?” Dr. G is a folk musician who claims he’s the reincarnated spirit of Salvador Dalí. Despite being absurd, he’s getting big on the indie circuit. Roger’s mulling whether to sign him.
Kenny pounds me on the shoulder. His hair is in two braids tonight, disconcertingly reminiscent of a Swedish schoolgirl. “Gunthy’s an old friend from my ayahuasca days. We used to jam together.”
Hannah gives me a winning smile. A dimple I’ve never noticed before hugs her mouth. “You said to show Matt a good time. So we texted Gunthy, and, lucky for us, he agreed to host a party. We’re going to show Matt the real San Francisco.No tech bros or posers.” She sizes Matt up. “Are you allergic to farm animals?”
“I’m coming.” The thought of Matt spending unsupervised time with the Saints and Dr. G makes my stomach drop.
“Of course you are,” she says, to my great surprise.
Ripper musses my hair. “We agreed it’s time you were corrupted. Or initiated. Whichever term you prefer.”
“Please tell me you’re joining,” I say to Bowie.
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I like my eyebrows where they are.”
“What does that mean?”
But Bowie’s already headed for the back entrance of the hotel. All he does is turn to face me and pat his eyebrows in warning. “Bowie,” I yell. “What does thatmean?”
*
Dr. G’s house—if you can call it that—is in Bernal Heights and looks like a drunk architect merged a tenement apartment with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The three-story building is hanging for dear life on the steep side of a hill, smoke chugging from the chimney, the walls vibrating with noise.
“Is Dickensian orphanage meets Symbionese Liberation Army really the vibe we want for Matt?” I whisper to Ripper.
Ripper looks at the building fondly. “This is the last truly weird place left in San Francisco.”
