If he did, then he’d heard me.
And he knew what I knew.
16
RORY: A BAND WITH NO NAME
The stakes couldn’t be higher. This was the fourth band I’d auditioned for this week, and I already had two offers and one callback. The original idea had been to take whatever opportunity came my way, but after posting a highlight reel of my skills on a musical matching app, I was flooded with interest from local bands and even some from out of state. Suddenly, I found myself in the enviable position to pick and choose.
This was my best prospect yet: a rock band being formed by the lead singer of a semi-successful band that had recently broken up. This guy already had contacts and an actual shot at getting his foot in the door. I wanted this bad, but I wasn’t the only one. I arrived hoping it would just be me auditioning, as it had been at the other tryouts, but that was wishful thinking. Four others were ahead of me and one behind. I waited out in the hall, forced to listen to my competition.
I wondered what my chances would have been against this talented group if Mrs. M hadn’t gotten to me when she did, correcting all the quirks I didn’t know I had. I was eighteen and full of cocky swagger, believing in the hype of the crowds that gathered around me when I played my buckets on the streets. Mrs. M saw my talent but knew I had so much more to give. She brought me back to earth and made me work for every victory. Any magic that came out of my sticks now had her stamp of approval on it.
The guy in front of me in line was on the drums now. Shit, he was good. But I was better. It had been a couple of months since I’d rescued my sticks from the drawer and walked straight to a home improvement store to buy some buckets. That night I was on Hollywood Boulevard, testing my wings. By the end of the night, I was owning my performance and could feel everything falling back into place.
Every night after work, I played, sometimes on the streets and sometimes at my old stomping ground—the recreation room where I’d first met Mrs. M. Not that I knew who she was at the time. All I knew was she volunteered with a music therapy program for foster teens and young adults who’d aged out of the system. I had no interest in the therapy part. What drew me there was the drum set.
The staff at the transitional housing center where I’d once lived had welcomed me home, opening the room for me when it wasn’t in use to practice. And I’d pushed on, feeling Grace and Michelle in that room with me as I ramped up my skills in preparation for an audition just like this one. So, yes, I was better because none of these guys had been taught by the same woman who’d molded a superstar.
When it was my turn, I played with ferocity, energy emanating from every pore. I was swinging from the rafters on this one, knowing if I didn’t get the gig, I’d be pissed. I needed a win. Something. Anything.
Applause followed my set. The lead singer, Cap, approached, reaching out a fist, and I bumped it.
“Nice.”
I grinned, remembering when Mrs. M had said that to me the first time I played for her, only hervery nicewasn’t as complimentary as Cap’s.
He nodded, looking me over. “You primarily play buckets, is that right? On the streets? You said on your reel that you read music and use a click track, too. I wouldn’t think it necessary to know those skills for bucket drumming.”
“I’ve had professional training on a kit. It’s just been a few years since I’ve had one to play on.”
“Why is that?”
“I have a one-room apartment in a shitty area. If I assembled a drum kit in my living room and started playing it, I’d definitely get murdered.”
The other guys in the room laughed, but Cap stroked his jaw, analyzing me.
“And you’ve never played in a band before?”
“A garage band, but that was almost five years ago, and we never actually had a gig.”
“Where have you been since then?”
I wasn’t sure what to make of Cap’s questioning. It was almost as if he were trying to catch me in a lie, but my answers were getting shorter and less accommodating. I could feel the opportunity slipping away from me.
“Just… around,” I said.
The guys exchanged looks with one another.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, dude, sorry. It’s just… you seem too good to be true. You show up on the scene out of nowhere, and everyone’s buzzing about you. We’re curious how a percussionist of your caliber, who has no on-stage experience and hasn’t played in five years, comes in here and slays it, that’s all.”
I needed to get my damn story straight. Figure out a plausible reason to explain my absence. But until then, I’d go with the bare minimum. I wasn’t getting the gig anyway, so who the hell cared?
“I gave up drumming for personal reasons.”
“What made you want to start up again?”
