I have every one of their albums plus recordings from back when they were called The Pickup Artists. I own a T-shirt from every single tour. My ultimate cred is that, as someone recently told me, I’m literally the president of the fan club. I run a fan forum called Talking Disaster, and it’s one of the most popular fan sites for Walking Disaster.
To say I was thrilled to sit in on their rehearsal in a quiet Brooklyn suburb would be a quantum understatement. Lucky for you, the band let me record everything, so you don’t have to take my word for how incredible they were.
To be honest, this wasn’t the first time I’ve met Adam. In fact, it was the third time. However, I’d initially gotten to know private citizen Adam, backyard barbecuer, diaper-changing dad, and super nice guy. But the man in the rehearsal studio was all rock star. His white T-shirt bunched up around the waist of his black jeans, and his tattoos peeked out below his sleeves. He strode over and gave me a hug like we were old friends. He smelled like heat and mystery. And dryer sheets, honestly.
Some of the video is below the fold, but with the blessings of the band, there will be another blog with extra bonus videos posted on the Talking Disaster fan forum later today.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Over breakfast Thursday, Jo reminded me I could talk to Zion about rooming with him over in Williamsburg. She said, “He spends half his time over at Andrew’s anyway.”
But I didn’t want to take advantage of Jo and her friends anymore.
It had been foolish of me to slide into cohabitation with a guy I just met. I should have at least set up an alternate residence in case things didn’t work out.
Like exactly right now.
I started combing through craiglist, calling people, finding out I couldn’t afford any place in this area of Brooklyn. I estimated how much Shane was paying from a real estate site. No idea if he owned or rented, but either way:Yowza. I hoped for his sake the band didn’t break up and wondered why he wasn’t kissing Noah’s ass to make sure things stayed solid.
Friday morning, a tour bus pulled up in front of the townhouse, purring loudly as Micah and Noah loaded up the things they’d taken out to the sidewalk. I watched from the window and wondered if Shane was aboard. If he was, he didn’t make his presence known.
As the bus rolled away, leaving Jo a tour widow again, she called for her driver and, on her way to the art gallery, dropped me off outside Shane’s to pack up the rest of my things. I prayed the security code he gave me would work.
On the street outside that paint-chipped green door, she scrawled out directions to drummer Hervé’s house for the Walking Disaster rehearsal, then gave me a hug, saying, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”
But there was no need. I only had a few things at Shane’s, and I wanted to be alone when I confronted the space we’d shared, even if only briefly.
Once inside, I went on the hunt for anything I’d left behind. It all fit into a duffel bag Jo had lent me. Toiletries mainly. A pair of socks. Some dirty clothes in his hamper. Such a small imprint I’d left on his world, but his apartment dredged up so many fond memories. Memories of him playing his guitar for me, calling me Star Shine, feeding me cinnamon croissants, and making love to me passionately and gently. I honestly thought he’d fallen in love with me. How stupid was I?
I was tempted to squat while he was away, deal with my lodging problems later. Shane would be gone until next Sunday. He had weird food in his fridge and a bookshelf full of books I should have already read. I grabbedThe Little Princeand climbed into his bed with a sidelong glance at his empty pillow. Where was he? Was he thinking about me? I tried to stoke my anger at him, but mostly what I felt was sad.
But then I remembered how he’d asked me to distance myself from the only friends I’d made simply because they happened to be the same people I’d fixated on for years. Okay, when I thought about it that way, I could kind of see his point, but it hadn’t been an issue until his jealousy reared its ugly head. And I hated the thought of giving in to bullying even once. What a slippery slope toward total subjugation.
I took out my phone and checked my calendar. I only had a couple of hours to kill before I was expected at the Walking Disaster rehearsal, an event that should have given me nothing but endless joy, and here it was colored by guilt and self-doubt. Fuck Shane. I was going to go, and I was going to enjoy every second of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
With my duffel bag in hand, I started to drop his key off on the funky table I’d admired the first time he’d shown me his extra cool lair, but I couldn’t let it go. I might never use it again, but it was a link I needed to hold onto a little while longer. I locked and closed the door, hoping it wasn’t metaphorical. I still wanted to find some way to work things out, but I didn’t know how. Not with his attitude. Not with my refusal to be someone other than who I was.
And with that, I left Shane’s world behind, summoned an Uber, and headed to the address Jo had given me. I got out a block early to grab a cup of coffee, then with nerves flipping over in my stomach, walked up the front steps to the home of the legendary drummer, Hervé Diaz.
Hervé opened the door with a massive grin. “You must be Layla. Jo said such lovely things about you.” I grabbed the hand he’d extended, expecting to say hi and shake, but he tugged me into a hug. “Any friend of Jo’s has to be all right. Come on in. The guys are setting up downstairs.”
He whisked me down to his basement, which was completely decked out with a couple of sound booths and all kinds of production recording equipment. I may have wiped the drool from my chin.
Charles McCord and Mark Townsend both greeted me with a wave and a salute respectively. My eyes bugged out. Stay cool, Layla.
“And I don’t think I need to tell you who that is.”
Adam was sitting on an amp, walking an octave up the neck of a guitar. Fucking sexy as hell. “Layla! You made it!”
He crossed the room and gave me a hug, and I didn’t even think about sniffing him. “Thanks so much for inviting me to do this. It’s such a great honor.”
He chuckled. “Well, I hope it works out for you.”
And right then, it was evident that he was doing this as a favor to me, not because his band needed the exposure it would bring. They didn’t need it. But I needed them, and he was okay with that. I felt humbled that he’d extend his powers of good to someone like me.
Hervé showed me where to set up my equipment, then I lived every fan girl’s fantasy. Again.
The guys played for a couple of hours, and they made it more show than rehearsal. In fact, it wasn’t the fly-on-the-wall experience I’d expected at all. It felt planned out, almost scripted. There was no bickering. They didn’t squabble over songs. They weren’t putting together a setlist for an actual tour. The band wasn’t even touring, which made me wonder: What were they rehearsing for?
