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‘I’ve never done cocaine,’ she insists, with a chuckle that says otherwise, and I really, really do not want to know.
We’re in downtown Portland at the Crystal Ballroom. A popular small concert venue that’s hired Mom’s alter ego, Penny Candy, to play at their New Year’s Eve party. It’s a giant old ballroom (venue capacity is about 1,500, but that’s crammed in shoulder to shoulder, front to back) on the third floor with bouncy wooden floors meant for dancing, a lifted stage, huge windows covered in black-out drapes, and even a balcony at the far end of the room. The rounded dome ceilings are the most impressive – enormous crystal chandeliers and ornate molding, including creepy faces that observe the room from all angles. Vintage elaborate Victorian-style circular paintings are dotted along one wall. It’s pretty incredible, like a piece of the past that hasn’t yet crumbled away to eternity or been replaced by overpriced condos. Our current society doesn’t make buildings like this anymore. If only the walls could talk, I’d be interested in what they had to say.
I’m not sure how I finagled them into it, but this show will be our closing scene for the documentary. We’ll announce a US tour starting next year live on the news, as Portland was chosen for one of the national news station NYE check-ins. This is a massive deal for Mom and me – the guy behind the camera and the creative brains of this thing. It’ll be my solo documentary debut and her attempt at a career comeback with a bang.
Today the place is empty as this is just a rehearsal that I’ve turned into a combined photo shoot, hopefully to get her new album cover shot. I say empty, but where the band goes, as do a dozen other folks who cater to their every need. Photographers, lighting folks, band members, personal assistants and spouses, make-up people, hair stylists, venue employees, caterers, and randos I’ve never seen, so truthfully, it’s a pretty packed house.
Despite what Mom wanted, we aren’t going full-out original Penny Candy here. That would be like fishing for a Gen Z’er with Gen X on the hook. They’d never bite. We’re going for nostalgia meets the 2020s. Mature, but still with that hint of when the world worshipped her.
For now, I’m standing at the food table, my usual position of choice at parties, making myself busy with these sandwiches and coffee while overseeing everything getting set up to shoot.
‘Hey,’ Staci, Penny Candy’s guitarist, approaches the photographer, Dale, who is busy setting up his equipment near the stage. She’s aged pretty well. They all have, really. Staci is tall, slender, and brunette with a Paula Abdul aura; my mom is her version of Debbie Harry.
‘We ain’t exactly in our twenties anymore,’ she says to Dale while I eavesdrop. ‘You’re shooting this from our best sides, right? Don’t be shy if we need to snap a thousand photos to get a good one. Keep that in mind, kiddo.’ She bumps her fist against his shoulder as she awaits his answer.
Dale glances back at me, lifting a single eyebrow. I nod, shoving my lips out, hoping he gets my ‘say whatever she needs to hear’ telepathy.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Best sides are my specialty.’
‘Excellent,’ Staci says, happy with his answer.
‘Riv,’ Mom calls from the stage on one side of the room. ‘It’s too quiet in here. We need mood music for the photo shoot.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s why I brought a band in.’ I motion at the band members meandering about. ‘Maybe you guys should consider playing something if you’re bored.’ That’ll at least keep them from doing blow and annoying the crew.
Mom turns into someone else entirely when she morphs into Penny Candy. Suddenly, I’m her personal assistant. She and her band are a little demanding, considering they haven’t had a release in twenty years. In the rider to get them even to do this gig, I had to shop at five stores to supply just the drinks I was in charge of. They wanted Evian water only. Blackberry Clearly Canadian, which I had to special order a month ago from Canada. Crystal Pepsi, which no longer exists, so I’ve filled some Pepsi bottles with Sprite, printed old labels from the internet, taped them to the bottles, and called it good. They’ve yet to notice, and one bottle is nearly gone already. Last but not the one to forget, as Rico reminded me twenty times via text this month, is Fireball whiskey, an entire case. That shit is nasty.
Mom insisted we all did shots when we got here, and I’ve never been one to turn down a free shot, until they got to number three, and I had to fall out because if I didn’t, my throat was going to turn to lava and hack it right back at them. I didn’t expect to swallow a mouthful of fiery hot cough syrup this early in the morning. It may have burned off my taste buds, as it’s all I’m tasting now despite the three sandwiches I’ve eaten.
‘How’s it going, Riv?’ a familiar voice asks as Dad stops next to me, having just arrived, still in blue scrubs, as he’s got a couple of patients in the birthing unit today and is on call 24/7.
‘Why can nothing be easy? Look at this list.’ I hand Dad my iPad. ‘Every single detail includes unrealistic “requirements”. They forced me to rent a freaking smoke machine. Were they this high maintenance back in the day?’
He shakes his head. ‘Back in the day, venues offered this stuff voluntarily. They’d made it far enough into the industry to be seen as royalty. Their presence alone guaranteed the concert venues would make bank off them. That’s how they discovered they liked the perks of a rider.’ He smirks as he reads through the list. ‘They’re reliving their youth, son. One day you’ll get it.’
‘I guessed that when I saw Mom’s request to “recreate original gold album cover” and “get a photo of the band holding this”.’ I grab the decades-old MTV music award from the table and shake it in the air. ‘Should I tell them this thing would be considered an antique nowadays?’
‘No,’ he says swiftly, handing back my iPad. ‘In your mother’s mind, she won that yesterday.’ His gaze is on her as he speaks, a smile curling at his lips with each passing second. They’ve been together for thirty-something years, and he still looks at her utterly smitten, as if she’s his entire world.
I’ve always wanted to experience feeling that way about someone else. At one point, I thought I’d found it. But life kicked me in the balls that time and took a second shot last night at dinner.
My parents met while Dad worked as a backup dancer in the music industry. He was well-known and appeared in countless music videos with various artists. Even to this day, he keeps up on all the dancing TikTok trends and never fails to entertain fans of the ‘DancingDrJohn’ account.
He doesn’t have as many dance partners these days, so guess who’s been recruited to participate in the videos not filmed in his office with his staff? Me, Mom and Dax. It’s our weird thing. Music and dancing have been a part of my life since I was just a tiny sperm building my strength to win the battle that brought me here. Please don’t ask me to go against you in a dance off ’cause I’ll undoubtedly dance your face off. Dad’s talent was passed down to me, but sadly Hollyn didn’t get it. Dax has been working with her to spare her some embarrassment during the first dance for their wedding. She’s got some work to do and only four more months to do it.
Finally, the band stops fucking around, and somehow they’ve been wrangled to the stage and encouraged to start playing. The lights dim, the sound and light guys take over, and Rico, the greasy, aging man with a head full of curly black hair, permanent forehead wrinkles, and multiple gold chains around his neck, wastes no time and beats out the intro to one of their most popular songs. Mom immediately transforms into her performing self, dancing around the stage, lost in the music.
For the next couple of hours, I order people around, and Mom bosses me around, micromanaging my every move, but by the end of the day, I feel like we’ve gotten somewhere even though Dad has had to wake me up multiple times as I nodded off.
It’s well-known in my family that I could sleep through a marching band in my apartment. So dozing off here, where a band blasts music through the speakers ten feet from me, is no problem.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Dad asks from his spot on the bench next to me where we’re watching (or sleeping) through the rehearsal.
‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ I say, dragging my hand down my face. I wave down one of the many personal assistants meandering about the room, none of them mine, but since I’m the boss here, they come to my every wave.
‘Can I get you something, Mr Matthews?’
‘Mr Matthews is my father.’ I throw a thumb his way. ‘Call me River. Can you bring me the biggest cup of coffee you can find? Four sugars, a shot of creamer.’
