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“To the music.” I raise my juice glass, and everyone around the table does the same while echoing my words. “And to kicking Brutal Strength’s ass.”
That must be said.
“Swanky setup,” Sager says. In the studio, he’s settled into his usual position on my left and has his new favorite red Fender strapped to his shoulder.
“Agreed. Gets the creative vibes flowing.” Bryan strums an intriguing power chord from his position on my right. “I like it better here than at Black Cat.”
“Muy bueno.” King taps his snare behind us. “We’ve come a long way since high school when we practiced in Lace’s uncle’s garage.”
“Miss those days,” I say.
I’m feeling nostalgic, not because Lace was mine back then, but because it was all about the music and the fact that we had something important to say. What Melinda said about new artists resonates with me.
“What’s your opinion?” I lean my weight forward on the mic pole and make eye contact with Dizzy, who is on the other side of Bryan.
“I guess it’s all right.” He grins.
“Asshole,” I say without any heat, shaking my head at him. “Let’s get this shit started right.” I call out my song choice. “‘My Way or the Highway.’ Hit it, King.”
King pounds out the drum intro, and I belt out the lyrics that were a fuck-you to my piece-of-shit absentee father. The guys hit all their cues instrumentally and vocally. The walls vibrate with the force of our fervor. We are a violent storm. Our band name suits us.
“Tight.” I nod approvingly when the music fades. “That song needs to set the tone for the new album.” I clip my mic in the pole. “Us versus all the shittiness in the world, like it was in the old days.”
“Fuck yeah.” Bryan raises his hand, fingers as devil horns proudly displayed.
“I can get behind that messaging,” Dizzy says.
Sager nods. “Let’s do it.”
“Rock it loud and proud.” King hits a beat on his snare. “Tempest style.”
“You got any new riffs running through your brain?” I ask Bryan. “Something like that one you warmed up with?”
“I got one.” Dizzy strums a cool chord on his new white SG.
“I like that.” I gesture. “Do it again.”
“You got it.”
Dizzy does the chord again, and I hum along. King starts tapping a complementary beat. Sager gives us a groovy rhythm on his bass. Bryan goes a little crazy on lead guitar. His embellishment doesn’t detract from what Dizzy is doing on rhythm, though. It enhances it.
I slowly grin. My band fucking rocks. This is the way we have come up with most of our songs. Just hanging, trying shit out until something feels exactly right. Just like this. Just like us.
“I have some words,” I say. Lyrics filling my mind, I grab a nearby steno pad and scribble down a few phrases, ones with a rebellious tone.
* * *
“What time is it?” King asks later after we have synced my words with the music. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.” Sager shakes his head at King.
“Because I work out, unlike you,puta.”
Sager rolls his eyes.
“Whoa.” Bryan whistles after checking the time on his phone. “It is late.”
“Fuck!” I exclaim, glancing at my own phone and realizing he’s right. I missed a reminder text from Shaina. “Dinner was supposed to be at six. My woman is gonna kill me.” I set down my pencil and steno pad. “Let’s give these lyrics some more thought. We’ll start with them tomorrow. But the session’s over for today.”
