Excerpt:
Teeth-chattering is not very metal.
I pulled my suit coat a little tighter and tried not to shiver.
It was bad enough having to fly out to New York in the wintertime, but then to have to get dressed up in a damn monkey suit and play nice? The worst. I was surly about the whole thing and doing a terrible job of hiding it from my beloved grandfather.
“You could have stayed home,” he teased. “I know you had a whole weekend of…what are you playing now?”
“Fuck off,” I said with a laugh, knowing full well he was going to give me shit about my obsession with Warhammer, a humble pastime that kept me sane in between tours.
“As long as we can both agree I’m the hippest one in this car.”
“Yeah,” I snorted. “You’re the hippest, hep cat.”
It was fun joking around with Pops, but I knew he was trying to distract me from my beef with this whole Rock Hall of Fame bullshit.
“I can’t believe the committee asked his band to play the tribute and not yours. So wrong.”
“Now, Shane,” Pops answered in his lilting Irish accent. “I have no problem playing with Stellar and letting Boone Collins take the lead. It gives the show buy-in with the younger fans and might get us some movement. It’s been a while since the band has had a moment in the sun.”
We rode in a stretch limo from our hotel to the venue, and I wished I was anywhere else. I loved being my grandfather’s escort, don’t get me wrong, but I hated New York. Nothing good ever happened in this city, and even though my band spent a lot of time here, I never felt comfortable. Always felt like a small fish in a big sea when I should feel on top of the world.
“I just think since you co-wrote most of the songs from California, you should be the one singing.”
Pops shook his head. He knew he wasn’t going to convince me that Boone was a great guy. That ship sailed a long time ago.
“He’s got that voice, though. Even better than John’s.”
I grunted my reluctant agreement. Boone Collins had the most sultry and sensual tenor in all of rock music. He had more range than Elvis, more sex appeal than Jim Morrison, and more balls than Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler combined when he was onstage.
And yet he was a total prick in person.
“Anyhow, it’ll be great to play the songs. I’m glad Vera Jean will be there.”
Pops got a thoughtful smile on his face whenever he mentioned John’s widow. She was a nice enough lady, did a helluva lot to support the LGBTQ+ community and folks in the music industry who were in need.
But how my grandfather could be so charitable after everything that had happened to him as a result of his friendship with John Boone was beyond me. John had been painted as the hero after California split up over “personal differences”—yeah, John insisted they keep their drama to themselves so he would continue looking like the good guy. But I knew the truth. I seethed whenever I heard people gushing over John Boone and his schoolboy grandson.
Meanwhile, Pops spent twenty years nearly killing himself while touring with hired guns until he finally mended fences and reunited with the other former members of California. They formed the band Brothers, and their collaboration was a massive success, a comeback that lasted over a decade. Now mostly retired, Brothers played the occasional casino tour or Vegas residency, but Pops spent most of his time alone these days.
“I heard you talking to Mack the other day. You guys still planning the anniversary tour?”
“We’re talking about it. Mack said there’s a lot of interest, but I’m not sure how many of the guys are physically up to it.”
I knew he was happiest on the road, even though it was terrible on him physically, as well. I hated to think he’d miss out.
“Maybe a few festival dates? A livestream or Pay-Per-View show would be cool—”
“Let’s just get through tonight. I know yer always onto the next set of plans.”
“Yeah, you know. Headed up to Oregon to Bolder Breed Studios for a stretch, then rehearsals for Rocktoberfest. Then a tour in November and December before the album comes out. Gotta stay busy to stay relevant.”
He gave me a sad smile. “Probably drives yer bandmates nuts, huh?”
I cracked my knuckles and stretched my neck out. “Probably. But it’s why they’ve all got sports cars and big fancy houses.”
Pops slapped his hand down on top of my thigh and squeezed. “I’m so damned proud of ye, ye know that don’t ye?”
I patted his hand. “Thanks.”
I did know, and I was grateful. Grateful for him. If my parents would have had a say, I’d be working some boring nine-to-five out in the valley with a husband and two-point-whatever kids. My mother hadn’t spoken to me—well, not civilly—since I’d left home fifteen years ago to make it as a musician. She wouldn’t admit she was wrong when she said I’d never amount to anything if I pursued music, and so I had nothing to say to her. Or my father, who let her run the show without ever standing up for me.
The limousine pulled up in front of the Barclays Center and we stepped out to the familiar sounds of screaming fans and the flashing lights of cameras. Many voices shouted out my grandfather’s name, but even more shouted mine, which was always weird. I wished they all appreciated him as much as I did.
I put my hand on his back and waved to the crowd, loving the smile on his face. People didn’t recognize his genius as much as I’d like, but there were definitely adoring fans here.
Once we were inside the lobby, we were whisked away to our table and there were lots of well-wishers who stopped by and said their hellos. Grandpa and I gave plenty of hugs and backslaps. There were so many faces, I started to lose track.
Until I saw the one that made my blood boil.
Damn that Boone Collins, looking like the devil he was in his navy-blue velvet tuxedo. He’d lost weight since the last time I’d seen him, and his long auburn hair curled handsomely around pronounced cheekbones under deep-set innocent-looking blue eyes. He wore his long hair parted in the middle from a widow’s peak and it was always so damn healthy looking, it was as if he’d stepped off a modeling shoot. Premature balding hadn’t affected him, no. I was the lucky one in that department. I finally started buzzing mine to the scalp about five years ago, which I got complimented on, but still. What did they say about plumage and the male of the species? It was our glory or some shit? It felt like I’d had my damned peacock feathers plucked out.
Oh well. Some people thought bald was beautiful. I’d have to go with that.
Vera Jean walked in on Boone’s arm looking like she was at the Oscars rather than the Rock Hall Induction Ceremony. She was a stunner, to say the least. But she’d always seemed like she was too good for the plebes in the music business. The sea of people parted to let them through to the table next to ours. I hated that I couldn’t take my eyes off of them and tried to force myself to remain sitting when my grandfather practically launched himself in her direction.
Here we go.
