I thought it would be fun to post a little more!
Today, I've posted the first chapter of THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB over on Girlfriends Book Club, and all of the positive response has been amazing. So, for those of you who want to read a bit more, here's another chapter!
THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB
By Brenda Janowitz
I Love Rock-n-Roll
“You got fired by your own father?”
my best friend, Chloe, asks me.
“I know,” I reply, “It’s a new
low. Even for me.”
“What a dick move,” my boyfriend,
Jesse, says. Thank God I still have Jesse. I don’t know what I would do without
him. He understands me in a way that no
one else ever has before—and I like to think that I understand him in that same
way, too.
Jesse is looking over Chloe’s shoulder to see if the band
is about to start. We are at a tiny
Lower East Side club that is packed to capacity to see The Rage, one of our
favorite local bands. “He could have at
least had your dick brother do it.”
“Andrew isn’t really a full partner
in the practice yet,” I reply.
“You’re allowed to screw the Barbie
doll nurse before you’re a full partner?” Chloe asks, brushing her silky black
hair off of her shoulders. Andrew’s
girlfriend—the office’s head nurse—does bear a striking resemblance to a Barbie
doll. But, to be fair, my brother does
look quite a lot like Ken. Still, it’s
pretty tough talk coming from a woman who’s only five foot two.
“At least you still have the
Beemer,” Jesse says.
“Forget the Beemer, at least you
still have a parking space in the garage of your building,” Chloe says, “that’s
an even more elusive asset in Manhattan than an actual car.”
“You’re right,” I say, “I guess.”
“Still,” Jesse says, looking into my
eyes. I love it when he burns his eyes
into me. Even in the dark, I can see
them clearly—a deep sapphire blue, framed by thick black lashes, just like
Jakob Dylan. He has a thick black curl
falling to the center of his forehead. He
flips his head back quickly and it falls back in place with the masses of other
curls piled on his head. “It still
sucks.”
“I would rather have my father fire
me than my brother, I think,” Chloe says to no one in particular. The waitress—who I recognize as the bassist
in the band that plays the Lion’s Den on Sunday nights—comes to our table. Jesse and Chloe order beers (Chloe’s is a
light) and I order a vodka tonic.
“Well, I’d rather not be fired at
all,” I say as soon as the waitress leaves.
“It’ll give you more time to focus
on your music, babe,” Jesse says as he puts his index finger gently under my
chin, angling my face upward for a kiss.
It makes me smile and Chloe blush.
I always meant to get a real
job. But there was always something in
the way. Something more important to
do. Something left that I had to
do, like get my MFA in music, or some reason that I had to wait, like when my
band nearly took off and we almost landed a record deal.
Life is different for people like
me. Artists. I could never work for the rest of my life in
an office, toiling away day and night at a job that I wasn’t passionate
about. I need passion in my life. Excitement.
Adrenaline. Sure, everybody says
they want passion and excitement in their lives, but I really mean it.
The bug hit me when I was five years old. My parents were having a dinner party and my
father encouraged me to sing a song for his guests while he accompanied me on
his prized possession—his baby grand piano.
He began to play “Hey Big Spender” from the musical Sweet Charity
and the feeling overcame me. All eyes
were on me and it felt like magic. I
opened my mouth, improvised some dance moves I’d picked up in my ballet class
and belted it out. The rest is
history. I decided right at that very
second that singing was what I wanted to do with my life. The only thing I
wanted to do with my life.
I’ve been working my ass off since then to try to make a go
of it. Nothing compares to the feeling I
get when I’m on stage. The stage is my
true home—it’s where I come alive, where I feel the most myself, where I can do
anything.
My parents encouraged me for a while. They even dragged me, Gypsy Rose Lee style,
to the Star Search auditions back in the 80’s.
I made it through the entire season, leveling the competition with my
killer rendition of “Hey Big Spender.”
By the Finals, I thought I had it in the bag. I was going against a corn fed blonde from
Kansas who had never been out of the Midwest her whole life. She had buck teeth and a flat chest—no match
for my retainer and burgeoning bosom. I
belted out “Hey Big Spender” and she did a shy rendition of “Over the Rainbow”
and, in so doing, stole my crown from right under me.
My parents fought for three weeks—my mother accusing my
father of pushing me into a song that was “too adult” and my father accusing my
mother of pushing me into a business that was full of rejection. One of my clearest childhood memories is
overhearing him tell my mother that he was happy that I lost.
The irony of that little Pollyanna stealing my Star Search
crown is that the girl who beat me was Amber Fairchild. Yes, that Amber Fairchild. The pop sensation who flew to stardom at age
fifteen singing “I want you to keep me up all night (all right).” Otherwise known as the bane of my
existence. I hate her brand of slutty
bubble gum pop, but what I hate more is that this girl made it and I did
not. I often wonder what would have happened
if I had won Star Search instead of Amber.
I should be the one with the record deal, production company, fan
club and slacker husband who mooches off her.
Well, my current boyfriend mooches off me, so the way I figure it, I’m
part of the way there. The record deal
has so far eluded me, but I know that it’s just around the corner.
My first band—my only band really—was on the cusp of
breaking through about two years ago. We
called ourselves The Lonely Hearts Club Band.
Together since college, we had it all—the talent, the drive, and even
the requisite bad boy drummer with a drug problem. We were just beginning to have a bit of a
following in Manhattan. Our bass player,
Kane, had a girlfriend who set up a website for us and we posted photos of
ourselves, my song lyrics, and our show dates.
I wrote a web log about trying to make it in the music industry. The blog barely ever got any hits, but it
made us all feel more legit.
We had a gig at the C Note in
Alphabet City, and a friend of a friend of a friend’s pet dog had arranged for
an A and R guy from Pinnacle to come hear us play. The night before, we all went out to play a
gig at a small club in Chelsea to get ready.
We were all so young then. We
still felt invincible in that way that you do before anything really bad has
ever happened to you, before you’ve really had a chance to see the way life
really is. I don’t remember much about
that evening, but I know that I went home early to try to get some sleep before
the big day. Billy, our drummer, must
have stayed out at the club without the rest of the band because the next
night, he didn’t show up at the gig. Two
days later, we got a call from New York City Hospital telling us that Billy had
overdosed and died. The hospital staff
didn’t even know for sure who had brought him in to the hospital.
The record company wouldn’t take us without him. I thought we were Blondie, but I guess even
Blondie wouldn’t have been signed without Chris Stein. It would be like the Doors without Krieger,
the Stones without Richards. Would it be
the same band? I could debate stuff like
this for hours, but, the point is—they wanted nothing more to do with us. And then, when we all found out what had
happened to Billy, we all wanted nothing to do with each other. The next Monday, I went to work for my dad.
I am currently without band. And now I find myself on the brink of 30 with
no real job and no real prospects. And
even if I did have prospects, who on earth would hire a loser who’s been
recently fired by her own father?
“Hey, China Doll,” Chloe’s Flavor of
the Week says, pulling a chair up to our table and kissing her on the
cheek. I don’t even remember his
name. It’s never a good idea to get too
attached to any of them anyway, seeing as their time with us is generally very
brief. They’re always the
same—anti-establishment, angry, too young for her, and unbelievably hot. I can spot ‘em a mile away.
“Hey, yourself,” Chloe says
back. She doesn’t seem to mind this
ridiculous ‘China Doll’ nickname even though she is actually Korean.
“Hey, man,” Jesse says as he puts
his hand out for the Flavor of the Week to grab. Even though Jesse calls everyone ‘man,’ I can
tell that he doesn’t know this guy’s name, either. After two and a half years together, I know
one ‘man’ from the other.
“So, have you heard what our ape ex-president did today?”
Flavor of the Week asks, leaning over our table. It is not fashionable to like George Bush
(either of them) on the Lower East Side.
My father has a signed photograph of him (W) in his office.
“I heard about it on CNN,” Jesse replies. “It’s an atrocity,” he says, giving a sly
smile in my direction. Jesse knows about
the photograph.
“Freaking W,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“No, honey,” Jesse whispers to me, “the Senior Bush.”
“Really?” I ask, taking a sip of Jesse’s beer.
“No, not really,” Chloe chimes in, “He’s being a dick. Not as big of a dick as your dick brother,
but a dick nonetheless.” Jesse laughs
under his breath and kisses me on the head as the lights dim.
“Don’t be mean to me!”
I whine. “I was fired
today!”
No sympathy from the people at our table.
“By my dad!” I cry
out. Heads turn. That’s true star power—commanding an audience
even on your worst day.
The band begins to play and Jesse and I jump to our
feet. Chloe and Flavor of the Week sit
and make out, oblivious to their surroundings.
Chloe is always making out with her Flavor of the Week. Jesse and I dance, singing along to the
chorus. I begin to feel the tensions of
the day fade into the music.
Four songs in, the redheaded lead singer takes a break to
talk to the crowd.
“Hey, we’re The Rage and we just want to thank you all for
being here and supporting the band,” she says and the crowd goes wild. The light hits her hair and it looks like
fire. “A friend of ours—a very good
friend of the band—has asked us for a favor tonight. And for this guy, well, for this guy we’d do
anything.” More screams from the
crowd. “His friend is having a pretty
awful day, and the only thing that would make her life better is to sing to you
lovely people tonight.” The crowd goes
nuts. “Can you believe that? I hope you’re flattered,” she says, flirting
with the crowd. “Jo, are you out
there? Jo Waldman?”
I turn to Jesse.
“No fucking way,” I say.
The edges of his mouth curl slightly and he shrugs his shoulders. I put my hand around the back of his head and
pull him to me and kiss him hard. “Thank
you.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, “I just wanted to do something for
you today. It’ll get you jump-started.”
“Jump-started?”
“Yeah, now that you won’t be working for your dad any more,
you can focus on your music,” he says and he doesn’t need to say anymore—I know
where this is going. It’s the same
discussion we’ve had over and over since my band broke up. I consider defending myself, telling him that
I have a gig or two lined up and that I’ve even been working on a new song
lately, but instead chose to take the high road and not turn this into a heated
argument. I try to remember that he’s
doing something nice for me on a bad day.
“Thank you,” I say as I walk around the table and smooth
out the front of my used Levi’s. I am
thankful that I am dressed in my usual uniform of black leather motorcycle
boots, ripped vintage jeans and fitted concert tee over a white long sleeve T
shirt. Running my fingers though my hair
to mess it up a bit, I walk to the stage.
My black hair tops off the look—the bangs and layers around my face are
Joan Jett, circa 1982, and the rest of it, all tangles and curls, is pure
Stevie Nicks.
As I discuss song selection with the band, all I can think
about is how lucky I am to have Jesse.
We debate The Pretenders vs. The Kinks, and I turn around to sneak a
peek at him. He’s staring at me. I wink at him and wonder if he can see me
through the darkness.
Jesse and I met at a Battle of the Bands competition out in
the suburbs of New Jersey, just a stone’s throw from the George Washington
Bridge. This was just before Billy died,
back when my band was still together, before I went to work for my dad.
It was at a dive bar
called “Treble” that was rumored to have been owned at one time by Ritchie
Sambora. Each July, they ran a Battle of
the Bands contest and the prize was $10,000.
All of the bands that played the downtown clubs went—any band that was
anyone at all was there. Debbie Harry
used to say that she and her band never went to high school, they went to Rock
and Roll High School. Well, this was a
week long competition that sort of felt like summer camp for rockers.
Jesse’s band and mine were the two bands left in the
finals. We won, of course, but who’s
keeping track? What I remember most
about it was how goddamned romantic the whole thing was. I noticed Jesse on the first day of
competition, tapping his drumsticks on a table in the back of the bar to Jimi
Hendrix’s “Fire.” When he glanced up and
saw me staring at him, he knocked over his beer bottle with his drumsticks and
it spilled all over the spiral notebook he was writing in. Billy caught this little exchange out of the
corner of his eye and quickly ushered me away, lecturing me on messing around
with the competition.
Through each of the rounds, I could see Jesse staring at me
from behind his massive drum set, eyes burning into me like they always
did. Every time I was on stage, I found myself
always singing to him.
“So, are we the Montagues or the Capulets?” Billy asked me
as we walked off the stage on the second night of competition.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him, even
though it was obvious that Jesse and I were into each other, but trying to
pretend that we were not. We were nothing
if not loyal to our bands. I started
wearing tighter and tighter jeans each round in the hope that Jesse would
notice me. Any time he tried to approach
me, one of our band members would be there, seemingly out of nowhere, to tear
us apart and remind us that we were there to compete. On the last night of the competition, I even
had my hair done, a fact which Chloe has never let me live down.
Right after my band was announced as the winner and we all
hugged and mugged for the audience, I marched right off the stage and into
Jesse’s arms. It was like something out
of a movie—or so Chloe told me—with him waiting in the wings and everyone in
the room watching us, just waiting for it to happen. I ran to him and we fell into each other’s
arms and began kissing like it was the end of the world.
After that night, we spent every night together, either
attending each other’s gigs or meeting up late night after our respective gigs,
and we haven’t been apart for one night since.
Through the crowd, I see Jesse staring offstage. I turn back to The Rage as we decide upon “I
Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick as a compromise.
I spin around to the crowd as the band begins to cue up the
song. The lights hit my face and I feel
the energy building up inside of me. The
music penetrates my bones and I can’t help but smile. This is where I belong—under the burning
lights with tons of eyes focused on me—not in some doctor’s office wishing the
hours of my life away. I can hear Chloe
and Flavor of the Week screaming my name.
I can’t see Jesse anymore, but I can feel his eyes on me. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. The band plays the last eight bars before the
first verse and I cock my right hip, ready to go.
I adjust the mike and begin to sing.
No comments:
Post a Comment