Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
"It does."
"So we just kept touring and all that. Did some bigger shows. Signed some fucking autographs," he added, shaking his head like he still couldn't believe it. I could, though. I always could.
"Then what happened?"
"Then we cut our second album. Even then, I was getting a lot of push back, a lot of shit for the songs I was writing. They were too 'whiny' or 'longing' or shit like that. But it had worked for the first album, so they just let it ride for that one. But when it was time to start brainstorming again, they all cornered me and told me if I write any more of 'that shit' that I was out."
"Your bandmates were always kind of assholes," I told him. I'd kept my mouth shut about it back in the day because I knew they were important to him. And every girl knew that if you wanted to eventually start a relationship with a guy, it was important that his friends like you and that you at least pretended to like them.
"In retrospect, yeah, they were. At the time, they were my friends. I gave a shit about their opinions. And I wasn't feeling too sure of myself to begin with. So I agreed. And then I couldn't write a single fucking thing. I was dried up. Had nothing left to offer."
"You had a lot to offer," I objected. He had dozens of notebooks full of rough drafts of lyrics. More than he would need for a lifetime of record making.
"It wouldn't come to me, though. And you kind of need the music to come to you. It's hard to force it. And if you force it, it's crap anyway. I started getting threats from our manager, the record label saying shit about me neglecting the contract. Eventually, I guess they found a big enough of a loophole to push me out but keep the name, keep the rights. And I was out."
"Those fucking bastards," I growled, angry for him.
"I get it to an extent. This was their dream too. I was fucking with it. I was the only thing fucking with it."
"Yeah, but without you, they never would have had that dream."
"They managed well enough without me."
"They're still making music?"
"Have you been living in a hole for eight years, Ace?"
"In a way," I told him. "I haven't been in touch with anything popular culture," I added, not wanting him to think I'd literally been in a cave or something.
"They are still hitting the tops of the charts," he told me. "The guys are millionaires. Drive around in a half a million-dollar tour bus."
"Who replaced you? Who is writing the music?"
"Two different guys last I checked replaced me. And the music is picked from whoever is a big name in the lyricist game at any given time."
"Soulless crap."
"Pretty much."
"It's all about fucking and fighting and doing drugs."
Vance and I had talked about music a lot when we were younger. About the validity of rock-and-roll culture. The songs about fucking and fighting and drugs. But only when it was a reflection of the struggles of the members of the band. If everyone in the band was in a monogamous relationship and sober, they had no business faking it for sales.
And, well, I knew the drum player had been with his middle school sweetheart for ages. And the singer was straight edge.
And, well, we'd always one-hundred-percent agreed that when it came to rock, you had to write your own music to be legit.
"How did you handle the fallout?"
"You're looking at it," he told me, waving a hand around. "I packed up my shit, headed back home. Used what I had to rent this place as I tried to figure out what to do."
"Did you try to form a new band?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I had no music left in me. Not any unique music, anyway. I still played. I still play. But other people's music."
"But... you could have joined a band that already had a lyricist."
"I think it was all or nothing for me, Ace. Without the words and music in me, there was no dream."
"I'm sorry," I told him, voice with more emotion than I had heard there in ages.
I'd never had a dream like his. Unless, of course, you counted the dream I cradled to my chest of being with him, sharing his dream and life with him.
But I hadn't grown up with a surety about what I should do with my life. I didn't have a secret talent or a bone-deep passion. I'd been one of the few people I'd known, actually, who didn't have a plan for their future.
I hadn't been concerned. With my large extended family—many of whom had their own side gigs—I figured that I would always end up somewhere.
I couldn't imagine what it had been like to possess the kind of passion that he had for music only to one day lose it all. It must have been devastating. It must have left him feeling like his world had collapsed around him.