Okay, I gave in. The idea was too enticing, too open to playing around with, that I couldn't resist. This is a post London Calling story. But, rest assured, I happen to think it's a very good post London Calling Story. Right, you don't want to hear this, on with the story!
People always say the grass only looks greener on the other side. I've always disagreed. After all, color is entirely looks-based, isn't it? And yes, I know, the expression isn't literal, but apply it to my situation: the side I was on was normalcy, and the other side was fame. Fame looked happier, and isn't one's happiness dependent upon how one see's the world? I crossed the fence to the other side because I was born to be famous.
I was born to be a rock star.
Jude Harrison, rock star, opened the door to her new home and almost screamed in fright.
Now, Jude was not one for screaming. Although she had the lungs for it, she preferred to think of herself as fearless, and screaming in terror pretty much screams (if you'll excuse the pun) "fearful." However, her home's interior was a little… unexpected.
Rats conversed in corners, and cobwebs littered the ceiling. Further investigation revealed mold in the fridge. The neighborhood may have been "the place to live," but this apartment, was not.
"Okay," Jude said to herself. "I need an exterminator, a new fridge, a broom and soap." She looked from the floors, covered in generations of dust and soot, to the kitchen, from which a musty smell emanated. "Lots of soap."
--
"Sadie, we leave for Brazil in two days. I need tickets, hotel and transportation. Here's the place the tryouts are at, booking into for the cameras and schedules. Photo shoots for the posters are tomorrow, here at G," Darius said, thrusting a stack of paperwork at her. Sadie blinked. He wants me to do all this in two days? Is he crazy? Instead of voicing her thoughts, she nodded, towing the stack to her computer.
"Oh, and Sadie?" She turned. He threw one last packet at her, along with a pen. "Tell Tommy he's officially released from his contract." Sadie nodded, shocked, and turned again.
--
Kwest entered NBR, taking a deep breath. When Jamie saw him, he stared, confused. Kwest inhaled again. "You need a producer?"
--
Tom DuTois, former producer of G-Major records, sat in his childhood home in New Brunswick, chin in his hands, staring.
"You can have anything you want, Tristan. There's nothing here for me," he said to his brother. The young man nodded. He was wearing the traditional black for mourning. Tommy, however, had been mourning for different reasons. Tristan was mourning for their mother, who had died in a nursing home a couple days ago. The same day Jude left, Tommy thought idly. He had decided he was done mourning, and done regretting. He needed to be.
Tommy was in his rental car, driving back to the airport, when his cell rang.
"Hey Quincy, I heard you're out of work," a familiar voice said.
"Rub it in, why don't you?" Tommy muttered.
"How would you like to work at NBR?"
--
Jude had just got in her car to go shopping for cleaning supplies when Nicola called.
"Jude," she said. "We need you in the studio, to meet your new producer and get started."
"Now? I just got here a day ago."
"So? We need you now." The A&R rep sounded angry, which made no sense to Jude.
"Okay, I'll be right there," Jude said, closing her phone and sighing.
--
"Jude, good, you're here," Nicola said hurriedly. "Your new producer is in the conference room, along with the label's manager, Julia Smith. Do not call her anything but Miss Smith, for she is not married nor is she on a first-name basis with anybody. Now go!" she said, pushing Jude into what she could only assume was the conference room.
"Jude Harrison!" a thin brunette announced. "Glad to finally meet you. Your producer is Sir Gareth Lorden. He's been knighted, so I expect you to use his title, and call him Sir Gareth." Miss Smith gestured to a portly man sitting next to her, then continued. "Now, do you have anything written?"
"Yes," Jude said. At Nicola's glare, she amended, "Miss Smith."
"Perfect," the woman said, brisk as ever. Do these people ever breathe? Jude wondered. Miss Smith continued. "You and Sir Gareth will work in the studio for the next hour. When that hour is up, you'll audition backup bands together. You'll have picked one by the end of two hours, and then you'll go home, and arrive here promptly at seven tomorrow. Good day," she finished, waving her hand in dismissal. Jude, blinking, left the room, Sir Gareth trailing her.
--
"So, Jude, let's hear what you've got so far." Jude relaxed. This was the easy part, the good part: the music.
"Okay, it's really just a bridge right now, but-"
"Sing it Jude, I don't need an introduction." Jude stared, but obeyed.
"Have a little faith
Just hold on tight
The-"
"Too naïve, and your 'hook' is overly simplistic. Let's rework this."
Jude blinked. She'd thought the simple tune and naivety of the song was what gave it its appeal, but she moved past her opinions. After all, she couldn't always be right.
--
"One hour later, Sir Gareth looked up at the clock. "As little progress as we've made, I'm afraid I have to go."
"Woah woah woah, wait. We're getting a backup band, remember?"
"Yes, I know, and don't tell Miss Smith I let you pick them out on your own. Surely you're competent enough that I won't have to shame myself by telling her I wasn't there to baby-sit. Good bye!" he called over his shoulder.
"Wait!" she called after him, flummoxed and desperate. "What about contracts, schedules, all that?" She received no answer except silence.
"Pardon me, are you the new artist?" a graying man clad in a Clash t-shirt and top hat asked.
"Yeah, why?" And that's how her backup band auditions began.
--
"…I know, I've always said Kurt Cobain lyrics can answer almost any question," Jude said eagerly, an hour and fifty-five minutes later.
"I'm sorry, who?" the bassist she'd been talking to asked. Jude sighed.
"I'll call you if you make it, but I've got to start cleaning up now." The man nodded, looking triumphant. I wouldn't look that way if I were you. No way did you make it, Jude thought. After the bassist left, she collapsed in her chair, about to scream, this time in frustration. She put her head in her hands.
She looked up abruptly, however, when a loud female voice chorused, to the background of two other panting voices, "Are we too late?"
"Um, can you do it in two minutes?" Jude asked.
"Yes!" chimed a guy nearly six feet tall.. He carried a base guitar on his back and an amp in his arms. He and his two companions started setting up.
A girl with a blue pixie cut who must have been the one who spoke set up a drum kit, while a guy with red hair and freckles plugged his guitar into the bassist's amp.
They began playing, and Jude tapped her foot to the beat, recognizing a sound kindred to that of her music. When they finished, they stood, awaiting her judgment.
She pointed at the guitarist. "Do you work crazy studio hours?" He nodded, and she moved on to the drummer. "Do you encourage childlike behavior?" The girl burped in reply, and Jude turned to the bassist. "Please tell me you know who Kurt Cobain is."
"Yeah," he said, reproachfully.
"Then you're in!"