Hello, people!
Happy Saturday!
Thank you for all the reviews and alerts. FFnet has decided to be a bit of a PITA this past week, so I'm hoping you get this update and are able to review.
Usual housekeeping:
1. None of this would exist without Team Momo: Midnight Cougar and Alice's White Rabbits are in the editing chairs. AgoodWITCH, AushaPasha, and Eternally Addicted pre-read. Lizzie Paige made the gorgeous banner.
2. MarieCarro made countless manips for this story, and this chapter is where they start being relevant. Covers for Avalanche's first two albums will be unveiled in my FB Group LaMomo's Lair after I post this update. So head over there for more visuals.
3. The dates at the top of chapters are important, especially for the "THEN" portion of the story. Here, we're about three years after Chapter 1.
Here we go!
DREAMS UNWIND – CHAPTER 2
THEN – Edward's story
Los Angeles, CA – Summer 2008
"We're here with Avalanche today. Their second studio album Unapologetic came out two weeks ago and went straight to the top of the download charts. What changed from your freshman record, the self-titled Avalanche?"
Not all interviews were created equal; that was for damn sure. This one, at the local NPR affiliate, started with a fairly canned question, but we couldn't always fault the interviewers for trying. After all, we heard the same questions repeatedly while each interviewer only asked us once. "Practice patience. Don't piss off the press." That was Jamie's mantra. Laurent's was, "Your image sells as many records as your songs. Curate it the same way you would your music."
Jamie's partner in both business and life, Laurent, had taken us under his wing to perfect our style and image, while Jamie put his network to good use to get us a sweet record deal with an established independent label. After that, things started happening quickly. True to our name, we'd been blown into a fucking avalanche. An avalanche of success, brought about by an avalanche of work.
Jamie's and Laurent's advice had yet to steer us wrong. In the last three years, we'd followed their instructions with maniacal care. The results spoke for themselves. Our first album had gone platinum, our third single had topped the Billboard chart for fifteen weeks, and we'd come this close to a VMA nomination. All of that had been enough to dial the pressure to eleven when we sat down in the studio to start working on our second album.
After only three years in the rock 'n' roll saddle, we all knew, without a doubt, that Jamie's stark warnings on that September day had been fully justified. We'd been having fun. We'd earned money hand over fist. But this was still a job, with days that sometimes never ended, with weeks and months on the road. We loved it.
I loved it, even if I had to put up with more silliness than the rest of my bandmates. Apparently, the press had dubbed me as a "heartthrob." Our demographic did skew younger and female, but we didn't write with a specific audience in mind. That, in Jamie's wise words, was part of the shit we had little control over. Because keeping up any sort of relationship while being on the road required more effort than I was willing to expend. And at the time, I was happy to be marketed as the sultry, unattached front man. The guys and Vic got a kick out of giving me shit for it—my merch outsold theirs on the regular. I shrugged, they laughed, and Jamie counted the money we were raking in.
At the interviewer's question, my mates eyed me with smirks on their faces. They were more than content to talk to industry magazines like Kerrang!, Modern Drummer, and Guitar World, but they gladly left the rest of the press to me. The front man, in their view, reaped both honors and chores.
So, I put on my interview face and geared up to act as the band's spokesperson, once again. Dammit, I couldn't remember what the interviewer's name was. I'd have to work around it. Show time.
"Thank you for having us. To your question, our entire lives have changed. We're not an unknown quantity anymore and feel the pressure of living up to our fans' expectations."
The smile I flashed the interviewer discombobulated her for a second, but she recovered her wits fast. "What about industry expectations?"
"That's where the album's title comes from."
The guys laughed while Vic shook her head, elbowing Jake so he'd stop snickering.
"What is it that Avalanche is unapologetic about then?"
I threw Vic a glance and nodded at her. She was a great sidekick in interviews, and audiences loved that we had a female bass player in the band. She was still a bit of a rarity.
She smiled and answered in my place. "About our music mainly. Our work is the result of our collective influences, and we don't want to make apologies or offer justifications for what it is, and what it isn't. There are plenty of bands around that do other stuff and do it well. We do our own brand of rock."
"What you hear is what you get—is that the attitude?" the interviewer asked Vic.
"Not only that. What you see is what you get. This is us, undiluted."
"Can you elaborate on that?"
Based on how much Vic's eyebrow twitched, she was on the brink of losing her patience. She came up with great soundbites in interviews, but got antsy fast when pressed for details. To her, it was all self-explanatory. She hated spoon-feeding information to people. One of her recurring lines was that explaining the meaning of songs was on a par with explaining jokes. Boring and useless—either you got it or you didn't.
She heaved a sigh of relief when I turned toward the reporter.
"There are a number of adjustments we've had to make over the last three years. Not just in how we write music, perform on a stage, or approach the music business. Some aspects of our lives have changed completely. Four years ago, we didn't have security following us around. We didn't have an assistant, a manager, or a publicist. Now we have all of those. We welcomed compromises in a lot of things. There are things we won't compromise or apologize for, and that's our music. We're proud of our style, our strength as live performers, the brand of rock that made us famous, and our fans' love."
Heidi—that was her name, dammit—nodded, seemingly pleased with my answer. "You're not the usual brand of rockers."
"I didn't hear a question."
Jamie's and Laurent's coaching hadn't been lifesaving only on what to wear or not to wear. They'd taught us how to deal with the media, what to say, what not to say. How to retain control of what we shared without coming across as standoffish or blunt.
With a tense smile, Heidi tried again. "You don't party or grace the pages of tabloids like a lot of other bands. How come?"
Nice save, Heidi. But I still wouldn't fall for such a clumsy attempt. I wouldn't diss other bands on national radio and wouldn't act like our shit didn't stink either.
"Define partying, please."
Before Heidi could cobble together a response, Victoria cut in. "Why can't we retire this idea that partying and excess go hand in hand with musicians?"
Victoria's biggest beef with fame was just that—the overexposure of our private lives. Because her priority was protecting her girlfriend from potentially negative press, Victoria frequently helped me fend off groupies. After photos of the two of us surfaced, showing us eating a cozy dinner somewhere while we refined songs for the new album, the rumor that we were in a secret relationship wouldn't go away, but we'd taken to finding it hysterically funny instead. We knew the truth.
Sam had married Emily, his forever girlfriend, halfway through recording Unapologetic. Jake and Paul went through bad breakups fueled by our long touring stint after the release of Avalanche. Now, they were having fun, but in moderation. Jamie had doled out enough lectures on the dangers of bad press and unscrupulous groupies.
Heidi motioned for Vic to elaborate on her outburst. Vic threw me a covert wink to signal she was okay to continue. I let her have her moment in the spotlight and sat back.
"We're dedicated musicians. We love what we do. What we sell is our art, and we're okay with that. Our privacy? Our personal life? That isn't for sale." Vic's tone was a smidge away from scathing, but it matched her badass persona.
Heidi mumbled something to acknowledge Vic's statement, but cut to a commercial. Funny how in those moments, it was always either that or "it's all the time we have today."
After the commercials, they played the first single from Unapologetic, we said goodbye to the audience, then cut to another break.
A production assistant led us out of the recording booth and into the green room where Ang and Jamie sat waiting for us.
"Way not to get confrontational with the press, kids." "Kids" was Jamie's collective moniker for us. In the early days, Vic had railed against his indiscriminate use of "guys." He'd conceded the point gracefully and found an alternative.
"She was pissing me right the hell off," Vic protested.
"Give Vic a break, Jamie. I could have replied in her place."
Jamie scoffed. "But you didn't. Are you trying to give me wrinkles? I can't have wrinkles. Laurent will ditch me if I start looking like a wizened prune."
At that, Jake and Paul chuckled. Jamie loved being a drama queen, but there was zero chance in hell Laurent would ever dump him. The two of them were hopelessly in love. It was quite beautiful to witness it day in and day out. They gave me relationship goals with their ability to balance work and play without blowing up in each other's faces.
"I kept an eye on the countdown clock. I knew what's-her-face wouldn't have time to give Vic the third degree."
With a hand at his waist, Jamie's astonished expression sent all of us into booming laughter, Ang included.
"So, you were listening when I taught you communication tricks." He huffed.
"Ang, what do we have next?" I asked her.
Angela was still trying to recover her composure. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, threw a glance at her clipboard, then started rattling off the rest of our schedule for the day. "Two more band interviews. Lunch. Another interview. Then a photo shoot. That's Edward only."
I groaned. Photo shoots were the bane of my existence. "Why do you hate me?"
"I don't. I assist you. That's my job description."
"You're getting cheeky; maybe I should fire you," I joked.
She knew I would never fire her. Avalanche couldn't function without Angela.
When our schedule and daily commitments became too much to handle on our own, we listened to Jamie's advice again. "Delegate," he'd said. He listed desirable skills and character traits for an ideal assistant, and I had a lightbulb moment. I'd known somebody who checked all those boxes—my high school classmate Angela. I did some digging, got in touch with her, and the rest was history. Reconnecting with Ang had solved another of our fame-induced problems—security. After a stint in the Army, her high school sweetheart, now husband, Ben Cheney, had set up his own private security firm. Over the last three years, the Cheneys had become more than employees. They were trusted friends and helpers. Ang kept our lives straight, and Ben kept our sorry asses safe.
I didn't want to do the photo shoot, but I had no way out. I was still grumbling to myself about it when Jake's voice startled me.
"Holy shit!" he yelled.
When we all turned toward him, he had his face glued to his phone.
"What the fuck happened?" Jamie asked.
"Charlie Swan is retiring."
Charlie Swan was another Seattle music legend who'd gone global. An outstanding guitar player and songwriter, he'd dominated the rock scene, migrated into grunge, then dabbled in alternative. He could write and play anything. He'd sold millions of records, went platinum a dozen times, won Grammys. The works. And he was old enough to be our father.
"When you've made as much money as he has, you can afford to retire," Sam noted.
"The man isn't retiring. He's allergic to inaction," Jamie countered.
"You know him?" Paul asked.
Jamie nodded. "I've known him for years, but I've never worked with him. He's had the same manager for decades. I guarantee you Charlie won't be retiring. Scuttlebutt says he's going into business."
"What business would he go into?" Vic asked. "Production?"
The urgency of having a Plan B always lurked in the back of our minds. Success was fleeting. Fame was a fickle bitch. All of this—the chart-topping singles, sold-out stadiums, royalties by the bucketload—could disappear at the snap of a finger. Now I was starting to understand my parents' insistence on college; they wanted me to have something to fall back on.
"That, and then some," Jamie said.
"Huh?" Paul and Jake asked in unison.
"Treat all of this as credible rumors, at this point. Stuff I've heard from people in the business. This shit is going to be huge. He's buying out an old, beat-up recording studio and adding to it."
Vic shrugged. "Doesn't sound revolutionary. Recording studio, producing … How is that different from the whole Linda Perry shtick?"
"Oh, sweet child of mine." Jamie smirked, throwing his own quote at her. "He's been in touch with sound engineers, producers, session musicians, guitar designers, luthiers. This promises to be more than a recording studio or a production company. Think about it—he's building a one-stop shop for musicians. From front-of-house sound systems, to custom musical instruments, to recording facilities. This is more than just him hitting up Gretsch and slapping his name on a guitar."
"Wow." I couldn't keep the awe out of my voice. "This man has vision."
"More than that even," Sam interjected. "We know how crucial it is to have gear that doesn't let you down, in the studio or on the road. He's doing that. Creating a space where you can get the gear you need."
Jamie nodded, quite pleased with Sam's comment. As Ang signaled it was time to go, and we filed out of the green room, Jamie added, "I'm glad you've picked up a thing or two along the way, kids. Let's go. One interview down, a dozen to go."
&&&DREAMS&&&
"Thank you, Cleveland!" I shouted.
The fireworks at the end of our show always drowned out my voice, but I didn't care. It was my last yell of the night. I'd catch a break for the next couple of days while we moved farther east.
We were on tour again and fucking loving every minute of it, but it had brought a whole other slew of adjustments into our life. Years ago, we were happy as pigs in shit when we could get two gigs in the same weekend. The worst of it was sleeping off the fatigue on Monday morning and fending off my parents' grumbling, if I missed classes.
Touring was a different beast, and I'd learned that pretty fast. We all had. Jamie's warnings against drugs and booze, once again, made sense. Blow could give you an edge, push you to the limit, make you feel invincible—we'd seen people go that route in our circles. But you'd pay the price for it later. Booze was a fickle mistress, too. Jamie had been inflexible in enforcing a no-booze policy in the dressing room, at first, especially because Vic and Paul were underage when we started touring. After that, we'd become so busy and so used to not overdoing it that we didn't drink our asses off by habit. Even when we went to parties, we'd learned to space two beers maximum over a span of hours, then switch to non-alcoholic drinks. Nobody could tell if it was a strawberry daiquiri or a fruit juice if there was ice and a paper umbrella in the glass. We were lions on stage, but when the curtain fell, we became boring rock stars.
We'd seen what overindulgence had done to some prominent faces on the Seattle music scene years back. They'd burned bright like the sun for a short while, only to implode like supernovas later. We'd talked about it as a band when we started out and later when Jamie discovered us. It had been a short talk on both occasions. It was one of the things we'd always agreed on implicitly. Our priority was making music. That was where we got our fun, and we didn't need performance enhancers. I didn't even smoke because it would fuck up my voice too much.
Plus, booze and drugs would affect our stamina. I didn't even want to fathom how to cope with the physical strain of an eight-month tour that would morph into an eight-month bender. I knew I couldn't do it. Nor did any of my bandmates.
After gigs, we all had our winding-down and respite techniques. Jake dunked his hands in a bucket of ice or they'd ache for hours, and be stiff and sore the next day. Vic used silicone massage balls to keep up her dexterity. For my voice, I had to drink gallons of hot tea and honey. I'd had a bad scare during our first tour three years ago; I woke up after a gig and no words came out. It lasted for five days, and we'd had to reschedule a bunch of shows. I didn't want a repeat of that.
I also prepared for tours. Jumping and running all over a stage for two hours while playing guitar and singing requires conditioning. That was another thing I learned fast. I lifted weights; I ran. Now that I lived on my own—I'd bought a condo with profits from the first album—I had space for a home gym.
When darkness finally engulfed the stage, we slithered off into the wings among shouts and cheers that wouldn't fade.
We dropped our asses onto the couches in the green room, still too keyed up and too exhausted to say a word. Our faithful shadow, Angela, who met us backstage every night, stood at the front of the room, throwing water bottles at us. By sheer luck, we all caught them.
I'd grown to read her faces by now; her expressions were fairly easy to interpret. But tonight, there was something foreign to her smile and the cast of her eyes. She looked positively giddy, and Angela didn't do giddy. She wasn't a giggly, bubbly woman by any stretch of the imagination. She had dry wit in spades, and she needed it to cope with a bunch of idiots like us, but bubbly, she was not. This was new. This was … unexpected.
"Jamie called earlier."
Ah. There we go. The boss had spoken.
"What's Blondie got to say?" Vic asked. They had a hilarious sibling rivalry going on where Vic acted like the annoying younger sister Jamie never had. To us, it was front row entertainment.
"He got a phone call. VMA nominations are out."
An electric, crackling silence fell over us. The only sounds in the room were water sloshing in Jake's ice bucket, our ragged pants as we caught our breath after the show, and the faraway metallic echo of roadies at work disassembling the stage.
When none of us reacted, let alone spewed out a single word, Ang took charge. She punched a number on her phone, then set it on the table next to her while it rang.
"Ang, darling! How was the show?" Jamie's voice answered, slightly tinny through the small speakers.
"Hi, Jamie. I'm here with the band. Do you want to give them the news?"
He chuckled. "Well, bitches! You did it. Three fucking VMA nominations. Congrats, kids."
My mates started slapping my shoulders, laughing and cheering, spilling their water bottles all over the place.
"Edward? You there?" Jamie asked after the others' voices had died down.
"Yes."
"So, you got nothing to say?"
"I'm stunned, to be honest. Three? For what?"
I downed the rest of my water bottle, then looked around for more. Vic handed me another one while the guys pulled their chairs closer so we'd hear Jamie.
"Best Group, Best Rock Video, and Artist of the Year."
"Wow," we all said together.
"What happens now?" I asked before hell broke loose around me.
"We're never gonna win."
"Do we get to go to the award show?"
"Please don't put us in monkey suits!"
"Kids! Shut the fuck up for a sec, will you?" Jamie asked. He tried to sound imperious but failed. He was laughing all the way to the bank.
And so would we. Being nominated alone would boost interest in our music, which normally meant we'd rake in a few more thousand physical copies sold, downloads, page views, and all that jazz. If we ended up performing at the award show, it would give us free media on national broadcast while we were on tour. A perfect storm of visibility.
"Don't fret about winning or losing. Not the point. Yes, you'll go to the award show in L.A. Ang will have more details as I get them. You don't have to wear monkey suits, but for fuck's sake, don't let your ass cheeks show. If you got any new tatts there, we don't wanna know. Edward?"
"Yeah?" I was still dazed and confused, and for once, I was the one using rock quotes instead of Vic. Or thinking them, at least.
"Start thinking about what songs you'll perform on stage, if you're asked."
"Perform? At the VMAs?"
We exchanged harried looks. Planning a high-profile performance in the middle of touring was a whole other can of worms. But we were professionals, and we'd throw it together in an afternoon if we needed to. Paul and Jake nodded absently at me; they normally went along with whatever I decided. Vic and Sam threw me speculative looks; we'd be discussing it later.
"It's part of the appeal, kiddo. Live performances there are a huge shebang. I'll talk to you in a few days. What's next, Ang?"
"D.C., Philly, and Atlantic City. Then New York."
"I'll join you in New York with Laurent. We'll pick your frocks for the award show. Congrats, kids. You've earned this."
Major namedrop in this chapter for someone we'll get to know ... later.
Jamie has today's borrowed quote ("Sweet child of mine"), and it's from GunsNRoses.
Part of my inspiration for Victoria's character is her partial namesake, Vittoria DeAngelis, from Italy's own rockers, Måneskin.
Gretsch is a famous maker of guitars. Martin Gore of Depeche Mode, among countless others, famously plays a Gretsch White Falcon on stage.
Next chapter posts next Saturday, and from here on out, we'll be on a weekly posting schedule.
Let me know what you think (if ffnet allows, LOL)!
Thank you for reading!
Momo
