A Loud Voice For Quiet Hearts - Chapter Six

[thep0rnfairy]

2000

After finally making the thing official with Jeff, he told them to take a few weeks and go work on their material at a friend’s ranch in Montana. The friend turned out to be John Mayer, but he was currently doing a European tour and wouldn’t be home while they were staying at the house and working in his studio.

The idea was for them to write at least 20-30 songs to present to Jeff’s investor friend for consideration; Jeff’s hope was to start a bidding war for a contract between one of the labels and the band, but the recording was being done as the first part of a three-step approach. Jeff was tight-lipped about the second and third steps of the plan, only cryptically saying that he’d tell them all about it once they heard back from the investor.

The first night they were there, they gathered around the massive island in the kitchen to decide what they wanted their sound to be. At first, the original members of Mischief Commandment thought they should start with the songs they’d already had in place before Ross joined, since Chris and Misha had written a lot of them together. After the first full day of playing with the songs and seeing what could be polished, Ross joined the other members of the band that night at dinner and pointed out that while the songs the band had been playing were good in their own way, they could do entirely new songs and start as a new band, as opposed to just trying to be Mischief Commandment with a new guitarist.

There was a long pause at the table, and everyone agreed to think it over and reconvene at the firepit later that night. Ross’s stomach was in knots; he was afraid that he’d overstepped as the newest member of an established band, and that even with the absence of Misha, they could still decide they didn’t want him there with them after all.

Sitting around the campfire that night, Mike was the first one to speak. “Fuck it. We might as well start over with new songs, since the ones we had weren’t getting us anywhere, you know?” At the expression on Chris’s face, Mike laughs. “No offense to you, Chris- We both know Misha wanted us to do some pretty weird shit.”

Tom nodded. “I think we have the bona fides to be an actual rock band, and not the experimental mess Misha wanted us to be. No one actually wants to hike 10 miles into the desert to see a show, man. The only ones that showed up to those were Misha’s fans, and half the time they didn’t even buy tickets- They just showed up.”

Chris sat in silence for a few moments, weighing the options. Starting completely new would be the better choice, but the prospect of completely re-inventing themselves as a band was more than a little daunting. Still, Ross had a point- if they wanted to grow as a band, they had to move on from where they had been. “Yeah, I’m down. It’s going to mean more work in the next few weeks, but if you guys are down with it, I’m not going to be the asshole that says no.”

“So then, I guess the next question is, what do we want to call ourselves?”

Each of them proceeded to make suggestions, each one more ludicrous than the last. After about a half hour of nonstop laughing, the circle around the campfire finally calmed down. “I mean, we could always use something like a random online generator, pick the one we like the most?” Tom suggested, and Mike nodded.

“I like the chaos factor of that, and it would be a great story to tell down the road,” Mike suggested. “We could also just open the dictionary to a random page, pick the first word at the top?”

“Sure, like how the Commodores were almost the Commodes?” Chris said, laughing.

Mike shrugged. “Something like that, yeah.”

Ross cleared his throat. “Whatever we pick should also be able to be used as a symbol, or mascot for us, right? Something not too crazy like the symbol Prince changed his name to, but still something that’s memorable and unique. Something about us as a band, without getting all woo-woo about it.”

Tom leaned forward in his chair, gesturing with his beer bottle. “I have an idea. Remember how amazing it felt to play together that first time at Singer’s, and have the music just come that easily to us?” All of them nodded at that, and Tom continued. “Well, I remember wanting that feeling to last. A kind of… perpetual astonishment about the music we were playing and the way we so effortlessly came together.”

“Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment,” Ross suggested, and there was a stunned silence as they all mulled over the name.

“Hang on, just a second.” Mike said, running back into the house. He came back out moments later with a sketchpad and pencil, and began drawing something on a blank page with short strokes. The rest stood and gathered around his chair, taking care not to obstruct the light from the fire. When Mike was done, he held up the sketchpad for them to see- A rough sketch of a Madonna-like figure standing over instruments instead of roses.

“Dude, I love that. A little more polishing, and I’d get that as a tattoo,” Tom said, clapping Mike on the shoulder and squeezing softly.

“Me too, man. That looks just like what I was imagining,” Ross said. “And we could maybe use it as cover art for the album, if the label okays it.”



The rest of the night was spent around the firepit, drinking beers and telling bullshit stories to each other. They finally broke around 1:00, and Ross and Chris got right to work. They started working on new lyrics and music together that night, then brought Mike and Tom in to join them at the end of each writing session to flesh out the rest of the music. They fell into a pattern, since Ross and Chris were the night owls of the group- They stayed up late working on music and the guitar bits; Mike and Tom got up early in the morning and went for a run before settling in to listen to what the other two had done the night before. By the end of the first week, they had a dozen or so songs that they were confident in, with another few dozen roughly sketched out or in the process of being recorded.

The dynamic was a good one; Ross and Chris quickly became close, and Ross started to see through the tough cowboy persona that Chris wore like a suit of armor- Inside there was a sensitive and intelligent man who’d do anything for the people he allowed to get close to him, and Ross respected that. Chris in turn got to know Ross better, and understood why Northwestern Line had made it as far as they did- He was a hell of a songwriter, and during the few weeks they were in Bozeman working on songs together, they ended up writing several dozen songs, with a select few being moved to the top of the “hell yes!” list right away.

Ross’s phone wouldn’t stop chirping one night, and he simply ignored every notification before eventually putting the phone on silent. The phone vibrated incessantly after that, and Chris shot Ross a confused look. “Some people can’t take a hint, man,” Ross said, shrugging before turning back to his notebook.

“Dude, if you need to step away for a sec to take that call, it’s cool. Sounds like someone wants to get in touch with you pretty badly.” Chris said, gesturing to the phone still merrily vibrating across the table where they’d set up for the night.

“It’s not anyone I want to hear from. It’s cool, I’ll just turn it off,” Ross said, picking up the phone and holding down the power button until the screen went blank. Chris found himself wanting to know who the hell it was Ross was hiding from, but figured that Ross would tell him or he wouldn’t, it obviously wasn’t something he needed to worry about at the time.

A few days later, the band had gathered around the firepit for their now-daily chat about how they thought the songs were going, as well as continuing to bond as a band. They were resting after eating their weight in steak, and joking about different bands and musicians they’d want to play with on a tour someday, or collaborate with on an album. Most were pipe-dream wishes like Stevie Ray Vaughan or Jimi Hendrix, but others were musicians that were still living, like Eric Clapton, Bob Segar and Dave Grohl.

“I don’t know, man- I still think Jon Bonham would have been amazing to have an epic drum battle with,” Mike said wistfully, taking a long pull from his beer bottle and staring at the fire wistfully.

“Oh, for sure. He’d also wipe the floor with you, man.” Tom shot back, laughing.

“I know, but still. Getting that experience, playing with one of the greats? That would be worth the embarrassment.” Mike shrugs. “I’d just make sure I went first, both to make him look good and also so it wouldn’t look weird if I started crying while he played.” The entire group burst out laughing, and Ross decided it was his turn to go as Mike stood to add more wood to the fire.

“I think I’d want to go with some of the guys I met on tours back when I was with Northwestern Line. I’d be too nervous to play with any of the greats, but the guys I knew then? I think they’d be pretty cool to work with, given the chance.”

“Names, man. Give us names!” Chris insisted, grabbing another beer from the cooler in front of them.

Ross shrugged. “I think Pete and Patrick would get excited about what we’re doing, and Corey always told me I was an idiot for not trying to keep the band going on my own.” He shook his head, and took a last sip of beer before putting the empty bottle in the box near his feet. “But there’s no guarantee any of them would answer the phone if I called, or even remember who I am at this point.”

There was silence around the firepit for a moment, and then the other three guys started yelling at Ross for holding out on them. “Are you seriously telling me you have connects with some of the biggest names in music right now, and you’re sitting here talking with us schmos instead of trying to put together the next SuperBand?” Tom asks incredulously, leaning forward precariously in his lawn chair.

“Why… why would you think that’s an option for me, first of all?” Ross tilted his head, his forehead furrowing as he picked up an empty beer bottle from the box and began peeling off the label. “It’s not like I was a big enough name to get that kind of attention, and I wouldn’t want to use my friends like that, anyway. They all have their own things going- Why would they want to work with a nobody like me?”

Chris snorted, and covered it up with a cough. “You’re kidding me, right?” At Ross’s confused look, Chris swore.

Mike finally rejoined the conversation, the fire stoked enough to last another hour or so. “You really had no idea, did you? Did the label even tell you what your numbers were in the States, before they dropped you?”

“No, not really. I just know that they didn’t know what to do with us, since we didn’t really fit into any kind of niche. The other guys had already decided to apply to colleges and try making their own way, so continuing the band without them wasn’t really an option .”Ross rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair, looking around the firepit and seeing the confusion on everyone’s faces.

“Dude, when people are talking about current songwriters that everyone wants to work with, sure they mention Patrick Stump or Andrew McMahon, but you’re the next name they mention. Northwestern Line had a shit ton of potential, and I will always be pissed that the label dropped you the minute you guys aged out of your bullshit contract, instead of trying to develop you as an artist.” Mike looked a little shocked at his own outburst, and went back to poking the fire in silence.

Ross was quiet for a moment, then chuckled wryly. “A shit ton, huh? Is that more or less than a fuck ton?” Mike looked pissed for a moment, then laughed.

“All I’m saying is, I think you should call one of your friends, man. I think you’d be surprised at who answers.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you try to make a go of it on your own? I mean, look where we are. We’re at John fucking Mayer’s ranch- Dude clearly did okay for himself, right?”

Ross gave a tight-lipped smile, remembering the first few months after the label had released Northwestern Line from their contract. His cousins had returned to the States right away, eager to see what the next big thing would be. Ross had lingered in Munich for a bit, waiting for… Well, waiting for something that was never going to happen. He had eventually packed up and decided to get as far away as he could, and LA seemed like the best option at the time. “I thought about it, a bit- But we’d been playing together since we were all 14, and I thought it might be a good idea to get out of the industry for a bit, see who I was without a guitar in hand.” He said finally, figuring it was the safest explanation to give, while still not telling the whole truth of what had happened.

They sat around the fire for a bit more that night before heading to bed, the mood a bit more somber than it had been before the Big Conversation. Ross was the last to leave, making sure to pour sand over the fire before heading back inside and locking the back door for the evening.  Padding his way down the hallway to the room he was staying in, he turned back on his phone and started scrolling through his missed calls. A lot of them were from an international number, and he deleted all of the voicemails the caller had left without listening to them. Same with the text messages; Ross wasn’t interested in anything the sender had to say anymore.

Maintenance done, he started scrolling through his contact list, recognizing names he’d been so excited to meet, remembering promises to meet up and jam sometime that never happened. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he contemplated the hermit he’d become over the last two years, and all the changes that had come in his life because of it. He hadn’t needed to get a ‘real job’ when he came back from Europe; his parents had put all of the money he’d earned with his old band into a trust for him, where it would be safe and waiting for him once he came back to the States. He’d chosen to get a job that would cover his rent above the auto shop and any minor bills he had, but that was about it. He’d chosen to step away from a large part of himself to figure out what made up the rest of Ross as a person, and while he was excited to see what the next few months held for the new band, he was also nervous to be back on the public stage. So much of his life was now private unless he chose to share it with someone, and that was all about to change.

Throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling, he took a long breath and let it out slowly, looking back down at his phone as he shot off a quick text to his friend Corey Taylor, briefly explaining where he was and the project he was working on. They’d met at one of the last festivals Northwestern Line had played at, and they’d continued to stay in touch for the last few months before Northwestern Line called it quits. Ross had been shitty at keeping touch with someone who’d wanted to stay friends, but he hoped that Corey remembered him and still wanted to work with him like they’d discussed in the past. Biting his lip and wiping his sweaty palms on the bedspread for a moment, he pressed send  and chuckled at his nervousness over sending a simple text. Still, he went to bed that night with a bit of hope and a smile on his face.

It was the incessant vibrating of his phone that woke him the next morning; when he blearily picked up his phone to look at the display, he was startled to see he had five missed calls from Corey and a few other old friends, as well as flight details for Corey, who was arriving in Bozeman later that afternoon. He let out a bark of laughter, then saw the time on the screen. Groaning, he sat in bed unmoving for a moment, staring at the ceiling and relishing the last few moments of quiet he was likely to have. He finally rose from bed and rubbed a hand over his face, then got dressed and brushed his teeth before heading out into the common area of the house.

Mike and Tom were standing at the counter in the kitchen area, both wearing pajama pants and tanks while they cooked breakfast. They moved together comfortably, and for a moment, Ross felt guilty for breaking up the peace each member had found during their time in Montana, even if it had been at their urging.

“So, guys? Mind if a friend of mine joins us?”

The next two weeks were a blur; Corey listened to everything they had so far, and offered suggestions and unvarnished critiques on everything. He got another mutual friend, Steven Jenkins, on speaker phone with them while they were working on lyrics in the studio John built in the basement of the house, and between the two of them offering advice, OLoPA managed to finish putting together roughly three albums worth of work.

When they finally emerged from the Compound, as everyone in their tightly knit group had taken to calling it, they sent the rough copies to Jeff and anxiously awaited news from the mixer Jeff selected. Corey made Ross promise to not disappear off the grid again, a promise Ross made without hesitation.

They went their separate ways while they waited, Chris to his self-defense training and Mike and Tom to their construction gigs, and Ross went back to bartending for a few weeks. Ross buried himself in work at the bar and They finally heard back from Jeff about two weeks later; the investor Jeff contacted loved almost everything the band sent, and wanted to send them to work with a producer on an LP before they went on tour in order to generate buzz for the record labels.

Ross finally gave notice to the bar; Jim was sad to see him go, especially since Friday night (ladies’ night) had become their busiest night of the week when Ross was working a shift there. “You’re always welcome to come back and work a shift or two when you’re in town, son,” Jim said, his eyes shining suspiciously bright before he turned to continue the prep work for the night.

They were sent to Rick Rubin’s place in Laurel Canyon; it was clear enough at night that Ross could see stars, and when the wind blew through his windows in the morning, he could smell the honeysuckle and orange blossoms in the air. It was spring in California, and he found himself desperately hoping that he would end up making enough to get a house like this someday, one that he had room to stretch and grow into.

Several of the song pieces jotted into his notebook from that time talk about the passage of time and the ephemeral nature of dreams; time seemed to at once crawl and fly, and Ross was constantly jotting down notes and taking pictures of the way the sunlight dappled its way across the warm hardwood of the library in the morning, and the way the scattered clouds in the sky cast their shadows across the courtyard in the afternoon.

Rick was easy to work with; he favored a stripped down sound to one that was overly produced, and Ross found himself constantly grabbing his Moleskine to take notes on whatever Rick had to say about the song they were working on that day. Some of the suggestions he made were great, and the band took his notes and worked at night on implementing his suggestions. Some, however, were taken with a grain of salt, and while Ross and Chris strived to keep a respectful atmosphere when working with Rick, they also wanted to make sure that the album sounded like them when it was finished. There were a few tense afternoons spent arguing over lyrics or arrangements, but in the end everyone was happy with the songs they’d finished and sent to Jeff and the investor for final approval prior to production.

There was a two week break between them finishing the LP and starting to play shows; they spent a lot of that time continuing to bond as a band, getting to know each other, and the image of the band they wanted to present.

Jeff invited Ross over to the bungalow he kept in LA one night, and they ended up spending the night grilling and drinking beers, trading road stories. Ross found it really easy to talk to Jeff; the man was a straight-shooter, told it like it was and treated them with respect, all while still maintaining an almost paternal role with them.

At some point there was a lull in conversation; staring at the flames in the gas firepit, Ross softly mentioned how weird it all was, that they went from having a quasi-steady gig playing at Jim’s bar to recording with some pretty hefty names in the business at storied studios in the Hollywood Hills.

“If you want to look at it that way, I guess you could call it weird, son. But that’s not the way I look at it at all,” Jeff said slowly, taking a long pull from his bottle of beer.

“How should I look at it then?” Ross asked, cocking his head to the side.

“I’d look at it as the universe, God, whatever you want to call it, nudging you back into doing the thing you were born to do. You took a year off, got some experience under your belt, and lived a normal life for a bit. How’d you like it?” Jeff was staring at him intensely, and Ross realized there was more to the question than what Jeff had said out loud.

“It.. it didn’t feel right. I wanted to figure out who I was as a person, but It felt like I was just waiting for something to happen, something to come along and make me feel like a part of something again, instead of just existing.” Ross paused for a moment, thinking of how to explain the nights spent watching other bands on stage, remembering his own gigs and fighting down the feeling of… “I felt like I was watching the world go by, waiting for a four-count from a drummer that wasn’t there.”

Jeff sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. “And that, my boy, is why none of this is weird. You would have come back to music sooner or later, I’m sure of it. Would it have been with this band, these guys? Maybe not, but then who’s to say it all would have worked out as well as it did? You have connections, and you have talent to go with that pretty face of yours, but those connections will get weaker with time, and that pretty face will fade. All that’s left is your talent, and that’s the thing that’s gotten you here, right now.”

“Listen, Jeff. I, ah... Shit. I don’t know how to even begin to have this conversation.” Ross nervously rubbed the back of his neck, then exhaled slowly. “Look, there’s… there’s something you should know, about me. About the last few years I was in Northwestern Line.”

“Did you kill a guy?” Jeff turned and fixed him with a hard stare.

“What the fuck, Jeff? No.” Ross stared at him, his previous nervousness forgotten.

“Was it something with kids?” Jeff growled, and Ross shuddered.

“Fuck, no. Jeff, you know me better than that,” Ross cried, sitting up straight.

“Then I really don’t give a shit, man.” Jeff turned back to the fire, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” He asked, gesturing with the pack towards Ross.

“No, not at all. Mind if I bum one? I left my spare pack back at the apartment.” Jeff tossed him a cigarette, and Ross lit it with the bic in his pocket.

“Listen, Ross. This business? Everyone has secrets, and I mean everyone. Forget whatever bullshit headline you’ve seen in the supermarket checkout tabloids, or on entertainment news shows on TV. What you see is what the PR teams and labels allow you to see. The worst of it is usually handled behind closed doors, carefully negotiated to cause the least amount of damage for the shortest length of time,” Jeff explained, gesturing with his cigarette.

“Yeah, I know, but I still thought you should know. I mean, if anyone should know, it should be my manager, right?” Ross said, tilting his head to look at Jeff.

“Ross, if it hasn’t caused a scandal yet, I don’t think it will now. You can tell me if you really think it’s going to jeopardize the future of this band, but if not? Let it go. It sounds like something that’s been weighing on you for a while, man.”

“You have no idea,” Ross muttered, taking a long drag.

“Whatever it was that happened, whatever made you decide to get out of the business for a year and take that time to be someone else for a while? Put it away. Don’t carry it with you anymore, man. Write a few songs about it- Hell, write a damn album, if that’s what it takes to leave it behind you, where it belongs,” Jeff said softly, clapping Ross on the shoulder. “These guys are in a band with you because of the way you make fucking magic when you play together, you know that? If they were here right now, I’m positive they’d say the same thing. And you know what? If I’m going to do this, get back into this business 100%, it needs to be someone worth doing it for. And that’s you guys, Ross. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be doing this crazy thing with.”

Ross sat still for a moment, staring at the flames as they danced in the fire pit. He took a long, deep breath- Then let it out just as slowly, a smile coming to his face as he did so. “Thanks, Jeff.”

“No problem, kid,” Jeff patted him on the back once more, then sat back in his chair and polished off his beer. Tossing his cigarette butt in the fire, he reached into the cooler by his feet and took a fresh beer out for Ross, and one for himself.

“So, I gotta ask- How the hell did you pull off recording an LP with Rick freaking Rubin? Before we even got signed, let alone went on this crazy van tour of yours?” Ross popped the top on his beer and sat back in his chair, kicking up his boots on one of the empty patio chairs next to him.

Jeff just laughed. “Fucker owes me so many favors, I decided it was time to cash in a chip.” He took a long sip of his beer, then put it down  on the patio table next to him. “As for the van tour,” Jeff said, pausing to collect his thoughts. “Every great band has started with a van tour. Every. Single. One. You can’t be one of the greats unless you’ve paid your dues, had enough miles pass under your wheels, seen every bumfuck truck stop and diner and VFW Hall and Elks Lodge on both sides of the Mississippi.”

“That’s… Wow. That’s a lot of shows, Jeff. How many do you have planned for us, really?”

“Right now, sixty, but that’s just on the West Coast. You’re going to be on the road for a year, in a different town every day. You think you’re up to that?”

Ross tilted his head back for a long moment, staring at the sky even though there were no stars to be found because of the light pollution. He took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly and mentally tallying up the cities and towns and festivals Jeff could possibly have them booked for. He turned his thoughts to his little apartment, of the house plant on the windowsill of his kitchen that died some time ago, of going back to the bar and continuing to sling drinks for the rest of his life while boring patrons with all the stories of what could have been.

“Yeah, I’m up to it. Question is, are you, old man?” He lowered his head to smirk at Jeff, who chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re gonna hate me by the end of this tour, but I promise you this: I’ll take Our Lady to the top, just watch me.”

The LP was released a few days later, and they got a few plays on several radio stations before it dropped back below the radar. Jeff explained that it was intentional; he wanted people to have that connection of “I think I’ve heard this song somewhere before” without immediately connecting the dots.

They went to a used car lot in the Valley later in the week, and picked up two gently used Transit vans to haul themselves and their cargo around the country. Chris picked up a set of walkie talkies at a military surplus store down the street, and pointed out that they could save on minutes on their phones if they used those to communicate with each other instead. They beeped each other with lyric ideas, standard road trip questions of never have I ever, and adopted an elaborate game of Poker using only mile markers and exit listings.

They ended up doing two hundred and fifty shows that first year; Jeff made good on his promise to book them at every single venue that would allow them to play, including one very memorable bachelorette party. About six months into the tour, their first single ("If You Only Knew") hits the Billboard Top 200, and begins to steadily climb through the chart each week. More people started coming to their shows, and they were asked more than once to stay an extra night and play another show.



Jeff’s strategy paid off; by the time they finished their tour that year, exhausted and beyond road-weary, their single was in the top 50 and they were being invited onto late night talk shows. The fact that they weren’t signed to a label at the time was brought up frequently; each of them took turns pointing out that with the state of the music industry being what it was, the band wanted to make sure that whatever label they ended up signing with was a good fit for them, and would allow them to grow as artists without demanding too many changes along the way.

One night, in a dive bar outside of Nashville, Jeff told the band that they’d gotten several offers from label companies, a few of them right up their alley. He asked them their thoughts, and encouraged them to read all the offers thoroughly before making a decision. They met with a lawyer later that week, who patiently explained to each of them the perks and drawbacks of one label or another. After a lot of deliberation, they ended up deciding to go with a mid-sized label who would treat them right, didn’t have too many questionable clauses in the offer they’d sent, and had a good reputation with a lot of the musicians Ross and Jeff knew. They signed later that month, and the label set them up to start recording an album with Butch Walker, who was known for his country-leaning rock sound, something that Chris was really excited about.

The album they recorded with Butch that year ended up going gold the first year it was out, and eventually received platinum status by the end of the following year. As Tom Petty had once said, the future was wide open.