He yawns and thinks for a moment. “Thursday night was the last full night’s sleep I got.” The band got the call early Friday morning that they needed to be in L.A. by noon. So they packed up their cars and Gus’s pickup, and headed out. They’ve been in the studio since Friday afternoon working with their producer, going over the final cuts of all the songs. (Well, at least what used to be the final cuts.) This is the first they’ve seen daylight since.
“Dude, you need to get some rest, like ASAP.”
“This from Mother Trucker who drives halfway across the US of A without sleep?” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m a big boy, Bright Side, I’ll manage. I do feel spent, though.”
“I bet. So is everything wrapped up with MFDM?” The first time they met their producer in July he introduced himself as the Dream Maker. Gus ran with it and after calling him DM for about a week he christened him the Motherfucking Dream Maker. The dude was thrilled; Gus has had him wrapped around his little finger ever since.
“Yeah. We finally finished about a half hour ago. I mean I’m proud of it, but damn, these past few days have been brutal. Choosing the songs is like lining up your kids in front of a f**king firing squad. We all have a say, but MFDM makes the final call.” He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls it back into a ponytail. He’s frustrated. Five, four, three, two, one. “I need a smoke. Hold on.” He picks up his laptop and starts walking, making the image on the screen jump and jiggle like a bad home movie.
“Dude, you’re making me seasick.”
“Sorry Bright Side, I need to go out on the balcony to smoke.”
The laptop comes to rest on a solid surface and he’s fishing through his pocket for his lighter, cigarette already between his lips.
“You should quit.”
He smiles, cigarette held firmly between his teeth. “This is not the week I quit, or the month, or probably even the year with the way things are going, so don’t start.” He cups his left hand around the end of his cigarette and lights it. It flares to life and he inhales like it’s his last breath. After all of the smoke is exhaled he closes his eyes and slumps back against his chair.
“Better?”
He nods, eyes still closed, and takes another long drag.
“So are you happy with the way the songs turned out?” I ask nervously.
He smiles sleepily, eyes still closed. “I’m happy.” He means it.
I still don’t know what songs made the cut and are going to be on the album. They recorded fifteen, but only eleven survived to thrive. Gus has insisted on secrecy up to this point. I think he’s afraid he’ll jinx it if he talks about it too much. Like he’ll wake up and find out it was all a dream. “So what made the cut? Can you tell me now?”
His eyes open and he smiles the smile that means he’s really happy, like deep down in the pit of his stomach happy. “‘Missing You’.”
I’m floored. “No shit?”
He’s still smiling. “No shit. I didn’t want to say anything earlier in case the song didn’t work out, but when you were in the studio with us in July MFDM went f**king bananas over you. He thought the violin was genius, because it is.”
“Wow, that’s … I don’t know what to say … that’s … amazing.” I think back to July, recalling the experience in the studio. “He didn’t act too jacked up about it while we were playing. I thought he was just yanking my chain when he said he liked it.” I’m shocked. Gus wrote the song and told me it was a gift from me to Grace. It’s one of the only ballads he’s ever written. He wrote a part for violin and insisted I play on the song. I came out of retirement only for Grace. I went into the studio with the band and played, expecting it to end up on the cutting room floor somewhere. Which would have been fine, because simply playing in a studio was something I’ll never forget. Another night, after everyone else had gone home, Gus coaxed me into singing with him just for fun on another song “Killing the Sun.” This song is kind of their anthem at shows. Everyone sings along. It gives me chills every time I watch them perform it live. We sang it together, and once I even sang it alone. I’m not trained like Gus but I like to sing and I can carry a tune. We sing two-part harmonies pretty well. It was fun. He recorded and downloaded both songs for me, so I can say I had my rock star moment.
“Yeah, he was trying to play it cool in front of you, but the next day when we all listened to it again he went ape shit. So thanks, you know, for being some kind of virtuoso.” He winks as he stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray that’s already overflowing. “Enough about the album, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to hear the dish on what’s happening in the mighty metropolis of Grant. Fill me in.” He scoots his chair closer to the table.
“Okay, let’s see, I’ll make this short and sweet. I made two new friends, Clay and Pete. They live across the hall. My roommate Sugar—”
Gus interrupts. “Wait, hold up, your roommate’s name is Sugar? As in nature’s delicious sweetener?”
I nod. “Sugar Starr LaRue.”
He throws his head back in laughter. “Oh shit, that’s classic … What the f**k were her parents smoking?” He leans forward toward the screen. “Bright Side, tell me she’s a stripper or … or an escort or something?” His eyes look bright and curious.