Drink Ticket To Paradise

She couldn’t swallow one more drink ticket, limply passed to her from  DoorGuy (name not important OR relevant) . It's soggy paper, carnival ride, raffle ticket blue sitting in her palm, making a mockery of her once again. While she was allowed “one free well drink or beer” her peers had tour buses with riders that included bottles of top shelf liquor for the afterparty,cases of exotic beer, catered food from the best restaurant in that current tour stop city, and if she remembered some of her classmates correctly,  probably a few “only green m&m” filled bowls as well. She couldn't muster up even a  thank you as she walked up to the bar. “Modelo with extra lime please” she muttered to the tattooed hipster bartender who by that point, she had become quite acquainted with... in a biblical sense you could say they… knew each other. Were “friends” … had spent time together… or to put it frankly, they had fucked. Once or twice. 

It wasn’t her fault they kept colliding into one another, this Hipster Hollywood Venue seemed to be the only place in LA that she could get booked at and still draw a crowd. Mainly of literal friendly faces, their text inboxes filled with “Hey! Are you coming tonight? I can get you on the guest list!” perhaps the placating type, feeling sorry for her as they came to hear the same set they had heard for the last 18 months since the record was finally released. 

The thing is, she knew she was good. Yes, she spent her life humble to the point of detrimental, constantly underselling herself and deprecating in an attempted humor way, but ultimately, she did know she had something. The songs were  good. The band behind her? Undeniably good. She was lucky the members were on and off from whatever gen-z pop or current Tik Tok star tours they were on and played behind her for a “homie rate.” She knew they respected her and the music. It gave her a sense of confidence that regular hired guns wouldn't be able to provide. The thing is, you don’t go to one of the most  Prestigious Music Colleges in the world, graduate, hustle in NYC and LA, get literally PAID to sing ( yes, other people’s songs but still, a win right? ) and not be considered by others as at least… decent? This wasn’t enough though. As she plugged in her electric,( the one that was perpetually in need of a set-up, the one her late Father gave her at age seventeen for christmas, the one she couldn’t seem to get rid of ) to the shitty house amp and started to tune up, she looked out into the sea of faces, hidden by the horrible stage lighting and thought to herself “A)  there should be thousands more people here. People I don’t know. And B) what I would GIVE for a guitar tech.”  She felt her heart sink a little. The familiar feeling of dissatisfaction and disappointment. Oh, but how she sat cross legged every day clutching stones and practicing “Gratitude.” Manifestation. Anything to try and send the bat signal to the Universe that, “I’m actually ready now! I promise I won’t fuck it up”   

 The talent was always there. Innate. From a very young age. Music came easily to her. She was the type that would sit at the piano after her sister frustratingly tried to pluck out simple lessons and melodies, and the notes would flow from her fingers without effort. The type whose songs stuck in people’s heads for years. The type who if she just wasn’t so goddamn lazy, would be insanely good at guitar and blow people’s minds with just a little noodling in between chords. The type whose voice silenced rooms. 

The reasons for her lack of career goals met, thus causing nearly crippling sadness and existential crises had long been ping ponging between self flagellatory blame and anger towards the new landscape of social media. She truly believed there was a reserved spot in hell for Mr. Zuckerberg and his attempted cryogenically frozen self. The flames melting his stupid dumb face off “ Fuck you for creating this world that makes everyone miserable.” she often muttered as she logged in to her instagram. Mentally shaking a fist like a grandpa on a lawn in the South. Confused and angry at the youth  speeding by in their cars. Forgetting what it was like to once be young. The thing is, when she graduated from the aforementioned Prestigious Music School, she promptly moved to New York . Unless you were on tour with Santana or an equally jealousy-inducing act, the three relocation options not outwardly expressed yet somehow implied to Prestigious Music College graduates were Nashville, New York and Los Angeles. Or god forbid your parent’s house, which would indicate that you blew your loan money load so you could attempt to fuck girls in your fancy apartment surrounded by guitars you can’t afford and were therefore so broke that you had to go home to work at an Olive Garden while your music degree got moldy in their basement. 

New York will take your twenties and spin them around you until you wake up at thirty, dizzy with a hangover from life. And yet somehow NO money even though you worked every. single. night and made a shitload off of wall street assholes playing credit card roulette. But hey, it’ll give you character right? Nights spend in a haze of Jameson shots and baggies of coke, fucking your restaurant manager for the temporary feeling of being selected, a feeling that despite your “best at the time efforts” you didn’t get at Prestigious Music College. Days spent writing on occasion but more or less exploring the city because time felt infinite. There was merely the slightest rumble of thunder in the distance, an ominous presence that could be ignored for at LEAST a few more years. Sure some of your classmates left school and quickly got pub or record deals or tours or whatever you didn’t currently have but there was PLENTY of time right? Now’s the time to LIVE so it could be written about. Or so she thought.

 She left New York at thirty-one to move to Los Angeles. A move so cliche it’s a whole* thing.* The mass exodus of New Yorkers, tired of the drab weather and cramped studio apartments, making their 2010’s version of their own manifest destiny and head west for the plasticine sheen of LA. She came here to write. New York was about learning the craft, LA was where she was gonna sell it.  Songs to her were always like little pieces of art. Some artists view their work as an extension of self. Truthfully? She always thought that sounded like pretentious dribble. She liked writing music in genres she would never slap her name on. Genres that weren’t considered “serious music for serious musicians” even though Max Martin is arguably the most successful melody writer next to Mozart and McCartney.  Prestigious Music School’s Songwriting program had instilled such an unrecoverable wiring of somewhat slightly antiquated songwriting forms and techniques that she almost COULDN’T write anything that wasn’t following the “songwriting rules.” She met some writers in the first year in LA, referrals from mutual friends and the like. The feeling of promise was there. The 

songs were flowing, songs were being “sent to people.”  There was an electricity and invigoration. She thought she could do it. Ah but the thing about LA is, it doesn’t need you. And it will let you know. The moment you leave, a younger, hotter, more ambitious person will take your place as you drive cross country back to whatever flyover state you came from. The fakeness, the cliques, the “who do you knows” “what do you dos” “I’ll follow you, you follow me back”  the botoxed smile of someone who has known and worked with you  for a decade no longer needing you as a shiny, younger, toy with “ like fifty thousand followers” walks in the room and takes your spot. A writer friend once described another writer friend as someone who “ if you were hanging off a cliff and they were holding onto your hands, would gladly drop one to grab a publishing contract if waved in their face” ouch.  

She floated for years in this giant ocean of talent, a plankton just waiting for the rest to get eaten or move back to the midwest and go into real estate. Cursing and yet simultaneously gently reminding herself often that she is in the Mecca of people wanting to be SOMETHING OR SOMEONE. How tiring. How utterly exhausting that she must still try. She didn’t know how much more fight in her she had left. Everyday was careening more and more towards people no longer saying “ not IF but WHEN you make it” their voices filled with positivity and hope that by proxy they would know a famous musician, into “it’s great you’re still performing! Don’t ever give up” The reality sharpening like the lines on her face. 

The band was ready to go. She took a breath and started the first song. A half hearted “ whoo! “ rang out from her friend in the back. His guest list spot earning assignment completed. But, as the music went on, and the crowd bobbed their head, she could feel a pulse through the room and in her veins  “ No.” she thought, “I am fucking good and until I have given 140% to this stupid thing I was born to do and can’t seem to shake, I will fucking do it goddamn it. I WILL work out at Barry’s bootcamp and reverse age as I reverse lunge and I WILL pump my forehead with toxins until I look perpetually 32,because this is LA and this is the worst and most agist industry in the world and I WILL and get an rx for adderall until I write a goddamn opus and I WILL Not. Stop. Yet. 

As she left the show, ears ringing,  the 101 north spread out in front of her, she once again felt the feeling of defeat creeping in slowly as she got closer to home. Sure there were some new ears in the audience, the attendance was good enough that she didn’t LOSE money, sold a t-shirt or two, but there was no big stage in a new city awaiting her tomorrow. There weren’t thousands of fans lining up outside to catch even the slightest glimpse of her face, there wasn’t radio promo for the show that night. There wasn’t the dream. There was just … this. As a hot tear rolled down her face. a classmate from Prestigious Music School’s song came on the Apple music radio and she angrily banged her fist to turn it off. Pulling into the driveway, carrying gear and guitars, she tossed them into the house and went to bed. 

A few days later, she begrudgingly starting tackling the to-do list, checking instagram on the very top . The fuck you zuckerbergs and the anxiety, palpable from even the act of opening the app couldn’t stop her today from at least TRYING to be productive. She opened up her DM’s and saw a message reading “ Hey, I caught your set at Hipster Hollywood Venue. I work for a small label and one of our larger acts is looking for an opener for a six week, possibly extended run.  I love your record and want to chat more. Here’s my number. Let’s set something up.” She immediately opens Google and puts his name in. He’s legit. They have 78 mutual friends from Prestigious Music School. Wary to not get too excited, as she has been here before, she sits down with her crystals, crosses her legs, closes her eyes and says “I’m ready. Please let this be my way into my dreams. I will show up. I will practice. I will write. I will honor my talent. Just give me a chance.” 

SIX TO NINE MONTHS LATER…

The crowd is electric. The sun is setting as She’s opening for MEDIUM SIZED INDIE ROCK ARTIST at Red Rocks. The band, same homies as always, happen to be available due to the rampant nature of cancel culture and problematic young tiktok stars.  There are even a few in the front wearing her band’s name. She looks out as the guitar tech hands her her new strat 

( she still kept the old one) takes a deep breath but before she sings a note she whispers, 

“ Thank You.”