Pierre de la Pierre

When you're in a band you see everything: guys with weird faces, girls misaiming wine glasses, people checking their phones... Oh..? You think we can't see you? There's a blue glow on your face! Lighting's are all turned down, maybe a candle on the table and you -- a floating turquoise head in the darkness. And no, it doesn't matter how much you turn it down, because you look like an alien. Stop that! 

So. I'm in a band-- lead guitar, vocals, then there's Christen -- bass and Hal on drums. We play some jazzy stuff, some blues, some reggie and we've been doing bars for quite a while now; I'm telling you -- we see everything. 

One time, I'm sure, we saw a drug deal go down. Tattooed guys with suits, slicked back hair and everything. Another, we caught a sight of a proposal. Did we play a brief variation on Mendelssohn's march later in the night? Why of course we did! And one time...

One time in the corner of my eye I saw Will Corden sit down at a table fair ways from our stage and pull his green notebook out. 

"Is that Corden?" Chirsten nudged with her head as we plugged in. She's petite for a twenty-five year old, I don't think she ever grew taller from the time we were in the ninth grade together. Hair colored lavender and smelled of it too from a buzzcut on a side. 

I nodded, careful not to say his name into a microphone. William Corden is a critic; writes for The Atlantic. And even though we've been around for a while now, this was the first time we've caught him, or he caught us.

"Best to ignore him," Christen added. 

As we began our set I glanced at Bill from time to time and what I saw irked something in me. At first he seemed okay: looking us over, eating his skinny chips with his skinny fingers, scribbling his notes, but as the night went on his eyes began to glaze over. Long stares into nothingness, filled with outright boredom. 

"We're changing things up," I turned to the band in the brief space between songs.

"How come?" Hal asked while keeping the beat, keeping the place form falling into the noise of chatter. God, you people are loud at worst times.

"I'm not feeling this set. We're doing 'Lucy' next, then 'Almost Blue'." I nodded for conformation, they both gestured back: yes.

We went, we played. A little bit of soul and then some strong blues. And Will? Bitter. Will remained unfazed. He just went on in his scribble book for those two songs, bashing us, our thin sound, my off vocals. I did not read a smile on him once. 

Best to ignore him, but I knew that we needed to do something else. So we went for the good old stuff, then fresher material, then downright awesome funk, but Corden... Nothing. His face remained flat and I was starting to get angry. 

Nothing?! All of this and nothing?! 

And not only that. He checked his watch...

...

Yeah...

...

What an asshole! 

Are you bored by us, Willie-Billie-Willy-Bill!? Are you bored, you too-god-damn-good-for-this fu-!

"New plan," back to the band, my fingers jittered. "We're doing THE cover."

"What?" Hal protested, his round face crunched up in confusion. "But it's not ready."

"It's ready."

"We don't have an ending!" Christen joined the opposition.

"We're a jazz band, we'll figure it out."

"Pierre," Christen peered at me with that detective's eye, "is this about Corden?"

...

...

Oh, Christen... How little do you understand....

"I'm playing the cover," I stated. "You two can join me or I will do it alone." I did not wait for their answer.

"Baby Please Don't Go" -- our new cover, which I sang. Alone. First verse, alone; Chorus, alone. And so the dread began to surface. Not from the lyrics, not entirely. The lights were on me and the sunglasses indoors look did not help me see the crowd. What was happening? Two minutes ago I was in a band which everyone but one loved and now there was nothing past three feet ahead of me. 

My eyes widened, I sagged: I ruined it. I ruined the song, I ruined the show. This night was supposed to be ours and I ruined it and stopped, left the song midway someplace and just broke. Steam rushed out of my fingers and out of my cheeks, turning them pale and paler. Not only they blinded me now, they spotlighted my shame. All on my own I burned down the night and it left me old and petrified, under a spell of a head full of snakes in the ashes. 

And then the kick... and then the bass with a double tap that sounded sweet as all hell broke my marbled fingers and they began to swirl around the strings, the frets, the bends, everything. And it was on point. With Hal slamming right down the rhythm and Christen slapping the metal out her strings, it was so perfect I could barely keep upon the edge. 

But even then, when I got to seeing the crowd again I snapped. William--God damned--Corden yawned and my fingers burned with as seething a flames at their tips as the mad bones right under them.

It burst out; the largest, the most stylish solo his little years had ever heard. I tapped the harmonics and I bent the bridge to boot, made runways with flamenco fingers and dead-notes all the way down. Octave gap to rise up. A few callback riffs. A short silence and BAM! I bent the high D--we were in the double drop D tuning--and somewhere in the far ocean (I swear!) a whale answered it as if it was a call and joined the song just to flip off that casual suit jacket ass. Grey jacket and bridges with flames on them... and you write for the Atlantic!?

I was somber, I was angry, we were full. The dragon in flaming calfs was right before us and we had just the tools to slay that beast. Ten strings and a drum set. 

Strum -- You're done. Have some skinny chips.

And then the song was finished, steam and flames rose. A song we've been looking an ending for for a solid month, done. Now I only feared that we won't be able to do it like this ever again. The feeling of any song is fleeting. It's there one moment and gone the last.  

Rarely do I get so high from a song anymore. The feeling of being in the right place at the right moment, of finally figuring it out. Like in those first few months of learning to play. It's awkward, the whole set up feels strange, but when the mold flakes off your fingers you laugh at just how amazing it feels to play. There's nothing more scarce or precious, or infectious than that anymore. 

Near midnight we were packing up. Hard cases for all instruments. All three sets painted, singed or otherwise marked by our friends and ex-band members. A few nice memories about them, a few bitter ones. We were just about done with our busyness when I head someone come up behind me. Christen looked passed me, then cautiously up at me. 

"Pierre de la Pierre. Hello."

I turned hearing our band name and saw Will walking up to us. "Mr. Corden."

"So you know who I am, good." He looked us over. "Good," he repeated and yawned again. 

"Your coffee, sir," a busgirl brought him a takeout.

"Oh, thank you," he said to her and turned back to us. "God, it's such a long night. Just. So tired," he said, but smiled. "You guys were great though. The feeling was a bit jumbled overall, but I really liked you three. Just wanted to let you know, if you're curious, you should be able to read my review in about two weeks time," and he turned, possibly yawned again. I didn't see it because Will got me so bewildered. Was that it? He was just tired? Am I just this thickly stupid?

Chirsten came up beside me, said: "Oh. So he was what this was all about."

"A little help, please!" Hal rushed, unscrewing a crash.

"Right."

"Right."