Matt had picked up on this. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "And there better not be any fucking accidents with my guitar either," he warned, his voice low and menacing. "That thing ends up with so much as a scratch on it, I'm walking away from this whole deal. And not only that, I'll come after your ass, Acardio. I know what fucking building you work in and what kind of fucking car you drive."
Apparently Acardio believed that Matt was crazy enough to do what he threatened, because when Matt looked the guitar over it was in the exact same condition it had been in when he'd surrendered it to Larry back in Los Angeles. He took it from Larry's hands and caressed it like a lover, putting a kiss on its neck and whispering words of endearment to it.
"What is it with him and that guitar?" Greg whispered to Jake.
Jake looked at him for a moment and then said, "It's the first really nice guitar - the first really nice thing he ever bought for himself. It's maybe the only thing he's ever cared enough about to even want to earn it himself. That guitar is his God and he worships it a lot more than you worship your God."
Greg looked immediately offended by this suggestion. He opened his mouth to say something.
"If I were you," Jake continued before he could, "I'd do whatever was within my power to make sure nothing happens to that guitar. You dig?"
Greg wandered off, shaking his head in disgust. Jake could tell that he dug though.
The sound check took about an hour. They strummed guitars, sung into microphones, pounded on drums, hit piano keys, and then did all at once, their every action dictated by two of the longhaired biker types manning the soundboard. Levels were adjusted up and down and then up again. Through it all Jake could see Bill gritting his teeth in frustration that he was not allowed to participate more directly. He had been admonished way back in the rehearsal stage for interjecting his opinion on this matter.
"They're adjusting Matt's guitar and Jake's mic way too high," he'd complained during the very first sound check. "They're going to drown out the rest of the instruments!"
"People will be coming to hear Jake's voice and Matt's guitar," Acardio had told him. "The rest of the instruments are nothing but filler."
"Filler?" Bill had cried, his face turning red with anger. "A proper mix is what gives us our distinctive sound!"
"And we did that on the album," Acardio said. "A concert is different. It's impossible to recreate the intricate mixes of the instruments in a live venue."
"We used to do it at D Street West," Bill shot back. "Just let me dictate how to adjust the levels. I can..."
"You can play your goddamn piano when you're told and otherwise shut your ass," Acardio told him. "These are professional concert sound techs we have working those dials. They know a lot more about this shit than you do."
Bill played when told and shut his ass. He didn't like it, but he did it. As such, when the sound check was declared complete and they were sent back to their dressing rooms to chill out, Bill was complaining the entire way.
"Way too much volume on the bass," he mumbled. "Way too little higher freq on the other instruments. And the harmony mics..." He shook his head in disgust. "Don't even get me started on those."
They didn't get him started on those. By now they were used to his tirades. And, though they unanimously agreed that Nerdly probably could mix their sound better than the techs National had hired, it simply wasn't within their power to do anything about it.
Chapter 5B: Never Kiss a Groupie
Jake's stage outfit consisted of tight red leather pants and a black, loose-fitting shirt that came down slightly below his waist and covered about half of his arms. For shoes he was given patent leather, ankle-length boots that had been polished to a high shine. The moment he got dressed he began to sweat. He knew it would only get worse out beneath the heat of the stage lighting.
"Fabulous," crooned Reginald Feeney, the wardrobe manager. "It accents that nice ass of yours but hides the skinny arms. Just fabulous!"
Jake said nothing. Reginald (who was to never be called Reggie) already knew the band's opinions of their stage clothing.
Reginald was undaunted. He turned to Matt, who was wearing black leather pants and a sleeveless black leather vest with metal studs protruding down the zipper line. "Now you," he said, fussing with a portion of the vest, "have the kind of arms we should be showing off. Nice solid muscle, bulging biceps..." He touched one of the biceps in question. "Mmmm, just beautiful."
Matt jerked his arm away. "Keep your fuckin' hands off me, faggot!" he barked.
Reginald huffed and turned away. "No need to start throwing labels around," he said. "Just because a man is a wardrobe specialist and likes to suck dicks you call him a faggot? How crude." He pranced over to Darren, who was also wearing black leather pants in addition to a white, wife-beater tank top that was extremely short on his torso. "Now you are the premium male specimen of the group." He ran his hand out and touched Darren's bare stomach. "Look at these abs. Just fabulous."
Darren slapped Reginald's hand away, almost panicked, too flustered to even say anything.
"You guys will all thank me when you win the best-dressed group award next year," Reginald told them. "And remember, after the show, get out of those clothes immediately so I can clean them before the tour bus leaves."
"You're gonna smell the crotches of these things, aren't you?" Matt asked him.
"And jack off while I do it," Reginald replied with a smile. "I just love the smell of male butt-sweat."
"That is fucking disgusting," Jake declared. He grabbed his water glass and took a tremendous drink.
Coop and Bill, since they were going to be seated during the performance, were allowed to wear jeans, normal T-shirts, and normal footwear, although Reginald insisted that Coop put on a red headband.
After getting dressed they sat down at their tables while Doreen Riolo worked on their hair. Doreen was almost sixty years old, a woman who had grandchildren older than Jake, but a woman who was dialed in as tight as a drum on the latest hair fashions. She clipped and trimmed, combed and sprayed, teased and tussled their manes until they were the very epitome of what she considered perfection. Through it all she hummed Frank Sinatra tunes under her breath or chatted to them about her long career fixing the hair of famous musicians. Jake and the rest of the band liked and respected her immensely, and none of them complained about the job she did.
"Now be sure you boys stay away from any pyrotechnics or open flames," she warned. "You each have enough hairspray in your hair to launch a small rocket."
They shared a group look of concern at this revelation, all of them imagining their hair going up in flames.
After Doreen retreated back to the roadie bus from which she came, they were finally allowed to sit down and relax for a few minutes. Darren, Matt, and Coop all sparked up cigarettes (being sure to keep the lighters well away from their hair). Jake and Bill simply sat and sipped from their water. Greg popped into the dressing room and whipped out his cocaine kit.
"You boys sure you don't want a little pick-me-up before the show?" he asked as he dumped a healthy amount onto the mirror. "You really look like you could use it."
Darren licked his lips longingly but Matt answered for all of them. "We're sure."
Greg grinned away and then crunched up two lines. He made them disappear.