Rochester had been a huge warehouse. I didn't feel as bad.
"Thanks for coming. And, uh, for the water." I tried to redeem myself.
"My pleasure," she said. "I really like your sound. Nikki Kellerman."
She held her arm out in the universal 'tap to exchange virtual business cards' gesture.
"Sorry, I'm Non-comm," I said.
She looked surprised, but I couldn't tell if it was surprise that I was Non-comm, or that she didn't know the term. The latter didn't seem likely. I'd have said a third of the audience at our shows these days were people who had given up their devices and all the corporate tracking that went along with them.
She unstrapped the tablet, peeled a thin wallet off her damp arm, and drew a paper business card from inside it.
I read it out loud. "Nikki Kellerman, A & R, StageHolo Productions." I handed it back to her.
"Hear me out," she said.
"Okay, Artists & Repertoire. You can talk at me while I pack up."
I opened the swag tub and started piling the t-shirts back into it. Usually we took the time to separate them by size so they'd be right the next time, but now I tossed them in, hoping to get away as soon as possible.
"As you probably know, we've been doing very well with getting StageHolo into venues across the country. Bringing live music into places that previously didn't have it."
"There are about seven things wrong with that statement," I said without looking up.
She continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Our biggest selling acts are arena rock, pop, rap, and Spanish pop. We now reach nine in ten bars and clubs. One in four with StageHolo AtHome."
"You can stop the presentation there. Don't you dare talk to me about StageHolo AtHome." My voice rose. Silva stood in the corner chatting with some bike kids, but I saw him throw a worried look my way. "'All the excitement of live entertainment without leaving your living room.' 'Stay AtHome with John Legend tonight.'"
I clapped the lid onto the swag box and carried it to the door. When I went to pack up my stage gear, she followed.
"I think you're not understanding the potential, Luce. We're looking to diversify, to reach new audiences: punk, folk, metal, musical theater." She listed a few more genres they hadn't completely destroyed yet.
I would punch her soon. I was not a violent person, but I knew for a fact I would punch her soon. "You're standing in front of me, asking me to help ruin my livelihood."
"No! Not ruin it. I'm inviting you to a better life. You'd still play shows. You'd still have audiences."
"Audiences of extras paid to be there? Audiences in your studios?" I asked through clenched teeth.
"Yes and no. We can set up at your shows, but that's harder. Not a problem in an arena setting, but I think you'd find the 3D array distracting in a place like this. We'd book you some theaters, arenas. Fill in the crowds if we needed to. You could still do this in between if you wanted, but…" she shrugged to indicate she couldn't see why I would want.
"Hey, Luce. A little help over here?" I looked down to see my hands throttling my mic instead of putting it back in its box. Looked up at Silva struggling to get his bass amp on the dolly, like he didn't do it on his own every night of the week. Clearly an offer of rescue.
"Gotta go," I said to the devil's A & R person. "Have your people call my people."
Turning the bass rig into a two-person job took all of our acting skills. We walked to the door in exaggerated slow motion. Lifting it into the van genuinely did take two, but usually my back and knee ruled me out. I gritted my teeth and hoisted.
"What was that about?" Silva asked, shutting Daisy's back hatch and leaning against it. "You looked like you were going to tear that woman's throat out with your teeth."
"StageHolo! Can you believe the nerve? Coming here, trying to lure us to the dark side?"
"The nerve," he echoed, shaking his head, but giving me a funny look. He swiped an arm across his sweaty forehead, then pushed off from the van.
I followed him back inside. Nikki Kellerman was still there.
"Luce, I think you're not seeing everything I have to offer."
"Haven't you left yet? That was a pretty broad hint."
"Look around." She gestured at the near-empty room.
I stared straight at her. I wasn't dignifying her with any response.
"Luce, I know you had a good crowd tonight, but are there people who aren't showing up anymore? Look where you are. Public transit doesn't run into this neighborhood anymore. You're playing for people who squat in warehouses within a few blocks, and then people who can afford bikes or Chauffeurs."
"Most people can scrounge a bicycle," I said. "I've never heard a complaint about that."
"You're playing for the people who can bike, then. That bassist from the first band, could she have gotten here without a car?"
For the first time, I felt like she was saying something worth hearing. I sat down on my amp.
"You're playing for this little subset of city punks for whom this is a calling. And after that you're playing for the handful of people who can afford a night out and still think of themselves as revolutionary. And that's fine. That's a noble thing. But what about everybody else? Parents who can't afford a sitter? Teens who are too young to make it here on their own, or who don't have a way into the city? There are plenty of people who love music and deserve to hear your message. They just aren't fortunate enough to live where you're playing. Wouldn't you like to reach them too?"
Dammit, dammit, dammit, she had a decent point. I thought about the guy who had paid for our drinks the night before, and the church van guy from outside the Chinese restaurant, and Truly if she didn't have a sister with a car.
She touched her own back. "I've seen you after a few shows now, too. You're amazing when you play, but when you step off, I can see what it takes. You're tired. What happens if you get sick, or if your back goes out completely?"
"I've always gotten by," I said, but not with the same vehemence as a minute before.
"I'm just saying you don't have to get by. You can still do these shows, but you won't have to do as many. Let us help you out. I can get you a massage therapist or a chiropractor or a self-driving van."
I started to protest, but she held up her hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry – I know you've said you love your van. No offense meant. I'm not chasing you because my boss wants me to. I'm chasing you because I've seen you play. You make great music. You reach people. That's what we want."
She put her card on the amp next to me, and walked out the front of the club. I watched her go.
"Hey Luce," Jacky called to me. I headed his way, slowly. My back had renewed its protest.
"What's up?" I asked.
He gestured at the bike kids surrounding him, Emma and Rudy and some more whose names I had forgotten. Marina? Marin. I smiled. I should have spent more time with them, since they were the ones who had brought us in.
"Our generous hosts have offered us a place to stay nearby. I said I thought it was a good idea, but you're the boss."
They all looked at me, waiting. I hadn't seen the money from the night yet. It would probably be pretty good, since this kind of place didn't take a cut for themselves. They were in it for the music. And for the chance to spend some time with us, which I was in a position to provide.
"That sounds great," I said. "Anything is better than another night in the van." We might be able to afford a hotel, or save the hotel splurge for the next night, in – I mentally checked the roadmap – Pittsburgh.
With the bike kids' help, we made quick work of the remaining gear. Waited a little longer while Rudy counted money and handed it over to me with no small amount of pride.