Status: Re-posting.
Dedication Takes a Lifetime
Begging For A Back-Beat
It had been seven months since that night in my backyard, playing to a crowd for the first time ever, shaking from the nerves and excitement. After we saw Jack off the next afternoon, I’d called Davison Laurie and he’d booked us for the next week-end. It was all downhill from there.
Ol’ Doggie, The 717 Club, Ciel Winery, Danni’s Place, The Crooked Arm, birthdays, parties, school dances. Word of the No Name Jackasses (name still to be determined) spread from our town to the surrounding cities and we’d gained quite a following. People went out of their way to come to our shows, no matter if we traveled to different cities, or if they didn’t live in Grey Valley; we had loyalty. We were becoming something.
Madison Laurie, who we constantly credited for getting us our first paid gig, came to every show, driving the forty-five minutes from Beloit and staying until the early hours even when she had class the next morning. Amanda Sterling, the girl from my Senior Composition class, was also a regular audience member.
In those seven months, the four of us had grown a lot closer also. Ever since that drunken night when I’d told them about Grandma Elaine, it felt as if I was finally free to be completely honest with them, and that bound us together closer than anything. That is what I credited our current success with. We were writing original songs, playing different venues, making money, meeting people. We’d even taken on Tomas as a manager, and he’d set up a band budget for us in hopes that we could go on a self-funded tour by autumn.
Kal and I had both graduated in May and she had moved in soon after, opting to stay in Grey Valley rather than return to Maine. This was understandable, especially after meeting her parents at the Camellia Ridge graduation ceremony. If you look up pompous assholes in the dictionary, you will find a picture of Katrina Lews and Damion Aberman. They’d admitted to hating me at our graduation lunch, blaming me for Kal’s decision to put off college for a year or two and pursue music instead. My parents told them that they blamed Kal for the same decision on my part, then scoffed and asked them to leave their house. I have never hugged my parents so tightly.
Jack had come to visit us twice since our debut, since writing, recording, and touring took up so much of his time. But we still all talked to him just as much as we always did, and he was more excited about our progress than we were at times.
And with every show we played, I thought about Alex Gaskarth. With every fan we gained and every step forward we took, I smirked smugly in his know-it-all face. We were becoming something, and we were doing it on our time, on our terms.
Now it was early August and we were all sitting around my dining room table for our monthly band meeting.
“Candy, candy, candy,” Deveraux sang as I sat a plate of homemade marshmallow candy on the table, popping one in his mouth instantly. I rolled my eyes and sat down, taking a swig of my Diet Coke and turning my head to look at Tomas, who nodded to me and started addressing us.
“So,” he shuffled some papers around, “I went to the bank yesterday and got a statement for the band account. You guys have saved up $8,832.” He gave us a broad smile, “That’s enough to do that Midwest tour.”
We all perked up, eyes wide. “Really?” Jocelyn gasped, “We could--Aaron, are you okay?” The bassist nodded, coughing around a piece of candy he’d swallowed whole. She shrugged and continued, “We could really fund our own tour?”
Tomas nodded, passing her a copy of the statement, and then a print out with a bunch of numbers that none of us could quite make sense of. “I looked up some venues in largely populated cities, then cross-referenced with hotel prices to see which ones would be most worthwhile and affordable to play.” His business tone and the way he handled our affairs always made me forget that he was three years younger than me. I groaned inwardly; as if I needed more reminding that I was going to be twenty in three weeks.
“You could comfortably play ten shows to start,” he went on to say, “And still have quite a bit of money left, if you budget yourselves properly.”
Kal and I exchanged glances across the table, smiles sneaking across our faces. She began bouncing giddily in her seat, “Oh my god; we’re going on fucking tour! Do you think Mom will let us borrow her minivan for a couple months?” She added thoughtfully; she’d taken to calling our parents--who came to every show and always supported us in any way they could--Mom and Dad, as had Jocelyn and Deveraux.
As Kal and Tomas began going over details and Deveraux began rambling madly into Jocelyn’s patient ear, I just sat perfectly still in wide-eyed wonder; we were going on tour.
-- -- --
Two weeks later, we had the entire tour planned out and were set to leave the next day. Our bags were packed and shoved into the back of Mom’s minivan (which Kal had so stealthily sweet-talked her into letting us borrow), and we were getting in one last band practice before we headed to Illinois.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled as I ran into the garage, still in my Nina’s uniform, “I got held up at work.”
“Excuses later,” Jocelyn said shortly, spinning her drumsticks, “Shut up and sing.” Without another word, she began pounding out a beat that the others promptly picked up, and I leaned into my microphone, vocalizing along with the intro.
We were only halfway through the second song when Kal’s mobile began to chime from her purse. Usually we ignored calls during band practice, but we all instantly recognized Jack’s ringtone and allowed her to stop and answer it.
“Jack,” she answered hurriedly, “Hey, hon, can I call you back? We’re--what? Uh,” she looked at us, “Okay?” She gestured for us to come to her and put him on speakerphone, “All right, you’re on.”
“Hey guys,” a familiar friendly voice floated through, “What’s up?”
I rolled my eyes; of course he’d be so nonchalant. “Band practice, Barakat; our tour starts tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Right, right. About that,” he said with a curious tone to his voice, “I’m gonna need you to go ahead and cancel your first three shows.”
“What?!” We all exclaimed in unison, followed by a chorus of “no way”s and “are you insane”s.
Jack laughed on the other end, “Calm down, kids! I need you to cancel because All Time Low is playing a hometown concert for charity. It’s us, Hey Monday, The Cab, Boys Like Girls, and Mayday Parade. But we’re also playing with some newly signed and yet-to-be-signed bands.”
Jocelyn sighed impatiently, “Get to the point, Kitten.”
“I am, Cat,” Jack said, recognizing her voice. He’d taken to calling her Cat (after the Cheshire cat) somewhere around March. “See, the thing is that one of the unsigned bands dropped out and we need someone to fill their spot. I thought I’d see if this little-known band from Wisconsin might like to play, but apparently they’re busy so I guess I could try to get The Pudd’n Pops or something like--”
“Wait!” Kal shouted into the phone, then her head shot up to look at us, completely bewildered and looking like she was about to start screaming her head off. “Y-you mean…sharing a stage with…All Time Low a-an-and all those other real bands?”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said in a soft voice that he seemed to reserve specifically for her, “You are the realest band I know. Please,” he was practically whispering now, “Please play.”
I’m not sure who answered as we were all staring stupidly at each other, but the next thing I remember was Jack shouting happily, “YES! I’ll overnight you your tickets to Baltimore. And don’t worry about a hotel; you can stay with me and Alex.”
Oh…shit.
Ol’ Doggie, The 717 Club, Ciel Winery, Danni’s Place, The Crooked Arm, birthdays, parties, school dances. Word of the No Name Jackasses (name still to be determined) spread from our town to the surrounding cities and we’d gained quite a following. People went out of their way to come to our shows, no matter if we traveled to different cities, or if they didn’t live in Grey Valley; we had loyalty. We were becoming something.
Madison Laurie, who we constantly credited for getting us our first paid gig, came to every show, driving the forty-five minutes from Beloit and staying until the early hours even when she had class the next morning. Amanda Sterling, the girl from my Senior Composition class, was also a regular audience member.
In those seven months, the four of us had grown a lot closer also. Ever since that drunken night when I’d told them about Grandma Elaine, it felt as if I was finally free to be completely honest with them, and that bound us together closer than anything. That is what I credited our current success with. We were writing original songs, playing different venues, making money, meeting people. We’d even taken on Tomas as a manager, and he’d set up a band budget for us in hopes that we could go on a self-funded tour by autumn.
Kal and I had both graduated in May and she had moved in soon after, opting to stay in Grey Valley rather than return to Maine. This was understandable, especially after meeting her parents at the Camellia Ridge graduation ceremony. If you look up pompous assholes in the dictionary, you will find a picture of Katrina Lews and Damion Aberman. They’d admitted to hating me at our graduation lunch, blaming me for Kal’s decision to put off college for a year or two and pursue music instead. My parents told them that they blamed Kal for the same decision on my part, then scoffed and asked them to leave their house. I have never hugged my parents so tightly.
Jack had come to visit us twice since our debut, since writing, recording, and touring took up so much of his time. But we still all talked to him just as much as we always did, and he was more excited about our progress than we were at times.
And with every show we played, I thought about Alex Gaskarth. With every fan we gained and every step forward we took, I smirked smugly in his know-it-all face. We were becoming something, and we were doing it on our time, on our terms.
Now it was early August and we were all sitting around my dining room table for our monthly band meeting.
“Candy, candy, candy,” Deveraux sang as I sat a plate of homemade marshmallow candy on the table, popping one in his mouth instantly. I rolled my eyes and sat down, taking a swig of my Diet Coke and turning my head to look at Tomas, who nodded to me and started addressing us.
“So,” he shuffled some papers around, “I went to the bank yesterday and got a statement for the band account. You guys have saved up $8,832.” He gave us a broad smile, “That’s enough to do that Midwest tour.”
We all perked up, eyes wide. “Really?” Jocelyn gasped, “We could--Aaron, are you okay?” The bassist nodded, coughing around a piece of candy he’d swallowed whole. She shrugged and continued, “We could really fund our own tour?”
Tomas nodded, passing her a copy of the statement, and then a print out with a bunch of numbers that none of us could quite make sense of. “I looked up some venues in largely populated cities, then cross-referenced with hotel prices to see which ones would be most worthwhile and affordable to play.” His business tone and the way he handled our affairs always made me forget that he was three years younger than me. I groaned inwardly; as if I needed more reminding that I was going to be twenty in three weeks.
“You could comfortably play ten shows to start,” he went on to say, “And still have quite a bit of money left, if you budget yourselves properly.”
Kal and I exchanged glances across the table, smiles sneaking across our faces. She began bouncing giddily in her seat, “Oh my god; we’re going on fucking tour! Do you think Mom will let us borrow her minivan for a couple months?” She added thoughtfully; she’d taken to calling our parents--who came to every show and always supported us in any way they could--Mom and Dad, as had Jocelyn and Deveraux.
As Kal and Tomas began going over details and Deveraux began rambling madly into Jocelyn’s patient ear, I just sat perfectly still in wide-eyed wonder; we were going on tour.
-- -- --
Two weeks later, we had the entire tour planned out and were set to leave the next day. Our bags were packed and shoved into the back of Mom’s minivan (which Kal had so stealthily sweet-talked her into letting us borrow), and we were getting in one last band practice before we headed to Illinois.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled as I ran into the garage, still in my Nina’s uniform, “I got held up at work.”
“Excuses later,” Jocelyn said shortly, spinning her drumsticks, “Shut up and sing.” Without another word, she began pounding out a beat that the others promptly picked up, and I leaned into my microphone, vocalizing along with the intro.
We were only halfway through the second song when Kal’s mobile began to chime from her purse. Usually we ignored calls during band practice, but we all instantly recognized Jack’s ringtone and allowed her to stop and answer it.
“Jack,” she answered hurriedly, “Hey, hon, can I call you back? We’re--what? Uh,” she looked at us, “Okay?” She gestured for us to come to her and put him on speakerphone, “All right, you’re on.”
“Hey guys,” a familiar friendly voice floated through, “What’s up?”
I rolled my eyes; of course he’d be so nonchalant. “Band practice, Barakat; our tour starts tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Right, right. About that,” he said with a curious tone to his voice, “I’m gonna need you to go ahead and cancel your first three shows.”
“What?!” We all exclaimed in unison, followed by a chorus of “no way”s and “are you insane”s.
Jack laughed on the other end, “Calm down, kids! I need you to cancel because All Time Low is playing a hometown concert for charity. It’s us, Hey Monday, The Cab, Boys Like Girls, and Mayday Parade. But we’re also playing with some newly signed and yet-to-be-signed bands.”
Jocelyn sighed impatiently, “Get to the point, Kitten.”
“I am, Cat,” Jack said, recognizing her voice. He’d taken to calling her Cat (after the Cheshire cat) somewhere around March. “See, the thing is that one of the unsigned bands dropped out and we need someone to fill their spot. I thought I’d see if this little-known band from Wisconsin might like to play, but apparently they’re busy so I guess I could try to get The Pudd’n Pops or something like--”
“Wait!” Kal shouted into the phone, then her head shot up to look at us, completely bewildered and looking like she was about to start screaming her head off. “Y-you mean…sharing a stage with…All Time Low a-an-and all those other real bands?”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said in a soft voice that he seemed to reserve specifically for her, “You are the realest band I know. Please,” he was practically whispering now, “Please play.”
I’m not sure who answered as we were all staring stupidly at each other, but the next thing I remember was Jack shouting happily, “YES! I’ll overnight you your tickets to Baltimore. And don’t worry about a hotel; you can stay with me and Alex.”
Oh…shit.