Badge, A Novel
(excerpt)
Chapter One
Badge was once again a soldier for rock music–-a guitarist as always, a sideman this time–-stepping out of a cab on Sunset Boulevard on his way to rehearsal, his Stratocaster cased and in his hand, his boots laced to the top. In his eight years away from the business–-the real business, the one that didn’t involve playing for tips during Albuquerque happy hours, or laying tracks pro bono for singer-songwriter types, or aping covers at some Indian casino just off I-25–-the only difference so far was the style of key that got him into his hotel room, this new one a credit card type, an ad for a local pizza joint on its back. You weren't done, and you're back now, and that's all there is to it. When you're really done, the world will let you know. If a soldier is only a soldier at war, a musician is only a musician in L.A.
Earlier that day, Badge had called Glen from his hotel room.
“You’re to meet Betty at the Band Bungalow at eight o’clock,” Glen said. “You remember where that is?”
“Sure,” Badge said. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“Eight years is an eternity in this business. You know Britney Spears?”
“Yeah.”
“She was in the Brownies the last time you did a job for me.”
Badge smiled. He’d always liked Glen, in the masochistic way you can like someone for being clever enough to dupe you. “Eight o’clock. Got it.”
“You need anything else?”
“Yeah.” It had to be said, if only so they could get past it, like offering condolences to a friend after a death in the family. “I need to thank you for getting me this gig.”
“You called, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but with the way things ended with ... you could’ve easily ...”
“Forget it,” Glen said. “If I took it personally every time a musician lost his mind I wouldn’t have anyone to hire.”
The Band Bungalow, two rows of storage units that ran up both sides of an alley off Vine, had gotten even more run-down since Badge had last seen it. White paint flaked off the gutters, and the lower half of the office door was missing, replaced inexactly with a piece of plywood. It amazed Badge that the Bungalow still did enough business to stay open, still housed bands. The music scene had changed so much in the last few years. Now, in the first month of a new millennium, boy bands, pop princesses, pretty faces ruled. But Badge could hear rock music coming from these rooms, noises of drums and guitars, singers crooning ad hoc lyrics, bassists adding foundation. It reminded Badge of something. Hope was the only word he could come up with. Nobody here was on the back end of anything.
The air was cool and still, SoCal, but January nonetheless. Badge didn’t know which room housed No Fun Intended. A kid carrying a guitar case, his blond hair poking out the center of a modified stocking cap, walked by and Badge stopped him.
“You know where I can find Betty?”
The kid smirked. One rivet-like post stuck out from his lip, what looked like the result of a construction project gone awry. “You in her band?”
Badge nodded.
“So,” the kid said. He set his guitar down. “You’re the new lucky bastard.”
“Lucky bastard?”
“Girl’s got an attitude. I was her guitar player when she started the record. After everyone saw her, they called me the lucky bastard. By my count, you’re the fifth lucky bastard.”
“What’s the deal with her?” Glen had given him the basics. Young girl, debut record past due, enough money to keep Badge fed and his kid in child support. What more did he need to know?
The slam of a door came from up the alley. Two men-–one tall with a grey beard that came all the way to his crotch; the other short with bleach-blond hair like Billy Idol’s–-marched towards the entrance. Badge recognized the bearded one. It was Les McKay-–the Les McKay–-the flannel-shirted bass player who’d been showing up on records in Badge’s collection for twenty years. Les carried a guitar case, and his brow cut deep into the line of his eyes. His demeanor was like a farmer about to exact revenge on a barn burner. The blond one loped behind, carrying a drum case.
The kid shook his head. “Looks like she’s at it again.”
“Wait,” Badge said. “Les McKay's in Betty’s band?”
“'Was' might be the better word. She's in space fifteen.” The kid ambled away. “And be careful. She always smells blood when someone new’s around.”
Each storage room had a metal door, and between the doors overgrown bougainvillea bushes crawled up the wall. Their fuchsia petals littered the alley. They were just like the bush at Holly and Malcolm’s place–-what used to be his place too, now just his ex-wife and son's. During summers, Holly had to sweep the walk to keep the three of them from tracking petals into the house. The bush had only grown more out-of-hand since the divorce, spreading like kudzu until Holly hired a crew to trim it back. Still, she never had it removed.
No sound came from space fifteen. A large padlock, undone, hung from its hinge. Badge took a breath. Luckily, his nearly four decades had yet to tarnish his looks-–tall body just south of lanky, dark hair to his shoulders, brown eyes that seemed calm even when he was losing his shit. His looks, combined with his playing, had opened many musical doors in Albuquerque, but this was L.A. Bigger factors were at work here, none of which cared two shits about you. Badge used the nose of his guitar case to push the door open.
A black light, the tube a purple fluorescence, cast its glow over everything. A guitar–-Gretsch hollowbody, 6120, Filtertron pick-ups–-slanted up from its stand. A drum set glistened. A Patti Smith poster hung above a line of amplifiers, and a couch–-on which sat the one who must be Betty–-stretched along the far wall. She held what looked like a publicity photo, which was on fire, a thin blue flame expanding from its lowest corner.
She was barely adult, twenty or so by Badge’s guess, and her face glowed an ethereal white. Her hair featured beads and dreadlocks, a new style that seemed a deliberate attempt to look trampy. Her legs, sticking out from her miniskirt, held the light like marble. Upon Badge’s entering, Betty eyed him like she might an opponent who’d just entered the ring, then continued following the flame. “I threw them out,” she said.
“I hear you like to do that.”
“Who do I have to thank for your high opinion of me? Glen?”
Badge set his case down. It could very well be over already, his day of travel wasted. At least the Fender Super Reverb amp had made it. His only goal was to get plugged in. He could accept any decision after that. “What did they do?”
“Nothing.” She dropped the photo to the floor, snuffed it out with her combat boot. Her voice had just the hint of a rasp, a high school cheerleader after a night of smoking cigarettes. “They offered nothing, and they left with nothing.”
“Maybe it was your attitude.”
Betty looked surprised, the same cheerleader after getting cut from the team for a less popular girl. “Excuse me?”
“Those guys are better than you think. You might’ve tried listening to them.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“My sidemen are going to tell me how to make my record.”
“Records need rhythm sections, and good ones.”
“I’ll get a good one.”
“When? June? This thing was due six weeks ago.”
Anger flushed Betty’s face, and Badge didn’t care. If he were turning around and flying home, she’d hear it from him first.
“What exactly did you want from them?” Badge said.
Betty glared from the couch, her feet spread, offering a view of her underwear, a perfect V of Scottish plaid. He didn’t know if this was emblematic of a true ambivalence or some attempt to manipulate him. He doubted she knew either. “I wanted them to have soul.”
“Soul,” Badge repeated. He eased down into what must’ve been a nice pappa san chair at one point. It smelled musty, like the inside of a gym bag. “You mean like James Brown?”
“Good Christ.” Betty flopped back onto the couch. “You should just go now before this gets humiliating for both of us.”
“Come on,” Badge said. “Tell me what soul is.”
“You’ll take it personally.”
“You already have me kicked out of the band. What more do I have to lose?”
“That's it,” Betty said. She snapped her fingers, sat up again. The beads in her hair tapped together. “I need people to play like they have nothing to lose, like their very lives depend on it. Those cream puffs in here before only cared about lunch breaks and union scale. I’m trying to do something real, and everyone else pushes me toward the safe and mundane.”
“Who pushes you?”
Betty rolled her eyes. “My biggest mistake to Glen is that I was never on the Mickey Mouse Club.”
“A ‘great platform,’ right?” Badge remembered the meetings with Glen and the Famous Dead. “Platform” was one of Glen’s favorite words, as were “leverage” and “accessibility.”
“Platform,” Betty yelled. She got up, paced the floor. Her folded arms accented the curve of her neck. If Glen was looking for someone to compete with the pin-ups of the day, he’d done well. “If I had one real musician in here for every time that guy said platform.”
“Glen’s a marketer. If you didn’t want that, why team up with him?”
Betty stopped pacing. She glanced at Badge, then away. “He was the only one who wanted me.”
The desperate songwriter, the wily manager. It was a familiar story. Hopefully she hadn’t signed over her publishing. “We don’t get to pick and choose in this business.”
“I don’t need the guy forever. I’m ready to do it all myself as soon as I have a fan base. You’re not gonna do squat if people don’t know you first.”
And you’re not gonna do squat by yourself even if they do. As a hired-gun player, Badge had seen dozens of songwriters go it alone, and each project ended with broken dreams, maxxed-out credit cards and boxes of product stuffed in a closet. Like it or not, being with people like Glen was the litmus test that determined success or failure. It was how Elvis and the Beatles and KISS and Zeppelin and Van Halen and U2 and Nirvana all got started. Name one who wasn't.
“Well,” Badge said. He grabbed his case, flipped it on its back. “I came all the way from New Mexico to play with you. It’d be nice to at least hear me before you decide I’m not the guy.”
Betty looked askance at him. “Why should I?”
Badge took out his Stratocaster-–sea foam green, white pick guard, chrome accents–-and a familiar, cocked feeling expanded inside of him. Coming to L.A., playing in a new project, he loved this part. If she tried to throw him out, he’d refuse to go. If she tried to leave, he’d tackle her. “Because your only other option tonight is to go home, lie around and wonder how your songs could’ve sounded.” He snapped his case closed. “Or pick up that Gretsch and let's get down to it.”
Betty couldn’t quite stifle a smile, but instead of grabbing her guitar she reached for a cardboard box, removed a photo. “Tell me what you think of this.” She handed it to him.
It was a publicity shot of Betty, her head slightly tilted, her face looking straight into the camera. A fisheye lens gave the effect of roundness to her features, and her eyes looked huge, like a baby bird’s as its mother drops food into its mouth. In short, the photo didn’t look like it would influence anyone to do anything.
“I’m no expert,” he said, handing the photo back.
“Didn’t say you were,” Betty said, not taking it. “What do you think?”
Badge looked again. He knew what she wanted to hear which, lucky for him, was the truth. “I think you should burn every one of them, and I think you should tell Glen not to worry about head shots until he knows what he’s selling.”
A smile crept across Betty's face. “Then we can jam,” she said and reached for her Gretsch.
Buy Badge here.
(excerpt)
Chapter One
Badge was once again a soldier for rock music–-a guitarist as always, a sideman this time–-stepping out of a cab on Sunset Boulevard on his way to rehearsal, his Stratocaster cased and in his hand, his boots laced to the top. In his eight years away from the business–-the real business, the one that didn’t involve playing for tips during Albuquerque happy hours, or laying tracks pro bono for singer-songwriter types, or aping covers at some Indian casino just off I-25–-the only difference so far was the style of key that got him into his hotel room, this new one a credit card type, an ad for a local pizza joint on its back. You weren't done, and you're back now, and that's all there is to it. When you're really done, the world will let you know. If a soldier is only a soldier at war, a musician is only a musician in L.A.
Earlier that day, Badge had called Glen from his hotel room.
“You’re to meet Betty at the Band Bungalow at eight o’clock,” Glen said. “You remember where that is?”
“Sure,” Badge said. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“Eight years is an eternity in this business. You know Britney Spears?”
“Yeah.”
“She was in the Brownies the last time you did a job for me.”
Badge smiled. He’d always liked Glen, in the masochistic way you can like someone for being clever enough to dupe you. “Eight o’clock. Got it.”
“You need anything else?”
“Yeah.” It had to be said, if only so they could get past it, like offering condolences to a friend after a death in the family. “I need to thank you for getting me this gig.”
“You called, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but with the way things ended with ... you could’ve easily ...”
“Forget it,” Glen said. “If I took it personally every time a musician lost his mind I wouldn’t have anyone to hire.”
The Band Bungalow, two rows of storage units that ran up both sides of an alley off Vine, had gotten even more run-down since Badge had last seen it. White paint flaked off the gutters, and the lower half of the office door was missing, replaced inexactly with a piece of plywood. It amazed Badge that the Bungalow still did enough business to stay open, still housed bands. The music scene had changed so much in the last few years. Now, in the first month of a new millennium, boy bands, pop princesses, pretty faces ruled. But Badge could hear rock music coming from these rooms, noises of drums and guitars, singers crooning ad hoc lyrics, bassists adding foundation. It reminded Badge of something. Hope was the only word he could come up with. Nobody here was on the back end of anything.
The air was cool and still, SoCal, but January nonetheless. Badge didn’t know which room housed No Fun Intended. A kid carrying a guitar case, his blond hair poking out the center of a modified stocking cap, walked by and Badge stopped him.
“You know where I can find Betty?”
The kid smirked. One rivet-like post stuck out from his lip, what looked like the result of a construction project gone awry. “You in her band?”
Badge nodded.
“So,” the kid said. He set his guitar down. “You’re the new lucky bastard.”
“Lucky bastard?”
“Girl’s got an attitude. I was her guitar player when she started the record. After everyone saw her, they called me the lucky bastard. By my count, you’re the fifth lucky bastard.”
“What’s the deal with her?” Glen had given him the basics. Young girl, debut record past due, enough money to keep Badge fed and his kid in child support. What more did he need to know?
The slam of a door came from up the alley. Two men-–one tall with a grey beard that came all the way to his crotch; the other short with bleach-blond hair like Billy Idol’s–-marched towards the entrance. Badge recognized the bearded one. It was Les McKay-–the Les McKay–-the flannel-shirted bass player who’d been showing up on records in Badge’s collection for twenty years. Les carried a guitar case, and his brow cut deep into the line of his eyes. His demeanor was like a farmer about to exact revenge on a barn burner. The blond one loped behind, carrying a drum case.
The kid shook his head. “Looks like she’s at it again.”
“Wait,” Badge said. “Les McKay's in Betty’s band?”
“'Was' might be the better word. She's in space fifteen.” The kid ambled away. “And be careful. She always smells blood when someone new’s around.”
Each storage room had a metal door, and between the doors overgrown bougainvillea bushes crawled up the wall. Their fuchsia petals littered the alley. They were just like the bush at Holly and Malcolm’s place–-what used to be his place too, now just his ex-wife and son's. During summers, Holly had to sweep the walk to keep the three of them from tracking petals into the house. The bush had only grown more out-of-hand since the divorce, spreading like kudzu until Holly hired a crew to trim it back. Still, she never had it removed.
No sound came from space fifteen. A large padlock, undone, hung from its hinge. Badge took a breath. Luckily, his nearly four decades had yet to tarnish his looks-–tall body just south of lanky, dark hair to his shoulders, brown eyes that seemed calm even when he was losing his shit. His looks, combined with his playing, had opened many musical doors in Albuquerque, but this was L.A. Bigger factors were at work here, none of which cared two shits about you. Badge used the nose of his guitar case to push the door open.
A black light, the tube a purple fluorescence, cast its glow over everything. A guitar–-Gretsch hollowbody, 6120, Filtertron pick-ups–-slanted up from its stand. A drum set glistened. A Patti Smith poster hung above a line of amplifiers, and a couch–-on which sat the one who must be Betty–-stretched along the far wall. She held what looked like a publicity photo, which was on fire, a thin blue flame expanding from its lowest corner.
She was barely adult, twenty or so by Badge’s guess, and her face glowed an ethereal white. Her hair featured beads and dreadlocks, a new style that seemed a deliberate attempt to look trampy. Her legs, sticking out from her miniskirt, held the light like marble. Upon Badge’s entering, Betty eyed him like she might an opponent who’d just entered the ring, then continued following the flame. “I threw them out,” she said.
“I hear you like to do that.”
“Who do I have to thank for your high opinion of me? Glen?”
Badge set his case down. It could very well be over already, his day of travel wasted. At least the Fender Super Reverb amp had made it. His only goal was to get plugged in. He could accept any decision after that. “What did they do?”
“Nothing.” She dropped the photo to the floor, snuffed it out with her combat boot. Her voice had just the hint of a rasp, a high school cheerleader after a night of smoking cigarettes. “They offered nothing, and they left with nothing.”
“Maybe it was your attitude.”
Betty looked surprised, the same cheerleader after getting cut from the team for a less popular girl. “Excuse me?”
“Those guys are better than you think. You might’ve tried listening to them.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“My sidemen are going to tell me how to make my record.”
“Records need rhythm sections, and good ones.”
“I’ll get a good one.”
“When? June? This thing was due six weeks ago.”
Anger flushed Betty’s face, and Badge didn’t care. If he were turning around and flying home, she’d hear it from him first.
“What exactly did you want from them?” Badge said.
Betty glared from the couch, her feet spread, offering a view of her underwear, a perfect V of Scottish plaid. He didn’t know if this was emblematic of a true ambivalence or some attempt to manipulate him. He doubted she knew either. “I wanted them to have soul.”
“Soul,” Badge repeated. He eased down into what must’ve been a nice pappa san chair at one point. It smelled musty, like the inside of a gym bag. “You mean like James Brown?”
“Good Christ.” Betty flopped back onto the couch. “You should just go now before this gets humiliating for both of us.”
“Come on,” Badge said. “Tell me what soul is.”
“You’ll take it personally.”
“You already have me kicked out of the band. What more do I have to lose?”
“That's it,” Betty said. She snapped her fingers, sat up again. The beads in her hair tapped together. “I need people to play like they have nothing to lose, like their very lives depend on it. Those cream puffs in here before only cared about lunch breaks and union scale. I’m trying to do something real, and everyone else pushes me toward the safe and mundane.”
“Who pushes you?”
Betty rolled her eyes. “My biggest mistake to Glen is that I was never on the Mickey Mouse Club.”
“A ‘great platform,’ right?” Badge remembered the meetings with Glen and the Famous Dead. “Platform” was one of Glen’s favorite words, as were “leverage” and “accessibility.”
“Platform,” Betty yelled. She got up, paced the floor. Her folded arms accented the curve of her neck. If Glen was looking for someone to compete with the pin-ups of the day, he’d done well. “If I had one real musician in here for every time that guy said platform.”
“Glen’s a marketer. If you didn’t want that, why team up with him?”
Betty stopped pacing. She glanced at Badge, then away. “He was the only one who wanted me.”
The desperate songwriter, the wily manager. It was a familiar story. Hopefully she hadn’t signed over her publishing. “We don’t get to pick and choose in this business.”
“I don’t need the guy forever. I’m ready to do it all myself as soon as I have a fan base. You’re not gonna do squat if people don’t know you first.”
And you’re not gonna do squat by yourself even if they do. As a hired-gun player, Badge had seen dozens of songwriters go it alone, and each project ended with broken dreams, maxxed-out credit cards and boxes of product stuffed in a closet. Like it or not, being with people like Glen was the litmus test that determined success or failure. It was how Elvis and the Beatles and KISS and Zeppelin and Van Halen and U2 and Nirvana all got started. Name one who wasn't.
“Well,” Badge said. He grabbed his case, flipped it on its back. “I came all the way from New Mexico to play with you. It’d be nice to at least hear me before you decide I’m not the guy.”
Betty looked askance at him. “Why should I?”
Badge took out his Stratocaster-–sea foam green, white pick guard, chrome accents–-and a familiar, cocked feeling expanded inside of him. Coming to L.A., playing in a new project, he loved this part. If she tried to throw him out, he’d refuse to go. If she tried to leave, he’d tackle her. “Because your only other option tonight is to go home, lie around and wonder how your songs could’ve sounded.” He snapped his case closed. “Or pick up that Gretsch and let's get down to it.”
Betty couldn’t quite stifle a smile, but instead of grabbing her guitar she reached for a cardboard box, removed a photo. “Tell me what you think of this.” She handed it to him.
It was a publicity shot of Betty, her head slightly tilted, her face looking straight into the camera. A fisheye lens gave the effect of roundness to her features, and her eyes looked huge, like a baby bird’s as its mother drops food into its mouth. In short, the photo didn’t look like it would influence anyone to do anything.
“I’m no expert,” he said, handing the photo back.
“Didn’t say you were,” Betty said, not taking it. “What do you think?”
Badge looked again. He knew what she wanted to hear which, lucky for him, was the truth. “I think you should burn every one of them, and I think you should tell Glen not to worry about head shots until he knows what he’s selling.”
A smile crept across Betty's face. “Then we can jam,” she said and reached for her Gretsch.
Buy Badge here.