Wasted - Andrea Smith Page 0,1
were on the upswing now, playing a mix of emo-tinged and pop chaos cover tunes, and creating some of their own. It was a unique sound, and they had just started getting paid gigs. Not bad money at all for a group of twenty-year-old dudes. And the fringes were even better.
The guys were setting up when he drove his motorcycle through the alley leading up to the back of Cooper’s garage. The neighborhood was in an older part of Fort Wayne that was still kept up despite the fact the city had shrunk considerably over the past decade. Loss of industry like most shrinking cities in the rust belt.
His old man worked as a mechanic at half the hourly wage he’d had ten years ago. Emmett didn’t want to end up like that; feeling stuck when there were so many other choices his dad could have made. He had no plans to stay in Fort Wayne.
“Hey man,” Coop called out as Emmett walked into the garage and picked up his guitar. “You’re earlier than expected. Did you ace the exam this time, brother?” he asked, tuning his bass.
“Left at break. Done with that shit. College ain’t for me.”
“Never thought it was,” Slade the drummer for Wasted said with a smirk, tapping his sticks together for emphasis. “Music is the real deal, man.”
Wayne was going over the music for the song he and Emmett had been composing. Wayne played rhythm guitar and wrote a lot of the music with Cooper. Emmett was good at playing lead guitar and had a knack for coming up with dark lyrics to put with the music. Together they had dreams of being rock stars.
` “Hey Emmett,” Wayne greeted as he looked up from the music sheet, “I changed some of the chords on the new one. Think it needs a slower beat starting out. Why don’t we give it a try and see how it flows?”
“I’m down with that,” Emmett answered, pulling the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and plucking at a couple of the strings. Everyone else took their places, and finally, Emmett nodded, “Let’s do it.”
Slade tapped his sticks together, and the first few chords of the intro started in unison. Emmett stopped playing after the first few bars, calling out, “Whoa, hold up.” He turned to face Slade behind him on drums. “Who’s supposed to come in?” he asked.
Slade shrugged, “I’m waiting for Coop,” he said, nodding toward the bass player.
“Naw, no, you’re not waiting for me,” Coop interjected, “Look, we’re doing two measures of “D” you’re only doing one okay? You got to do two.” He turned to Wayne, “Look, I’m following you anyways,” he finished.
“Wait a minute, you’re the one playing bass here,” Wayne replied, giving Coop a frown.
“Yeah,” Coop responded, “Exactly, I am playing bass, Wayne.”
“Hey, you want the sticks, dude?” Slade interjected, holding them out to Coop.
“No, I don’t want the sticks. If you would just get it right once! I want you to do it one fucking---”
“Guys, guys, stop it! Stop it, okay? Coop, Wayne?” Emmett interrupted, waving his free arm out to quiet the other three band members’ argument, “Let’s just try it again, okay?”
Once again, Slade tapped the sticks to a 4-beat, and the music started, picking up momentum and keeping to the beat. After the introduction, Emmett waited until Coop played the short riff on base, stepped closer to the mic, and spilled out the lyrics they’d written so far for Vagabond.
Put your ear close to the ground;
Do you hear the fading sound?
If it’s lost or being found,
Turning off and spinning round.
A vagabond with no address
A fire in the wilderness;
The patient loses consciousness
The blackened sky hides emptiness.
Emmett stopped because that’s where the lyrics ended at this point. They weren’t finished yet but, even so, something was lacking. He felt it.
“Keyboard,” he blurted. “This song needs some keyboards at the refrain.”
“Oh fuck,” Coop growled. “And you decide this all by yourself, man? And just where the hell are we gonna come up with a keyboardist?” he continued, glaring at Emmett.
“Not to worry,” Emmett replied with a smirk. “I know just the person.”
“Care to fill us in, dude?” Slade remarked, tapping one of his cymbals for effect.
“Ace Coulter,” Emmett replied with a broad smile, “He’d be perfect, and he’s looking to make some more money.”
“Hold up, hold up,