She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (2 page)

Eddie knew she had to sell herself over the phone, or she was as dead as Joey Ramone. The cold calls went something like this:

1. Who are your influences? (Meaning: If you do get in the band, are you only interested in doing covers of Joan Jett?)

2. How often do you gig? (Meaning: How green are you?)

3. Are you playing somewhere at present? (Meaning: Can we check you out?)

4. How tall are you? (Meaning: Are you overweight?); and

5. Who do you look like? (Meaning: You got any mojo or style that translates on stage?)

Eddie knew her strict musical training would exceed anything these garage band girlies were likely to dish out, having been accepted to the Royal Academy of Music at the University of London, Julliard in New York City, Eastman School of Music at the University of Rochester, and given a full ride scholarship to the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. But she passed them all up for “MI,” Musicians’ Institute, in Hollywood.

Mr. and Mrs. Von Drake’s dream of cultivating their gifted daughter into a jet-setting concert classical pianist was shot into oblivion the day Eddie picked up a guitar, because Eddie wanted to play in a band, and the heavier, the better.

To complicate things further, Eddie’s aunt, Giavenetta Constantini, world renowned opera star, toured and performed in the finest salons and opera houses all over the world. Eddie had first-hand knowledge of what she’d be facing: a life stuck on a plane surrounded by her aunt’s suffocating entourage, if she chose to go that route.

She took the GED, graduated early, left home and immediately got a gig ... four nights a week at the “Galaxy of Stars Retirement and Convalescent Home” working in the kitchen for old Hollywood film stars.

She read the small ad for the last time, then gave in and punched the numbers.

Tara June glared at her brother. “What is it with you, anyway? Girlfriends aren’t people – they’re collector’s items.”

Kai stiffened. “I wanted Eddie to stay here . . . in San Francisco . . . go to the Music Conservatory, while I’m at Stanford, but apparently Hollywood was calling.”

“
Hollywood was calling?
You make her sound like some frustrated suburban housewife that ran off leaving two-point-three kids and a minivan. You don’t run off to music school.”

“She did.”

“See, you do like her.”

“Miss Classical Gas wasn’t all that . . . and what do I care if Eddie enters the rock and roll lottery and her life mirrors some movie-of-the-week train wreck? She’ll be a cliché, if she’s lucky.”

“Careful . . . your jealousy is showing.”

“That’s it. I’m jealous – just shakin’ to the core. She’ll go to L.A., write a big hit that’s gonna stop war in the Middle East, and dine with Bono. While I’m left out in the cold she’ll be rockin’ the house.”

“Kai, you couldn’t rock the house if Re-Maxx handed you the key. And what’s worse, when it comes to Eddie, you’ve got no game.”

“Game is not one of my problems.”

“Remember that gig she played at Club Jaegernaut . . . you just couldn’t bring yourself to pay her a compliment.”

“I
did too
pay her a compliment.”

“Yeah, I remember. ‘
What else can one say but ‘guitarmageddon’.
”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Kai, your sarcasm burned a hole through the asphalt. But that was
after
you asked her if Naughty Nurse had a date with Death.”

“Well, when you insist on dressing her like Nurse Jackie ran into Catwoman at the mall, it’s just too easy. If she would have stayed . . . that lame fashion institute of yours is down the street from the conservatory. It would have been a whole lot easier. But she ran off.”

“Wrong – she did
not
run off, you pushed her away. Eddie couldn’t deal with your absurd level of perfection anymore. Your high flyin’ ivy-league friends don’t even know who she is!”

“She’s sixteen!”

“She’s brilliant,” T.J. stated. “She’s brilliant and you’re stupid.”

“I did not pick this devil and I am
not
going to run with it either.”

“Then somebody else will. I can guarantee you that.”

“I'll get over it,” Kai said.

“Talk about getting over it, her parents are so angry, especially her dad.  Now that was a battle.  She told me he just cut her off, cold.  Said if she didn't want the kind of life they were raising her for, then she could go figure it out on her own.  And the crazy part is that Eddie agreed to it.  I'm pretty sure he was just bluffing, but she called him on it!  You think ya know somebody  . . .   she's been my best friend since forever and had a crush on you since sixth grade. And she up and does this?!”  

“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity”

–Seneca

“Maybe this Gretchen won’t be a dragon lady,” Eddie prayed. After the fourth ring, someone answered.

“
I already told you – I’m not talking to Cart-A-Crash so forget it!”
cried a female voice.

“Sorry, I called about the ad?”

“
Oh, that.
Well, the truth is we don’t need anybody . . . sorry.”

“Is this
Gretchen
?”

“Yeah, but the ad’s a mistake.”

“Sorry – I was just looking for a new band.”

“Got kicked outta your last one, huh?”

Eddie found the remark odd. “No, actually I just moved here to attend Musicians’ Institute.”

“Hmm, I went out with a guy who was going there. He said learning all that formal stuff killed his creativity. So if I were you, I’d keep that bit of info to myself.”

“So –”

“I don’t know,” Gretchen drawled, “we haven’t decided what we’re gonna do. The last girl, Jane, she was on her own planet. I mean crocheted ponchos? That’s like, ‘
Hello, grandma’s here
.’ How did she expect us to get a deal looking like
that
?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “major
faux pas. So, maybe I could drop off my demo pack, in case you change your mind?”

“Um, yeah, I guess if you want,” Gretchen said and hung up.

The house was in Laurel Canyon, on Briarcliff Street. Eddie rapped on the door. She couldn’t imagine what the rent must be for a place like this.

The girl who opened the door looked more model than rocker—long, platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, a keyhole cutout that exposed a small portion of her perfect bosom. Eddie wondered,
Is she in the band
?

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to drop off my demo pack.”

“Oh, right – from Critical Mass?”

“Are you Gretchen?”

“No, I’m the other half.”

“The other half of what?”

“I’m the drummer . . . Ginger . . . the other half of G-Force . . . You’ve never seen one of our live shows, have you?” Ginger sounded jilted. “The Katz?”

“That’s
you
guys?” Eddie strained. She had seen the band’s flyers all over the strip. Their buzz was heavy, but she couldn’t afford the ridiculous cover charge for clubs on the strip. “Sorry, I’m Eddie. I told Gretchen I’d be coming over.” She handed over the goods that may answer the near future.

“Thanks, I’ll give it to my sister.”

“You two are sisters?

“Did you just step off the bus?” Giving Eddie a hard stare, she sighed, “Well, at least you’re not ten-twenty.”

“Ten-twenty?”

“Ten years too old and twenty pounds too heavy- Gretchen is the one who has to look over your stuff. I don’t do that. Not that I can’t,” she said, “it’s just she won’t
let me
.”

“Well, it’s my promo pack. Go ahead.”

“C’mon on in.”

Eddie hit pay dirt and entering the posh place, she whispered, “This place is awesome.”

The morning sun streamed in through the window at the far end of the huge room, lighting the post-modern furniture and reflecting off the shiny hardwood floors.

“Gretchen’s out with Vince somewhere.”

“Vince?” Eddie prompted.

“He’s our manager. He owns this house, rents rehearsal space, pays for stylists, hair—well,” she paused, “
he
doesn’t, but our agency, Astral, they do.” Ginger put Eddie’s CD on the sound system in a corner of the room. She listened for a moment and then asked, “You guys had a keyboard player?”

“That’s me.”

Ginger pushed a button on the remote and the sound went dead. “
No way, shut up!”
She grabbed Eddie’s hand and pulled her into the adjacent room. There stood a piano. It was a hunk of junk, but it was a piano. “Can you
please
play this?” Ginger begged, handing over a piece of sheet music.

“Did you write this?” Eddie asked.

“I’m a drummer, hello! There was this guy that used to come see us play, and I guess he sort of fell in love with me. Said he was gonna write me a song
.
”

“Forever Blonde” was insipid, but Eddie used that to her advantage. She reworked the chord structure, turning it into something more sophisticated.

As the sound of the piano rang about the room, a striking couple appeared in the doorway. The girl, who Eddie guessed must be Gretchen, had her arms wrapped around a tall male who looked like an older version of Shia LaBeouf.

“Hey, you’re back!” Ginger sang. “Gretchen
,
you’re
never
gonna believe this! Eddie came over and taught me my song. She changed it, fixed it and—”

“
Wait a second . . .
who is this?”

“
This
is Eddie.” She said it like an announcer on a game show. “Eddie, this is my sister, Gretchen and our manager, Vince.”

“You’re the one I talked to on the phone,” Gretchen said. “So, where’s this CD?”

“In there,” Eddie pointed, staying anchored as the rest of the party went in search of the pack, Vince included.

“Hey, this has been opened!” Gretchen cried. “Ginger, what did I tell you?”

“
What?
She told me it was okay if I opened it.”

“Once she hands it over, it’s not hers anymore, it belongs to me now.”

Above the piano, hanging on the wall, was a blown up band poster, with four girls, all dressed in 60’s mod outfits made of white vinyl. She recognized Ginger and Gretchen. Her CD came blasting out of the speakers in the other room, but she stayed put, analyzing the photo. “
One of these girls,”
she thought
, “is the grandma poncho girl.”

When the CD stopped, Gretchen walked back into the piano room and said, “That van outside is yours? C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”

Stunned, Eddie got off the bench, following Gretchen to the van parked on the curb.

Standing on the street, Gretchen spoke her mind, unimpeded. “Thanks for coming by, but like I said, I don’t need anyone right now. If anything changes, I’ll call.”

“That’s funny, ‘cause I certainly didn’t get that impression at all from Ginger.”

“I don’t care what kind of impression you got. Besides, with all that stuff you did in there . . .
you’re a real hot shot.
You’ll figure something out.”