Waking up with a hefty hangover at around eleven in the morning, Rolanda ate pancakes and two eggs sunny-side up for breakfast, and decided to shoot a short video for an Instagram post of her playing the opening of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the electric piano keyboard with her smartphone.
When the recording started, she was sitting at the electric piano with a forlorn expression on her face before she began playing. She pressed the first key to begin, and realized the sound emitting from the speakers was the wrong one; she forgot to change the setting to the traditional sound of a real string piano.
“Fuck,” she uttered. She looked into the camera on her phone, “Maybe I shouldn’t play Beethoven hungover. Oh to hell with it, I’ll play it with the jazz piano sound. Nothing wrong with change.”
She then hastily played the opening to Moonlight Sonata in the jazz style, and when she was finished, she looked into the camera with a bright happy smile, giggling a little as she reached over, and stopped the recording.
Right after uploading the short video to her Instagram, she got a phone call.
“Rolanda here,” she answered.
“Rollie Maze, how you doing?” the man on the other line greeted. “The name’s Charlie Vega. I own Band Wagon Bar and Grill on Olympic Boulevard.”
“Hello, Mr. Vega,” Rolanda said. “What can I do you for?”
“A friend of yours, Abby, gave me your contact information, and told me I should get you booked to do a show at my place. I went online and listened to a few of your songs, and am really impressed.”
“Thank you, sir, I do my best.”
“So I’m interested in you performing at my place. What do you think? You interested?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh of relief. “It’s been getting hard for me to do live shows these days since I haven’t gotten a booking agent yet.”
“These days word of mouth is the best most musicians can get,” Charlie said, chuckling.
“So when do you think I’ll do a show their?”
“Well, I know this is bit of short notice, but is there any chance you could perform tomorrow night?”
“I hope so,” Rolanda said, a little perturbed. “I’ll have to check with my bandmates to see if they’re available. Can I call you back by two o’clock, and let you know?”
“Yes, of course,” Charlie assured.
“Thank you so much for your patience, sir.”
“No problem, Rollie.”
As soon as the phone conversation was over, Rolanda sent a group text to all her bandmates: Cal, on the bass; Faye, on drums; and Max, on rhythm guitar.
Cal text right away: For sure, Rollie. Got nothing better to do other than smoke and watch Big Lebowski for the zillionth time.
Faye, who missed a few shows in the past, sent: Yes. Affirmative.
Max text nothing for nearly an hour.
“This fucking guy,” Rolanda said, impatient, and a little on the edge. “He’s either fucking his woman, or sleeping.”
She called him, and let it ring until it went to voicemail.
“Max, you just sit on your ass in front of a camera, review the shitty movies coming out of Hollywood, making a living out of it. So that means you have the fucking time to answer my goddamn text, or answer your fucking phone. So, after I’m done leaving you this voicemail, I’m going to blow up your phone until you answer. This is important.”
She hung up, then called again. She called his phone six times until he finally answered.
“What, woman?” Max said, half asleep.
“We got an offer to do a show at the Band Wagon Bar and Grill on Olympic Boulevard tomorrow night,” Rolanda hastily said. “Can you make it?”
“Uh,” Max muttered on the other line. “Um.”
“Yes, or no, shithead,” Rolanda snapped.
“Rollie, why do you have to be so mean? I went to Harvard, dammit. I deserve—.”
“Can you make the goddamn show, or not?” Rolanda said, more demanding. “I need to know now.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can make it,” Max answered. “I’m available.”
“Good, thank you, bye.” Rolanda hung up.
Without hesitation she called back Charlie Vega.
“Hey, Mr. Vega, it’s Rollie Maze. It’s all a go. I can do the show.”
“Awesome,” Mr. Vega said. “Please, call me ‘Charlie.’”
“Okay, Charlie, see you tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it. Bye, bye.”
After hanging up the phone, Rolanda hopped into the air, and after landing onto her feet, she felt her headache get worse. Her hand went to her forehead.
“Fucking hangover,” she said aloud.
She did a Snapchat vid, saying, “Hey guys, I got some good news. Got booked to do a show here in LA tomorrow night. I’ll look more excited as soon as my hangover is gone, but inside I’m ecstatic, I assure you.” End of Snap.
A half-hour later she went out for a jog. In the middle of her run she did another Snapchat.
She said, “God, I hope there is a big crowd there tomorrow night. I’ve been to the place only once, and it can get pretty crowded. But you never know, there could be just a couple of drunks and winos half passed out, stumbling around as we perform. That’s happened before.”
Later, as she was running back to her apartment, she said in a Snapchat, “You know, even if you’re a musician with over a million followers on social media, you can still find yourself performing in an empty venue. Hey, it’s not nothing after all, at least it’s doing some—.”
She was interrupted when a Ford pickup truck drove by from ahead of her, the driver inside gave her a cat call whistle. Not bothering to look at him, she simply held up a middle finger in his general direction. She simply heard a cackling laugh from whoever whistled.
In the next Snapchat, she said to her followers, “Look, I know I am a young, strikingly attractive woman, but, come on, men, there’s no need to remind me of it every fucking time I’m out in public. Yes, I know I’m wearing jogging attire which exemplifies my figure, but I’m just jogging, not performing on a stripper pole for the lonely, ogling, horny men for tips.”
As she walked up the flight of stairs leading to her apartment door, recording another vid, she stated, “I know men want it from women all the time, and honestly women want it just the same, but both sides must remain patient until the mutual desires are clarified, so there’d be no confusion in either parties involved. End of rant, and fuck that guy who catcall whistled. He should know better.”
Later that day, sitting on the couch in the living room with her laptop computer on her lap, wearing a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, she began typing up a setlist for the show at Band Wagon Bar and Grill. The first three songs were going to be covers, the middle part of the list — the main bulk — were original songs written by her, then finishing with four songs that had lyrics written by followers she wrote music to.
Performing those songs gave Rolanda a certain satisfaction that made her feel accomplished, because it made the ones who wrote the words even more pleased than herself. After she’d email them a downloadable file of the song, basically all would send her a reply, thanking her, and giving her praise for not only the song made just for them, but all that she has done so far as a Social Media Star. She planned to one day take the songs she felt were the best, and compile them into a two-disc album. The problem was she would have to share royalties with all those who had written the lyrics. Many would see it as saintly, but she saw it as costly.
Like any other musician who wanted to make it big, Rolanda wanted to achieve success all on her own, with only the music she created herself, especially with words from her own imagination, her own mind. For her it was not about full financial gain — which wasn’t the point — it was about artistic pride, and personal integrity. An achievement that was rightfully her own without the aide of anyone else.
The front door of her apartment opened, and her roommate, Harriet, entered, carrying her portfolio case, and dressed in a black belted pants suit. She walked over to the kitchen counter, dropped her keys on it, removed the strap of her portfolio case from over her shoulder, then placed it on the counter, next to the keys.
To Rolanda’s perspective, her roommate looked visibly exhausted.
“You’re home early,” Rolanda commented.
“Yes,” Harriet said with a sigh of relief. “I started early this morning, and they said I could leave early. An intern’s wet dream. Probably will be the first, and last time it will ever happen.”
“So other than that, was it an all-around good day?” Rolanda asked.
“It was the usual day of me doing all the Bitch work,” Harriet admitted. “So getting away from there sooner rather than later was the best gift I’ve received all year.” She clapped her hands together once and held them in front of her. “I’m in a good mood for once, and I feel like making us an early dinner. Have you ate recently?”
“No,” Rolanda replied. “Haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“How does organic spaghetti sound?” Harriet inquired, somewhat gleeful.
“Sounds like California Dreamin’,” Rolanda said in the song’s tune.
“Cool. I’m gonna take a quick shower, then get on cooking.”
Harriet’s cellphone began ringing in her jacket’s pocket. She got it out, and looked at the screen to see who it was.
She looked back at Roland, and said, “Shit, it’s my fucking cousin. Sorry if I get a little loud.”
“It’s quite all right, Harriet. I understand. Is it cool if I Skype with my bandmates here in the living room? We got to talk about a show we’re doing tomorrow.”
“That’s awesome. Yeah, sure, of course.” Harriet then answered her cellphone, and greeted her cousin with, “What the fuck do you want?”
Harriet walked down the hallway to her bedroom.
Before passing through the threshold of her bedroom door, she stopped, listened for a moment, then yelled, “Things change, you fucking asshole! And stop calling me a goddamn Nazi!” She then entered her room, slamming the door behind her.
To Rolanda, that particular phone conversation was not what was unusual — the girl yelled at people a lot on the phone — it was Harriet’s good mood, and the fact she was going to make dinner for the both of them. It was a rare occurrence. In the span of a year, it would be the second time Harriet has cooked dinner. Rolanda had done it for her hardworking roommate any chance she could get when time was afforded to her. She could only imagine what Harriet would be like when her internship was over, and she became a full on, professional architect.
After she heard Harriet turn on the shower, Rolanda sent a group text to her bandmates, telling them to get on Skype as soon as possible. She then opened the video chat service on her laptop, and waited for them to join, for their faces to appear.
The first one to appear was Faye, the drummer.
“Hey, Rollie, what’s up?” Faye greeted. “Happy to hear we got a booking. Hope there’s a good crowd. If not, still great to perform.”
“Always the optimist, aren’t you, Faye?” Rolanda stated more than asked.
Faye replied by tilting her head, raising one eyebrow, and shrugging one shoulder. This would be the extent of her verbal input; she was the type who did not say much after the initial greeting.
Next to appear on the computer screen was Cal, the bassist.
“What’s happening, y’all?” Cal said right away. “About damn time we get a booking. How long has it been, like four months?”
“It’s been two months,” Rolanda corrected. “Well, just over two months, since the show we did in Denver.”
“That was a good time, but let’s face it, a waste of time,” Cal said, eating chips.
“How could you say it like that?” Rolanda asked. “I know we spent more money getting there than we did for the actual gig, but it was a great fucking crowd, people knew me, people got to find out about me. Where’s your optimism, Cal?”
“I spent it on rent, which I could barely pay,” Cal said, then chomped on a chip making an audible crunching sound that filled Rolanda’s earphones.
“But you paid it. It’s not like you didn’t pay it.”
“These chips are my dinner,” Cal informed. “Where’s Max?”
“Fucking bearded freak is always fucking late,” Rolanda blurted in frustration. “Faye, have you heard from him today, at all?”
Faye answered Rolanda’s query by shaking her head, raising her hands hands, palms up, in view of her webcam, and twisting her lip. The gesture obviously was stating: Haven’t seen him today, and I don’t know why he’s late. How the fuck to expect me to know what goes on in his life, Rolanda?
“Technically Max isn’t late, Rolanda,” Cal said. “This meeting is last minute, after all. It’s not like it was scheduled a week in advance. He’s probably busy doing something right now. Either he’s filming a movie review for his YouTube channel, or he’s with his girl.”
“Cal, though Max makes some money off Adsense, we all know his lady is the breadwinner of their relationship,” Rolanda informed. “And I know for a fact she’s at work right now, and I know he’s already done a movie review for this week. Right now he’s in the middle of his free time, and all he does in his free time is smoke weed, sit on his couch, and watch movies all day, chomping on munchies.”
“The man’s got to change his eating habits by going organic,” Cal said. “I’d do the same if I could afford it. Not everyone’s making money from Adsense like you and Max, Rollie.”
“We’re at least making some good chunk of change off the music I’ve put on iTunes,” Rolanda said, attempting to alleviate the conversation.
“Most of the chunk of change is made even smaller due to the fact the most popular songs have lyrics written by your followers who get their share,” Cal countered. “Yes, it’s a great thing you’re doing, but damn.”
“Why do you have to be such a Debbie Downer? Or in your case a Donald Downer.”
“Sorry, Rollie,” Cal said. “Just had to get it off my chest. Let’s move on. So, what’s gonna be the setlist for tomorrow night’s show?”
“Well, I want to wait for Max, but he hasn’t replied to the group text.” Rolanda looked at her phone. “I’ll just tell him what’s up tomorrow night at the —.”
She was interrupted when Max’s face popped up on screen. He was finishing off a Red Bull, then tossed the can behind him when he was finished.
“I’m here,” Max said, wiping his lips and beard with the back of his hand. He burped before saying, “Hope you guys didn’t start yet. If you did, hope I didn’t miss much. Sorry I’m late, once again. I got Rollie’s text message when I was asleep.”
“You’re in luck this time, Max,” Rolanda said. “You arrived just we were about to start.”
“Awesome. Let’s do this, girl.”
Max was a cool, funny, and energetic person to have around, but to Rolanda, sometimes the dude could be like a rash you somehow couldn’t reach to scratch. At that moment as he waited for her to speak, he had a wide smile, baring his white teeth. For a second, Rolanda wondered how he kept them from getting yellow, even though he ate nothing but chunk food. She thought his teeth should be considered by the scientific community as one of the many anomalies that will never be explained, just like how Ozzy Osbourne is still alive after forty years of doing hardcore drugs.
“First off,” Rolanda began, “I’d like to announce that the venue for tomorrow night’s performance will be Band Wagon Bar and Grill. It’s thanks to my friend Abbey for telling the owner about me. I know it’s last minute. The owner, Charlie Vega, called me just this morning to give me the offer. I guess he was a bit desperate. Maybe another band canceled at the last minute, I don’t know. Their loss.”
“Maybe they got a better deal from some other place,” Cal commented.
Rolanda ignored him, continuing on, “I’m happy you guys will be available. It’ll be great, it’ll be fun, like always. Since this show is last minute, we won’t have sufficient time for a rehearsal, so I want the setlist to be the same as the previous performance we did in Denver. There’s only going to be one change. I want to open with the Electric Wizard cover we did when we jammed yesterday, the rest of the list will remain unchanged.”
“Don’t you think that song is rather dark to open with?” Cal asked. “Your whole image with your music so far is lighthearted, a kind of party spectacle of fun. Are you sure you want to ad that kind of shade?”
“Yes,” Rolanda responded. “I want perform a diverse range of sounds before I find my true voice. I don’t think I’m at a point to be picky with whatever I choose to play.”
“What’s this about finding your ‘true voice?’ Haven’t you already done that? Your fanbase has basically been established. You may loose some listeners if you change up what you’re already doing.”
“Look, Cal, the thing is I’m still young, and I don’t want to get trapped in a niche I feel I am trapped in.”
“Okay, I understand how you feel. I just wanted to put in my two cents. I’ll won’t touch on the subject again.”
“Thank you, Cal.”
“Is it cool if I put in a request?” Max asked.
Rolanda’s eyes narrowed on Max’s face inside the little square screen below the image of her face on Skype. She was ready to scratch the itch he was about to bring onto her.
She said, “Yes, Max, by all means. What is it?”
“I’ve been wanting this since we finished putting the song together to where we can perform it. Can we do it tomorrow, the song I wrote?”
“What song is that?” Rolanda inquired, pretending not to remember it.
“‘Dab the hour,’ the one we rehearsed the last time we were at Cal’s. It was basically finalized. I mean, it’s good enough to perform in front of a crowd. I feel it’s a crowd pleaser.”
“I second that,” Cal put in. “That’s a fun one. I tip my imaginary hat to Max there.”
“I don’t remember the lyrics,” Rolanda lied.
“That’s fine, I’ll sing it,” Max said, gesturing to himself in front of his webcam.
“You can’t sing, motherfucker,” Rolanda said, blatant with her criticism.
“That doesn’t fucking matter, Rollie, the song isn’t about perfection,” Max assured. “That’s the whole theme of the song. Come on, girl. Let me be your Daron Malakian for this one. I think it’d be fucking hilarious. We can do it near the end, before we do your follower’s songs. The crowd will be like, ‘We were just listening to this girl sing with her beautiful voice, now this fat pot head is screaming in a pathetic attempt at sounding baritone. This is awesome!’ What do you think, Rollie? The majority of our fanbase are pot heads anyways. They, like, can relate.”
“I’m in total agreement with Max,” Cal said. “How about you, Faye?”
Faye slightly tilted her head, raised one eyebrow, and nodded.
“That’s three ‘yes’ votes,” Cal said. “Now for the final one.”
All three were silent for a few seconds as they waited for Rolanda’s answer.
“No,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Rollie,” Max said, visibly disappointed. “It’s just one damn song. It’s not like I’m changing the whole goddamn list.”
“He’s right, Rollie, it’s only one song,” Cal put in.
“It’s my band, and I say, ‘No,’” Rolanda said. “The decision is final. The gavel has been struck. No ‘Dab the hour.’” She pretended to slam down a gavel in the air in view of her webcam, so they’d all see it.
“Rollie, making music is all about collaboration,” Cal said. “If you don’t let us help you — which Max is willing to do of all people — you won’t be able to find the ‘true voice’ you say you’re looking for sooner. You don’t want to find that ‘voice’ too late. Like Bukowski wrote, ‘There’s nothing worse than too late.’”
“I conquer with Cal,” Max said, adamantly nodding his head.
“It’s fucking ‘concur,’ you idiot,” Rolanda corrected.
“You know what I mean, then.”
“Guys, I’m taking what you have just said into consideration,” Rolanda informed. “We will save this discussion for after our show tomorrow night. Okay?”
“Okay, fine, fine,” Cal said, crossing his arms.
“All right,” Max said.
Faye gave Rolanda the peace sign. She was Rolanda’s favorite at that moment.
“This meeting is adjourned,” Rolanda announced. “I’m hungry, and need some dinner in my belly. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow morning.”
She then ended the Skype session, and closed the laptop.
“Didn’t sound like a good band meeting,” Harriet said.
Rolanda looked up to see Harriet walking into the kitchen, her hair damp, and wearing black sweatpants and blue t-shirt.
“I think I’m turning into a control freak,” Rolanda said. “The thing is my band’s called Band Rollie, not something named after some poem, or Shakespeare quote, it’s my name, it’s me. And these two guys want to tell me what to do. I have a vision to uphold.”
“Maybe they just want to help,” Harriet said, as she was getting things ready in the kitchen to make spaghetti.
“If I ever make it, they can move on to something else,” Rolanda said, sitting back against the couch’s cushion, placing her right forearm over her forehead. “But there will always be Band Rollie.”
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