“We can do better,” I mutter.
“Perfection is an illusion. Half the fun of being in a band is fine-tuning sound together and letting their creativity blend with yours. You have got to relinquish some of that ingrained control.”
Sweat begins to dry on my back as I consider his words. I need a shower and a day of sleep. A lot of my frustration has nothing to do with the hired musicians we recruited months ago and everything to do with the woman who left me trapped between infatuation and unsatisfied curiosity. I predicted before she left that time and space wouldn’t do a damn thing to curb either, and I was dead on. Instead of dwelling on what I can’t control, I’ve thrown myself into perfecting what I can. “All right.”
Seeming satisfied, Dad turns and heads back into his studio. When I step in behind him, I see three sets of eyes lift past Dad’s shoulders, and land anxiously on me, driving his point home. I am meticulous and often a perfectionist. When recording, I consider it a good thing to be able to get the melodies and notes cemented exactly like I composed them. But if I want to make this work, I’m going to have to leave a part of that perfectionist in the studio.
Making a fast decision, I look over to LL, who I’ve been dueling lead with for the better part of two hours due to the difficulty of the song.
“One more time,” I prompt, keeping the demand out of my tone, “this time, follow me to the split.”
LL’s technically our main lead on guitar, so I expect a little opposition. Instead, he cracks his neck before securing his guitar strap just as Tack lifts his drumsticks. Looking bored—which seems to be my bassist’s MO—Syd tosses his empty beer bottle into the trash before strapping himself up too.
Though they are professionals, all of them are experienced bandmembers who have never managed to attain the industry’s definition of success, and I’ve put them through their paces. They’ve taken it, mostly, in stride. Today, I pushed them past their capabilities and was rewarded when I saw the shock on Tack’s face. He surprised himself, which I considered a small victory, but that was hours ago. Even his adrenaline is starting to dry up.
“We’re too fucking close to fold.” I look at each of them pointedly, strumming a few chords, relaxing my posture. “So, just give me everything you have for seven more minutes. Seven minutes.” I search their faces for relief that this is our last attempt and find none. They want to nail it too, and it’s in that I find my own respite.
I close my eyes and take a calming breath as Tack clicks his sticks together to start the count. Within the first minute, it starts to feel different. My breathing becomes labored between playing and singing, and I avert my gaze to LL, who’s paling rapidly but keeps rhythm with me like we’ve been at it for years, not weeks.
My lips lift in a slight grin when we surpass the first hurdle. It’s then I see the determined flare return in LL’s eyes, some of his confidence restored.
Because of our grueling practices, these men are still strangers to me in the personal sense. Our only common ground at this point is tightening our sound for the few gigs we’ve managed to line up since I released. I’ve pinpointed their flaws as meticulously as I have my own. The fact that they’re aware of them, and that Dad stepped in with sound advice when asked has made all the difference.
Going hard, I duel with LL to thicken up the lead to one of the most notorious metal guitar solos while raging through the lyrics. When Tack nails the break, and LL and I fall effortlessly in sync with our solos, victory begins to roll through my veins. When the last of the notes pierce the air, we mutely glance over to Dad, whose megawatt grin confirms what we all know just before he belts out. “Fuck yeah, you just did that.”
The four of us howl in victory as Syd pops another beer in celebration before doling out cold bottles to the rest of us. Turning it up, I soak in the moment, glancing at the three men I’m about to embark on a journey I’ve imagined a thousand times or more since I began recording. Walking over to a nearby table, I lift the sketch I’ve spent hours drafting. “What do you think about REVERB?”
They scrutinize the drawing as I explain the motive behind the name. “R3V3RB short for reverberation. Since we’re planning on paying tribute to music of every genre during the tour while introducing our own sound, I think it suits. The three’s in replace of the e’s are a nod to the old school LP’s.”
Surprisingly, I’m met with no resistance as they individually and enthusiastically agree to the name. My chest lights up as we toast to the decision while what if drifts through my psyche and the road ahead expands beyond the mental barrier I set.