Page 44 of Deliverance

It’s the familiarity, the anticipation, the calling from deep within that compel my adrenaline to spike up to its highest levels. It surges through me relentlessly, a fire in my blood, a reminder of who I am.

A wicked beat master.

A rumble creator.

An architect of the noise.

A rhythm machine.

The last time I tracked a full-length album—with my own band—was before I decided to send myself on a vacation without an end date, and the whole experience left a bitter taste in my mouth. While I’ve always had this itch, this sick fascination with risking my own life during surfing and other insane activities, I’ve never quite liked the idea of risking the numbers on my paycheck. But that was different. Because not only would my own comfortable living have been on the line, but my parents’ too. My family wasn’t as well-to-do as the Hales, and while Justice could afford to experiment with the only source of income we all had, I hated the idea of changing directions.

Now when I occasionally think back to the time of our falling out during the album recording and our final tour, I find my reasons childish, lacking sense. Because what is an artist if not someone who isn’t scared of change, who isn’t scared to take that leap just to see what’ll happen?

Parts of me despise the pragmatism that’s been my guiding light ever since we hit it big, but every band needs an asshole and I was the one in ours. I was the one who cracked the formula of our success and kept on pushing everyone to use this formula until the bitter finale.

And what a finale it was.

All our years of hard work to keep up the appearances pulverized in a matter of seconds with one simple act. Losing the mask. Losing the reputation. Losing the legacy built on dirty rumors and twisted PR ploys.

It was just as painful as it was liberating.

The problem is, I didn’t prepare for all that freedom. I’d been a slave to the industry, a slave to my own dreams since my teens. Music was the only thing I ever knew and wanted. Hearing my best friend say that he needed an out in the middle of the tour was like getting punched in the gut. With a fucking crowbar.

One minute I had my entire life mapped out, and the next, my calendar was empty and I felt like I was suspended in the air, my body dangling above a pit of nothingness ready to sink its teeth into me and suck me dry.

First, I was mad. At Justice. At myself. At Chance.

For fucking bailing on us at the height of our careers.

For fucking dying on us.

It drove me crazy. And for a while, being away from everything helped to soothe that monster within me, but the monster’s back and ready for action now. Hiding it too long is dangerous. It needs to be fed, its hunger needs to be sated, and three weeks in the studio is exactly what we both require.

Besides, the new demos Leo sent me the other night prove yet again that agreeing to track for Bleeding Faith was the best decision I’ve made in the past two years.

Except maybe for buying a piece of art created by uncanny and mysterious Drew Kadence.

The canvas is in my living room, hanging above the ventless gas fireplace I never use, simply because Southern California weather is too kind, even in winter. After the escrow on this property closed, my mother took it upon herself to hire an interior designer to make the placelivable. She hated my Hollywood apartment, where I stayed for a good number of years until my royalty checks finally started reflecting my status and I could get my own pad. She called itthe cave,which was quite fitting, considering I could barely move around in there. My gear took up most of the room and I didn’t bother to organize anything. Eighty percent of my time was spent on the road.

When I was finally ready to buy a house, I was looking for one with space that could be converted into a studio. And a lack of nosy neighbors. The fireplace was just there, a dark, gaping hole splitting the white wall in half. An oil painting of the ocean was thrown into the mix. My mother’s idea. As if the entire section of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific wasn’t enough.

The moment Drew’s piece arrived, I took down the oil monstrosity and put it away.

“This new?” Julian stops raving about the custom recording case he thinks I should get in place of my regular road case and gestures at the canvas. He’s halfway to the front door, sweat coating his forehead and T-shirt.

“It is.” I grin at the piece, excitement coursing through my bloodstream, hot and palpable.

Up until now, only a handful of things have possessed the ability to turn me into a geek. Mostly anything that has to do with drums and surfing. I can’t explain why owning something made by Drew gets me riled up just as much as battling a wave at Rockpile or beating the shit out of my kit. It’s like owning a little part of her soul.

The thought gives me goosebumps.

“Neat piece,” Julian praises my purchase and returns to the task at hand—pushing the case out the door and across my front yard into his van. I’m grateful that luck is on my side and he has a window in his schedule right now. A lanky and inconspicuous-looking dude in his mid-fifties, he’s been in the industry since the eighties and knows everything there is to know about drums. In a way, it’s an honor to work with a guy like him. He’s seen it all, lived through the hair metal era and the rise of grunge, toured with major alternative and hardcore acts. He’s a walking encyclopedia of music history, and part of the reason we get along so well is because I never say no to the experience he’s willing to share.

Only fools refuse knowledge.

And I’m no fool. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be living in a house that’s worth two million dollars. Two million dollars I earned with my own blood and sweat.

“Your extra sticks will be at the studio on Monday,” Julian supplies as I roll the second case outside.

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