Page 24 of Deliverance

Leo Propaganda isn’t one of those guys. He’s far from being a one-hit wonder, despite the fact that he does look a little used up. Not in the sense of drug use. Now that I’ve looked at him long enough, I can tell he’s clean. I’ve seen and tried a good share of shit to know when someone is on the hook. Instead, I blame the exhaustion that mars Leo’s face on the sudden exit of their drummer. It’s a bitch when a band is on a hot streak, has a studio booked and a crew hired, and someone slips.

Although we don’t run in the same circles, our paths have crossed in the past and Leo always seemed like a straight-shooter. When he wasn’t high, that is. While I suspect that before offering the gig to me, his team reached out to other people, it’s no secret I’m the bigger fish.

And I’m always up for a challenge and currently available.

“I know what you’re thinking, dude,” Leo continues his pitch, his knee jerking a few times before he quickly steadies it. “But your swing is fucking perfect for what we’re trying to do.”

Flattery always gets me fired up.

His ax man, Tobias, who goes by Toby, nods and produces some kind of noncommittal grunt that doesn’t sound like he’s mentally present. I don’t hold it against him. He’s an oddball but a great guitar player above all.

“I appreciate you thinking of me, man,” I tell Leo honestly.

“Dude, your flavor is exactly what we need to make this album kick ass!”

It better. I’m a picky son of a bitch. I don’t want to be on some mediocre record, but I’ve yet to hear the material so that I can make a final judgment.

“We’ve got six songs written,” Tobias says, his dark brown shoulder-length hair unbound and hanging in front of his face.

This first unofficial meeting is taking place at a studio in North Hollywood where Leo’s band started laying down some demos this week. It’s just the three of us for now. No managers, no legal team, no label reps. We’re in a small lounge lined by leather couches and recliners. In the middle of the room, there’s a glass table with a laptop on it. A small refrigerator with refreshments sits in the corner.

I’ve spent half of my life in rooms like this, private and suitable for all kinds of activities, be it a band meeting or an impromptu fuck. Memories of those distant wild days wash over me like a tidal wave, charging me with adrenaline. We were unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. On and off stage. And the music poured out of us like water from a faucet. Hot, fresh, and cleansing.

When did it all go wrong?

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when things started to slip through my fingers like sand. Was it right after Chance died? Or was it later? When my grief, dulled by months of consuming booze, finally couldn’t be contained? I still can’t answer that question. The first few weeks without him were nothing but a string of incoherent images. A blur.

“You’re still working with Rhett Carver?” I ask.

Leo runs his palm over his short hair and grins. “No. Luca Nielsen is producing.”

Ah, fucking Leo Propaganda knows how to play his cards right after all. If I’m a big fish, then Nielsen is a whale. I’m not even sure how these guys got someone like him on board, but my gut tells me taking this gig is the right move.

“Okay, I’m intrigued.” I nod in approval.

“I told you, the end product’s gonna be lit.” Leo draws back and relaxes on the couch.

He’s never been a bulky guy, but his weight loss doesn’t escape me. He trimmed down a lot since the last time I saw him in person. Rumor has it, he went vegan. The low armhole T-shirt he’s wearing showcases the ink that covers his upper body, a canvas of undoubtedly exquisite needlework, barely any clean skin left.

Tobias is modest. He doesn’t care to flaunt his tats. They’re hidden away beneath multiple layers of cotton and flannel, and I wonder why he’s not sweating yet. Although the generous blasts of cool air from the vents in the ceiling might be the reason. Outside, however, the sun is ruthless since we’re in the middle of a heatwave.

“You got anything I can check out?” I point at the laptop sitting on the table between us.

Time to get down to business.

The demos Tobias plays aren’t what I expected.

Bleeding Faith hit the charts in the early 2000s when emo crossed over to the mainstream. Their music was very aggressive and heavy with screaming vocals up until the last couple of albums, and I’m pleasantly surprised to hear the material. It’s a cool blend of everything, hard and light.

My fingers tap out the beat over my thigh as we listen to the songs. Nobody says a word. Leo’s shaking his head, and so does Tobias, their faces screwed up in concentration.

“I like it,” I say finally. “Have your legal team get in touch with mine.”

My heart thunders inside my chest and I enjoy this nearly lost and forgotten feeling of purpose that courses through me as the three of us shake hands and exchange words.

Right after I exit the building thirty minutes later, I call Ian.

“I’m taking the gig.” I jump into my Spyder and slip the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, startling everyone in the parking lot. What can I say? I like to make noise. It’s in my bones—the need to be heard.

---