Page 10 of Your Echo
3Just || Radiohead
ACE
“He looks like a goblin.”
JP is not wrong. Maxime Beaulieu has the sharp nose, sharp nails, and sharp, toothy smile of an evil fairytale creature. I would not want to be around this guy while tripping on acid.
Every media-induced childhood instinct I have is telling me not to trust him, but that’s exactly what Atlas Records is asking us to do. The label set up yet another interview with a prospective manager to take over the still-vacant position. It’s been months since they coerced Shayla, our old manager, into quitting.
We’ve turned down everyone they’ve set us up with, and they’ve told us everyone we’ve brought in ourselves is ‘unsuitable.’ Technically we can hire whoever we want as a manager, but as Atlas has already proven, they have the power to make sure things go their way. It’s complete fucking bullshit.
“Yeah, that dude totally eats babies for breakfast,” Cole adds.
Maxime is busy taking a phone call outside the Atlas meeting room we’re in, giving us a chance to talk.
Matt runs his hands through his hair, looking more stressed out than ever.
And they thinkI’mthe one who needs to meditate.
In our months without a manager, Matt has taken on a lot of the job himself. I’d almost feel bad for the guy if I didn’t know that being up to his neck in band-related stuff is his definition of a happy place. I swear he has wet dreams about shit like bookings and rehearsal schedules.
Not that this band means any less to me than it does to him. We started it together, just the two of us. Every time we get up on a stage, I feel like I’m being born again, like we’ve lit a fire that feeds on everything we are and burns away all our mistakes until we’re pure. I’d never give that up for anything, but unlike Matt, I’d rather just show up for gigs and studio sessions and let the rest all sort itself out.
“Yes, he is a goblin,” Matt sighs, “but we can’t keep functioning without a manager. Atlas wants production on ‘Nevermore’ wrapped up by the end of the summer so they can get a video in the works, and we can’t deal with all that if we don’t have a manager. We’re losing out on bookings, too.”
“Bookings?” JP groans. “We just toured for two months straight.”
“We’re playing bigger shows now,” Matt explains. “Bigger shows need to be booked farther in advance, and we need a manager who can nail them down for us.”
“So we need the goblin to work his goblin magic,” JP surmises.
“We needagoblin,” Matt responds. “It doesn’t necessarily have to bethisgoblin, but we have to stop dicking around and just pick someone, even if it’s only for awhile.”
Outside, I hear the muffled sounds of Maxime yelling at someone in French.
“I miss Shayla,” JP says, stating what I’m sure is on all our minds right now.
Shayla was some kind of warrior priestess reborn as an entertainment manager. She scared us all shitless, but she believed in our band when no one else did, and she got us to where we are today. I know I’m not the only one who wishes we had her charging into all our meetings, leather jacket on and a take-no-prisoners glare on her face.
I glance at Matt and see him staring down at the floor, wearing a guilty expression. His now-girlfriend, Kay, is a music journalist, and the leaked draft of an article she wrote was the catalyst for us losing Shayla. Kay wasn’t supposed to be interviewing the band, but Matt went behind everyone’s backs to give her a shot at getting the ‘true Sherbrooke Station story’ when our newly-found fame was starting to tear us all apart.
“Hey,” I tell Matt, “cool it on the self-loathing. If you and Kay hadn’t done what you did, Shebrooke Station would have fallen apart. We lost Shayla, but we got to keep the band, so stop feeling so fucking chagrined about it.”
They might not be the most delicate words of encouragement, but he gives me a grateful nod all the same.
The door opens and Maxime strides back into the room.
Slinks back in? Prowls? Lurks? How do goblins move?
“Desolé, mes gars.Sorry, guys. I had to take that. Now, back to the opportunity I was just going to tell you about.” He settles down in a chair opposite the couch the four of us are crammed onto. “This is strictly confidential at the moment, but the organizers of the newLa Rentréefestival have reached out to me.”
“La Rentrée?” I repeat.
It’s the French equivalent of ‘Back to School.’
“You haven’t heard of it?” Matt asks me. “It’s a new festival they’re putting together this September, aimed at all the students. It’s supposed to be like frosh on steroids, but all the acts were booked ages ago.”
There’s like three hundred festivals in Montreal every year so at first I’m not surprised I haven’t heard of this one, but Matt doesn’t stop staring at Maxime the whole time he speaks. I know that glint in his eyes, and I see the way his fingers are drumming against his leg; Matt wants this gig bad, so it must be a huge deal.
