Page 11 of Your Echo
“There’s a rumour going around that one of the headliners is about to drop out,” Maxime explains.
“Headliners?” Matt repeats. “Cage The Elephant is headlining. FuckingTame Impalais headlining.”
Shit. This isn’t some frosh week block party. This is a serious festival if they’re booking acts that big.
“And Foster The People,” Maxine continues, “but one of them—I don’t know which yet—might have a scheduling conflict, and the festival is reaching out to the top managers in Montreal to talk about replacements.”
His pointy mouth stretches into a goblin smile that makes my skin crawl. “Of course, if you weremyband, you’d be the first name I’d offer up.”
There’s something creepily possessive about the way he says that.
“I think we’d like some time to discuss this,” I announce.
Maxime holds up his hands. “Take all the time you need,mes gars. You know where to find me. I just want to make sureLa Rentréeknows where to findyou. I owe the manager of GHOULS a favour, and I’d be tempted to get them that headliner slot if I don’t find anyone else.”
Another one of those toothy smiles and he’s gone, a few of his business cards left lying on the table in front of us.
“Fucking GHOULS?” JP exclaims. “No way are they taking our headlining spot.”
“Technically it’s notourspot,” Cole reminds him.
He jumps up off the couch. “This isourcity! People here wantus, not somemaudit cavesfrom Toronto.”
Just the mention of those wife beater-wearing asshats gets me going. GHOULS are an alt-rock trio who run in the same circuit as us and hit the charts around the same time we did. They’re also the biggest douchebags to scar the earth with their existence, and they hate us for always being just a few spots ahead of them on every list we both make. I once got in a Twitter war with their front man before I stopped and realized I was actually stooping to a fuckingTwitter war.
Our fans loved it, though.
“We need to hire this guy,” I decide, “just so we can get that gig. I’m not handing over the biggest festival besides Osheaga to some jackasses who spell their name in all-caps.”
I actually have no idea if this is the biggest festival besides Osheaga, but suddenly I want it as much as Matt does.
“You’re just pissed you tied with their singer in that ‘Best Haircuts in Indie Rock Right Now’ poll,” Cole jabs.
“I did not even see that,” I lie.
“I did!” shouts JP. “I posted it in our Facebook group!”
“Hear me out on this,” Cole continues. “The gig sounds like hot shit, but if we know the festival will want us—which they will—can’t we just call them up ourselves?”
Matt’s about to answer when his phone pings with a text.
“Bastard,” he swears, staring down at the screen. “It’s Maxime. He just got off the phone with the festival. Tame Impala dropped out. Maxime told them he wished he could offer Sherbrooke Station, but that he has GHOULS ready to go instead.”
JP grabs one of the business cards off the table and pulls out his own phone. “That’s it. I’m calling Maxime, one Frenchman to another.”
He waits for the call to go through and then starts a rapid-fire conversation in French so fast even I can’t follow it. I pick up a few phrases like ‘contract’ and ‘put him on the line.’ About ten minutes later, he hangs up and tosses his phone onto the couch. We all stare at him expectantly as he pulls a pair of Ray Bans out of his pocket and slowly slides them on.
“Move over, Tame Impala,” he announces. “Sherbrooke Station is back in town.”
Then he bursts out into a French rap song I’m pretty sure he made up himself.
* * *
Later that evening,I’m out on my balcony with my Epiphone. The sunburst acoustic is just the cheap model most kids get for Christmas as their first guitar, but I bought mine myself when I was sixteen years-old. I think that’s why I’ve kept it after all these years; it’s the first thing I owned that wasn’t purchased by someone else. It’s the first thing that was really mine.
I have a whole guitar collection I’ve poured thousands of dollars into over the years, and I love those fucking things more than some people love their own kids. My Epiphone will always be the one that feels most like home to me, though. The strings need changing and there’s a crack in the wood under the bridge that means the sound is never quite right, but I strum through some Radiohead songs anyway, mumbling the words without really committing enough to call it singing.
Normally I’d have a bottle of Jack sitting beside me on the concrete. I cleaned my supply right out before we left for Europe, and I haven’t gone to the store to re-stock. I shouldn’t buy more. I’m not even sure I want to, but I know I will. Music used to be enough to wind me down on its own; now it’s like all my comforts have to come in pairs—a two-by-two, Noah’s ark-style parade of failed coping mechanisms.
