Page 23 of Your Chorus
I was expecting there to be way more people and vehicles coming with us. Sherbrooke Station is pretty high up on the bills at some major festivals this summer. I casually mention it to Cole to keep our ‘small talk’ theme going, and he gives me a brief—it’s Cole, so of course it’s brief—explanation of the insanely high cost of touring and how being on a small and relatively underfunded label for a band their size means spending needs to be even tighter than usual. He throws a number out for just the daily cost of thebus, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.
When we’re finally out on the highway with Montreal in the rear view, I crane my neck to stare back past the swooping network of overpasses that surrounds the edge of town. These are the roads that took me away from everything I ever knew. This is the cracked asphalt that carried me to Cole. Sometimes it feels like he’s etched into the city’s skyline, like the shadow of him looms over everything I do. These roads are—
Thesemauditroadsare really in need of a repair.
Everyone groans as the unmistakable sound of a flat tire starts to emit from under the bus. Rose lets out a long and impressive string of French swear words up in the driver’s seat and then announces we’re pulling over.
She gets us onto the side of the highway and then climbs down the stairs, hiking her pants up with one hand and pulling a cigarette out of her pocket with the other. We all watch through the windows as she walks up and down the length of the bus, shaking her head from side to side and sending her leopard bow bobbing before lighting up and taking a drag.
“What’s she doing?” demands Sanjay. Patches of sweat are starting to bloom on his dress shirt again. I get the feeling the guy is a bit high strung.
No one has an answer for him, so he climbs out after Rose, and the two of them start waving their arms around and speaking louder and louder as the conversation takes a clearly hostile turn. For the sake of the tour and everyone’s sanity, I follow them outside to act as a translator.
Ten painful minutes later, I trudge back up the stairs to summarize the outcome.
“She’s supposed to call the bus company’s road crew, but she wants us all to know that shecouldchange the tire herself, just like, uh, and I quote: ‘that motherfucking blowout during the snowstorm of ’96, when she was driving an eighteen-wheeler up to Manitoba overnight and had to piss in a bucket just to make it on time.’”
Twelve confused faces stare up at me.
“We’re going to be here for a while.”
* * *
I hadto cut JP and Sanjay off of espresso. JP’s interest in it appears to be purely recreational, but as a cafe manager with several years’ experience serving caffeine, I recognize the signs of a true dependent in Sanjay. He’s currently pacing the road beside the bus, manically typing things into a tablet and checking his watch every thirty seconds.
Half the crew is playing a game where they try to throw pieces of popcorn into each other’s mouths. The rest of us either have headphones on or have taken books out. I’m going over the sheet music for the few songs I’ll be accompanying the band on during their set. The violin parts aren’t a musical revelation, but I’m proud of composing them. I haven’t had much time to write since I started working as a manager. I haven’t even had much time toplay.
I grab my violin case from out of the overhead storage rack and ask the bus at large if anyone minds me practicing in the back. I get the go-ahead and trudge past the kitchen and rows of bunks to the u-shaped couch that takes up the very back of the vehicle.
A little thrill shoots through me when I unzip the case and get a glimpse of the instrument’s lacquered spruce top. The violin is nothing special, but it’smine. It’s the first significant thing I ever bought myself. I saved for years and beggedMamanto take me to Saguenay to buy it so I wouldn’t have to use the banged-up one at the church anymore.
I’ve never felt the pull to order my entire life around music the way the guys in Sherbrooke Station do. That’s not what music is to me. I do love to play for an audience; being up on stage is as intoxicating as any drug there is, but I’ve always seen music as more of a refuge, a place to hide away in and find the courage to face the world. It’s not somewhere I stay forever, but I always come out of it stronger. Steadier. More sure of who I am.
I nestle into the chinrest and spend a few minutes tuning up before running through some scales. I mess around for a while after that, playing snippets of classical pieces and pop songs—anything my fingers reach towards. I’m so caught up in the sounds I’m making it takes me a few minutes to realize they’re being joined by someone else.
I glance up from the fingerboard to find Matt standing beside me, tapping a pair of drumsticks against the wall in time to my music.
“You mind if I join you for a jam session?” he asks with a grin.
“Certainement,” I tell him. “What do you want to play?”
He doesn’t stop drumming as he takes a seat. “What you were just doing is good.”
I give him a skeptical look. “You want to play ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears?”
“Fuck yeah, I do. Let’s go!”
I shrug and set my bow on the strings again, my smile matching his as we pay tribute to Britney together. It’s not long before JP wanders back to join us, harmonica already raised to his lips as he gives us a thumbs up and starts picking up the melody. Only JP Bouchard-Guindon could figure out a harmonica accompaniment to ‘Toxic’ on the fly.
We’ve already played the song through, but we just keep going when Ace shows up holding a tambourine.
“Sing!” Matt demands.
Ace’s haunting, raspy vocals are as much of a Sherbrooke Station trademark as his model-esque face, and he starts to sing the chorus just like he does every other song: as if he’s reeling the world in word by word, coaxing it closer as it begs him for more.
Our pace slows down, and I know we’re all riding the same high, the one that only comes from finding a rhythm together, from slipping into that space where your whole brain and body are acting on instinct.
“Cole!” Matt shouts suddenly. “Get your ass back here!”
