Page 79 of Rock Bottom

“Let’s start with easy stuff. Tell me about the new album.”

“Oh, hell.” He grinned. “I can talk music for hours.”

“That’s okay. Me too.”

“Man, the new album is gonna blow people’s minds,” he said, leaning back. “It’s raw, gritty, heartfelt. It’s still got our signature heavy riffs, but the songwriting on this one has been rock solid. We always have a few hundred songs in reserve. From the beginning. Some that just weren’t ready. Some we didn’t feel fit with the rest of the album when we wrote it. Always some reason they didn’t make the cut, but we keep them and revisit them every time we start a new album. Then we add new stuff that we all contribute. Z wrote ‘Not Goin’ Away’ on his own, but when he brought it to me a few weeks ago, I polished it up some. Then we took it King and he added harmonies, updated some lyrics, and bam. Done.”

“So all five of you don’t work on every song?” I asked curiously.

“Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t, but all songs, no matter who wrote most of it, are split five ways. Tom and Kell both bring different things to the songwriting table. Tom isn’t big on lyrics, but he creates riffs and solos—even guitar and bass solos—like nobody’s business. And Kellan, man, he’s a master at harmonizing…” Carter talked for another twenty minutes about the album, the music, and each individual song.

I wouldn’t be able to use it all, but it was too fascinating to stop him.

“Food’s here,” Zeke called out.

“You want to talk while we eat?” Carter asked me.

“Sure, as long as you don’t mind if Zeke listens in.”

“Nah. Z’s my bro. I don’t have secrets from him.”

29

Zeke

I’d been planning to give Carter and Presley some privacy, more for Carter’s sake than hers, but when he said he didn’t have secrets from me, I decided to stay. I also wanted to eat, but I could’ve taken my General Tso’s chicken into another room. I had to admit I was curious, both about how Presley handled her interviews and how Carter would react to specific questions about his addiction. He’d said it was okay, but I wondered if he would gloss over it the way he did most things he didn’t like talking about.

Presley was a natural reporter, in my opinion. Working in entertainment was tricky because while you wanted to touch on the important topics, journalists also had to be careful not to get too personal. A lot of celebrities I knew got prickly when you asked about family issues, trouble with the law, anything that could make them look bad or divulge something they didn’t want out there.

Carter didn’t seem to have any qualms, because when Presley guided the conversation to his recent stint in rehab, he didn’t even hesitate.

“Look, addiction sucks,” he said. “I wish I understood why my brain is wired this way. I wish it was easier to say no when the opportunity to get high presents itself. Even after all the therapists, counseling, and the multitude of programs I’ve been in, it all boils down to one thing: I like being high. That’s the long and short of it. Is it wrong? Probably. But I can’t help that part. So, when I talk to the shrinks or whatever, there’s nothing they can say to me to change what I enjoy. Do I enjoy other things? Sure. It’s just not the same.”

“Do you ever think about the example you set for your fans? Especially the young ones?” Presley’s voice was soft and neutral, merely asking the question without any obvious judgment.

Carter sighed. “You know, that’s the kicker. I do worry about that. I don’t want the kids out there, or anyone for that matter, to do what I do. I’m a mess. I was born addicted. Most people don’t know that, but my mom was using all through her pregnancy, so it seems inevitable for me to be that way too. But to all the kids out there, don’t do it. Don’t be like me. If it runs in your family, stay the hell away from drugs and alcohol. Sex is way better for you.”

We all chuckled at that, and I noticed that Presley’s cheeks turned pink even though she didn’t comment.

“What about your own future family?” she asked instead. “Do you worry about that?”

“I don’t know that a family’s in the cards for me,” he said quietly. “My genetics are way too fucked up. Maybe I’d foster a kid someday, if I meet the right woman and she’s down, you know? Maybe make a difference in someone else’s life. But a biological kid? Not in my plans.”

“How long have you been sober this time?” she asked.

He glanced over at me, and our eyes met.

Ah, hell. He didn’t know whether to be honest about last night or not, and I didn’t know what to tell him. I didn’t want him to lie to Presley, but it would probably be embarrassing to admit he’d already fallen off the wagon.

“As far as drugs go,” he said after a moment, “I’ve been sober for four months. I’ve had a few drinks since I got out, but my issues have never been with alcohol. I understand that it doesn’t matter when you’re an addict, but for me there’s a distinct difference. Drugs take me down hard and fast, especially heroin. A shot of Jack Daniels loosens me up and helps me feel better, play better, do everything better.”

“Do you think there’s more temptation on tour or when you’re at home?”

“Both are pretty equal. At home, I’m so bored I go looking for it. On tour, it finds me no matter what.”

“How do you plan to combat this on the upcoming tour?”

“I don’t know. Probably with some kind of sobriety coach the band wants to hire. You know, a glorified babysitter.”

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