little member that hung there.
In his allotted time, Nomad could not explain that Don Kee Records in Nashville had gone belly-up a month before their first CD was supposed to be distributed. He could not explain that their slick A&R rep with Electric Fusion Records in Los Angeles had been caught screwing the money-man’s wife in a hot tub, and thus not only was Slick kicked, but every band Slick had picked was kicked. Nomad could not explain, in this happy moment, that the music business was a devastated landscape and that the sale of CDs fell every year and bands were fighting to survive on gigs that at best put a hundred dollars in the pot to be divided, but then again Gogo already knew this, and what was truth to working gators in the industry could sound like sour grapes to the paying audience. Anyway, Nomad decided, desperate ain’t pretty.
He pulled up an easy smile. It was probably one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do because it felt so hideously, rottenly false, and he said, “We’re working on it,” which he’d heard many others say when they were sliding down the tubes.
“Well, good luck with that,” said Gogo. He looked at Terry again. “Where you going after Dallas?”
“We’ll be at the Spinhouse in El Paso on Friday night, the 25th. After that, we’re at—”
“So I guess your fans can find you on the web, right?” Gogo interrupted.
“Uh…yeah. And we’ve got a MySpace page.”
“Good enough. I want to give you a great big Gogo thanks for being here tonight, and I know you guys are heading for great things.” He grinned into Benjy’s lens. “And speaking of great, my friends, let’s take a look at these great Weekend Special Deals. Felix Gogo Toyota makes it eeeeeasy to walk in, drive out any day of the week. Comin’ at you right now .” He pointed his finger into the lens and made his eyes pop and he pursed his lips as if trying to kiss the customer—or, at least, the customer’s wallet.
“And out,” said Hector.
The camcorder lights were switched off. Gogo mopped his face with his handkerchief again. “We’re done,” he said to no one in particular. “We’ll edit it this afternoon. Check it out tonight, see what you think.”
“We’re working tonight,” Nomad reminded him.
“Catch the rerun, then. Whatever. Fuck it.”
The tech guys were unplugging. Ariel, Berke and Mike had already gone out as soon as the cams had darkened. Gogo left the room, followed by George, Terry and Nomad. Outside, in the parking lot, the air was only a few degrees cooler than the stifling room but at least there was the stale breath of a breeze. Gogo got on his cellphone and stood next to the Land Cruiser; the interview was finished, the favor to Roger Chester done, and what more was there?
“Thanks,” George said as he went around to get in the Scumbucket, but Gogo stuck a finger in his free ear and concentrated on his conversation.
“I haven’t had so much fun,” Berke told Ariel as they climbed into their seats, “since the last time I puked on my boots.”
“You’re makin’ me hungry,” Mike said. “Anybody want a hamburger? We passed a McD’s up the road.”
Nomad was about to get in when Gogo closed his cell and said, “Hey! You! Nomad, come here a minute!”
Nomad’s first impulse was to show him he really could be a middle finger, and a double middle finger at that, but he walked the few paces to where Gogo stood next to the Land Cruiser. The black cowboy hat was cocked to one side. Gogo watched him warily, animal to animal.
“The promo stuff I got from Roger says you wrote that song,” Gogo said. “You and the girl.”
“The song for the video?”
“Yeah. The anti-American anti-war shit.”
Here we go, Nomad thought. He steeled himself for an argument. “I don’t think it’s anti-American.”
Gogo looked at the ground and pushed rubble around with the toe of a Nike. “You don’t? You think it says something worthwhile ? Something
In his allotted time, Nomad could not explain that Don Kee Records in Nashville had gone belly-up a month before their first CD was supposed to be distributed. He could not explain that their slick A&R rep with Electric Fusion Records in Los Angeles had been caught screwing the money-man’s wife in a hot tub, and thus not only was Slick kicked, but every band Slick had picked was kicked. Nomad could not explain, in this happy moment, that the music business was a devastated landscape and that the sale of CDs fell every year and bands were fighting to survive on gigs that at best put a hundred dollars in the pot to be divided, but then again Gogo already knew this, and what was truth to working gators in the industry could sound like sour grapes to the paying audience. Anyway, Nomad decided, desperate ain’t pretty.
He pulled up an easy smile. It was probably one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do because it felt so hideously, rottenly false, and he said, “We’re working on it,” which he’d heard many others say when they were sliding down the tubes.
“Well, good luck with that,” said Gogo. He looked at Terry again. “Where you going after Dallas?”
“We’ll be at the Spinhouse in El Paso on Friday night, the 25th. After that, we’re at—”
“So I guess your fans can find you on the web, right?” Gogo interrupted.
“Uh…yeah. And we’ve got a MySpace page.”
“Good enough. I want to give you a great big Gogo thanks for being here tonight, and I know you guys are heading for great things.” He grinned into Benjy’s lens. “And speaking of great, my friends, let’s take a look at these great Weekend Special Deals. Felix Gogo Toyota makes it eeeeeasy to walk in, drive out any day of the week. Comin’ at you right now .” He pointed his finger into the lens and made his eyes pop and he pursed his lips as if trying to kiss the customer—or, at least, the customer’s wallet.
“And out,” said Hector.
The camcorder lights were switched off. Gogo mopped his face with his handkerchief again. “We’re done,” he said to no one in particular. “We’ll edit it this afternoon. Check it out tonight, see what you think.”
“We’re working tonight,” Nomad reminded him.
“Catch the rerun, then. Whatever. Fuck it.”
The tech guys were unplugging. Ariel, Berke and Mike had already gone out as soon as the cams had darkened. Gogo left the room, followed by George, Terry and Nomad. Outside, in the parking lot, the air was only a few degrees cooler than the stifling room but at least there was the stale breath of a breeze. Gogo got on his cellphone and stood next to the Land Cruiser; the interview was finished, the favor to Roger Chester done, and what more was there?
“Thanks,” George said as he went around to get in the Scumbucket, but Gogo stuck a finger in his free ear and concentrated on his conversation.
“I haven’t had so much fun,” Berke told Ariel as they climbed into their seats, “since the last time I puked on my boots.”
“You’re makin’ me hungry,” Mike said. “Anybody want a hamburger? We passed a McD’s up the road.”
Nomad was about to get in when Gogo closed his cell and said, “Hey! You! Nomad, come here a minute!”
Nomad’s first impulse was to show him he really could be a middle finger, and a double middle finger at that, but he walked the few paces to where Gogo stood next to the Land Cruiser. The black cowboy hat was cocked to one side. Gogo watched him warily, animal to animal.
“The promo stuff I got from Roger says you wrote that song,” Gogo said. “You and the girl.”
“The song for the video?”
“Yeah. The anti-American anti-war shit.”
Here we go, Nomad thought. He steeled himself for an argument. “I don’t think it’s anti-American.”
Gogo looked at the ground and pushed rubble around with the toe of a Nike. “You don’t? You think it says something worthwhile ? Something
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