Page 51 of Echoes of a Muted Song

“Good man,” Robbie declared, which just made Kit flush a little more.

Ozzy had already warned me that he was shy about accepting praise, and welcoming and receptive of feedback of all kinds, even when it came out as harsh and hypercritical, something Ozzy had also expressed regret about.

“Man, he just caught me at a bad time and in the worst possible mood to hear what he was working on, and it wasn’t even his fault. He didn’t approach me and ask me to listen, I chose to click on a clip he’d shared with me, and I ripped it to shreds before I could check myself and phrase things a bit gentler. Shocked the hell out of me when I found out that he’d worked on the suggestions I’d made, but what stunned me more was when he sent me a revised version to listen to after I’d torn the previous one to shreds. That’s when I knew the guy was going to be one of the great ones.”

“Gotta be able to take criticism if you wanna grow,” I said.

“True enough, but most people don’t come back for more.”

If the critique was as harsh as he’d claimed,and I never knew Ozzy to sugar coat anything, then it was a testament to Kit’s desire to be the best drummer that he could be for him to open himself up to more of the same treatment.

Too many people claimed that they wanted brutal, honest feedback only to balk when the praise they’d misled themselves into thinking they’d earned never materialized.

I’d never understand the way the mind worked, or how people were able to delude themselves into thinking that sheer and utter crap was really solid gold, but they were the same folks who immediately started whining about people being harsh and mean when they received the honesty they’d claimed they’d been after. I mean, if they’d wanted smoke blown up their asses they should have said so, then proceeded to the local fetish club where I was certain that there were people there into that sort of thing and willing to give them exactly what they were after.

There were a few grumbles, and I noticed Claude looking a bit sour, but he didn’t say fuck all as we dispersed to our buses.

After a brief stop to pick up supplies, we bounced along a bumpy road toward the private beach where for ten bucks a vehicle, we could spend the day in relative seclusion.

Considering how many people we had, we were lucky it wasn’t ten dollars a head, not that we’d have minded paying it when all the moneythey raised went to maintaining the long stretch of beach and the jetty that stretched out into the waves.

“Whoa,” Johnny breathed as we stepped down off the bus. “This is just like West Island beach back home.”

“Tell me about it,” Rebel said, stretching his arms up and sighing contently. “I lost count of how many songs we wrote out there.”

I knew, without anyone coming right out and saying it, that a time would come when guys would break off with notebooks and instruments, looking for a place to create and commune with the voices in their heads. One, if not more songs would be birthed here today, in between relaxing and bonding.

As for me, I was looking forward to walking along the beach with Johnny and collecting sea glass, shells and whatever shimmering rocks called to us from the surf. We needed this way more than we needed another day of sightseeing and drinking our way through clubs and pop up events.

I knew the guys in Damaged Saints, aside from Mickey, had been heavy party boys for a very long time, myself included, but the pyro accident that had ended my singing career had changed all of us.

We were all still processing the fact that we’d been betrayed by someone we’d been close enough to that we’d been working on arrangingthe chance for him to cut a demo, only to have it literally blow up in his face when he’d grown impatient.

Seeing Claude trudge down off Blissfully Immune’s bus with Ozzy at his side made me a little anxious, wondering if he was going to be pissed when he learned that he hadn’t gotten the spot.

He had been quieter since the evening by the bonfire, far more subdued and with far less alcohol in his hands when I saw him. Whatever Ozzy was saying to him, and might still be saying to him, since I could see Ozzy’s lips moving as they walked a little ways away from the group, must have had some kind of impact on him. He looked like a chastised child, with his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets, sneakers toeing a rock as he and Ozzy kept walking.

I hoped it was a case of anxiety and nerves that had made Claude act out the way he’d done. He’d definitely seemed to feed off Dash’s competitive nature, and I could see where someone feeling out of their element and uncertain could have been made to feel like behaving the way he had was the best way to fit in. I hoped he trusted and respected Ozzy enough to admit to it, because honesty was the only way anyone was going to be able to help him find better coping methods. Ozzy had said he was a badass drummer and he never gavethat kind of praise unless it was warranted. Which told me that his mouth and demeanor might be the very thing that was keeping him from landing a permanent home with a band.

As for Kit, he was walking beside Rebel, who was already stripping off his shirt and hopping around, trying to pull off a shoe without toppling over. I shook my head as Kit was forced to grab his arm to keep him from faceplanting in the sand as they laughed about something.

He was in good hands and it was good to see Rebel laughing. He’d been broody lately, even after Johnny’s good news, which left me to wonder what was going on with him.

Look at me, in manager bear mode. I’d really come to think of Johnny’s band family as an extension of my own band family.

“Last one in gets cuffed to the headboard at the next hotel,” Jagger declared.

I whipped my head around to see him take off running for the surf in board shorts, the rest of his shoes and clothes already discarded somewhere. The look on Keegan’s face when he glanced at Robbie, who was barefoot in jeans and a tank top, was priceless. He shrugged and took off after him, still fully dressed, kicking off a footrace between him and Robbie that ended when Robbie raced past him and into the water in his jeans, when Keegan paused to pull his Converse off.

They’d better use a few extra scarfs and hope the headboard didn’t break when they had him tied to it. I’d hate to see the bill from the hotel if it did, but I loved seeing the joy on his face when he finally stripped down to a small pair of swim trunks and waded on in.

Rebel and Kit soon joined the splash fight that ensued, while Johnny laced his fingers with mine.

“I think we’ve earned some alone time, don’t you?” Johnny said.

Nodding, I let him lead me toward the jetty, a small backpack on his back that I knew contained the notebook he kept ziplocked in a bag, since he took it everywhere, even floating down the river when he’d gone tubing with Dash. The pair had come back with a new melody, something they were still looking to put all the words to. Once they were closer, they’d bring in Rebel and Ozzy and the four of them would hole up in a suite or on their bus, polishing it until they were ready to unveil it in one of their performances.

“It’s the perfect day to just live,” Johnny said, our hands swinging between us.

---