Page 13 of Paparazzi

“Yes, sorry man, keep the change,” I tell him, handing him fifty dollars, which immediately alleviates his irritation, earning me an almost sincere smile.

I get out of the car and approach the entrance to the place, leaving some space between the people in front and me. When he sees me, the bouncer beckons me with his head to go in, and I find myself at the entrance, in front of a middle-aged woman inside the ticket office that is precisely the size of her person. I wonder how she can move or even just breathe in that space with a miserable little window she’s locked in.

“Who did you come to listen to?” she asks me with little enthusiasm, as if she has no desire to be in there and I can understand why.

I look at the poster for the evening and notice that there are three bands, all similarly unknown to me, so I shake my head. “None in particular.”

The woman marks something on a sheet of paper and then fastens a plastic paper bracelet on my wrist that serves as an entrance ticket. I feel sorry I didn’t give a name. If I had said one at random, they would have given the boys the percentage of the income instead of dividing it between the three groups and giving them a few pennies. We used to play like this, barely surviving. Things have changed radically for us, and I sometimes forget how hard it is to come up in this business. I take a picture of the poster so I don’t forget to check out their sites and buy t-shirts directly from them.

The place is dark and crowded so I approach the counter and order a beer. I look around and realize I have nothing in common with the people in here. They all look like hipsters in their perfect clothes that cost hundreds of dollars, and are eco-friendly and tailored in countries where there is no exploitation of child labor. I’m like a seal hunter in the middle of a PETA demonstration with my leather jacket and boots. I feel ridiculous with my cap down over my eyes and my head tucked into my shoulders, trying to blend with the dark wallpaper behind me.

“What the hell am I doing here?” I think as I grab the beer and approach the darkest corner of the room, away from the soft light of the lamps attached to the ceiling. On the small stage in front of me are several instruments, including double basses and trumpets. I don’t even have any idea what kind of music they’re playing here tonight.

I’m a crazy man for running out of my house, following the Instagram stories of a woman who has never given me a sign that she’s interested in me. She never told me her name, she didn’t give me her phone number, and most importantly, she didn’t invite me here tonight. I must have gone completely crazy if I think such idiotic behavior is normal. I’m usually the one who plans the outings with the others, so there are no problems with paparazzi; the one who reminds Damian to call the professional accounting firm that deals with his investments to manage his donations. For Christ’s sake! I’m the one who, when we were nobody, had a notebook to keep track of the group’s income and expenses and manage the money to be sure we could survive—because if it was up to the others, we would have starved to death.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a documentary came out on Netflix in a few years about me, with all those creepy stalkers I’m acting like right now. More ashamed of myself than I’ve been in a long time, I decide to drink my beer and leave before Iris realizes I’m here and runs for the hills.

Needless to say, luck isn’t on my side tonight. I look up and she’s there, at the bar counter, staring at me like she’s seeing an alien.

I Thought the Jailbirds Couldn’t Surprise Me More, But I Was Wrong...

Hi Roadies,

How are you? I have a big surprise for you! Yesterday, in a massive stroke of luck, I listened to the three, brand-new singles from the Jailbirds. You know when you think a band can no longer surprise you because they’ve surpassed your expectations already? Well, the Jailbirds will always amaze me. With this album, they have stepped up to yet another level.

But let’s get to the singles you can download next week. There are three songs, very different from each other, but all of them will get way down into your belly and stir up the anger inside you.

“Running Fast” is one of those concert songs that’s going to blow up every stadium in the world. Imagine a crazy, chaotic rhythm that makes you jump, dance, shout with all the breath you have in your body. Rarely have I heard such an overwhelming beat and this time, Thomas and Simon seem to be coming from another planet. It’s not humanly possible to play at that tempo for almost five minutes. They’re unbeatable.

“Don’t Mess with Me” is entirely different. It’s slower than the previous one, but the lyrics and the title leave no doubt: you don’t want to mess with the Jailbirds. Have you ever felt anger at someone who has done you wrong or hurt you? Listening to this song, you’ll have no doubt about how that feels. Damian has masterfully channeled so much rage and resentment that his powerful voice seeps into your veins, like poison running through your body.

But let’s move on to the last song: “Bloody Love.” If the slow pace brings to mind a romantic ballad, you’re so wrong. This is the rawest song of the three. The gentle, slow tempo contrasts with the lyrical images of sick and violent love. Maybe Damian took inspiration from the bad experience he had on the last tour? We don’t know yet, but from this song we certainly know his condemnation of those who use force against a person they should protect.

Are you curious to listen to these singles too? Are you quivering and counting the days that separate you from next week? Drop your opinion in the comments below.

Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,

Iris

72270 Likes 69312 Tweets 30502 Shares 9484 Comments

@jailfreakingbirds How do you stay focused on the songs when you have four rock stars staring at you? Asking for a friend!

@jailbirds_groupie Forget the songs, I think I got pregnant when Damian looked at me and smiled.

@wannabe_rockstar I want to be as famous as Damian and have the women drooling over me. I’d even settle for being like Thomas or Simon. Oh I almost forgot: I liked the songs!

“Is that Thomas Simons?” Emily asks me incredulously.

I’ve been staring at him for so long that it became awkward. “Yes, it’s him.” My voice is trembling. What the hell is he doing here?

“I have to admit, you’ve been meeting a lot lately.”

I turn away from Thomas to face her, and panic grips my stomach. “Can you ask the others not to say a word about my job? I don’t know why he’s here, but I don’t want him to find out, please.” I’m so confused I forgot I came to this club for my blog, not to shoot compromising photos of unfortunate celebrities.

Emily smiles and hugs me, then puts her hands over my shoulders and looks at me straight in the eyes. “You’re becoming paranoid. The others won’t say anything, don’t worry, but you’ll have to tell him sooner or later. I have no idea why he’s here tonight, but it’s clear that these encounters aren’t random. He’ll find out sooner or later.”

My conscience materializes in front of me in the form of Emily. She’s sweet, she’s not scolding me, but she makes me face the cold, hard reality. Should I just pretend I haven’t seen him and continue my night, thus ending this unhealthy game I’m playing with him? But then I remember the lost expression on my face and the ginormous surprise when our eyes met, and I realize I can’t ignore him. It would be immature and cruel, especially after he was so sweet to retweet my blog post.

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