Page 2 of Caught in a Storm
“Anyway,” says Billy, “if you want a pretzel, I’m buying.”
“Nah,” says Caleb. “I crushed three quarters of that pizza. I could probably barf.”
Billy looks at the picked-over remains of the Johnny Rad’s pizza on the coffee table. “You did, didn’t you? Where do you put it all, anyway?”
Caleb shrugs. “Maybe I’m still growing.”
What a thought that is. Caleb doesn’t do anything useful with his six-foot-six-inch body, like fight crime or play in the NBA. Still, his height is a source of constant pride for Billy, just another weird thing he loves about the kid.
Billy was barely in his twenties when Caleb was born. Being that young and a single dad had its challenges—like something in a think piece about woefully unprepared fathers. The upside, though, is that they’ve essentially grown up together, and now their relationship is like a parent-friend hybrid.
The documentary, which moves along chronologically, is currently analyzing the nineties, so Eddie Vedder is on the TV in a giant flannel, mumble-yelling the song “Jeremy.”
“I don’t get the whole grunge thing,” says Caleb. “Was it, like, in the bylaws that clothes had to be way too big? And what’s he saying? You can’t understand him.”
Caleb has had a lot of opinions about the documentary series. His most unforgivable comment a couple of episodes ago was that maybe David Bowie should’ve just picked one look and gone with it.
After Pearl Jam, U2’s mid-career evolution comes up. Bono is dressed like a fly in a leather suit and wraparound sunglasses. “And what even is that?” asks Caleb. “Was he trying to be an asshole?”
“He was being ironic,” says Billy. “And don’t swear.”
This is something they’re working on: Caleb’s swearing. Billy is all for the subtle use of profanity, but too much just seems excessive, like saxophone solos in rock songs.
The documentary clips along, moving from the nineties and into the aughts. Nirvana comes and goes; the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Soundgarden cut their hair and begin looking like adults.
The announcer has a deep voice, like in a truck commercial. “As we go smashing our way into the twenty-first century, across the entire musical spectrum, from country to R & B to grunge to pop, female artists began to emerge like never before, loudly. And none were louder than New York–born garage band turned rock goddesses Burnt Flowers.”
Billy tilts forward on The Rocker. “Oh, Cay, listen up. This was one of my favorite bands.”
On the TV, four young women tear through one of the biggest songs of the aughts, “Power Pink.” Billy taps out the drumbeat on his thighs.
“Yeah, all right,” says Caleb. “They’re not bad. Their clothes fit, at least.”
Billy tells his son to shut up but is immediately ignored.
“It’s like, I’ve heard of them,” says Caleb, “but you don’t really hear about them, you know?”
Billy isn’t crazy about Caleb’s tone, but he’s not wrong. In the pantheon of rock music, Burnt Flowers have come and gone. They’re a blip now—a couple minutes in a streaming retrospective. But when Billy was young, Burnt Flowers was one of the biggest bands in the United States. They flooded airwaves and sold out arenas. No lip-syncing. No choreographed dance moves. They were four talented women who turned up their instruments and rocked out.
Billy is about to explain all of this to Caleb, but the announcer keeps going.
“Plagued by in-fighting and a good old-fashioned Fleetwood Mac–style love triangle, Burnt Flowers flickered out as fast as their name would suggest. But before that—and before three hit records, a Best New Artist Grammy, and general superstardom—it all began at the tail end of the nineties with a note pinned to an NYU bulletin board by the band’s founding member and drummer, Margot Hammer.”
On the screen there’s a black-and-white still of Margot Hammer, and a big swoony wave of nostalgia crashes over Billy.
“Whoa,” says Caleb, “check out those boots. Those’re pretty hardcore.”
“Yeah,” says Billy. “Boots were her thing. And I may have been a little bit in love with her.” He meant this to be something he said to himself, but now that he’s announced it, Billy braces himself, because he knows that he’s about to get roasted.
“What?” says Caleb. “Really? Her?”
“Your mom used to tease me about it,” says Billy.
The documentary cuts to a music video. Margot Hammer plays double time, hair flying wild.
“But she’s so mad, though,” Caleb says. “Why’s she so…frowny?”
Billy tells Caleb to shut up again, and he longs for a more innocent time, when we fell in love with celebrities on big, boxy, standard-def TVs.
