Page 8 of Charm City Rocks
“Great, great,” the guy said. Margot could hear him losing interest as he typed notes. “One last thing. This is kinda off the record, I guess. I’m just curious. Do you, like…miss it?”
Margot didn’t know what he meant byit,exactly. There is so much that she doesn’t miss about her handful of years in the spotlight. There’s one thing, though, that she misses nearly every day. “I miss the music,” she said.
—
Rebecca Yang’s eyes do more darting—to the bits of clutter, to the electric and acoustic guitars mounted on the wall, to the drums at the center of everything, where an entertainment center might go if Margot were a normal person. Rebecca touches one of the kit’s cymbals. “Dope apartment,” she says.
“Sorry about Jimmy,” says Margot. “He’s…”
Rebecca waves off whatever Margot was about to say like she’s shooing a bug. “No worries. I’m notthatyoung. I’m twenty-five. But, you know…the Korean thing. It throws the boomers off.”
Margot settles into an overstuffed chair with her coffee. She wasn’t aware that she even had a publicist.
Rebecca, who doesn’t think twenty-five is “that young,” sits on the couch and clears her throat. “Not sure if you’ve had a chance to read the emails I sent,” she says. “I tried calling, but the number we have on file doesn’t go anywhere.”
Margot points to a phone next to the microwave, disconnected, strangled by its cord.
“Oh,” says Rebecca. “Wow, is that a…a landline?”
Margot hates herself for suddenly being nervous. Rebecca is a zygote in sneakers, but she’s from Stage Dive, the label. Unsure what she’s supposed to say, she decides to go on the offensive. “So, how’s Axl?”
“Axl?” Rebecca pauses. “Axl’s good.”
They’re referring to Axl Albee, the head artist relations manager at Stage Dive, whom Margot hasn’t heard from in several U.S. presidential administrations. “We used to be good friends,” she says.
“Axl’s working on strategic initiatives. He’s been pretty office-bound lately. He definitely says hey, though.”
Margot gets that it’s this girl’s professional duty to lie to her. Stage Dive has a hierarchy, like anywhere. Axl Albee deals with the big names. Any one of five other reps handle the tier below—indie rockers, morose singer-songwriters. People like Rebecca see to artists like Margot: legacy artists.
“And, no,” Margot says. “I didn’t read your emails. I haven’t checked lately.”
“No worries,” says Rebecca. “I’ll summarize. We got a message over the weekend through the media contacts link. It was addressed to you.”
Margot sips her coffee.
“The Netflix doc is getting good buzz all around,” says Rebecca. “Chatter’s up across social for bands who got featured—lots of engagement, right? But this one’s different.”
Another sip of coffee. Buzz and chatter and engagements. “Okay.”
“It’s from a little girl. And she’s a drummer, like you.” Rebecca takes an iPad out of her backpack and starts reading. “ ‘Dear Margot. My name is Mazzy, and I’m eleven. I’m the drummer for the band Hot Twist, and me and my bandmates are basically obsessed with you because you rock so fucking hard.’ ”
“Shit,” says Margot. “She’s eleven?”
Rebecca tilts her head. “My niece is eleven. She called me a skeezed-out ho bag at Thanksgiving because I beat her at checkers.”
“Oh. Well, go on then.”
Rebecca continues. “ ‘I attached a pic of us playing your dopest song, “Power Pink,” which is hot AF, by the way. We played it for our music teacher, Mr. Gustavo. After he recovered from having his face melted off, he said we’re awesome. I’m emailing you to invite you to come down to Baltimore to rock out with us, because holy shit that would make our dreams come true. Also, the pretzels here are incredible. Yours in rock, Mazzy.’ ” Rebecca looks up. “How amazing is that?”
“Wait,” says Margot, “are pretzels a thing in Baltimore?”
Rebecca looks momentarily defeated. “Crab cakes, I think. But that’s not really—”
“The point,” says Margot. “I get it. Is the picture cute?”
“Absurdlycute. See?”
She hands over her iPad, and Margot looks at four tween girls in a garage. The little bass player has pigtails, and the guitarist is mid jump. A girl with an AC/DC T-shirt shouts into a microphone. The drummer holds both drumsticks in the air, presumably Mazzy. “That is cute.”
