Page 110 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
My mom simply leans up for a kiss and pats my arm. I busy myself making introductions, under no illusions that any of them will remember each other, but it gives me somewhere to channel my nerves as the amphitheater fills faster and faster.
When the seats are full and the pre-show noise of the crowd is drowning out the classic rock pouring from the festival PA, my dad leans over and calls, “Is this thing going to start soon?”
I nod. “Pixie Luna opens,” I call back. “They’re first.”
As if on cue, roadies walk onstage to check the amps. I recognize Jules’s guitar and Luther’s bass. Rodney himself is up there in a black roadie T-shirt, checking the cymbals and positioning the snare. When they’ve fiddled and tweaked for a few minutes, they disappear again, and the recorded music fades out.
An announcer comes over the PA, welcoming everyone to the festival stage, and the crowd cheers. He gives the usual spiel about restroom locations, first aid stations, and thanks to the sponsors. Then he pauses, and pitching his voice even lower, he says, “And now for the show. Ladies and gentlemen, this band has been together less than a year, but they’ve dominated the Austin music scene like they’re veterans. Please welcome Pixie Luna! For those about to rock, we salute you!”
It’s a smart thing to say as the crowd roars their approval of the AC/DC lyric, and the band runs out to the opening licks of the song. Rodney is now in a Foo Fighters shirt. Sami is in a green mask the color of her tattoo, a shiny purple prom dress over fishnets, and Doc Martens, with her pink hair in two buns near the top of her head.
The sound guy turns down the AC/DC instrumentals and now we can hear Luther plucking his bass and Jules picking out a melody this crowd doesn’t know yet, but I smile. They’re opening with “I’m Not Your Prom Queen.”
“What’s up, Austin?” Sami yells into the mic before she flings her hands into the air to wait for the answer, and the audience cheers back. Then she holds the mic close to her mouth, takes her wide-legged power stance, and calls, “This is for the girls who tell it like it is!” Then Rodney bangs the snare, Jules’s guitar growls, and they’re off. Miss Gina’s mouth falls open.
Sami’s energy is contagious, and it’s perfect symbiosis. Not once, not even during their mid-tempo songs, does her energy or the crowd’s come down. She pushes them harder and higher, and they’re ready to lose their minds during “Boy, Nevermind.”
Grandma Letty is down by the rope with my neighbors, bouncing and dancing; Miss Gina is standing slightly apart, smiling; and I try not to notice my parents too much because I don’t trust myself to act right if they’re standing there looking bored. I make sure my back is angled to them.
When Pixie Luna finishes and Sami calls, “You’ve been fantastic, Austin!” they have to stay on stage for several more minutes as the crowd cheers.
Finally, the announcer comes on the PA and says, “That was Pixie Luna, people, and now you know why we put them on the festival stage. We’ll let them catch their breath and take a short break while we wait for your Saturday headliner, Night View!”
Only when Sami is off the stage do I walk toward my parents. Gramps slides an arm around my shoulders. “Son, I’m sorry to tell you this because I know you like that Sami, but”—he takes a dramatic pause before finishing—“that’s too bad because I’m going to marry her.”
I laugh and hug him, a good, manly backslapping hug. “They’re good, aren’t they?”
He shakes his head. “Better than good.”
I turn toward my parents. “So, what did you think?”
My mom is smiling, but before either of them can answer, a man walks over, his hand outstretched for a shake.
“You Josh Brower?” he asks, as I take his offered hand.
“I am.”
“Nick Bautista, Bat Bridge Records. Luther says you’re the guy I need to see if I want to sign them, and I do. I hear you’re talking to Big Time too. They offer you a three-sixty?”
I shoot my parents an apologetic look and answer his question. “They did. What is Bat Bridge bringing to the table?”
“Fifty-fifty, and only fifteen years on rights to the masters.”
He has my attention. In the music industry, major labels often offer a three-sixty deal, as in 360 degrees: a full pie, and they get a slice of every part of it. Their deep pockets mean artists get access to the best studios, producers, and music video directors as well as a high chance of being put on a tour opening for an arena band. But the label also keeps the recording rights, period.
Indie labels only take fifty percent of the recording profits and usually ask for a twenty-five-year exclusive on the rights. They’ll often pair their newer bands with established bands for tours, but they’re smaller shows and they can’t always pay the biggest producers what major labels can. The difference is that their bands get more creative control and keep all the profits from touring and merchandise sales. It can add up.
We discuss all this, and I hear him out, aware that my parents are waiting for me, and finally I close out the conversation. “I’ll take it to the band, Nick. It’ll be their decision.”
“Just promise me you’ll give me a chance to counter whatever Big Time offers. They can wave a lot of cash, but they don’t nurture their acts the way Bat Bridge does.”
“Will do,” I say, shaking hands with him before he leaves.
I turn to my parents. “Sorry about that. What did you think of the band?”
They exchange glances. My mom says, “We get it. She’s the real deal.”
“We still have concerns,” my dad says, “but yes, Josh, we get it.”
