Page 16 of Best Friend Burden

I wished that I had told Natasha to come any other day. This was not a recording where I could stand people watching me. I knew I was on edge ever since last night when I snapped at Melody, and the more I thought about it, the worse I felt. Every time I thought I’d gotten past the worst of the side effects related to quitting all those substances cold turkey, I’d be reminded that there was still an addict deep inside me who needed pills and alcohol to function like a normal human being.

I don’t remember ever being that short-tempered before. The issue wasn’t that I was upset with her or even that I overreacted — though I did — but that I, for a brief moment, didn’t feel in control of myself or my actions. It was somewhat ironic that it took being in an altered state in order to feel in control of myself, but it was also an illusion.

Sober, I could tell that I overreacted, but Wendy was constantly telling me about incidents I didn’t remember that didn’t fully sound like myself. She wasn’t making them up — in many cases, she had the text messages to prove it. High or sober, I wasn’t in control of myself all the time, but the latter forced me to deal with the consequences and have an awareness of my actions.

It made it nearly impossible to get out of my head.

And it made it nearly impossible to perform.

Ernie, the owner of Cleopatra Records and the man producing this particular album, must have noticed as he sat in the booth, fiddling with the dials.

“Let's give it another try,” he said, preparing us for the sixth take on the track.

Unlike pop music, jazz was a live genre, and, as such, it felt like cheating to edit different takes together or correct things in post. We'd record the track from beginning to end and, if there were tiny mistakes, that'd be part of the charm.

To my surprise, I managed to keep up okay with Peterson, stumbling a little during the first two takes, but staying on beat and on pitch with him in the third (which was especially impressive as we jumped back and forth between 5/4 and 7/8 time signatures in rapid succession). But just because I was keeping up mechanically didn't mean I was producing music.

Ernie signaled the technician to start the click track and counted us in. Again, Peterson wowed me with his tone and the ease he was playing these nearly impossible tunes. It just sounded perfect. And while a casual listener might have been impressed with the speed I was playing along with him on my bass, it just wasn't right. It felt off, the equivalent of a clunky accent from someone who wasn't completely familiar with the language.

“Let's cut it there,” Ernie said. “Kiefer, you want to join me in the booth?”

I removed my monitor headphones and went back to the booth, where Jackson and Natasha were sitting quietly and off to the side.

“You're doing really great,” Jackson said to me. Natasha just smiled and gave me a thumbs up.

I contemplated asking the two of them to wait outside. This was the part where Ernie was going to be cruel but direct with me and it could potentially be embarrassing, but this was part of the experience, and I figured Natasha could get something out of it.

“It's all technically correct,” Ernie said, which was pretty close to a compliment from him.

“I know,” I said. “It's just not musical.”

“It's like it's coming from a robot,” he said. “You’re hitting the notes, but you’re not exactly in the pocket. You need to loosen it up a bit and get out of your head. You used to be so good at this.”

I knew it. And I knew the reason, and so did Ernie.

There was a cocktail of pills I used to take before a recording session like this one. A combination of uppers like Adderall with relaxants like Xanax along with a THC gummy to get my mellow just right without taking away my focus. It worked like gangbusters, but made me yoyo back and forth between being so chill that nobody could even have a conversation with me and being an egotistical prick, or so others told me. In other words, it made me a great musician and a shitty human being.

Those pills were my life for so long until they took it all away. If it wasn't for those pills and other drugs like them, I wouldn't have had that fight with Wendy, and she probably would have still been there with me. In the months since her death, I'd gotten past the idea that I had killed her — something I told myself again and again — but I still couldn't ignore the fact that I was responsible for her death.

“Do you need... help?” he asked, euphemistically. He wasn't about to out me as a druggy in front of my family, though Jackson knew as much about my bad habits as anyone, but Ernie needed to get his recording done. Time was money and the longer we took to record, the more expensive this niche record would become.

“You know I can't accept it,” I told him. “Let's just call in a ringer.”

Ernie looked disappointed.

“You know, the budget...” he trailed off. “It would just be a lot easier for the studio if we could get this right. Right here, today.”

Jackson and Natasha were whispering to each other until she said, “No, Jackson.”

“Come on,” Jackson said, “at least offer.”

“What is it?” Ernie asked, frustrated.

Jackson started to speak but Natasha interrupted him, “It's nothing.”

Jackson gently pushed her away. “Natasha can play the part.”

I looked at Jackson skeptically, but he was convinced that what he was saying was the truth. And, for the pushback he was getting from Natasha, none of it sounded like her saying he was wrong.

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