Band On The Run

The Chain

Putting on his show face as easily as someone might put on a pair of shoes, Peter sent a blindingly charming smile at the camera. I, on the other hand, was leaned back in the chair, my foot tapping incessantly and my fingers gripping the ends of the armchair so tightly that my knuckles were white.

It was probably a pretty comical picture, for anyone but me. I still wasn’t much of an actor, though through all this time I can handle my own.

The problem was I knew what was coming. And I desperately didn’t want to talk about it. I had known this was coming the moment I’d given into Mark about this exclusive. Yet I’d never been able to prepare myself. I’d thought I could fake my way through it, go into that interview bubble where I act witty and intelligent without any real personal touches. It had been so easy to go into the past couple years.

There was no faking my way through this one.

A niggling voice whispered in the back of my head, reminding me of something a person had once told me, and it hadn’t been Kurt Cobain. The worst crime is faking it.

But the moment that thought occurred, all I wanted to do was vomit.

I could practically feel myself getting green.

Holy mother fuck, I am not ready for this, I thought, panicking seizing me.

“Here we are,” Peter started, that perfectly smooth announcer’s voice magnifying from the microphone clipped to his three piece suit. “I’m back with Keely Staub, doing her first exclusive ever on television. How are we going so far, Keely?” he enquired, looking at me for a response.

I wouldn’t have been surprised had I been trembling in the chair, it felt like I was shaking like a leaf. But even through my tense jaw, I achieved in sending him some semblance of a grin. “I don’t think that one’s up to me.”

Giving a chortle, Peter reached over, patting my knee. I knew what the motion was supposed to mean, he wanted to send me some kind of comfort, he could see what was going on. He wanted to help. But nothing was helping me at the moment, because we both knew where this was going. “I say we’re doing great,” he assured me warmly. “So let’s talk about The Spares.”

My heart was pounding against my chest so fast I could have sworn it was going to beat straight out of my chest. “What’s to tell?” I managed.

Suddenly he was frowning at me in confusion before asking, “What do you mean?”

Finally gaining some of myself back from that panic, I sent him a bland look. “Didn’t you – just moments ago, call them a failure?”

That made him chuckle again, though this time he didn’t feel the need to send me any comfort. He thought I was over it… maybe I was getting to be a better actor than I gave myself credit for. “Sharp as a knife,” he congratulated me, “Well, what can I say about the Spares?

“In four years together, they put out brilliant, ingenious, heart-wrenching, hopeful, disturbing, beautiful music. They were the most commercially and critically acclaimed rock band in the past decade. With the four albums they made together, every single one has gone platinum. They did world tours of stadiums and clubs, won awards after awards to the point where it just seemed ridiculous, sometimes hilarious and sometimes deeply insightful award winning music videos; I can’t even name everything The Spares have done. They were my favourite band of this decade, and I have no regrets saying that to the world.”

Yeah, panicking again, I thought as I stared at Peter, searching for words, any words. C’mon, I’m a song writer; I shouldn’t be at a loss for words. “Well, that might have been the nicest thing ever said about them,” I admitted, playing it down pointedly.