road, you think you’re gonna go, but you’re so not free, so not free . . . so not free . . . so not free. . . . You think there are no bars, but they put them around your heart. . . . You’re so not free, so not free. . . .”
“NO, NO, NO!” Mom throws up her arms. “This is all crazy. This isn’t music. There’s hardly any rhyme—it’s almost unsing-able! It’s dark, depressive crap, and I won’t have it!”
“I think it sounds great, Sassy. Let’s do it again. I’m ready,” I say.
“I believe we’re in mid-freakout here,” Willie says under his breath. “Mrs. McGrath, we were going to do that take again. Are you all right?”
“Okay, fine, do it again, but you will NOT get paid. None of you! Money tap is closed.” Her eyes pop practically out of her head and she looks at me. “And I can do it. Legally, I have the right, little girl !”
So I pull off my headset and go out into the observation room, where Mom paces and Amber sits scribbling wildly.
Time for me to take over. “Mother, I would appreciate it if you could go out and get Louie to take you home.”
“I’m getting in that car, all right, but so are you, you self-obsessed, self-destructive little bitch. And you’re gonna go to a goddamn shrink and get some antidepressants.”
“Well, that’s very insightful of you. Do you know that I went up on the roof last night, and I almost went over? And do you also know that it was not you who made me go up there and lean against that rail, and it was not you who made me come down?”
She grabs me and shakes, shakes, shakes until my eyes and neck hurt, and finally Amber says, “Hey there, hey there,” and grabs Mom’s shoulder.
“This is between me and her, dammit!” Mom lunges at Amber. “Gimme that notebook!” She grabs it and rips out pages and stuffs them in her mouth. “Your lies taste like paper,” she says as the pages come flying out.
Amber sort of recovers herself but looks absolutely horrified.
Then Sassy is there, standing in the doorway. Sassy is maybe thirty. She sings in cabarets of the kind Mom likes, so they have some sort of bond. Sassy has a sailor cut, and she’s real thin. Today she has on a Three Wolves T-shirt and jeans at least as old as me.
“It’s all brilliant, you know.”
“But it’s not gonna SELL,” my mom says. “Kids like—” She dances a kind of crazed little jig. “They like to dance and laugh and love! Like I did! It hasn’t changed. It’ll never change.”
Silence. Everybody is now in the room with us, and every single person disagrees with Mom. You can hear it in the total vacuum.
“It’ll never change!”
She throws herself down on the couch and jams her headphones back on. She takes out her plastic cigarette and throws it across the room. She lights a Marlboro, takes a long drag, dragons the smoke out her nose, and says, “Okay, so Mommy’s being bad again. Call a cop!”
I won that one. We go on with the session, and I find a rhythm, grabbing songs out of some kind of spirit wind that is blowing through my head. I know we’re just laying down scratch tracks at this point, but they’ll lead to something. Anyway, we end the day with five finished songs, “So Not Free,” “Flying on Forever,” “Blue Roses,” “Love Without You,” and, of course, “So Long, Boyfriend.”
As we’re heading back to the car, Mom apologizes to Amber.
Amber says nothing. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s going to appear in People , but it won’t be pretty.
Mom is still smoking, so I crack a window.
She reaches over, closes it.
“Mom, I can’t stand—”
“I put up with your crap.”
“I can’t stand us fighting! Why are we fighting? Why can’t we stop?”
“Why are we fighting? Because you’re sixteen years old and I’m the dumbest mom who ever existed.”
“I hope I’m not that much of a cliché.”
She reaches over and pats my knee. And, in this way, a truce is declared. She says to Louie, “We
“NO, NO, NO!” Mom throws up her arms. “This is all crazy. This isn’t music. There’s hardly any rhyme—it’s almost unsing-able! It’s dark, depressive crap, and I won’t have it!”
“I think it sounds great, Sassy. Let’s do it again. I’m ready,” I say.
“I believe we’re in mid-freakout here,” Willie says under his breath. “Mrs. McGrath, we were going to do that take again. Are you all right?”
“Okay, fine, do it again, but you will NOT get paid. None of you! Money tap is closed.” Her eyes pop practically out of her head and she looks at me. “And I can do it. Legally, I have the right, little girl !”
So I pull off my headset and go out into the observation room, where Mom paces and Amber sits scribbling wildly.
Time for me to take over. “Mother, I would appreciate it if you could go out and get Louie to take you home.”
“I’m getting in that car, all right, but so are you, you self-obsessed, self-destructive little bitch. And you’re gonna go to a goddamn shrink and get some antidepressants.”
“Well, that’s very insightful of you. Do you know that I went up on the roof last night, and I almost went over? And do you also know that it was not you who made me go up there and lean against that rail, and it was not you who made me come down?”
She grabs me and shakes, shakes, shakes until my eyes and neck hurt, and finally Amber says, “Hey there, hey there,” and grabs Mom’s shoulder.
“This is between me and her, dammit!” Mom lunges at Amber. “Gimme that notebook!” She grabs it and rips out pages and stuffs them in her mouth. “Your lies taste like paper,” she says as the pages come flying out.
Amber sort of recovers herself but looks absolutely horrified.
Then Sassy is there, standing in the doorway. Sassy is maybe thirty. She sings in cabarets of the kind Mom likes, so they have some sort of bond. Sassy has a sailor cut, and she’s real thin. Today she has on a Three Wolves T-shirt and jeans at least as old as me.
“It’s all brilliant, you know.”
“But it’s not gonna SELL,” my mom says. “Kids like—” She dances a kind of crazed little jig. “They like to dance and laugh and love! Like I did! It hasn’t changed. It’ll never change.”
Silence. Everybody is now in the room with us, and every single person disagrees with Mom. You can hear it in the total vacuum.
“It’ll never change!”
She throws herself down on the couch and jams her headphones back on. She takes out her plastic cigarette and throws it across the room. She lights a Marlboro, takes a long drag, dragons the smoke out her nose, and says, “Okay, so Mommy’s being bad again. Call a cop!”
I won that one. We go on with the session, and I find a rhythm, grabbing songs out of some kind of spirit wind that is blowing through my head. I know we’re just laying down scratch tracks at this point, but they’ll lead to something. Anyway, we end the day with five finished songs, “So Not Free,” “Flying on Forever,” “Blue Roses,” “Love Without You,” and, of course, “So Long, Boyfriend.”
As we’re heading back to the car, Mom apologizes to Amber.
Amber says nothing. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s going to appear in People , but it won’t be pretty.
Mom is still smoking, so I crack a window.
She reaches over, closes it.
“Mom, I can’t stand—”
“I put up with your crap.”
“I can’t stand us fighting! Why are we fighting? Why can’t we stop?”
“Why are we fighting? Because you’re sixteen years old and I’m the dumbest mom who ever existed.”
“I hope I’m not that much of a cliché.”
She reaches over and pats my knee. And, in this way, a truce is declared. She says to Louie, “We
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