Rock Star Read Free Page B

least Grant remembered my name. That’s a good sign.
    Now I can hear the guys playing… it’s really loud. I knock and knock and knock. There’s quiet. Birds are chirping. Then Grant opens the door.
    “Hey, man,” he says.
    “Uh…hey,” I say.
    I’m trying to act cool, but I am really nervous. The other guys in the band don’t even say hi or anything. They all have long hair to their shoulders. Some are wearing jean jackets with the names of heavy-metal bands written in ink.
    “That your amp?” says Grant, pointing.
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s not gonna work here. Too small. You better plug into that one.”
    The other guys laugh at my tiny amp. So I plug into this huge black monster. It’s all battered, like it’s been on the road with Metallica for twenty years. I’m sort of freaking out, to tell the truth.
    “Okay. You know ‘Death to the Enemy’?” says Grant.
    “Um. No.”
    “Well, just try to follow along.”
    The drummer counts it off, and then the band starts playing this really fast song. Loud? It’s like being at an airport when a jet takes off. Grant is singing— actually, it’s more like screaming—and playing guitar.
    For the first verse I don’t know what I’m doing. Just faking it. For starters, it’s so loud it kind of throws me off. It’s like someone’s hitting my head with a baseball bat. Then after a while I start to figure it out, just like I work out the Beatles songs on Mom’s old record player. There’s a pattern to follow that keeps coming around.
    The drummer does a big, flashy ending, hitting practically every drum and cymbal on his kit. And it’s a honking big kit.
    “That was okay,” says Grant. “Seems like you caught on after a while.”
    “Yeah, after a while,” says the drummer. He’s a really tall guy, unshaven. He looks about twenty. I can tell he’s not my biggest fan.
    The audition lasts an hour. Basically, Grant calls out tunes, the drummer counts in and we blast it out. Or at least, they do. I’m just trying to catch up, like a water-skier trying not to fall.
    Then it’s over. Everybody’s packing up. No one says anything to me, so I figure I was pretty horrible and will now slink off in total disgrace. I’m surprised that when I leave, Grant follows me outside.
    “We practice once a week. Every Wednesday at four. The band’s called Primal Thunk, by the way.”
    “Huh? You mean…I’m in?”
    “Oh yeah. Guess so. You’re not the greatest bass player, McCann. But then again, you’re the only one who answered the ad,” says Grant. He’s grinning though.
    “Wow. Thanks!”
    “But you’re gonna have to grow out your hair. You don’t look metal enough.”
    “Okay.”
    “And buy some better clothes,” he says. “Jean jacket, or leather or something. You sort of look like a dork in that outfit.”
    I don’t even mind that Grant called me a dork, although that’s usually the kind of comment that makes me mad. I’m so happy, I don’t even phone a cab to get home. It’s not that far, anyway. I can walk—you know, burn off my energy. And I have lots of energy now. I’m in a heavy-metal band! Unbelievable. How cool is that? Pri-mal Thunk, Pri-mal Thunk. And on bass…Duncan McCann! Yeah! Welcome to my life as a rock star. I’m grinning from ear to ear, no doubt looking like a total goob as I walk along lugging my bass in one hand and my weeny amp in the other.
    At home Dad asks me how it went. I tell him it was good, even give him a hug (he looks surprised), then run upstairs to my room. I get a call from Jason.
    “How’d it go?” he says right off.
    “Good, man,” I say.
    “Well?”
    “I’m in the band. It’s called Primal Thunk.”
    “Hey, that’s so cool!” Jason says.
    “Yeah.”
    “Maybe if you guys record your music, we can use it for the movie.”
    I don’t say anything for a second. Jason’s talking about this thing we’ve been working on since grade seven. It’s kind of embarrassing. I don’t talk about