la la land

perro y mariposa
Presently, I see myself clearer
–“Never The Machine Forever” (Thayil)


In the car on the way back from Los Hermanos, Dave happened to have the radio on and heard the new single from Violet. Half-tempted to turn it off, he succumbed to his curiosity regarding what Louise was up to. But he should have known that the song, called “Lucky,” was ostensibly about him. All the songs she'd written since their break-up were about him, some more pointed than others.

All your ex-girlfriends say
you're looking so bad.
I guess I'm lucky
lucky
lucky he's not you.

He didn't have to drive so far for Mexican food – there were at least five taquerias within a five-mile radius of his residence – but he needed to get out of the house for a while. His routine for the last five months consisted of a loop from the house to the studio and back again. He was as pale as moonlight and equally round. Dave had already sworn off booze for the next two months in order to lose enough weight before the publicity and the club tour began for the new record. Twisting through the maze of narrow streets off of Laurel Canyon Road, he downshifted to climb a hill, negotiated the tricky switchback that led to his driveway, and emerged from his BMW within the fortress of his garage, ensconced in the side of a hill. His house rested atop the bedrock, relatively small but possessing a hell of a view. Climbing the stairs to the kitchen he found his drummer Madison roasting a hot dog on a fork over one of the burners on the stove.

“Dude, you're not using the good silver, are you?”

“How the fuck should I know, man? I just reached in the silverware drawer and pulled out a fork!”

“Don't let Shawn catch you. She cut me off for two weeks because I used the crystal salad tongs last month.”

“D'ya have any marshmallows?”

“Look man, I just got a shitload of carne asada from Los Hermanos. Throw that away.”

“Fuck you, this hot dog is roasted to perfection!” he exclaimed, covering it in Grey Poupon and shoving it in his mouth.

“Nice,” Dave chided, rolling his eyes. He put the bags down on the counter and walked over to the doorway that led to the immediate dining area and the living room beyond.

“Shawn!” he called. “I'm back!”

“Okay honey!” she answered.

Turning around, he observed Madison had already made short work of the food and had a plate with three tacos plus a healthy helping of rice and beans before him. Looking at the fork in his hand, he saw that it was, in fact, a piece of good silverware: a wedding present from his manager.

“Dude!” he cried out, snatching the utensil from his bandmate's hand.

“Jesus Christ, neurotic much?”

“I'm the one who will have to suffer for your screwup, so yeah, I'm a little anal.”

Madison snickered loudly and chewed on a taco.

At that moment Shawn entered and looked askance at his hand.

“Honey, is that one of the good forks?”

“Yes, I just lectured Mad on how we don't use the good silverware.”

She gave him a beatific smile and scowled in the direction of the blond cretin seated at her kitchen table.

“Landers, keep your dirty paws off my stuff!”

“Sorry gorgeous,” he said contritely, offering her a dazzling grin.

Loading up a plate with a vegetarian burrito and rice, Shawn kissed Dave on the top of the head and moved towards the living room. They both watched her lithe body clad in a leotard and yoga leggings glide with the carriage of a Vegas showgirl.

“Where are you going?” Dave asked her.

“Till Death Do Us Part is on.” she answered. A few minutes later they heard the murmuring of the television, as well as the tinny voice of Shawn's best friend Daley, via speakerphone. This was their preferred method of socialization, as Daley was out in Reseda and very rarely ventured east of her end of Ventura Boulevard. Madison leaned over to the Bose radio mounted underneath one of the cupboards and turned up the volume. He had it tuned to the oldies station. After a commercial break, a seventies-era song came on, and they paused to listen to the mournful voice of Albert Hammond.

Out of work, I'm out of my head
out of self-respect, I'm out of bread
I'm underloved, I'm underfed
I wanna go home!

“Dude, I love this song!” Madison hooted.

“Funny, I just heard it on Sirius as I was driving back. I miss my mom.”

“Well you're the one who said you'd never go back to Asheville.”

“I wish I could convince her to move out here.”

“After you trashed L.A.? Hello, mixed messages?!”

“Shut up. Oh guess what I heard?”

Madison was whistling along with the flute line in the bridge, completely oblivious. Dave sometimes envied the way Mad could completely space out in a second.

“Madland!” he yelled, knowing that if he resorted to his childhood nickname that would garner his attention. Like a mother using a child's full name on those occasions when complete focus was required, Dave used Madison's portmanteau sobriquet rather than risk frustration with his attention deficit-addled best friend.

“What?!”

“I heard the new Violet song.”

“Oh yeah. . .I heard it yesterday.”

“Why didn't you tell me? I could have avoided wasting three minutes and 37 seconds of my life!”

“You've been all mopey lately, I didn't wanna make it any worse.”

Dave pushed his plate of half-eaten food away and lit a cigarette.

“Oh, and I'm going to get in trouble for using a fucking fork?”

“Fuck it.”

“What is your deal, anyway? The record is done, we're supposed to be happy.”

“I dunno. I think it all started when I dreamt about Chris the other night.”

“Ah. Yeah that was pretty bad, right?”

“You've OD'ed, you tell me.”

Madison became fascinated by his food. Dave took a deep drag and closed his eyes as he exhaled. As he did so he could see Chris' face before him perfectly for the last time, lying in the casket. His dream, however, involved finding him crumpled on the floor of his bedroom in Bel Air, his face sunken and blue. Dave hadn't been the one to find him, rather his wife Cheri had called, hysterical in the middle of a rainy night. There was a reason why his monthly phone calls to ex-bandmate Mirek Velikan traditionally ended with the phrase Fuck that bitch! chanted in unison.

“So, uh, D -”

“Never mind. You going to Meeting tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I don't want you falling off the wagon when we hit the road.”

“You know you don't have to worry about me, dude.”

“I really hope not. You're the only one I have left.”

Madison knew better than to say anything, and continued eating. Dave went over to the sink and glanced out the window. If he looked right down the crooked line of the canyon, he could see part of the Hollywood sign on the right side, glaringly white in the washed-out afternoon. The weather had been strange lately: blazingly hot one day, cold and blustery the next. Today hadn't quite made up its' mind what it wanted to be: cloud cover muted the sun, but the sky was still blue on the horizon, a soft blue that reminded him of other places that never quite measured up to this one. He eyed his reflection in the window pane and saw a guy with a hangdog face that people still managed to find attractive, even as scruffy as he was now, with a burgeoning goatee and shoulder-length brown hair that never stayed neat for more than five minutes.

Seems it never rains in Southern California
seems I've often heard that kind of talk before.
It never rains in California
but girl, don't they warn ya
it pours. . .man it pours.


“Dave, I'm sending one of my team over with a check – we finally got the estate to release some of the royalties.”

“Whoop dee fuckin' doo.”

“Hey, it's all the same to me, I've already got my money.”

“Sorry Pete, I'm just tired.”

“Yeah you sound kinda fried. Maybe you and Shawn should spend a couple weeks on Kauai, just veg out.”

“Ugh no – we did that at Christmas and I nearly died of boredom.”

Pete chuckled. “Oh ye jaded rock stars. As long as I've got a golf course and the supine body of my wife I'm never bored.”

“There's only so much fucking one can do.”

“A finite amount, true. But in infinite variety!”

Dave rolled his eyes, though the gesture was strictly for his own benefit, as the conversation was in the electronic aeythrs. Pete correctly interpreted the silence as scoffing and felt some advice was in order.

“Dave, as your lawyer I will warn you that if you and Mad decide to return to your roadslut wicked ways because you find yourself bored a few weeks into the tour, it's gonna cost you big time if a certain lovely lady gets wind of it.”

“That's why I married Shawn, she knows she's got a good thing and is not about to spoil it with crises of prosaic morality.”

“Well I guess it could be worse. . .she could still be writing songs about you five years after she found you in bed with some teen movie 'actress,' and I use the term loosely, by the way.”

“You heard it too, huh?”

“Everybody's heard it, dude. I even heard some DJ announce it as 'that song about Dave Vogel.'”

“Fucking Louise.”

“Sounds like the problem was you weren't doing that often enough.”

“Fuck off.”

“You talkin' to Pete?” Madison piped up, entering the control room. “Tell him I said hi!”

“Mad says hi.”

“Heard he got his six-month chip; I'm proud of him.”

“Pete says 'good job' on your six months.”

Madison beamed and sometimes Dave wished he had that kind of smile, so open and joyful. Every photo he had ever seen of himself smiling struck him as incredibly cheesy.

“Tell him if he sees Jack at Meeting that he should invite him over or something, he needs to stop hanging out with Terry Biel so much. That guy is a suicide attempt waiting to happen.”

Dave laughed, a sharp bark. “Roger that, I once saw him drink so much he was actually vomiting blood. Fuckin' scary, man.”

“So I've been trying to get ahold of Mir today too, no answer. Have you talked to him lately?”

“The other night. He's probably off hiking the Sierras or something, you know how he is now.”

“I didn't recognize him at that benefit, his beard is longer than mine!”

They chuckled and Dave suddenly felt a pang of something disturbing resound in his stomach.

“Hey man, I gotta go. The A&R people are coming over with security guards to take the masters to New York.”

“They're all bonded, right?”

“I guess. It's somebody's ass if this stuff ends up on the Internet.”

“You've got a loyal fanbase, not to worry.”

“Selling records is the last thing I'm worried about.”

After Dave hung up with Pete Marita, Madison handed him the new issue of Raygun.

“This must be their revenge for giving Rolling Stone the exclusive.”

The feature story was devoted to Violet. Louise Smith sneered at him from a full page color photo. She looked good. He glanced through the text and saw she had quit drinking as well. Everyone looked less bloated when they quit the hooch. There were plenty of quotes about their relationship, and how he had betrayed her. But she was a stronger person now, more determined to achieve success on her own terms. Sometimes he actually felt sorry for Louise, because she had lost her best friend Emily when their band Delilah had dissolved after achieving a modicum of success. The stress of fame had broadsided the girls, barely out of their teens, leaving them unable to cope with the pressure. Then she met Dave.

But I feel like I'm getting another chance now. Like I'm emerging from my chrysalis and I'm going to fly away, you know? All light and beautiful.

“Hey, so what's Emily up to?” Madison asked him.

“Shawn says she's living in Maui, she married some businessman and they've got kids, all that stuff.”

“She just quit altogether?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Too bad it wasn't Louise instead, eh?”

“She's only gonna sell records because she's trashing the guy from Dharma.”

“Not the guy from Civilian?”

Dave grimaced. Mad's voice was calmly modulated, but his almost-too-pretty-for-a-guy face was pinched with a certain pique.

“Sorry, dude. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he answered, sighing. “I know.”


Dave left his studio around eight, idling in the traffic on the 405. Using a warehouse in one of the numerous anonymous industrial parks adjacent to LAX afforded them more privacy than the musical cognoscenti that populated Los Angeles generally possessed. He had been the last to leave, sitting quietly in the lounge after Madison had left to go to Meeting. He expected he'd receive a call after midnight and the laconic drawl of his best friend since the age of 11 would intone, “Dude, it's too quiet here. Let's go to Birds and pick up models.”

And he would go, Shawn pretending to be asleep as she lay next to him in their enormous bed, because Mad was the only friend he had, and he was desperately afraid of losing him. There was already one dead person too many littering his memories.

People assumed he and Mir were close, but the two of them had never really been friends, had only bonded out of a sense of survivor guilt and as gatekeepers of a legacy that in their darkest moments wished they'd never achieved. He would always be the guy from Dharma. Even Jack Perris, considered a musician's musician when he was on his game, had acted slightly starstruck when they had first crossed paths. Dave knew ultimately, even though one was still successful and the other eclipsed by his demons, that he would never measure up to that black sunbeam. He overhead a guest on his new record, the bass player for the legendary British band Sons Of Albion, talking with the engineer a few weeks ago when they hadn't realized the intercom was still on in the control room.

”Hey, so how did you like Dave's playing on the new Lossleader record? He still kicks ass on the drums, don't you think?”
“Yes, he does remind me of Ross at times. But you know who's really got balls, or did?”
The two exchanged a glance that signified it was a rhetorical question, though the answer was offered up anyway.
“Jack Perris, fuck yeah.”
“Exactly. If I could ask anyone to take Ross' place, it would be Jack.”
“Even now? He probably hasn't played in at least a year.”
“You can't kill that kind of ability. It resides at the cellular level.”

He didn't like to think of people he admired destroying themselves. It reminded him too much of how he had failed everyone, by not being where he should have been, at any time when he could have made a difference. And once again, like a jeer from some fucktard in a hostile audience, Louise's voice rang out from the radio.

All your enemies say you're dancing on graves
lining up slaves
have learned how to behave.
And I guess I'm lucky
lucky
lucky you turned away.