Power Trio

The show was amazing. The crowd loved them. @LegendaryTheBand, the account Thekla hastily created on the ride home, is already racking up followers. Ringside is a lock; Teo from Masonry loved them and bought Thekla a drink after the show to pepper her with questions about their “GreenAche-esque sound” and what their process and their inspirations were. The guys at Warcry got back to them and the recording sessions are on for next week. Everything’s going great.

So why is Thekla in a bad mood?

Maybe it’s because Evan and Kell seem to have some kind of inside joke that Thekla’s locked out of. And whatever it is, it’s funny enough that both of them are way off their usual precision. They had to restart Escalate today because Evan got turned around; it’s the first time that’s ever happened.

Or maybe it’s because Sion has been acting so strange ever since the show. He isn’t snapping at them anymore, but he’s shown up to the Shed today in a weird daze, adding strange adornments and fiddly noodling to all of his melodies. She takes a few tries to get his attention when he spontaneously starts playing in the wrong key during their set closer (which is currently between names after they concluded that Thunder Thighs would not fly).

“Sion, are you sober?” she asks, as he switches his pickup selector, ear to his guitar like it’s a conch.

“Hmm? No, no. Not right now.” He tremolo-picks a fleet line of soprano notes, mutters something to himself. “I mean yes. I am. Sober. There’s just something not translating.”

Thekla glances over to Kell for support, but she’s whispering something to Evan, who’s standing very close to the drum kit. Whatever she just said sends them both into suppressed hysterics.

“Okay, guys, listen.” Thekla says this into the microphone; that gets their attention. “We killed it at Glorie’s. We deserve to feel good about that. But we’re not in the end credits right now, we’re in act two. We need these recordings done if we want to get followers and cinch up some actual headline gigs. And we need at least two songs done, like 100 percent zipped-up done, if we’re going to record without wasting a ton of time and money. We need to fucking focus.”

“Sorry, Thekla.” Evan straightens up and looks genuinely contrite, at least.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Kell raises her hand. “What if we swap Fossil Fuel’s recording slot out and do Tremendousness in there instead?”

“We’re rock solid on Fossil Fuel, though,” Thekla protests. “Tremendousness needs a lot of work.”

“Yeah, but FF is kind of our simplest song,” Kell says. “It feels safe.”

“What’s wrong with safe? Safe is a crowd pleaser. It’s our single, even.”

“We could sub in Vampire Facial.” Evan pipes up. “I love that one.”

“If we’re doing Vampire Facial and Commodity Credit as our first releases, everyone’s going to think we do dance,” Sion says. “We are post-hardcore.”

Evan rubs his beard. “I really don’t—”

“Stop stop stop.” Thekla’s amplified voice drowns them out. “Kell: Fossil Fuel is our sound, and it feels safe because it’s our comfort zone, and this is going to be our first time in the recording studio, so we need that. Evan: Vamp is too much of a departure for it to be one of our first releases, and the recorded version is going to have a lot of overdubs and other effects happening, which we need to plan out first. That takes time we don’t have. Sion: people like to dance to music, that’s half of what music is for, and I swear to God we do not have the space to do the genre shit right now.”

She takes a deep breath, does a silent count to five.

“How about this,” she says. “Let’s run Tremendousness a couple times, see how we’re doing. And if it’s not perfect—like ready for primetime perfect—we stick to Fossil Fuel for these upcoming recording sessions. And Tremendousness is first in line after.”

“That’s fair,” Evan says, sheepishly.

“We like Fossil Fuel. Right?” Thekla surveys the room. The band nods their assent. “We’re all just… in our heads today.”

They start up Tremendousness, a rollicking mixolydian anthem, upbeat and aggressive. Thekla’s role here is windmilling power chords under a sing-shout verse. She understands, on an intellectual level, why Kell advocates for it. Normally it amps Thekla up to play it, gives her triumphant visions of bright outdoor stages. Today, with the clouds gathered over her, it sounds like a car commercial.

And then the car crashes as Kell launches into the wrong section, and Evan’s bass stumbles, and Sion just keeps playing like nothing happened. “Cut, cut!” Thekla barks into the mic. “That’s the bridge next, not the verse. See? We keep fucking that transition up. And the shift is too jarring. It’s like we’ve pasted two beats together. And my part is so undercooked, I feel like a fucking campfire singer, and the bass is just there, it’s not moving anything, and we barely have a hook, and we’re better than that!” She stabs a finger at Kell. “We have to be better than that if we’re gonna follow your fucking plan.”

Quiet in the studio. Thekla’s cheeks tingle as the tight, spiky expulsion of adrenaline leaves remorse in its wake. Evan’s shoulders hunch. Kell is chewing on her lip. “Okay…”

“I’m sorry,” Thekla interrupts, ears burning. “I’m being an asshole. I didn’t mean—the song is promising, OK? It’ll be there soon. But not soon enough. I really think that. Even if I’m saying it like a fucking prima donna.”

“No, I’m convinced.” Kell awkwardly rubs the back of her neck. “Fossil Fuel it is.”

“Seconded,” says Evan.

Sion just nods absentmindedly.

“I don’t mean your plan like it’s not my plan.” Thekla’s desperation rises. “It’s all of ours. I’m just trying to… I want us to make it there. As a team.”

“Thekla, it’s okay.” Kell smiles. “For real. You’re the boss in the studio and you’re not wrong. Let’s take ten, though, yeah?”

“Good idea,” Thekla says.

“Split a cig with me?” Kell jerks her head toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s let the boys do each other’s hair or something.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Thekla numbly sets her guitar aside and follows Kell outside, leaving a nervous Evan alone with the spooky elf.

“So I have an idea.” Kell flicks open her lighter, a cheesy cartoon wizard scribbled on it in ballpoint, and takes a drag as she sparks up her smoke. Distant reggaeton drifts through the summer air, filters through the Herbalism alley.

She’s hiding something from you. Ever since the show. You can tell, can’t you? Thekla’s little slice again. Are you just going to keep pretending you don’t suspect anything?

She takes the proffered cigarette. It’s warm and a little wet from the orc’s lips. “Go on,” she says.

“Remember that writing night with just us two, where we came up with a few things? Fuel was one of them? And we had that terrible wine?”

Despite the fog it’s broadcasting through, Thekla smiles at the memory. “Yeah, I do. ‘Chablis and Chill’ I think was the brand.”

“I hate that. That’s awful.” Kell laughs. “What if I find some more and we go again, at the Shed? I’m off for the night. Some private event at the bar.”

That night was one of the best of Thekla’s life. It’s when she and Kell went from wanting to be best friends to actually being best friends. So why is she hesitating? Why does the idea tie her stomach up in knots? Because you’re not just going to drink and write music and tell cute stories, that’s why. There’s something neither of you are saying, something she doesn’t know how to say yet. It’s about Evan, isn’t it?

Kell and Evan.

“Let’s do it,” she says.