ALL NOVEL 34. Checklist (Thekla)
When they tell Evan, he hugs them tight, calls them geniuses, and swears that he will work ceaselessly to make the tour a success, no matter what.
When they tell Sion, he says “Very cool.”
At the next practice, they write out their pre-tour checklist on the Shed whiteboard, under the watchful eye of the feather boa mannequin:
Van
Lodging
Merch
Bar shift
Clan voice
Set
“The van is easy.” Kell crosses that off. “Warcry’s paying for it. We’ll find a cheapass rental and that’ll be that.”
“If someone else is paying for it, I question the virtue of ‘cheapass,’” Sion says.
“No way,” Kell says. “We’re low maintenance. Something with an aux cord and working brakes is all we need. High return on low investment.”
“Which brings us to lodging,” Thekla says. “Anyone got complaints about cruddy motels?”
“I would like to make a motion.” Sion raises his hand. “I am allergic to low thread count sheets and roach droppings. And I’d prefer not to share a room or a wall with what I can only assume are very spirited threesomes. Perhaps I make my own arrangements and you retrieve me in the mornings.”
That’s a lot of extra work, Thekla is about to say, but her relief overrules her, and not just because Sion won’t be a silent audience to her noisemaking. The tour is a wonderful distraction, but every time she looks at the ash elf, the dizzy foreboding of their experiment rises back up in her.
“Okay. A pretty castle for princess Sion.” Kell crosses Lodging off. “Merch. We need to figure out a logo and do a design.”
“If only we knew a fantastic visual artist,” Evan says.
“Gosh, I know.” Kell sighs. “I wish I were friends with some kind of trained illustrator. Girlfriends, even.”
“Now that’s wishful thinking,” Evan says.
“This week. I swear I’ll have it this week.” Thekla’s been saying this for a few weeks, to be fair, but nothing adds motivation like a deadline. “Rushing my art. You guys suck.”
Kell smirks. “Have you started?”
“I’ve been ideating, okay? I’ve been doing visdev.”
“Well, if you finish this week we can have them screen printed in time for the tour. I think stickers are do-able too.” Kell scratches her head with the capped marker. “There’s no fuckin’ way we’ll have time to press vinyl, and I have no clue what the lead time for a koozie is. We’ll call that a stretch goal.”
She crosses that off, moves on. “Bar shift is me. Easy enough. They’re chill there. Not as chill as Labyrinth, you two lucky duckies, but I know a mixologist or two who I can count on to cover my shifts.”
“I didn’t know pouring an Orcish Spritz required mixology,” Thekla says.
Sion purses his lips. “Dare I ask what an Orcish Spritz entails?”
“Aperol and Bud Light,” Kell says, puffing out her chest. “And a wedge of lemon.”
Sion shakes his head mournfully.
Evan points at the next line. “What’s clan voice?”
Kell nods to Thekla. “That’s goblin stuff.”
“Every Kamiyon has a voice in the clan’s diet,” Thekla explains. “The matriarch’s alone counts for nearly a third, so often what she says goes, but as the eldest daughter, mine’s the biggest in my generation. And it’s part of the old customs that if a goblin leaves the warren’s territory for more than seven days, they have to appoint a speaker. It’s dumb. We do clan business on video calls now anyway, but you gotta appease the crusties with this stuff.”
“That’s right,” Kell says. “Our lead singer is a goblin princess.”
“Okay, I am not that.” Thekla sees Evan’s eyebrows shoot up. “I would maybe be next in line for the matriarchy, but she’s not a queen, I’m not a princess, the diet would have to approve, and despite how often my mother’s on my ass, I’m not interested in campaigning for it. All it really means is that I have to get on session every couple of weeks and convince some jumpy treasurers not to put any clan holdings in NFTs. And if I’m out of pocket, I need to give my share to a different Kamiyon. I’ll probably just get Dalma to do it.”
“Dalma’s a Kamiyon?” Evan’s still got that look of revelation on his face. This is always what happens when humans hear about the clan.
“Yeah. I think she’s like my third cousin.”
“Exactly how big is the Kamiyon clan?” Evan asks.
“There’s about four or five hundred of us. My delegation is about a fifth of that.” Thekla is eager to change the subject. “Look, it’s not a big deal. I’ll just get it done this afternoon.”
“You have a delegation?”
“Let’s talk set, shall we?” Thekla returns to the whiteboard, scribbling out their ten songs on their own list. “I’m gonna put it out there. I think we get rid of Geriatric. It’s not up to our current standard. Any objections?”
“Not from the elf,” Sion says. “I’ve never loved that one.”
Kell shrugs. “Every band needs a vault, right?”
“Cut it,” Evan says.
“And Kell and I have been talking.” Thekla goes down the list, puts a T or a K next to every song except Trapped Like Rats, which gets an S. “Me and Kell have written every song but Trapped, which is from Sion.” And he only contributed it because it’s some kind of fucked up spell, she thinks, but plows past it. “It’s time to acknowledge the new era. We’re doing an Evan song.”
Evan shrinks from the collective gaze levied on him. “I’m not exactly much of a songwriter.”
“Bullshit, dude,” Kell says. “I always hear you working on that riff when we’re in downtime. That thing’s tasty. And it’s not one of our songs.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. That one that sounds like—one sec.” Thekla retrieves her guitar, plays the line on her lowest strings. It’s kind of a motown sound, warm and nostalgic when Evan plays it.
“Oh, that.” Evan sheepishly straps his bass on. “That’s just something I started doodling back when I first joined. I was excited to have a space and an amp again, you know? It’s basically just a bass melody and, uh, some lyrics.”
“Lyrics!” Kell jogs over to her drums. “Now you gotta share.”
“Okay. Okay. But only cause you’re asking.” Evan warms his fingers up on a major scale. “This one’s an outgrowth from an improv me and Kell did when I first got to the Shed. It’s in G, but it goes into D mix on the chorus.”
“A modal change.” Sion is tuning up. “And he says he’s not a songwriter.”
“It’s dumb. It’s not really Legendary. Uh, but it goes like this.” The Shed fills with that mellow warmth, cut through with percussive ghost notes and pentatonic flourishes. Evan has a way of standing out of the way and serving the song in their larger arrangements; Thekla forgets sometimes about how proficient he is.
Evan leans down toward the mic, realizes he won’t make it with the clearance and gets awkwardly onto his knees. Thekla hurries over and ratchets it up to human height.
“Thanks, hon,” he says, voice now amplified. He clears his throat and sings.
Thekla has only ever heard Evan sing backup, and thanks to her songwriting, it’s more yelling than singing. This is the first time he’s done anything close to lead vocals. He’s staid and reserved at first. But as he enters the second half of the verse, he loses his timidity to the tide of his song.
His voice is raw and free of technique, but there’s a core of strength, a soulfulness, like he’s an old folk field recording on a scratchy vintage vinyl. The flaws in his voice are the chipped paint on a beloved keepsake, the fade on a photo that you’ve never taken off your desk. His Tennessee accent is coming through as he sheds his inhibitions, adding a dusty Americana twang.
Kell picks up his rhythm, puts a gentle sidestick beat to it. Thekla plays out a droning chord, incorporates the warble of her barely-ever-touched whammy bar for atmosphere. Sion falls in with a long, plaintive slide in the chorus, and the band quiets again, three sets of pointy ears following Evan as he lays its progression out.
Evan sings about fire and smoke. He sings about waking up when you feel you shouldn’t have, about the end coming and going and leaving you still alive, still having to get up and face the day. He sings about the impossibility of starting over and having to do it anyway.
And Evan’s right, it isn’t Legendary’s sound, not at first, but Kell puts some force into the drums, and Thekla finds the right distortion to saturate her drone, and Evan follows suit, adding a growling edge to his bass. Sion stomps his reverb pedal and skywrites a glimmering lament above them.
“Outro, same riff as the verse,” Evan calls into the mic, and his bass roars as he takes the song home. They’ve transformed it from a single sorrowful human’s elegy into something from all four of them, something with bruising power, not a plea, but a demand. Evan and Kell slow them to a ringing finish, and Thekla breaks into brisk applause.
“We’re doing this shit,” she says. “And you’re singing on it.”
“What? But you’re our singer.” Evan’s flailing.
“Not on this one,” Thekla says. “We’re getting you on the mic.”
Evan flushes. “Is it even gonna be ready in time?”
“I don’t care.” Thekla crosses her arms. “It’s maybe a little unfinished, but that’s just giving it power.”
“That was some alchemical shit, man!” Kell tosses her sticks to one side as she gets off the drums. “Maybe we polish it, but I think Thekla’s right. We gotta keep the grain on there.”
“It’s not bad,” Sion says. “I’ll take it over Geriatric.”
Thekla strides to the board and erases Geriatric from their list. “All right, Evan H. What’s this one called?”
“In my head, it’s Field Fire,” he says. “The place you guys took me when I got in on that first day.”
“Oh, Ev.” Kell lays a hand on her heart. “You’re such a fucking sweetheart.”
He flushes. “If your aunt says it’s okay…”
“It’s more than okay.” She pats his head. “She didn’t come up with the name, anyway. She barely speaks English. If she comes demanding royalties, I’ll handle it.”
Thekla uncaps the pen, writes FIELD FIRE on the board, and slashes out SET on their checklist.
“Last step.” She says it out loud as she writes it underneath. “Hit the motherfucking road.”
