RS: Howl’s sophomore album, Ginsberg, raised a lot of eyebrows and drew criticism for promoting what some called a radical political agenda. How do you respond to that?
JP: [rolling his eyes] First I’d say that the people who criticized it for promoting a political agenda don’t know much about history. Art has always been political, and rock has strong roots in the counterculture movement. Think back to the sixties. How many songs were about protesting the Vietnam war, racism? How many encouraged sexual liberation, civil rights, free speech? Like, have these people never actually listened to Rage Against the Machine? Or Beyoncé? I mean, come on. Is it promoting a radical political agenda to say there should be more to life than the endless grueling drudgery of trying to make enough money to survive, burning yourself out to the point where you need the panacea of drugs just to get through another day? I’m not sure that was radical even when the Beat poets said it.
RS: Howl is under contract with Big Moose to deliver one more album by the end of the summer. What’s next after that?
JP: I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
Chapter Three
PREDICTABLY, THEconference call was a clusterfuck. Jeff put himself on mute and tried to curb the impulse to pull at his hair as he sat at the tiny kitchen table, notebook at his elbow, phone on speaker in front of him. He owed Joe so many beers.
He didn’t care how many flavors of Gatorade Max wanted. Max could request a masseuse and a personal stripper for all Jeff cared. It had nothing to do with him.
Then Trix came out with, “I want to do416 Morning.”
Jeff frantically stabbed Unmute. “Absolutely not.”
Tim said, “It sounds like a good idea—”
“It’ll get people excited for the concert,” Trix said. “I think you can take a day out of your vacation—”
Jeff gritted his teeth. “The concert is already sold out,” he said.
“Then it’ll pique interest for the next album,” she said dismissively.
“I have a family commitment.” If he saidI don’t want to do another albumwhen he was here and they were all there, fuck knew what would happen. That was an in-person argument. “I won’t be there. Not negotiable.”
Tim said, cajoling, “Jeff—”
“I’ll be at a funeral,” he said sharply. “The rest of you can do whatever the fuck you want without me. I’ll be there for sound check at four.”
Crickets.
Joe spoke first. “Sorry to hear, man.”
“If you’ll text the information, Big Moose would like to send flowers—” Tim, that fucking sycophant.
“Sorry for pushing,” Trix said. “That sucks, Jeff. I’m sorry. Do you need anything?”
The kicker of it was she meant it. She was so laser-focused on their music she didn’t see they were making each other miserable. “I’m okay,” he said. “But I need to be there. You know?”
Thankfully things wrapped up after that. Jeff hung up, debated texting Carter, then decided against it. He had leftovers for dinner, took the trash out to the bearproof box, then grabbed his acoustic and went out to the picnic table.
The sky was clear, and with the trees cut back away from the cabin, it felt huge, like it could swallow him up. Tonight he’d be able to see half the Milky Way—though maybe not as well as he would’ve if he broke down about the glasses. If he cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the land, he could pretend he was floating among the stars.
But that wouldn’t be for hours. If he wanted to stay warm until then, he’d need a campfire. Strange how much difference a few hundred kilometers could make; it was probably nice and temperate in the city.
Jeff hadn’t built a fire in probably a decade, but if you had enough paper and kindling and a big honking lighter, you couldn’t go wrong. It took twenty minutes, but one of the small logs finally caught just as the wind picked up off the water.
The Muskoka chairs were too heavy to drag off the porch, but a stump close enough to the firepit served just fine. Jeff sat with his back to the fire to preserve his night vision and walked his fingers up the neck of the guitar. He played as many songs from his teenage days as he could remember. Then, on a whim, he dropped the tuning on the lower strings, because fuck it, he might as well go for the whole experience. He climbed up on the picnic table and lay on his back staring up, and plucked the constellations into existence one star at a time.
He sang until his throat hurt from the campfire smoke, and then realized he should’ve filled some buckets before the sun went down. He put the guitar away and used the biggest pot in the cabin to douse the flames. It took four trips.
His clothes and hair stank of woodsmoke after, but he liked it. This wasn’t the sour sweat of a coke comedown or the stale vomit stench of a hangover. He crawled into bed and pulled the blankets around him in a cocoon, and when a loon called out over the Sound, he closed his eyes and slept.
THE BLACKOUTcurtains were a bad idea.
That was Jeff’s excuse, anyway, when he rolled out of bed at ten, still smoky, dry-eyed and dry-mouthed and feeling like he’d been on a bender even though the last alcoholic drink he’d had was at lunch with Carter.
