I offered a shrug. “If it reaches a point where we can all see what he needs and he can’t, we’ll force the issue. But for now, I’m just going to keep tabs on him and keep trying to get him a decent job away from those scumbums.”
“You turkeys want turkey?” Maddox yelled up the stairs. “Get your feathered asses down here.”
“I don’t have feathers on my ass!” Marcus yelled.
“I can solve that for you.” I grinned.
“I am not your dummy. Keep your pins and feather off my ass.”
Chase yelled up the stairs, “Keep your pins off his ass!”
Austin
“No!”
The scream came from inside the headphones. The crash of the chair resonated in the booth.
“No, no,fucking no!”
“Goddamn it,” Taylor hissed next to me.
“He’s gonna get his tidy whities in a bunch again?” Bryce asked.
“He heard you,” Grant sang softly.
“I’m so over thisprima donna,” Luis hissed.
All four of our heads bobbed in agreement.
“New producer?” Bryce whispered.
“Totally. We need to talk to Angela.” I tossed a look at Grant. “Make it happen?”
He shook his smartphone at me. “Already on it.”
Frankel slammed through the door, and stormed into the sound booth. He practically dove at me, wagging a finger and swearing to himself until he was right in my face. “What the hell are you doing? What is wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, and I thought we were singing? Could be wrong. Might have the wrong place?” I looked around at the other four of my bandmates who were desperately trying not to laugh. “Looks like a sound booth. Smells like one too.”
Sound booths had a curious latex smell to them, mostly from the sound proofing and enhancers that were tacked to the walls. This time, however, they weren’t saving me from the screaming wrath of Jim “Mike Meister” Frankel and his ‘sing like Menudo’ attitude.
Not that I didn’t respect Menudo, they were groundbreaking.
In the Eighties.
“You managed to stow that shit for the past four albums, and you’re pulling it out now?” Frankel snapped.
“Voices evolve, Frank,” Taylor said. “We can all hear it in our own. Why do you think he wouldn’t?”
“Kid thinks he’s fucking Hugh Jackman here, singing on stage,” Frankel said.
“There’s so many things wrong with that statement,” Bryce intoned. “One, no one in this room is under twenty-four. We’re not really kids anymore.”
“Two,” Luis said, “what the hell are we on when go on tour? A laundry basket? We’re on stage.”
“And three,” Grant cut in, “have you ever stopped to listen Austinreallysing. I mean really open that trap and let loose? Hugh Jackman? The man could put Michael Crawford and Pavarotti to shame.”
“Pavarotti is dead,” Frankel snapped.
