In Rhythm, page 6
A combination of pre-stage nerves and neuroticism came over her and she turned to Candy. “Let’s go over our set once more.”
“I thought you were taking Nuts out to see what it’s like out there. I want to see who’s playing.”
“I will once we go over our set.”
Candy groaned.
“Humor me, please. I don’t know what’s up with me but I’m mad nervous and we don’t go on for two more hours.” Velvet dug into one of her pockets and fished out a lollipop. She quickly unwrapped it and slid it into her mouth. The tart watermelon flavor exploded on her tongue.
“Okay. Lead the way.” Candy followed her.
Candy grabbed her bag and food, and they set out to find a quieter space.
Comments and chatter around her muddled together until one penetrated the white noise. “I can’t wait to see Tres Armadas perform. Zazzle is back and from what I heard still gives a great show.”
Velvet had never slid into a puddle of rubber cement, but as her body folded forward in place and her arms flailed to keep her from falling, she thought it might have the same effect. Her lollipop almost fell out, but due to the desert in her mouth, stuck to her cheek.
Zazzle is here?
She hadn’t seen him since the night at the Egyptian months ago. Scratch that last remark. The images of his viral video flashed in her mind. The rumor mill had it that he’d cleaned up his act, which accounted for his recent absence from Tres Armadas. The resonance of his laughter pulsated in her muscle fibers. She shivered at how much she wanted any part of his body against her to feel it, even if it were to her detriment. Whether or not he was clean and sober, Velvet could see him derailing her smooth running train right off the tracks. Do not pass go.
Chapter Six
Zazzle gripped his meditation beads in one hand and a to-go cup of tea in the other. His serene corner of backstage, by the main stage, was quiet and the scent of lavender from the essence he dropped around the room surrounded him. Tres Armadas wasn’t on until 1:30 am. They’d finished a shit load of pre-show press but more questions, photographs and videos awaited them at the main stage. The other two members of Tres Armadas were off doing their thing. Maartin Blas no doubt penned music somewhere or checked out the acts at the festival. Christian likely interviewed for his solo project and networked. Christian’s solo project still rippled under Zazzle’s skin like poison. Zazzle’s relationship with his best friend had deteriorated to shit. It was the last thing on his recovery list left to address and the one he wanted to distance himself from with a ten-foot pole.
The music vibrated around him, as did the seductive pull of his old life. Against the advice of his licensed clinician and therapist, he was back with Tres Armadas and ready to take the stage again. He’d felt the call to the dials months ago, but between the doubts of his bandmates, and the suggestion of Tres Armadas’s manager, Maggie Swanson, to take the time he needed, Zazzle had stayed far away at a rehabilitation center in New Zealand.
Overseas, he’d worked with medical professionals to be consistent with his therapy and develop a routine he could fall back on to not only manage the stress of his substance dependency, but also his depression. When he’d been diagnosed, it wasn’t news to him, but when his doctor had worked with him to prescribe the right dosage of medication, he felt like himself again and able to cope with the reality of his illness.
Over the last six months of rehabilitation and recovery, his doctors had grown a little more comfortable with the idea of him returning to the stage, but had warned him about the pitfalls of going back to a life where drugs and alcohol circulated freely. As a result, he and his doctors agreed on monthly check-ins with his clinician in New Zealand and weekly sessions with his therapist in LA, who he saw in person when he could, and virtually for extra support.
Nearly overdosing had been rough, but admitting he had a problem was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. During his three months at the center the combination of cognitive behavioral therapy, a secular 12-Step approach, meditation and physical therapy helped him recover. For the past three months he’d worked to manage his depression and maintain all that he’d learned at the center with his daily routine that helped him stay clean. He’d exposed himself to the scene little by little with interviews when he and Tres Armadas had decided on his return at BonBon and worked on a few mixes with artists he trusted. Now he was ready for his UK return.
BonBon Fields was too huge a festival to make such a comeback, but that used to be his style. Go big or go the fuck home. The members of the trio, though skeptical about his return, were finally on board with him coming back. His onstage persona couldn’t be replaced or matched. Not only did the fans want him back but a big part of him still wanted the stage. Above all else, he was anxious to right his wrongs and finish out their current tour schedule. Tonight he was going big.
Backstage, he stuck with his EMETAH—Exercise, Meditation, Eating healthy meals, Tea with CBD oil, Affirmations and Hydration—recovery routine, even in the busy festival atmosphere. Joseph, his therapist, had suggested the CBD oil in conjunction with his depression meds to combat his post-detox anxiety. The non-psychoactive addition proved to be another weapon in his arsenal to his recovery plan.
His friends and artists he admired were playing at BonBon and he wanted to check out some of the performances. If he avoided the denser areas and the press he might be able to see some of the new kids perform. He donned a cap and left his makeshift sanctuary. He ducked into a corridor and passed a lounge where people were chillin’ either before or after their set. That’s when he saw her. She straddled a scooter and the white stick of a lolly penetrated her lips.
He hadn’t seen Velvet since that night at the Egyptian, but the night before he’d let the drugs completely ruin his life... He could only describe that night he’d had with her and their potent connection as magical. She made him laugh easier than anyone he knew, and her passion for dance music knocked his boxer-briefs off. He’d never forget the way she melted in his arms when he made love to her. He’d spent many torturous nights over the past six months thinking about her.
Loss seized his stomach like sour milk. He remembered how he’d spoken to her when he flew high on bumps of coke, MDMA and alcohol. He clutched his chest. He’d made a choice that night at the club. With all that had happened, clearly, he’d chosen wrong. Did she remember him? He took a step in her direction and stalled his advance. It was one step too many toward the lounge where drugs and alcohol circulated. This wasn’t who he was anymore.
Someone bumped into him. “Sorry, man.”
“It’s cool,” he muttered.
“Zaz. It’s me.”
Zazzle did a double take. “Holy shit. What’s going on, dude?” They hugged. Seeing LED brought back memories from the night at the Egyptian. LED had suggested he call it a night when he was barely able to stand up. Candy and Velvet had left the club by then.
“I’m headed to the stage to play. I heard you were back with TA. I’m really glad to see you, man. After all that went down...did you get my email?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the supportive words, man. I really appreciated it.” Zazzle had gotten a few well wishes. LED had been one of the firsts. The girls wish you the best, the email had read, though he’d never mentioned Bedazzled Beats by name.
“You must be pumped. Ready to give the fans a blowout show. They’ve been waiting for you, man.”
Zazzle had read the headlines leading up to BonBon. Zazzle Returns to a Broken Fleet, The Showman of Tres Armadas is Back, Will TA Fans Forgive Zazzle for Leaving? The pressure of the current titles weighed him down but also fueled his motivation and determination to turn things around. He’d never please the press, but he could please the fans and slowly regain respect. He had to admit that the current headlines were better than the ones when he left for New Zealand. The Demise of Tres Armadas, Drugs Destroy EDM Royalty Tres Armadas, and Is Zazzle Dead?
“As ready as jumping back on a galloping horse.”
LED laughed and his eyes darted to the lounge. Zazzle’s gaze followed to where Velvet laughed with Candy and some other DJs. The sound enticed him. She’d laughed with him that way once.
“Zaz?” LED questioned.
Clueless as to what his friend asked, Zazzle answered. “Yeah, man.”
LED’s thumb pointed backward. “I should get going, but I’ll check you later.”
Zazzle arched a brow. “You gonna chill with your girl?”
“Yeah. Later.” LED had little more to say, which was rare. Without prompting he often gushed about Candy. “Break a leg, man.”
“You, too.” Zazzle gave him a pound before LED split.
Zazzle peered into the lounge again but this time the group was gone.
* * *
Tres Armadas traveled to the stage. Maartin and Christian led their path and greeted industry people lining the corridor, but all eyes were on Zazzle. Full smiles accompanied doubtful eyes and even garnered a few whispers. Though they scrutinized him, Zazzle found the overall response to be positive. No one threw rotten tomatoes or eggs.
“This way, guys,” someone said, and they followed. Camera lights flashed furiously and cheers like “Welcome back, Zazzle” and “Go get ’em, guys” punctured through the thudding music and cheering fans ahead.
Zazzle inflated his chest and focused on steadying his lungs. His nerves fired like his skin and perspiration dotted his black short-sleeved shirt. He drained a bottle of water. He’d always get butterflies before going onstage but the expectations of this performance were magnified by his absence and his return. He reminded himself why he’d come back. He wanted to remove any doubts that Tres Armadas was back on top and show the fans and industry that he loved this music as much as they did.
The usual entourage that once flocked around him backstage, offering him liquor and coke, were nowhere in sight. Many of them had dropped off the face of the earth when he was in rehab. None of them had sent encouraging emails and texts, or gift packages letting him know they wished him the best.
One of them, Willem Graf, had shown up as soon as news about him being out of rehab surfaced. When the first thing he did was offer drugs, Isaak used his newfound strength and resources to keep Willem away from him. He communicated his wishes to Christian and Maartin, whose broken trust was still on the mend, and both men supported him, at least in this. Willem was an adult who could use drugs, share them and influence anyone he wanted. Isaak would no longer be one of them.
“Ready, Zaz?” Maartin asked.
“He better be. There’s no turning back.” Christian flipped his hair and rattled off set details like Zazzle was some newbie that just got onto the scene. “The third fader is tricky and the mixer might stick due to the moisture here so really listen in the headphones—”
“I got it, Christian. I’ve been doing this as long as you.” That may have been the most Christian had said to him since they’d first seen each other again a month ago. “It’s my music, too. I’m ready.”
“Yeah.” Christian again embraced silence but his “don’t fuck up” tone spoke volumes.
Before they went on they huddled quickly. “Laten we gaan rock en rollen!” they all shouted. It was time to rock and roll.
Zazzle shuddered at the pre-performance ritual. Over the last year when his substance dependency had gotten out of control, he’d been too high and drunk to remember these small things. Almost having lost it all, he cherished them.
They were announced and the stage vibrated from the deafening roars of the fans. They walked into darkness and scattered lights highlighted their arrival. The thunderous cheers nearly blew out Zazzle’s eardrums.
I really need to invest in earplugs. He’d missed this.
The first note of one of their chart-topping songs played and the place trembled. Zazzle beheld out into a field of never-ending fans whose adoration he thought he’d lost. Anticipation shot through him and the thrill of being onstage had its own addictive pull.
When the fans saw them emerge from the shadows they screamed so loud that Zazzle swore the world itself shook. He stretched out his arm and their cries washed over him. Maartin passed him a mic.
“What’s happening, London?” Zazzle sang into the mic.
More deafening roars hit him.
“Wow,” Zazzle mouthed to Christian and Maartin who pretended to plug their ears. Zazzle laughed. “It’s good to be back. You look beautiful tonight.” How did they still have voices? “Let’s party.”
Sandwiched between Maartin and Christian, they played for the ripe crowd at BonBon. Zazzle’s body kept time to the beat of the music as if it were coming out of him and he felt every enhancement in the song, down to the tiny element deep in the background of the melody Maartin played. He turned the dial from a belly-heavy bass to a hollowed-out bass that sounded as if air breathed into it, opening the hearts of those who listened.
The fans jumped up and down in appreciation. Zazzle looked over at Christian, whose mix teased to enter into his song, and he increased the volume while Zazzle faded out his tune. The mix blended together flawlessly, coming together as one cohesive song. The trio continued this dance, thrilling the fans with their favorite songs and intergalactic lighting.
Zazzle listened and watched Christian, as did Maartin, as they both moved and danced to the music. They jumped up and down to get the crowd even more amped up as Christian tickled them with musical ingenuity and dropped beats at interesting moments to surprise his listeners at just the right moment.
The tribal and Caribbean beats that Zazzle was known for mixed through and the crowd went wild. They recognized his signature and called for the Zazzle of old, the juiced-up hype man of the group. He wasn’t about to disappoint them.
Sweat dripped from Zazzle’s shirt as he climbed on top of the DJ table and gyrated his hips. The crowd devoured every move and each instruction to wave their hands from side to side. Their phones lit the audience and recorded the moment. The other members of his DJ trio continued to rev up the beat in a coordinated attack on the senses. He wiped sweat off his face and dashed back and forth in time to the music. Labored breathing accompanied his moves, but it felt good to be onstage again.
Zazzle was sure this shit was easier when he did coke. This was the most energy he’d exerted in months even with his workout schedule. Rehab may have been three months, but recovery exhausted him like a rock climber scaling a mountain at high altitude. If it hadn’t been for his meticulous schedule, relapsing might have been a real option. Who was he fooling? Relapsing was always a real option. He valued success. This mentality kept him looking ahead for one simple reason. Staying sober meant his life, and the stakes were higher than money or fame.
He’d failed his bandmates and desecrated his character and their reputation as a group when he’d missed shows, acted out and made headline news. Maggie had worked to cancel shows and reschedule their tour dates while he was in rehab, but there were many shows that couldn’t be changed and Christian and Maartin had had no choice but to perform without him, the showman, who was a signature element of their shows.
He pointed at the crowd and they cheered. “Miss me?” He hollered into a mic, egging them on. They lost their heads with screams that bowled him over. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Zazzle felt a tap on his leg. Christian’s face glistened and the light show behind him glowed in bright colors, but his scowl commanded Zazzle to climb down, take over the dials, and move on to the next track. Maartin engaged the fans, dancing with his hands up in the air.
Zazzle sang to the light vocals of the song Christian mixed in and now played at full volume. His job was done. Their closing song pounded through the speakers. Though they were all great at closing out a set, Christian’s mastery left a crowd so emotionally spent and exhausted they could talk of nothing else.
As a group they hadn’t yet decided if their current tour would be their last, but with his antics and absence, he’d lost the trust of the DJ brothers he’d grown up with. He’d do the arduous work to earn back their trust, regain their spot as EDM royalty, and with any hope redeem himself. He left an item off the list. Christian, his best friend who had abandoned him when he needed him most. Zazzle had to settle things with Christian if Tres Armadas had any hope of staying together.
They’d had a good show, the fans were happy, and he was about to pass out. He needed to get his stamina back. Since he came back, words like classic and phrases like vintage Zazzle swam around him. At thirty-five and the youngest member in his group, he battled against the mature labels. Backstage, he almost fell over his slow shuffling feet. He and his bandmates had barely wiped sweat from their brows when the cameras and lights were in their faces. People wanting a piece of them mobbed them. They answered questions, smiled for photos, dried themselves off with towels provided to them and replenished their fluids.
“Zazzle? How is it being back?”
“Guys, Tres Armadas is a trio again. How does it feel?”
Other versions followed and they answered each one with smiles on their face. Some of those smiled strained. “Great,” was always the reply. Internally as a group they were close to imploding and all because of him. The guilt strained his jaw but he remembered what his goals were. He’d take the doubts, be on time for gigs and be the last in their trio standing under the lights and scrutiny of the press. His bandmates had done as much during his absence. He owed them.
