I’m With The Band
Wendy Parman
Word Count 835
The sound of my husband's angry voice drew me away from the bathroom mirror where I was applying my second coat of mascara in preparation for our gig later that night. It was Halloween, and I was about to don my honky-tonk witch attire and was humming happily in anticipation of a frivolous night of Halloween antics.
“What now?” I thought. Weirdly his voice was coming from outside. Through mostly closed windows, Ron’s ringing baritone pierced the neighborhood quiet, as he raged into his cell phone with a string of expletives.
Obscured by our vintage curtains, I lurked by the window with the best view of this one-way melee, mascara wand frozen in my fingers. Long experience with a variety of “impassioned” menfolk taught me at a tender age that one does not put oneself between “gentlemen” and their somehow-always-in-their-eyes-justifiable fury.
“Oh no,” I fretted. “Here it goes.” The entire evening, what might have been a joyful celebration of some good rock and roll and plenty of beer, was about to be blown to smithereens because the person he was shrieking at, was our own mild-mannered drummer, Jerry.
Jesus. What had Jerry, the nicest guy in the world, done? Surely even Captain Cross himself, though not known for the thoughtful assessment of the consequences of his actions, could not think that the evening was going to go smoothly after the verbal demolition he was delivering to poor gentle Jerry. After what seemed like an eon of ranting, Ron, the rabid, ceased his banshee behavior and quickly climbed the stairs.
In that moment, I began to wonder. Had he been drinking? Was this a full-out falling off the wagon? This dreadful possibility threatened to annihilate our entire life together, including the band. Agh! I shook the etch-a-sketch of my mind, one crisis at a time please.
As Ron entered the room, banging the door shut behind him, I remained silent while my eyes did the majority of what could only be called emotional labor, searching for signs of escalation.
He didn’t bother to look at me. I, like the rest of humankind, had been swept into the dustpan of his contempt. “How many times…” he began, pacing wildly,” How many times? Have I asked mother-fucking Jerry to CALL me? CALL. ME. TALK to me. Don’t email me. Do NOT. Email me. How many times?”
Now he rested his gaze on me for a split second in order to take in the what-had-better-be forthcoming agreement. I nodded dutifully; yes, you have.
The tempest continued, along with my wordless, insincere agreement. Apparently, Jerry had tried to get approval regarding the prize for the costume contest via email.
I slipped into my usual role as peacemaker, doing my best to placate Ron. I called Jerry, the drummer, and pleaded with him to do the gig. Later we all met at the bar, where Jerry was telling his tale to the bass player who, like any decent bass player, locked in the pocket with his drummer.
Miserable sets were played, peppered with glares and stares. The angermiester, doled out punishment by calling songs everyone was sick of and playing endless solos in inappropriate places. The chick singer (that would be me) overcompensated, waving her arms around too much and possibly singing sharp. The rhythm held, but just barely. The night of frivolity evaporated, along with the audience’s enjoyment.
As it turned out, it wasn’t the end of the band or our marriage. Yet. We lost drummer Jerry and Don, the bass player, but it solidified a pattern. Ron’s anger blew up the band with great drama and regularity. Each time, I resumed rescue mode, hoping to save the day, inevitably failing, losing band members, and starting over.
Our union spiraled into a slow and awful descent fueled by his addiction to substances and my addiction to saving him from himself. Freeing myself from this relationship was a multilayered mess. My life was not unlike the most recent version of the film, “A Star Is Born,” minus the fame and fortune, which perhaps makes it all slightly more tolerable?
It took far too long for me to surrender to the truth, which was that this unholy partnership with my husband, exploding band dynamics and all, was a recreation of the home I grew up in: the rage-filled men, the cycles of addiction and violence, the ever-present abandonment and despair.
After years of trying to end things, I finally managed to extricate myself and my family from his hypnotic powers. Not long after, one summer day, a song poured out of me as I sat in the backyard. I called it “The Carousel of Despair.” “You caught me up with your big brown eyes; I stood transfixed by your gaze, just like a spider ensnares a fly, lost in a delicate haze.” Writing that song crystallized my sense of our relationship, and the awareness that began to unfold at that Halloween gig years before. I slowly rebuilt a new life.
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Wendy has enjoyed a dubious life in the performing arts, as a singer, songwriter, and actor. Against her better judgment, she has crafted a number of projects around personal narrative, including a musical memoir, and the well-received Callie’s Solo, a musical comedy web series on Youtube. She exalts in being a voice teacher with a thriving studio.