Badd Mojo by Jasinda Wilder

Author:Jasinda Wilder
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781941098851
Publisher: Jasinda Wilder

9

Canaan

* * *

I found myself pleasantly surprised by the experience of playing with Mike and Tomas. Mike was, shockingly, an extremely talented keys player, and possessed a rich, warm voice. The songs he’d written thus far were introspective and somewhat dark in terms of lyrical content, and when you add in layers of guitar and mandolin and such on top of Mike’s complex vocal style? Well…you had a really interesting sound. Mike couldn’t help growling, even in a folk song, but he could also just sing, which made for a vocal style that could go from tortured and snarling and growling to emotive and soulful.

Tomas was a wizard with anything stringed—he could play upright bass, cello, violin, mandolin, dobro, lap-steel, 12-string, banjo…he was just one of those people who was created by God or the universe or whatever for one specific function, and that was to play music. Tomas didn’t say much, and was awkward and weird when he did talk, but put an instrument in his hands, and he transformed into this confident master of his world. He had a slight accent, from the few times I’d heard him speak over the past three days— Scandinavian, I think, but I wasn’t sure.

With me to round things out, we were able to lay tracks right off the bat. Mike had built himself a hell of a home studio in Seattle, a place where we could jam and practice and just play, but with the press of a button, we could also record. He wanted it to sound authentic, not a smooth, silky, produced thing, but rough and real. Which worked, since the three of us tended to be best once we’d been playing for a few hours, we’d hit the zone and find an element that had been missing, figure out a riff that wasn’t right or a phrase that didn’t work.

It was a wild, intense three days, though. We played, and we drank, and we passed out for a few hours, and then woke up and ate at a nearby diner and talked music and then went back to the studio and went back to playing, and eventually drinking and playing, and then just drinking.

Mike never asked any questions, and Tomas barely spoke, so I pretended life was totally normal, that I hadn’t ghosted on everyone I knew, that I hadn’t left Aerie without a word, that I wasn’t suppressing everything I felt, that I wasn’t in total agony, deep inside.

I channeled it all into music. I played my ass off. Every emotion, every ounce of pain and confusion and anger I felt, I put into my guitars.

In three days, we had twelve tracks, and each one was utterly inspired.

Three days. That was how long I managed to keep up the pretense that I was fine.

We cut the twelfth and best track yet, finishing at something like midnight. At which point I was a handful of shots in, and everything I’d been ignoring was gnawing away at me.

Aerie.

I had abandoned her.

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