Work Text:
July 28
We’re never going to win Battle of the Bands. I know it’s still ten months away but if we continue down the same path we’re on, we don’t stand a chance. We suck. Seriously suck. My infant cousin Lola plays the pots and pans better than Toni drums and Ruben… Well, Ruben only seems to know variants of the same three chords. I suppose that’s pretty decent for a bassist. But all his lyrics rhyme.
We’ve been practicing four times a week and if there’s been any improvement, you’d be pressed to hear it. It isn’t for lack of effort, either. These calluses are here for a reason. (And no, Pedro, they’re not from too much wanking.)
I can’t keep up as front man, though. Pedro’s right. No matter how intolerable my brother can be, he does have a point. My voice is too thin and reedy. (And if you’re still reading this, as I suspect you are, Pedro, I swear I will creep into your room while you’re sleeping and fill your mouth with toenail clippings. Chew on that.)
So we’re in the market for a vocalist—one that can write better lyrics than Ruben. I say this as if we’re going to roll up back to Real Madrid Academy in the fall and there’ll be a line forming for the distinct honor of joining our band. I mean, it’s not even as if most of our classmates realize that Toni, Ruben and I exist. If they did, we’d probably be getting pantsed in the hallway and shaken down for our lunch money. Small mercies, then.
August 14
More evidence that we’re not going to win Battle of the Bands:
The sun is shining
And I can’t help pining
I want to sit next to you
And enjoy the view
Thankfully, that’s all I remember.
Those are the lyrics Ruben’s come up with for the song we’ve spent all month composing. I know I’m no Bob Dylan, but c’mon! Even Toni, who’s practically allergic to confrontation, couldn’t resist laughing. In retrospect, I see that I shouldn’t have been so blunt with Ruben when he asked for my opinion. But if there’s no honesty in art then there’s no honesty in anything, is there?
Now if I can only convince these two that Burnt Pancakes is NOT a cool band name, we’ll be set.
August 21
Just back from a soul-sucking family holiday to Marbella .
We stayed at the same seaside cottage we rent every year, which meant I had to share a room with that mouth breather again. Everything was going fairly well until Dad rented a boat to take us offshore fishing. Pedro caught a hook in his palm and started bleeding out like a stuck pig. I probably shouldn’t have said Pedro did it on purpose to deny me one of the only pleasures I take from these annual tests of endurance because Mom, of course, overreacted and made me apologize to him. Then she locked my guitar in the car trunk for the rest of the week. Even after I promised to be nice to Pedro! She said it had nothing to do with ‘the constant immature bickering’ but the fact that I was giving her a migraine. I tried not to take it too personally because, really. This is the same woman who holds Enrique Iglesias in such high esteem.
The rest of the trip doesn’t even bear mentioning.
We did stop in Granada on the way home to visit Abuelo and Abuela—a small window of light in another otherwise painful trek across the Iberian Peninsula . Abuela made my favorite tres leches cake for dessert and she and Abuelo gave me a box of blank sheet music monogrammed with my initials so I can record my compositions for posterity.
It almost made up for the agony of being stuck in the backseat with Pedro for five hours. He convinced Mom and Dad to play Shakira’s new album which, suspiciously enough, got stuck in the CD player. We had to listen to it on repeat the entire way home. If I’d been subjected to that rubbish even a minute longer, I’m positive my ears would have started bleeding. And I know he did it on purpose—I saw him fiddling with something in the front seat when we were packing up the car to leave.
(Don’t try to deny it, Pedro. It isn’t becoming. When are you leaving anyway?)
August 23
Pedro left this morning for his yearlong exchange program in Beijing . I’m trying to figure out the best way to convince Mom to let me turn his bedroom into my music room. I already approached Dad about it but he just referred me to Mom. Does he think I don’t know what 'ask your mother' means by now?
Sometimes, I swear, it’s like they’re not even taking me seriously.
Turns out that insufferable brother of mine is good for something after all. He’s appointed me as caretaker of his record collection while he’s away. I was very nonchalant about the whole thing. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’ve coveted it for ages.
And no matter what Pedro says, I did catch a piece of pollen in my eye on our way into the airport. It itched, which made me rub at it. That’s why my eyes might have looked slightly misty.
August 26
Mom confiscated the records from me. She said she’s already been through this once already, listening to Pedro wear his “Snits” and “Pixels” records out. I couldn’t stop laughing at her. Wrong reaction, apparently. Now she’s forcing me to attend dinner tonight with the new neighbors. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye.
August 27
As expected, that was a torturous waste of time.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit there were a few enjoyable moments. Sr. Mata is a violinist with the Madrid orchestra and he played a Bach concerto for us after dinner. He’s absolutely brilliant. He offered to look over my compositions and give me feedback on them. Finally! A kindred spirit.
And the dinner Sra. Mata whipped up put Mom’s culinary skills to shame. But let’s be honest, that’s not very difficult. (Am I right, bro? Damn… I keep forgetting. Force of habit, I suppose.)
Their kid, though? Juan Jr.? What a tosser! He looks like he’s twelve, is cheery enough to induce nausea and has terrible taste in music. He said he mostly listens to Michael Jackson. What? No, seriously. What?
I spent the rest of the evening reading Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground, which I’d had the presence of mind to slip into my back pocket before we left for dinner. Jr. sat there playing Skyrim and attempting mindless chatter. Dull. I found myself thinking, more times that I’d like to admit, ‘if Pedro were here, we’d be having a right laugh at Jr.’s expense.’ I’m sure one day I’ll look back on this moment in time as the root of my unraveling. Because if I’m actually starting to miss Pedro? May god help us all.
Anyway, Juanito—as his mother calls him—is in my year at school. Mom made me promise I’d help him settle in and introduce him to my friends when the new term starts. That’s just adding insult to injury.
September 5
Classes begin tomorrow. I’m by no means eager to return to that snakepit but I’m sure it can’t get any worse than what I’ve suffered through today.
We were lined up to squeeze in one last practice session but Ruben had to cancel at the last minute. He was finally able to get an appointment with the specialist for all those dizzy spells he’s been having. Toni and I jammed out for a bit before I got frustrated with Toni for messing up the count. We’re already in need of a new front man, do I really have to worry about finding a drummer who can keep a beat? Instead, we ended up reclaiming Pedro’s records from Mom’s closet and listened to Led Zeppelin II—the best of their self-titled series, in my opinion.
So there I was enjoying a low key afternoon with Toni until we went outside to sneak a few clove cigarettes in the backyard. I was right in the middle of what I thought was a really sound analysis of the Godard movie I’d dragged Toni and Ruben to see last week when, out of nowhere, a football came sailing over the fence and hit me square on the back of the head. Then, horror of horrors, Jr. came over to collect it and Toni took a liking to him. I thought I was hallucinating when I heard Toni ask him to listen to records with us. If only I had been.
Instead, I ended up spending my last day of freedom watching Jr. infiltrate my social circle and suck up to my mother. He was so convincing, Mom invited him to stay for dinner. Afterwards, she said that I could stand to learn a thing or two from him. Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what the world needs—another mindless idiot wasting oxygen.
September 15
We landed our first gig. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not shouting from the rooftops with excitement.
It’s scheduled for the first weekend of October. Toni’s Uncle Franco owns a coffee shop and he’s booked us for Friday evening. I’m under no illusions that we’ve earned this—it’s blatant nepotism. But even if I’d like to turn it down as a matter of principle, we need the experience if we’re going to have the slightest chance qualifying for Battle of the Bands.
I’ve gone ahead and scheduled practice sessions for every evening and intensive jams on the weekends. I’m hoping to convince Toni and Ruben that we should stick to playing covers. I’ll even let them run with Burnt Pancakes as our band name if that’s what it takes. Because there’s absolutely no chance in hell I’m getting on stage and singing poorly worded limericks set to classic rock riffs. I’d like to preserve what little is left of my artistic integrity.
And no, we don’t have any leads on new band members. Somebody defaced our sign-up sheet with a variety of shoddily drawn cocks. How original.
September 19
Color me surprised, but we’re actually starting to sound decent. We’ve worked through a couple of Smiths songs and spruced up a few other covers. We should be good for a half hour or so. After that, all bets are off. I hope Uncle Franco has a contingency plan in place for when everything falls apart.
Jr., meanwhile, continues to be the most annoying person on earth. Apparently, he’s inescapable. We’re in two classes together. He’s managed to worm his way in with all the popular kids, including the Callejon twins and their groupies.
It’s as if the universe is actively conspiring against me.
September 21
Mom invited the neighbors over for dinner tonight. I tried to explain that I had a very important practice session scheduled but she made me call it off. Frankly, Toni and Ruben didn’t seem nearly as upset about it as I was.
Mom made her (in)famous paella, which everyone pushed around their plate politely. Thankfully, Abuela is in town visiting this week and took charge of dessert. It was the only edible part of the meal. Afterward, I tried to sneak out to the garage to get in a bit of practice but Mom saw me trying to escape and sent Jr. and I upstairs to my room. Now I’m sitting here scribbling this while that lunkhead flips carelessly through my record collection and messes up the order of my bookshelves.
He’s just asked if he can borrow my math textbook so he can finish up tomorrow’s assignment. I suppose I can stand him long enough to finish this awful problem set on derivatives.
September 28
Apparently, dinner with the Mata family is becoming a weekly thing. What an egregious misuse of my time.
Does Mom not understand that I’m a mere five days away from the biggest night of my musical career?
October 3
Tonight’s the night.
Ruben’s a bit more jittery than normal. Initially, I attempted be understanding. But after watching him pace around for an hour looking pained, I finally snapped and told him to suck it up. We’re all anxious. The more out of sorts we seem, the worse we’ll sound. We certainly don’t need any help in that department.
October 4
I can’t bring myself to talk about what happened yet. I’ve never been more scared in my entire life. I wish Pedro were here right now.
October 10
I’m still finding it difficult to talk about but Mom said I might feel better if I wrote about it.
Ruben collapsed at our gig and was rushed to the emergency room. There’s something wrong with his heart. He’s still in the hospital, where they’re running a bunch of tests on him. He’s supposed to be released next week sometime but he won’t be back at school any time soon. It’s unsettling not to know what’s happening.
Actually, it’s terrifying. I felt so helpless standing there waiting for the ambulance to arrive. And I still can’t help feeling guilty for dismissing his concerns earlier that night. Ruben seemed to sense it and told me to stop playing the martyr because it doesn’t look good on me. I had a hard time not losing it all together after that because there was Ruben in that awful hospital bed, looking so small and pale and stuck all over with needles, trying to reassure me.
He’s a far better friend than I deserve.
October 17
R.I.P. Burnt Pancakes. In light of what happened, Toni and I have decided to take a break.
November 3
I forgot how lonely it is to play music by yourself all of the time.
November 11
I’ve been reading a lot of Sartre lately.
November 15
We went to see Sr. Mata play with the orchestra tonight. It was truly a singular experience. The best part, though? Watching Jr. squirm uncomfortably in his seat throughout the entire performance. And the murderous look on Jr.’s face when I told Sr. Mata I’d be interested in learning more about classical music? Delicious.
An evening well spent.
November 27
I am so livid right now that I can barely sit still long enough to write this. I can barely keep from jumping out of my seat, punching the air and shouting pithy insults at the back of my closed door. I’m in the throes of a full-on, red-blooded rage here.
Mom and Dad are going to visit Pedro in China for two weeks right before Christmas. Me? I’m getting packed off to the neighbors. Yes, you read that correctly. I mean, it’s not like I’m turning 18 next year or anything.
Do they fail to see the sheer irony and hypocrisy of it all? They’re going to visit someone they’ve let fuck off to the other side of the world by himself without a second glance. Yet I can’t look after myself for two weeks in my own house? With the neighbors twenty five feet away if I do need something? Fucking unacceptable.
Tell me, how does he do it? It takes great skill to completely ruin my life when he’s 9,000 kilometers away, so points to Pedro for that.
December 5
Ruben returned to class today. He’s looking even better than he did this past weekend.
On the walk home, he asked Toni and me what was going on with the band, even volunteered to be our manager. I wasn’t expecting the question so I’m damn sure Toni wasn’t either. I may have said that it seemed even more pointless now than it ever was. Ruben just leveled us with this withering judgmental look and said he never would have taken us for quitters. Then he crossed the street and caught the bus home.
Toni and I just pretended to ignore it.
December 6
Ruben said if we wanted to ignore it, fine with him, but he meant what he said.
December 10
Mom and Dad left for Beijing this morning.
Before she left, Mom pulled me aside and ordered me to be nice to Jr. because we have more in common than I think. I told her that she was being ridiculous but she started to get bent out of shape, so I hugged her goodbye and said fine.
December 11
This is not going to end well.
December 14
Jr. is outside kicking the football around with Jose Callejon. Jose Callejon!
The kid is cavorting with my arch nemesis right in front my face! Has he no shame? Doesn’t he know that Jose and his twin brother Juanmi’s drum and bass act is the most serious contender for Battle of the Bands?
December 17
Sra. Mata took me the Reina Sofia museum after school this afternoon. She said whenever she’s feeling a bit out of sorts, she likes to come and see Picasso’s Guernica . It helps her sort through what’s important and what’s not. ‘Everything’s about perspective,’ she said.
It made a lot of sense to me, actually.
On the drive home, she started talking about Jr. I’ll never understand our parents’ incessant need to force a false camaraderie between the two of us. It’s not going to happen, all right? And why do they keep insisting that we have so much in common?
What do they think I could possibly have in common with someone who wears khaki pants and has never heard of Fleet Foxes?
December 18
My attempts to avoid Jr. aren’t working out as well as I’d hoped. Toni and Ruben invited him to come along tonight to see Pilar and her band play a small club down in Lavapiés.
The Ruby Red Slippers sounded awesome. Pilar totally rocked it out on bass, glammed and glittered up like a real sexpot. She does things to me, she really does. She got on unnervingly well with Jr., of course. Insistent little worm, isn’t he?
December 20
I came home earlier than expected today and I saw Jr. playing the piano. He’s really, really good. Like, genius level talent. He writes his own compositions. By which I mean full blown orchestra scores. One of Sr. Mata’s colleagues was there, lecturing him about diminishing fifths. Even when he was playing, Jr. looked so sullen and unenthusiastic about the whole thing. When he saw me watching, he flushed really red before excusing himself from the room. That was the last I saw of him before Sra. Mata dragged me out Christmas shopping. He’s been shut up in his room ever since we returned.
I’m more than a little confused, to say the least. Why would he keep something like this under wraps?
December 21
He’s been practicing with Jose and Juanmi! Nothing serious, he says, just every now and again to 'have fun for a change' and 'play something that wasn’t written by someone who died three hundred years ago.' I couldn’t help but be offended. Did he think that Burnt Pancakes wasn’t up to his exacting musical standards?
He said he thought no such thing. In fact, he said that I didn’t seem very interested in him as a person, let alone as a musical collaborator. And he had the nerve to look sad about all of it. For some reason, that only made me angrier so I punched him. Not my finest moment, I admit. Worse still, he didn’t even tell his parents what happened. Just said he’d been jumped by some jerk in the park on his way home from school.
I need to get out of this house immediately. I love Sr. and Sra. Mata. Really I do. But I cannot even look at Jr. right now without wanting to throw up.
December 22
I stayed at Ruben’s last night. Good thing, too. I would have lost my shit entirely if I’d been around when Mom and Dad called to say they won’t be returning home until late Christmas Day.
I wasn’t up to facing anyone so I broke into my house to be alone. I spent the rest of the day listening to records in my room, trying to decide whether to cry or punch a hole through the wall. It proved to be too much effort to decide and, in the end, I passed out on the floor. When I woke up later, someone had tucked a pillow under my head and wrapped a blanket around me. Trite and sentimental, yes. But I’ll allow that it did make me feel a bit better.
December 23
Paula arrived home from university this morning. Of course, I had jam all over my face and was wearing my pajamas when she walked in. Not only is she beautiful, she’s sunny and quirky and smart—all together unlike her brother. I kind of lost my cool for a second and may have snorted milk out of my nose when she teased Sr. Mata about his ever-expanding bald spot. Jr. just snickered at me and continued to eat his cereal.
December 24
As angry as I am with them, I couldn’t help but miss my parents tonight. Even so, Christmas Eve at the Matas turned out rather nice. Several of Sr. Mata’s colleagues from the orchestra were there—including Jr.’s theory professor. Jr. spent a lot of time keeping a safe distance from him all evening. I could hardly keep my amusement in check, which was slightly problematic seeing that I’ve been doing my best to pretend he doesn’t exist.
Sr. and Sra. Mata got me a gift certificate to Waxworks Records, which was super cool. And Mom and Dad left one of their gifts for me—a new Moleskine journal that I’m going to start writing in next year.
I gave Jr. a box set of the Twilight books. He had no idea what they were. Paula did, though, and couldn’t stop laughing. When she ended up nose deep in the first later on in the evening, I’m not going to lie, I was kind of disillusioned. Until she threw it at the wall, saying she found the characterization insufferable and the prose overwrought. Now that’s my kind of girl.
Jr., of course, bought me a set of bamboo picks and a new capo for my guitar. He just can’t help himself, can he? He even takes the fun out of being mean spirited.
December 25
Mom and Dad came home tonight with none other than PEDRO in tow. My life just gets better by the second, doesn’t it? I have a sinking feeling this is the big surprise Mom and Dad have been hinting at for months and not the Fender Strat I’ve been hoping for.
If that’s not a letdown, I don’t know what is.
(Don’t feel too bad, bro. It won’t be the first time you’ve been responsible for my disappointment.)
December 27
They’re getting along like a house on fire. Of course they are.
December 31
Since Pedro and Paula have been connected at the hip all week, Jr. remains a constant thorn in my side. Tonight I’ll be accompanying Pedro, Paula and Jr. to Toni’s New Year’s party. Uncle Franco lent him a karaoke machine. Kill me now, please.
Since it is the end of the year, perhaps I should take a moment to rehash all the things that I’m thankful for this year.
1. Ruben’s on his way to recovery
2. Pedro’s bunked off to
China
Would it be too much to ask for something interesting to happen next year?
January 1
For someone who purports to hate me so much, you sure spend a lot of time talking about me, little brother. And the same goes for Jr., as you so lovingly refer to him. Listen, Mom mentioned that you haven’t been yourself lately, what with me leaving, Ruben getting sick and the band breaking up. Things aren’t nearly as bad as you’re intent to believe. Chin up. Maybe if you apologize to Jr. properly you can talk him into joining your band. As we saw last night, he sure as hell sings better than you. Just a thought. And I miss you too, Esteban. Happy New Year.
IGNORE HIM.
AND WOULD IT HAVE BEEN TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR YOU NOT TO DEFACE MY NEW JOURNAL, YOU PRICK?
January 2
If it weren’t bad enough that Jr. and Pilar spent all of New Year’s Eve huddled in a corner chattering mindlessly at one another, Pedro says she’s next door right now going over some new material with him. But wait! It gets even better! Jr. asked Pedro to tell me to swing by and join them if I’m free.
Right. I’m just supposed to sit there and strum harmonies while the girl I’ve had a music crush on for years is consorting with Chipmunk Cheeks two feet away from me. Call me crazy but I’m going to take a pass.
YOU’RE A JACKASS IN NEED OF AN ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
GET LOST, PEDRO.
January 8
Still reveling in Pedro’s departure but I can’t help feeling a bit unmoored lately. I spent most the day wandering around downtown, bought a few records, ate some sushi, skulked around my favorite used bookshop. Basically, all the things that usually make me feel better. They didn’t.
January 11
Toni and Ruben refused to go to the movies with me tonight to see Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. They said I’d been acting ‘emo enough’ lately and didn’t need any encouragement. What’s that supposed to mean?
January 14
Sra. Mata drove me to the dentist this morning because Mom had an important meeting she couldn’t reschedule. Do wisdom teeth even have an evolutionary purpose?
She’s sneaky, that woman. On the way home, she asked if I minded stopping at the Reina Sofia so she could have a quick look at the new addition to their outdoor sculpture garden. While I was waiting, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the Guernica —not like that’s difficult, considering how prominently they’ve displayed it. Sra. Mata found me there two hours later but she didn’t say anything. She just gave me a small smile and asked if I was ready to head home.
January 15
I called an emergency meeting with Ruben and Toni this afternoon. We’ve decided to reconvene the band. I’m tired of playing guitar by myself, I feel like I’m creating in a vacuum. Honestly, having no one around to bounce ideas off has been wretched for my artistic process. We’ve decided Ruben will stay on as manager. Also, we’re going to up our efforts to recruit a new member.
Considering what I’m working with here, I’ve left off being picky. At this point, we’re just looking for someone who can play an instrument. Any instrument at all will do.
January 26
Toni’s got an uncle for everything, it seems. His Uncle Raul knows a guy who’s just left his old band. Toni talked to him and apparently he’s coming to practice tomorrow. Forgive me if I’m a bit wary. The last time we listened to Uncle Raul, the three of us ended up stranded outside Toledo in the pouring rain, having spent the better part of a day trying to find an underground Femi Kuti show that turned out to be complete myth.
January 28
When I said any instrument will do, I didn’t think I’d have to specify that we’re not in the market for an accordion player. I knew it was too good to be true. Sadly, it’s a hollow victory.
February 6
I’m still battling a hangover and the day’s nearly through.
The Ruby Red Slippers played at La Cocina last night. I ended up getting drunk so I didn’t have to watch Pilar fawn over Jr. all evening. It took the edge off, for sure, but I definitely should have thought twice before pounding that last tequila shot.
Jr. and I got into a bit of a tussle. Well, that may be a bit of an understatement, considering that we ended up getting kicked out of the club before The Ruby Red Slippers were even through their set. I have to give it to Jr., though. He’s got a mighty left hook.
Despite everything, the evening was rather illuminating for everyone involved. Turns out Jr. and Pilar are not actually dating but just friends who enjoy playing music together. Worryingly, though, Ruben and Toni were a little too excited when it slipped out that Jr.’s a music prodigy. They acted all affronted that I hadn’t told them. Yeah. Because I’m the one being all covert and secretive about things here, right?
February 8
Ruben and Toni went behind my back and held a band meeting. They want Jr. to join Burnt Pancakes. I know this is a collaborative effort and all but the band was my idea in the first place! They think they can just take over and force me into working with that jerk? I’d like to see them try.
February 12
Pilar paid me a surprise visit this afternoon. She’d been practicing over at Jr.’s and figured she’d stop by to see how things are with me. I tried playing it super cool, especially when she asked if I had any plans for Valentine’s Day. I see now that enumerating the ways society feeds into such insipid commercialism probably wasn’t what she was hoping to hear.
February 13
Unreal.
I popped by Toni’s on a whim today but I didn’t make it further than the garage window when I saw what was happening inside: Jr., strumming stupidly on a guitar, laughing with Toni and Ruben as if he didn’t have a care in the world. I suppose he doesn’t now, does he? His master plan to ruin my life is finally complete.
This is the kind of betrayal that inspires wars and Homeric poetry.
February 27
I’ve managed to avoid the last two dinners with the Matas. Last week, I feigned illness. This week, I gave in to my baser instincts and pitched a tantrum. Mom’s tried to punish me by banning me from band practice for the two weeks.
I'm relishing the irony here.
March 5
‘This has got to stop.’
My apologies. I wasn’t aware that I’m taking orders from Jr. these days.
The little twerp cornered me after dinner this evening. He called me, among other things, a masochist and a misanthrope. Honestly, I was surprised to find out he even knew what those words meant. He said it’s high time I stopped behaving like a child. And then followed it up with a barrage of overused idioms: I’m cutting off my own nose to spite myself, no man is an island, it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness, and on and on and on. Don’t make me revisit them all. His earnestness was embarrassing enough.
Credit to Jr. He’s almost as insufferable as Pedro at this point.
March 7
Ruben just doesn’t know when to let things go. As band manager, he’s somehow roped me into attending band practice this evening with him, Toni and the unsung poet of Madrid . I swear if Jr. tries to revisit that mockery of a conversation we had the other night, I will cut him. Consequence and morality be damned.
March 8
I’m too emotionally drained right now to even attempt to rehash what can only be described as an embarrassment for all involved.
March 9
Please tell me why my friends find it necessary to overanalyze every single feeling they’ve ever had. Better yet, explain to me why they find it necessary to overanalyze every single feeling I’ve ever had.
I mean, I’m an artist. We’re all supposed to be artists. Of course we experience extremes of emotion! But that doesn’t mean we need to talk about it. That’s what the art is for, no?
Suffice it to say that last night’s practice session was lacking in musical content and overwrought with would-be therapists running wild with their Freudian pretensions.
As for Jr.? Enough already, we get it. You’re friendly and talented and understanding. Everyone likes you. Stop rubbing our noses in it.
March 12
Now that the air has been cleared, it’s time to start focusing on the music again. We’ve got about a month before auditions for Battle of the Bands. If we’re going to qualify, we need to step things up into high gear.
March 17
I’m still adjusting to spending all this time with Jr. It’s one thing to have dinner with him every week and bump into him at school. But it’s another thing entirely to willfully abide his presence. I can only assume my tolerance for him has increased since his continued existence is not nearly as grating as I once found it.
Strangely enough, we seem to be connecting on a musical level. It’s as if Jr. anticipates what I’m going to do next and meets me there, on time and in tune. Also, Toni must have spent all winter practicing because he’s tearing it up on his kit. Even Ruben looks impressed.
March 22
The guys were supposed to meet me tonight downtown to check out Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai at the art house. Jr. and I were waiting outside in the cold for Toni and Ruben to show up when, what a coincidence! Both of them had to cancel at the last minute. Pro tip: try being a bit less obvious next time, dudes.
It wasn’t nearly as awful or awkward as I dreaded. Even more surprising? Jr.’s a huge Kurosawa fan. Since the cinema’s running a retrospective of his work this week, we may have made tentative plans to see Ikiru Thursday night.
Whatever. So I enjoy watching films and engaging in intelligent discussion about them. Doesn’t mean I actually like the guy.
March 27
I’m going to kill Jr. He invited Pilar to dinner tonight. I had to sit there while my mother reminded me to eat my vegetables and waxed nostalgic about my goth phase.
Somehow I managed not to die of shame and after dinner we decided to have an impromptu jam session. I even convinced Sr. Mata to break out his violin and join in. That took the wind right out of Jr.’s sails. I’d say we’re even now.
March 30
Jr. played us this amazing melody he’s been working on lately. As much as it pains me to admit this, it blows everything I’ve ever written out of the water. Ruben jumped in on bass with a truly catchy riff to run underneath it. We’re thinking about using it to audition for Battle of the Bands.
I shouldn’t get ahead of myself though. They’ve asked me to write the lyrics. I tried to foist it off on Jr. but he just gave me a stern look and told me to stop being lazy, that he sees me writing in my journal all the time. He also said he had it on good authority from Pedro that I’m a pretty decent writer when I put my mind to it.
(You’re so busted, brother of mine.)
April 4
I’m still struggling with the lyrics. I’ve yet to write a single word. Pedro would get a right kick out of this, considering how harsh I was on Ruben.
Ruben, however, is nothing if not understanding. He’s kept mum about it so far. In fact, as acting manager, he decided we needed to get out of Toni’s garage for a bit and suggested we catch The Ruby Red Slippers at Waxworks tonight.
No fisticuffs. No awkward fumbling in front of Pilar. No sniping at Jr.
I’m almost disappointed.
April 5
Jr. wants to deconstruct Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone.” I nearly keeled over in disbelief when he suggested it. And when he assured us he was serious, I proceeded to laugh him out of the room. How tasteless can he get? Why on earth should we celebrate the emblem of America ’s greatest cultural travesty? She can’t even be bothered to write out the word “you” in her song title.
It’s like he’s intentionally baiting me sometimes.
April 7
Perhaps I was a bit premature to weigh in on this Clarkson song after all. Jr. stormed into practice today, told me to shut it before I could protest otherwise and sat down to play us what he’s worked up. It’s actually a pretty decent piece of songwriting when you strip away all the superfluous rhinestones and glitter, which is exactly what Jr. did. He slowed it down, distilled the drums into a plodding beat and backed it up with some crazy sweeping electronic sounds. It reminds me of Beck during his Sea Change period.
I have to hand it to Jr. He’s managed to mine gold from a trash pile.
April 10
After dinner tonight, Jr. made me show him the lyrics I’ve written so far. The guys have been incredibly patient with me. I think I more than deserve it in light of all that I’ve put up with from them but that’s neither here nor there. That said, we’re five days out from auditions so I can see why they’d be getting a bit nervous.
Jr. actually had some pretty helpful suggestions. I’m going to skip school tomorrow and spend all day finishing up. If that’s not a better use of my time than parsing Latin grammar, I don’t know what is.
April 12
The guys love the song. I can’t say I’m surprised.
April 14
We finalized the set list for auditions. We decided to go with “Bigmouth Strikes Again” by The Smiths, the Kelly Clarkson remake and our original composition, “(It Doesn’t) Add Up.”
My nerves are frayed, especially after what happened the last time Burnt Pancakes were on stage. No matter how important Battle of the Bands is to me, I’ll be happy if this doesn’t end in ignominy and hospitalization.
April 15
Auditions went well, I guess. Who can tell? Ruben said we sounded good so here’s hoping the judges agree. Toni was as aloof as ever, and Jr. surprisingly steadfast. In fact, the two of them spent more time than I'm comfortable admitting trying to calm me down before we went on. Thankfully, they’ve had the decency not to mention it.
My voice cracked during the chorus of The Smiths number but Jr. caught it right away and filled out the harmony for me. His intuition never ceases to amaze me.
There’s nothing left to do now but wait. Such is life.
April 17
Sr. Mata has been asked to perform as a soloist with the Barcelona Symphony this weekend and invited me along. My mother, in another act of brilliance, accepted on my behalf which is why I now find myself aboard a full-to-capacity train with Sra. Mata and Jr. We’ll be staying with Sra. Mata’s sister and her husband in the city center. And, joy of joys, I’m going to have to share a room with Jr.
Sometimes I’m astonished by the amount of ridiculousness I’m expected to endure.
April 20
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this weekend was fun.
On Friday, the adults let Jr. and me off our leashes to roam free around the city. I dragged him to a bunch of record shops and thrift stores. He found an old Def Leppard tour tee-shirt for three euros. What little hope I’d had for him faded when I learned it wasn’t an ironic purchase. We had a quick lunch before deciding to take advantage of the weather by heading to Parc de la Ciutadella. I made some decent headway into Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 while Jr. fiddled with that damn hand-held gaming system of his. Then a group of local dudes came by to ask if we fancied a kick about. Jr.’s better at small talk, so I left him to it, but I won’t deny that it was somewhat enjoyable.
Saturday, I toured the Gaudi works with Sra. Mata and her sister Flora while Sr. Mata dragged Jr. to meet a few of his friends who play professionally around Barcelona . When we all reconvened for an early dinner before the concert, Jr. looked as if he’d spent the better part the day sucking on a lemon.
Sr. Mata’s performance was amazing. I’d never heard Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D Major before Sr. Mata lent me the recording last week. But even I can tell he blew it out of the water. The entire audience was on their feet when he was through. I’m not one to stand on ceremony so I didn’t think twice before starting to whistle my approval. The people in the rows surrounding us were scandalized but it put a smile on Jr.’s face. Thank god, because I’d had more than enough of that sour expression he’d been wearing all day. His face is annoying enough without it.
I’m almost embarrassed to write what happened next because I’ll sound like a teenage girl writing in her diary about her adventures at sleep-away camp. Neither Jr. nor I could fall asleep that night so we ended up laying there talking quietly. Granted, it was a lot easier to forget who I was talking to in the dark.
I wasn’t sure how to respond when, in a fit of unabashed sentimentality, Jr. said he was glad he moved in next door to me and that we’d become friends. I wanted to tell him not to get ahead of himself but that seemed excessively harsh, even by my standards. So I just said ‘me too.’
April 25
WE’RE IN!
April 28
Today was Jr.’s birthday.
To celebrate, he dragged us all down to the paintball course. We must have made for a strange group—the band, Pilar and her bandmates, a few guys from Jr.’s football league and none other than the Callejon twins, who arrived with a few of their groupies in tow. I hung back while they were at it and tucked into Marquez’s Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Jr. came over halfway through and asked why I wasn’t participating. I told him that I found the glorification and commodification of violence to be pointless and ignorant, and I wouldn’t indulge in it.
When we were walking to the café afterward, Ruben said that for a guy who was so anti-violence I sure spent a lot of time getting into fistfights. Touché.
He seemed to like his gift though. It may have caused me physical pain to spend money on it but Jr. was absolutely enthralled by the red leather Michael Jackson jacket I found on eBay.
April 30
The band’s been on fire lately. Everything seems to be flowing so organically. And yes, I’m well aware of how utterly douchey that sounds, thank you. We’ve been working on two new songs currently, and Ruben’s been fiddling around with the underpinnings of another.
I’m pretty optimistic about things lately. Feels unnatural.
May 3
Uncle Franco had a cancellation this weekend. We’ve got a gig on Saturday night.
May 7
Not bad. 6/10. The crowd really seemed to respond to our original material. Pilar said she especially liked “Hard to Ignore,” the lyrics of which I wrote with her in mind. I wonder if that means I’m being obvious? I hope not, it would be terribly gauche of me.
I’d also like to state for the record that Jr. isn’t doing himself any favors wearing that jacket in public.
May 12
Three more days until Battle of the Bands is upon us. We’re trying to finalize the set list early this time so we can set to perfecting what we’ll be performing. As it stands, we plan on playing “Hard to Ignore,” “(Dis)content” and a cover of The GoGo’s “Our Lips Are Sealed.”
May 14
Jr., Toni and I talked about it tonight after rehearsal ended and we’re in agreement. There’s absolutely no way we’re setting foot onstage without Ruben there with us. He’s been more than a manager—he’s been an integral part of the creative process. We should do this together, or not at all.
It was all kind of saccharine and Toni sounded like a coach rallying his troops during half-time. But he had a point. Sometimes I forget how perceptive he can be.
May 15
I know he tried hard not to show it but Ruben was really affected by our insistence that he perform with us. After a bit of half-hearted protesting, he slung that bass right over his shoulder and set to shredding it like he hadn’t been sitting on the sidelines for months. It was great to be up there with him, even if it was only temporary. That alone went a long way towards making up for how the rest of the evening shook out.
We didn’t win. We came in third.
The Callejon Twins took top honors and deservedly so. They rocked the ever-loving hell out of the place with their drum and bass act. Like The White Stripes incarnate, but without a stitch of red and 50 percent less female. I do take umbrage, however, at losing out to that vapid boy band impersonation put on by Cristiano, Ricardo, Marcelo, Pepe and Fabio. A sad indictment of what passes for entertainment in today’s society. Tragic, really.
We seem to have won a new following, apparently. Alvaro, the school’s resident social media scholar, said the Twittersphere was ‘blowing up’ during our performance. Now I’m concerned we’re becoming too mainstream.
Apparently Pedro’s caught wind of the news from Mom and Dad already because I just got a text from him. I’ll note it here verbatim so you know what I’m forced to endure from this sad specimen of humanity.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner.
May 24
We’ve been offered another gig—and by someone who isn’t even related to us! We’ll be playing at Waxworks in two weeks time. We’re opening for Please Leave Your Number After The Beep, one of the more established local acts around Madrid .
May 27
I just spent the past two hours making out with Pilar. I’m not even going to try to be nonchalant about it. It was AWESOME!
Of course, I suppose this means that I’m now indebted to Jr. He conveniently faked a headache and dodged out of our jam session—but not before he could pull me aside and say ‘grow a pair, Granero. She’s not going to be single forever.’ I hate it when he’s right.
June 11
Recognition at last!
We brought the house down at Waxworks last night. The crowd was responsive, really into our sound. Ruben said the audience liked our style, too. He overheard everyone talking about Juan’s jacket and my eyepatch during our set break. I know, I know. But if Jr.’s going to insist on wearing that jacket and looking like a fool, at least this way we all look like we wearing costumes. Toni’s clown wig, however, didn’t work out so well. We’re going to have to revisit that before our next show.
Even Pedro had to admit we sounded great. Yes, he’s back. He flew in yesterday morning. Don’t remind me.
BRILLIANT
READING
, THIS. NEVER CHANGE, ESTEBAN. PS: IS IT TOO EARLY FOR ME TO SAY I TOLD YOU SO?
IGNORE HIM. HE’LL GO AWAY.
YOU MAKE IT SEEM AS IF THIS ISN’T JUST ONE GIANT LOVE LETTER TO ME ANYWAY.
YOU’RE DELUSIONAL, PEDRO.
YOU’RE NOT DENYING IT.
CAN YOU GO AWAY NOW?
AND MISS OUT ON THE ENDLESS STRING OF INDIGNITIES THE WORLD'S MOST MISUNDERSTOOD GENIUS SUFFERS ON A DAILY BASIS? NEVER.
I GIVE UP.
June 13
Pedro’s actually been tolerable but I’m sure that’s easily attributable to the novelty of him being home. He bought me a calligraphy set and a jade bracelet, which he assures me was ecologically farmed by well remunerated laborers. They’re both pretty cool.
I’d write more but I’m meeting up with Pilar and Jr. downtown in a half an hour. We’re going to grab a quick bite to eat before we catch the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I truly hope Jr. was joking when he said he was going to dress up like Dr. Frank-N-Furter but when has he ever been less than sincere about anything?
There are worse things, I suppose.