Page 70 of Down Beat
TWENTY-SIX
Tabitha
“Anthem for the Underdog” – 12 Stones
I made a little over forty dollars with my busking. Not a bad effort, considering I played at the end of the workweek, and after the lunch rush. It bought us power, so there’s that. Still… if I don’t figure out how to turn this all around and save my flailing career before its even really started, busking will be a daily occurrence, not just a backup plan every few weeks.
“Have you seen this?” Kendall kicks her legs out to sit herself upright, eyes on her phone as she rises to join me at the kitchen counter.
I set aside the laptop, and focus on what she has to show me.
“It was only uploaded a couple of days ago, but it already has over ten thousand views.”
I glance at the YouTube video as she places her phone down on the counter. “Keywords—that’s why. They have Dark Tide’s name in the title, plus all the band members names in the description.”
“Plus yours.” She lifts her eyebrows while I frown at the screen.
Sure enough, after Kris’s name is mine, plain as day in serif font. I tap the triangle icon and lean my chin on my upturned palm as the footage plays. The quality isn’t too bad, clearly recorded on a phone from somewhere to the right of stage. The video cuts in at the end of the first verse of my cover. My money is on the person being surprised by my song choice and then having to get their phone out in a hurry to capture it.
It’s weird, watching myself play like this. I can’t help but see myself with a critical eye: did I play to the audience enough, or was I lost in the music; why did I skip through that last note; my tempo was uneven in the change.
“I guess I’m partially famous now, huh?” I sass, pushing her phone back to her.
She shoves it back my way. “Read the comments.”
I shake my head, using the laptop to nudge her phone away again. “Rule one in surviving the critics: don’t read what they say.”
Kendall slams the phone down on my keypad. “They aren’t critics, though. They’re fans.”
I drop a heavy sigh as I scroll up and humor her. Worst-case scenario is they point out what I already know: classical violin is a dinosaur that’ll never earn me a real living. It’s a niche market, one that shrinks by the day.
“Wow! I love this version!”
“Who is she? I need to see what else she’s done.”
“Is she touring with the band now?”
“Are they doing any more concerts with her?”
Kendall meets my gaze with a smug smile as I lift my head. “See? They love you.”
I shrug, killing the video on her screen. “Doesn’t matter though, does it? I haven’t got any other covers like that for them to go to. They’ll track me down, find what I really play, and then move on.”
“Are you hearing yourself?” She snatches up her phone. “You’ve been given an opportunity—use it.”
“Was given an opportunity,” I correct. “This was a week ago. I fucked up the minute I forgot to take marketing material with me.”
“Do another cover.” She stares at me, hard-ass and clearly unwilling to let this go. “We’ll pick somewhere edgy in the city to record, and I’ll shoot it on my phone. So fucking what if it’s not done in a studio? Snare them, Tab.”
“And then what?” I close the lid on the laptop and swivel on my stool to face her. “I don’t make a career out of covers. I make a career out of traditional classical compositions.”
“Why?” She thrusts her arms across her chest.
“Because it’s what I play,” I cry, exasperated with this fucking inquisition.
“Yes. But why? Why do you play traditional classical? Why do you put yourself in that box?”
I wordlessly flap my jaw, hoping that some goddamn answer will form on its own. Yet as Kendall nods and then walks away, I realize she’s won this argument.