“Oh shit, now I want to see both the shockingly pink hair and Ozzy with a mohawk,” I said, laughing at the thought of Rebel with hair like the pink side of the cotton candy ice cream we’d had earlier in the night.
“How did we get on the subject of that mohawk, anyway?” Ozzy asked.
“I was telling him about Potomac Mills and Dash getting tied to Johnny,” Rebel explained. “He asked if I had pictures, and I said yes, along with the evolution of our hairstyles over the years.”
“Aw, shit, Potomac Mills,” Ozzy said, coming in and dropping into an easy chair.
He rubbed his chin as he stared into the flames like he was watching the memory play out there.
“Did you tell him about the big-ass dent Dash put in my drum?” Ozzy asked.
“I was just getting to that part, actually,” Rebel said.
“That fucker better be lucky it didn’t go through or his head would have been next,” Ozzy said, but there was no heat to his tone, just a fond smile as he shook his head. “God, that was a shitshow.”
“What did he dent the drum with?” I asked.
“His bass, when he yanked his finger free, since Ozzy was almost to the spot where Dash was supposed to jump in,” Rebel explained.
“All of a sudden there’s this boom that I sure as fuck didn’t make, and I look down and you can see the outline of bass keys in the drum. How it didn’t punch through, I don’t know, because you could see two of them as clear as day.”
“That’s because the amp caught him,” Rebel explained. “He wound up sitting on it instead of falling all the way back. Played the rest of the song that way, looking completely perplexed every time I glanced over at him.”
“Because who the hell expects any of that shit to happen?” Ozzy said. “It was like the metal gods had put a curse on us.”
“Did the belt hold up for the rest of the night?” I asked.
“Man, the belt didn’t last the song,” Rebel said, cackling in between words. “Johnny wound up saying to hell with it, bunched up the loose fabric around his waist, and secured it with a hair tie, but his side was red and all scraped up by the end of the night. He lost enough layers of skin that we almost took him to the hospital to get it looked at.”
“Would have if Bruce hadn’t brought that giant first aid kit along,” Ozzy reminded him.
“Medic!” Rebel squawked, laughing so hard he could barely get the word out.
“Do you remember that shirt we got him for Christmas one year?” Ozzy said. “He loved wearing those things backstage.”
“I’m not a real medic; I just play one on TV,” Rebel said, nearly falling off the couch as he was laughing so hard.
“Seriously though,” Ozzy said, turning his gaze on me. “He sure saved us on ER visits. Have you gotten to the list of challenges never to try again?”
“Not yet,” I replied.
“Keep reading,” he said, settling in like he was going to stick around and get in on the storytelling too.
So I dove back in, eagerly looking forward to a night of laughter and history.
Chapter 31
(Rebel)
Our three weeks at the lodge had been amazing, as always, but stepping into the studio always flipped a switch in me. The other guys were the same way, which meant our sessions ran smoothly, for the most part. There were always those times when one of us became overly critical, usually of our own playing, but sometimes of someone else’s, which led to a bit of a blow-up.
I was hoping we’d be able to refrain from that for Kit’s first recording session. He was nervous enough as it was.
“Just treat it like a show,” I told him. “And remember that Ozzy will be in the booth to help you every step of the way. You guys have already worked everything out between you as to who’s playing which songs, so have fun with it. Don’t worry about whether it’s perfect or not. As soon as you start thinking, it won’t be.”
“You’re going to have to teach me some of that Zen shit when we’re out at your place,” Kit muttered.
“What Zen shit?”