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Authors: André Vanasse

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Thankfully, Jean-François has the presence of mind to start walking offstage as we launch into the final notes of the song. We follow close behind, and the crowd surges forward.

Frightened, we're only too glad to follow the organizers' advice and grab a cab. They promise Jean-François that his drums will be taken care of.

Back home, it's like the pressure releases. A huge ooph! of relief is soon followed by a crying jag from Mélanie. Hard to tell if her tears are ones of sorrow or joy. She's come undone.

She wails like a child as we try to console
her. No luck. Her tears last for close to an
hour, give or take a few lulls. Finally, an exhausted
Mélanie falls fast asleep. She lies there like a sack
emptied of all its contents. I'm sure we could scream
blue murder, and she wouldn't hear a thing. She's comatose.
I call her mom to tell her about the show
and let her know that Mélanie's going to crash at
my place since I'll never be able to wake her
up.

“You swear there's nothing wrong with her?”

“Not a thing. She's not drunk or high, she's just exhausted. She's dead to the world. For the past half hour, we've been laughing like hyenas and she hasn't so much as twitched an eyelid. I have a feeling she'll be out cold till late tomorrow morning. At least until noon. You know how she is ...”

“I'm leaving her in your hands, Alexandre. Promise to have her call me when she's back among the living.”

“I will, don't worry.”

We get the couch ready, then take off her shoes, loosen her belt so she'll be more comfortable, remove her watch, bracelets, and necklace. She's as limp as a rag doll. Finally, I grab a blanket and tuck her in. We decide to call it a day and meet back here tomorrow afternoon.

I go to bed but can't get to sleep. Too many images tumble through my brain. I keep seeing us and the crowd, too.

I feel a sudden burst of pride. I still can't believe we're the heroes of the day. We won over the crowd like true stars. We put on a show that I'm sure will be talked about for a long time to come.

And the way Mélanie fainted at just the right moment. I can't help but wonder whether she did it on purpose. Why not? Mélanie's capable of anything. One thing's for sure: she knocked 'em dead. Especially her voice. As though in just one show she gained all the maturity she needed to truly stand out.

I start daydreaming about managers knocking at our door. Record companies bending over backwards to woo us to their labels.

Stardom! International fame. The kind that propels you from Los Angeles to Buenos Aires, from Amsterdam to Berlin. Makes you more famous than the President of the United States. Why not a Legion of Honor from the President of the French Republic or a knighting by Queen Elizabeth, then—not to be forgotten in the shuffle—a listing on the New York and Tokyo stock exchanges ...?

Sleep comes late as I relive the evening, trying to burn it onto my memory forever. For the first time in my life, I'm happy to suffer from insomnia ...

When I wake up, Mom tells me that Mélanie has already left, having turned down breakfast. “I want to run home, freshen up, and brush my teeth,” she said. “Then I'll have a bite to eat.” In the same breath, she asked my mom to have me call her.

I'm secretly glad to be home alone with my mom. She's made a scrumptious brunch, just the way I like it: eggs, bacon, breakfast sausages, tomato slices, and hash brown patties—Swiss
rösti—
that can't be beat.

I devour it all. Then I tell her all about our night. She listens attentively but seems to feel I might be exaggerating just a bit. She must think it's some teenage thing I'll grow out of one day.

“Don't you think that's a bit exceptional for a first experience?” she says in a tone that makes me want to throttle her.

“It's the honest truth. Ask around and see for yourself. Then we'll talk.”

She doesn't answer. But I know she only half-believes me anyway. As far as she's concerned, there's no way our band could have been such a hit at its very first show.

If only she could have seen us! But I didn't want her there. I was too afraid we'd crash and burn, and I'd have to put up with my parents' pity. So I told them to stay away. Next time I won't be so cautious. They'll see then that Nexxtep has a lot more potential than they give us credit for.

In Paradise with Tom?

three

I
t's weird how, since the Brébeuf performance, my entire life has changed. People don't look at me the same way. It borders on the embarrassing sometimes. Especially when someone starts pointing me out and whispering loud enough for me to hear, “Julie, Julie, see that guy over there? That's Alexandre from Nexxtep.”

I have to say that our performance made some real waves. All kids anywhere can talk about is our show. Mélanie's collapse gave us some fantastic publicity! What a stroke of genius!

I ask her about it. She says she felt light-headed and really did pass out. “I can't say exactly what happened. It was like a combined rush of panic and peace. I was so hot I thought I'd explode. But I had to finish the song. It took a superhuman effort.” She stops talking as she relives the moment.

“Then my legs got wobbly. It felt like the floor was sinking. I wasn't scared. I was happy. Because I could hear them cheering. I told myself I had to stay conscious, but I couldn't do it. It felt like I was full to bursting, but empty, too.”

Mélanie keeps on talking as though in a dream. “I felt like I was a bubble floating through the air. I thought that, like a bubble, I'd have to burst eventually, but it didn't matter. I was multicolored. A rainbow. A prism. Then I fell into nothingness. Into the void. I was weightless. I felt no fear.”

Snapping out of her reverie, she continues, “When I came to, it took a few seconds to realize I was still onstage. Then I saw you guys. I figured that if you were all there, you were counting on me, I had to get up. Suddenly, I emerged from the tunnel. I came back to my senses. I was ready to jump back in, start all over. That's why I had us play our favorite song again.”

Everything she says makes sense. Sometimes, there are moments of inspiration that just happen. It was a stroke of genius on Mélanie's part, even if it was unintentional. Had she wanted to fake a fainting spell, it couldn't have been better planned.

“You know what, Mélanie, let's keep it to ourselves. The more mystery surrounding what happened, the more legendary it'll be. If anyone asks, don't answer. Agreed?”

“I think you're right. Let's let
people believe what they want. Some will say it was
real, others that it was all part of the show.
It doesn't really matter which version they buy into, everyone
will be talking about it.”

“How about that? The older you get, the faster you catch on! It's like you get smarter with age.”

I should have kept my mouth shut. Since the beginning of our conversation, Mélanie has felt like she was listening to a lecture and she can't contain her rage. My feeble stab at humor has lit the powder keg. She explodes. “You listen to me, Alexandre de Vertefeuille! What do you take me for—an idiot? You don't have to be a genius to get your publicity stunt. Your big ‘shut up and let them talk' plan isn't rocket science, you know. I may not be the next Albert Einstein or Marie Curie, but I can put two and two together. You've mistaken publicity for the theory of relativity. There are already two teachers in your family—don't you think that's enough?”

Furious, she spits out, “Besides, there's nothing you can teach me about music or anything else for that matter that I don't already know. Want to hear what I think of you? You're a pretentious jerk who thinks he's the center of the universe. Worse yet, you're a sorry excuse for a musician.”

“Don't get mad, babe. No need to get on your high horse. I was just kidding.”

“Don't you ‘babe' me. Like I'm some airhead! How'd you like to be called a ‘tool'? You'd better beef up your vocabulary and fast, or I'll do it for you!”

“Whoa! Whoa! Calm down. Don't freak out. I never said you were slow on the uptake. I just wanted to know if you got my plan. I've had it up to here with you and your mood swings! And I'll have you know, I can outplay you any day. You've got nothing to teach me on that score.”

“Just what I thought—you think you're better than everyone else. Take a good look in the mirror. One of these days, you're going to have to stop living in your dream world and face reality ...”

Mélanie grabs her coat and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

As she's leaving, I bark out a laugh. My revenge. She's fuming, I know .... Well, good for her! I'm pretty pissed off myself. I hate being told I'm a crappy musician. Who does she think she is, the little twerp? The queen of rock? What does she have that I don't? It's not like she's Madonna or anything.

I watch her run down the street. I hate her. A good thing you got the hell out of here, Mélanie, else I'd have ripped you to shreds.

No matter how much I try to tell myself that I couldn't care less about Mélanie's moods, I would really rather not have to see her today. But I need to chat with the band about a management proposal that came up this week. If Mélanie isn't there, there's no way we can make a decision. Even though I can't stand her right now, I can't do without her. Just the thought of trying to makes me break into a sweat!

Thankfully, Jean-François acts as a buffer between Mélanie and me. He's one laid back guy, as steady as a rock. He's got a knack for calming people down. So he's the one who calls Mélanie to talk her into coming over to my place. Of course, she takes her own sweet time deciding but eventually relents when faced with Jean-François' insistence and the promise I'll make amends. She agrees to be part of the discussion.

One thing can be said about Mélanie, she doesn't hold a grudge. Me either, luckily. Even though, when our eyes meet as she first walks in, it's more like an exchange of gunfire than a simple glance, the two of us soon figure out that we're better off laying down our weapons.

So we make peace and fall into each other's arms, purring in contentment. In my ear, she whispers that she didn't mean a word of it. Then langorously, “You have to know that when I sing, I sing for you ...”

Obviously, she's lying, but it makes me happy anyway. So I respond in kind. “I've got to tell you, Mélanie. Not only are you the most gorgeous girl I know, you're also the smartest.”

I can't help adding, “Too bad you're also the most insufferable!”

She punches me in the ribs, hard enough to wind me. Then she kisses me with such ardor that it feels like she's crossed a line. I am suddenly brutally full of desire for her. I absolutely have to step away, otherwise she's going to have me wound around her little finger.

“Bad idea, Mélanie. It's too dangerous a game.”

She looks at me with soft eyes.

I'm able to resist; we've got pressing matters to discuss, namely who will manage our band. The subject is even harder to broach because the man who's aiming for the position really rubs me the wrong way.

He's one of those people who always look so sure of themselves, the kind who greet you like they've known you forever. Overdressed, of course, a suit and tie and such perfect hair you wonder how they don't muss it up. Doesn't the wind blow where they come from?

When he accosted me, he had
a Colgate smile plastered on his face. He said he'd
heard about our band. He seemed to know so much
I almost felt like asking whether he hadn't founded the band, instead of us.

He wasted no time before launching
into his spiel. “I heard you at Brébeuf. No doubt
about it, you've got potential. But you know, my man,
a band needs a mover and shaker to make it
in this world. And I'm your man.

“I know the game. I've been in the music business for a long, long time. I started with Les Classels. I've managed Michèle Richard and Michel Pagliaro. Tony Roman. Then Corbeau. I'm planning to sign Marjo any day now. She's a given since she used to work with Corbeau. I worked with Corey Hart, too.”

He fixed me with a stare. He looked so smug, arrogance was positively dripping off him. Seemingly satisfied he had my attention, he ploughed forward, “I don't waste time. So if you want to be one of the privileged few, I'm your guy. For twenty-five per cent of your earnings, I'll have you playing all over Montreal and throughout the province. I already have two bookings lined up for you.”

My incredulous stare played right into his hands. “You don't believe me? Think I'm bluffing? Look at this.”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled two actual contracts, one for a show at St. Pierre Clavier parish hall, the other for the Duvernay Rec Centre, each clearly stating that we'd be paid $450 to play an hour and a half show.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

He chose that moment to show me how quickly it could all disappear. “Listen, my man, if you turn me down, I'll just plug in another band's name. No skin off my back.”

His ploy practically had him salivating. He added, “On the other hand, if you accept, our partnership begins. Meaning if things go the way I think they will, we're set for a meteoric rise. After six months, I can guarantee—as long as you work your butts off, of course—that I'll land you an exclusive contract with a major recording company, Columbia, Geffen, or Mercury Records.

“Once you're on the road to glory, the hit list won't be far behind. The big time. We'll be rolling in money. Hang on tight, my man, because it won't be long before we're in New York.

“We'll travel from one capital to the next. Just like that. In the blink of an eye. We'll cross the Atlantic, then the Pacific before there's time to down a glass of scotch. We'll be flying first class, of course.

“My man, listen carefully to Tom. Within a year—two, tops—we'll have made our mark on the world's major capitals. Have you heard of Seoul? Sydney? Don't worry, because that's where you're headed whether you've heard of them or not!”

I do such a
spot-on imitation of Tom Paradis that I've got Mélanie, Jean-François,
and Bruno killing themselves laughing. I finish off by adding,
partly in jest, partly in warning, “From then on in,
Tom Paradis ranked among the acting greats. He was so
wrapped up in his performance that he managed to convince
himself of his dreams of grandeur. Eventually, he had to
wind down. That was when I said I'd talk to
you guys and we'd come to a decision over the
weekend.”

I wait for their reaction. Knowing what a crucial moment this is, I can't help pounding the point home. “This is our decision to make. The problem is we've got to act quickly—the shows are scheduled in the next two weeks. Either we say yes and climb on board with Tom Paradis, or it's a no and we wait for other offers to come in sometime in the next month, the next six months, the next year.”

They hesitate, at a loss for words. There's a long pause. So I take the plunge. “As far as I'm concerned, I don't see why we shouldn't work with him. Anyhow, no one in the band is eighteen yet. If ever we want to get rid of him, when the time's right, we can just say we were naïve and let ourselves be duped by an adult. What do you think?”

The discussion begins. Everyone has an unkind word to say about Tom Paradis. Yet no one can ignore his strongest argument, namely the two concert dates he's ready to offer from the word go. The prospect of having a show every weekend appeals to us all.

It's not like anyone else has anything better to offer. Not us, in any case—we haven't got a clue how to “sell” what we've got. Or time to do it either. All four of us are still in school and stuck at home every weeknight.

Plus, we know no one in the industry. Tom Paradis' timing is perfect, and we'd be crazy not to take him up on his offer.

But Mélanie warns us to be careful, “Let's only commit
to a year with him. That way, if ever we
aren't happy with his services, we can move on. He
can do the same.”

Once our strategy has been established, we
decide to schedule a meeting with Tom Paradis for the
next day.

As expected, no one in the band likes the
man. Not that that stops him from getting exactly what
he wants. The one-year contract immediately morphs into a five-year
contract. “Do you think I'm crazy? That I'm going to
bust my butt for you, put you on the map,
and then be told ‘thanks but no thanks' once I've
launched you into the upper stratosphere? Listen, kids, who do
you take me for? Some newbie? Hold on here! I'm
Tom Paradis. I've been in the biz for years. I
don't need you to make a living …”

BOOK: Millions for a Song
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