Chapter Two: The Pocket Collapses
Success, Alex discovered, had a specific taste. It tasted like cheap domestic beer, old fryer grease, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.
Over the next year, the garage jams had mutated into actual gigs. They started at The Rusty Nail on Tuesday nights, playing to a bartender who didn't care and three regulars who cared too much. But then came the Friday slots. Then the local festivals. They weren't famous, but they were loud, and they were tight.
The magic was in the engine room. Connie didn't just keep time; she attacked it. She played with a ferocious, punk-rock swing that pushed the songs forward, forcing Alex to play faster and Leo to sing harder just to keep up. It was a chaotic, beautiful ecosystem.
That Tuesday, Alex arrived at Leo's house with a new riff stuck in his head—something in 7/8 time he knew Connie would eat up. He parked his car, grabbed his gig bag, and walked up the driveway, noticing immediately that the vibe was off. The garage door was closed. Usually, it was open, venting the heat of the amplifiers.
He let himself in through the side door.
"Hey, I was thinking for the bridge on 'Static' we could—"
Alex stopped dead in the doorway.
The band was there. Leo was tuning his mic stand. Cam was sitting on his amp, looking at the floor. Marcus, Leo's dad, was standing by a whiteboard he'd recently installed to track "progress."
But Connie wasn't there.
Sitting behind the kit—which had been polished and rearranged—was a guy Alex had never seen before. He was older, maybe mid-twenties, wearing a pristine polo shirt and a watch that looked too expensive for a garage band.
"Who's this?" Alex asked, his grip tightening on his guitar case.
Marcus stepped forward, a clipboard in hand. He had started wearing blazers to their rehearsals recently, trying to look the part of a serious manager.
"Alex, you're late," Marcus said, though Alex was five minutes early. "This is Greg. He's going to be sitting in with us for a while."
Alex looked from Marcus to Leo. Leo wouldn't meet his eyes; he was suddenly very interested in the XLR cable wrapped around his hand.
"Sitting in? Where's Connie?"
"Connie is no longer with the project," Marcus said smoothly, as if he were talking about a defective printer rather than a human being.
"What does that mean?" Alex felt a prickle of panic. Connie was his rhythm partner. They locked in. You don't just swap out a drummer like a battery. "Is she sick?"
"She left, Alex," Marcus said, his voice dropping to a tone that suggested he was doing Alex a favor by not going into details. "Unreliable. Flaking on commitments. We need stability if we're going to the next level. Greg is a session pro. He's done work for the local jazz ensemble."
"Connie never flaked on a commitment in her life," Alex shot back. "She was here before I was half the time."
"She left without explanation, Alex. It's done," Marcus said, his tone sharpening. "Now, set up. We're burning daylight, and Greg costs by the hour."
Alex looked at Cam. Cam gave a microscopic shrug, looking miserable. Alex looked at Leo.
"Leo?" Alex asked.
Leo finally looked up. He looked tired. "Dad says she called him last night and quit. Said she couldn't handle the pressure."
It didn't smell right. Connie thrived on pressure. She lived for the noise. But the wall of silence in the room was absolute. Alex swallowed his questions, but they burned in his throat. He unzipped his case, plugged in his PRS, and tuned up in silence.
"Alright," Marcus clapped his hands. "Let's run 'Midnight City.' Greg, it's a standard 4/4 rock beat. Keep it tight."
"Got it," Greg said. His voice was as flat as his haircut.
Greg counted them in. One, two, three, four.
They started playing.
From the first measure, Alex felt like he was walking in mud.
Technically, Greg was perfect. He hit the snare exactly on the two and the four. His kick drum was mathematically precise. He didn't drop a stick. He didn't miss a beat.
But he had no soul.
On the chorus, Connie used to do this thing—a ghost-note shuffle on the snare while riding the crash cymbal that made the whole song feel like it was lifting off the ground. It was the energy spike that let Alex launch into his solo.
Greg just played a straight beat. Thump-crack. Thump-crack.
It was sterile. It sounded like a midi track from a cheap keyboard.
Alex stopped playing. The sudden silence made everyone jump except Greg, who stopped a second later, looking bored.
"What's the problem?" Marcus asked from his corner.
"The feel is wrong," Alex said, gesturing to the kit. "The chorus needs to drive. It's too... straight. Connie used to syncopate the kick there."
He turned to Greg. "Can you add some swing to it? Maybe open up the high-hats?"
Greg looked at Marcus, not Alex.
"Greg is playing for the song, Alex," Marcus interjected, stepping into the center of the room. "Connie was too busy. Too much flash. It distracted from the vocals."
"It supported the vocals," Alex argued. "It gave Leo energy."
"It was messy," Marcus snapped. "We are tightening up the sound. We want to be radio-ready, not a garage noise fest. Greg stays in the pocket. You need to learn to play with a disciplined drummer."
Alex looked at Leo, begging for backup. Tell him, Leo. Tell him it sounds like elevator music.
Leo shifted his weight, looking at his dad, then at Alex. "It... it is easier to sing over, Alex. I don't have to fight for space."
Alex felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. It wasn't just the music. It was the dynamic. The messy, chaotic, beautiful thing they had built was being sanitized. Marcus was stripping the paint off the walls to make it look like an office.
"Let's take it from the second verse," Marcus ordered. "Alex, simplify your rhythm part. You're clashing with the kick drum."
Alex turned back to his amp to hide his face. He tweaked a knob, adding more distortion, a small act of rebellion.
"Fine," Alex muttered.
He played the notes, but for the first time in two years, he didn't feel them. He just watched Greg's perfect, boring hands hitting the drums, and wondered where Connie really was.