“Okay, it’s time to talk about bass players.”

I’m talking to my bandmates in our studio. We all have our usual spots: Calvi and I sitting next to our amps, and Switch behind his sparse drums. Of course, there is an empty chair where Nick used to be. It took me so long to fire Nick because I was avoiding the painful process of finding his replacement. We’re auditioning four bassists today. I have no doubt they’ll all have their individual sound and will play the songs with ease, but there is way more to consider than the sound that comes out of their amp. This is going to be someone we have to live with in a bus for months on end.

Things to consider could be:

Are they easy to be around?

Do they have stage presence?

Do they show up on time?

Do they represent And Then well?

Are they professional?

Are they into drugs?

Most importantly, we need a guy who we have good chemistry with.

Or, perhaps, a girl.

I spoke to my manager, Arnie, and had him arrange for Lael to be added to the audition roster today. I can see him through the soundproof window sitting in the control room behind the mixing console, talking to someone out of sight. His long grey hair has barely thinned over the years, and his beard is always perfectly groomed to the point I often chuckle at the thought of this biker-looking dude choosing what high-end leave-in conditioner he’s going to try next.

I’m waiting for Switch or Calvi to respond to my question about the bassists, but as usual, I’m getting nothing. The room is silent save for the hum of an amplifier and Calvi quietly tuning his gold-top guitar. Switch was closer with Nick than Calvi was but he seems to be used to the idea that Nick is gone. I think he totally understood why I had to let Nick go—he started to believe in the myth of rock and roll and all the standard clichés, such as:

Sex with groupies

Depravity

Violence

Trashing hotel rooms

Arrogance during interviews

Drunk on stage

Throwing televisions out of hotel windows

Heroin

The chicken incident

Mr. Robson briefed me on the heroin thing at the start of my career and I believe his words to be true. He’d said, “Kid, if you do it, you will never be the same for the rest of your life.”

Nick definitely was not the same after he got into heroin, and eventually I had to say goodbye to my old friend.

“How do you guys want to approach this?” I ask, directly now.

They both shrug and after some more silence, Switch speaks up. “Let’s just jam with each of them, shoot the shit, and see what happens.” With his head tilted back and his eyes in a squint I can tell he’s going to be tough on them.

Calvi takes a break from tuning his guitar and adds to the conversation, “We don’t have to choose any of them if we don’t want. If we settle, we’ll be back in the same situation next year.”

I make eye contact with ol’ Arnie though the window. I can tell our first victim is somewhere in the control room out of my eye line because Arnie’s body language has changed. Like my bandmates, he has been with me since the beginning and I know him well.

Arnie stands and walks out of sight. I take a deep breath and wait for the door to open.

“…That’s how we did it in the old days,” Arnie says, finishing his conversation with a rather tall, dark haired, pale skinned character.

“Boys,” Arnie says, “this here is John Beddis. He’s stopped by to jam.”

Arnie has the guitar tech set John up as he sits down in Nick’s old chair, next to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier. Even sitting down, John seems to tower over the three of us. His long face makes him look perpetually unimpressed.

Switch, Calvi, and John make idol chit-chat, and I, too, go through the motions of greeting this gangly monster. I can tell the chemistry isn’t right before we even play a note. We do a song called “Rust in My Bones,” and although he plays his bass with precision, he has the energy of a mortician and I’m happy when it’s time to say goodbye.

“Thanks for coming by John. We’ll be in touch,” Arnie says with a smile, keeping things light.

Next up is none other than the Jazz McKinnon.

I’m actually starstruck when he floats into the room with his personal guitar tech, assistant, and publicist. He’s fifty something years old with overly-styled blonde hair and a scarf wrapped around his neck, draping over his leather vest. Jazz may be over fifty, but he’s in better physical condition than we are. Jazz McKinnon is the only guy on the planet that can pull off leather pants, a leather vest, a scarf, and dyed blond hair. He smiles, exposing his toothpaste commercial teeth.

“And Then…” he says, gesturing to us. “Love it. Look at you guys. I’m a huge fan. Let me get this straight though. I’m not here to replace Nick. I just want to jam with you guys.”

Jazz keeps his eyes on me and holds out his right hand while his guitar tech scrambles to put his guitar in his hand. I still can’t believe he’s here—he’s a legend in the rock world, having helmed some of the biggest names of the eighties and nineties.

Looking at my bandmates, I can tell they’re just as blown away. I exchange a moment with Switch and we both manage to keep from giggling like children. Calvi is locked in a stare with Jazz, smiling like an idiot.

Jazz’s assistant looks up from her phone and makes an announcement. “We’ve scheduled a brief photo shoot, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.”

Somehow I’m not surprised. Regardless of what happens with Jazz, this is a moment that needs to be commemorated.

Jazz ignores the large lights, reflectors, and other equipment pouring into the rather small jam room.

“Over here, please,” a photographer orders and ushers all of us around the drums where the lights are shining. Calvi and I put our guitars down and obey. Switch stays seated on his throne behind the drums, completely hidden by Jazz standing directly in front of him. Calvi and I exchange a fan boy laugh behind him. Jazz is strutting around like a rooster, front and center. The camera’s flash seems like a strobe light and they must take a thousand pictures even though the shoot only lasts about two minutes. When it’s all over and the equipment is dragged out, Jazz’s assistant pulls me to the side.

“Hi, Brad,” she says. “I know we only have an hour so I’m keeping the press to a minimum.”

“Press?” I question.

“Yes. Modern Bass Player magazine is going to do a piece on the audition.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure what the hell is going on. Then I turn my head, and I don’t believe my eyes.

I don’t see how it’s possible but Jazz is in a completely different outfit right down to his shoes. Perfectly torn jeans, sneakers, a graphic t-shirt, blazer, and a network of necklaces. I think his damn hair is even a little different. Houdini would be impressed.

“Thanks again for having me,” Jazz calmly says as he floats by me toward one of his entourage who sits him down with a journalist from the magazine in the corner of the studio.

Calvi, Switch, and I are no strangers to this aspect of the job, but this is next level. The three of us stand in the opposite corner from Jazz and his intimate interview and wait. Arnie walks in smiling and says to Jazz’s assistant, “Time flies. We only have five minutes left.”

She nods and walks over to the interviewer, whispering something into his ear.

“You know, I always wanted to meet him,” Calvi says.

“Me too,” I say, though who would have known it would be like this.

“I like his haircut,” Switch adds.

Jazz walks across the room, looking from his phone up to us and says with a confident smile, “I have a book tour in a month so I can’t do the last leg of the tour. I wanted to be clear on that. I’m really digging your song ‘Rust in My Bones.’ I feel like I have rust in my bones sometimes. Anyway, that went well. Take care, boys.”

“Wait,” Calvi says and then stops him for a quick selfie before bidding him farewell.

Jazz and his entourage (that has seemed to grow significantly since his arrival) stream out the door, and we are left with just the three of us again.

“Wow, right, what a dude,” Calvi says, clearly taken by his childhood hero.

Arnie walks in to give us an update. “Sorry, boys. That ran a little late and we’ll have to jump right into the next audition. I told him it would be a little shorter than planned so you can have a little break before our last one of the day. Bruce Ross, And Then, And Then, Bruce Ross.”

We all greet Bruce with casual greetings after the pointless introduction. We all know him already. He has his own progressive funk band, and we have run into him many times on the festival circuit. His sets are usually one long bass solo broken by nasally vocals that are almost always about fishing. Bruce walks up to me to shake my hand and I get an up-close look at his iconic bowler hat and the greasy mustache that is waxed into points.

“Thanks for the chance, man,” Bruce says as he squeezes my hand tight and holds deliberate eye contact through circular blue tint glasses that make him look extra intense.

“Yeah, man. For sure. Cool guitar,” I tell him, referring to the bass guitar hanging from his shoulders. The wood curled and twisted wildly, I think Bruce is the only person I know that wouldn’t look out of place playing the strangely shaped guitar. Then again, the man looks like a reject from a Charlie Chaplin film.

“Do you know ‘Rust in My Bones’?” I ask him.

“You mean the song that’s playing nonstop on every rock station in America? I think I might have heard it.” I catch a tinge of bitterness in his voice which doesn’t bode well.

Still, we jump into the song, and in true Bruce Ross form, he turns the tune into one long bass solo. I don’t even sing because Bruce doesn’t leave any sonic room for me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing—Bruce is probably the best bass player on the planet in a technical sense.

Calvi and I take a seat when the song is done and Switch is the first to speak.

“Duuude, that was so fucking good.”

“Thanks, partner. I know you guys are busy and I have my snake in the car, so I’m going to run,” Bruce answers in a nasally voice and presses his blue glasses up from the end of his nose.

“Thanks for that, Bruce,” Arnie says as he walks Bruce out.

“What a weird guy,” Calvi says as soon as the door closes and we’re alone again.

“Yeah, but shit the guy can play,” Switch adds.

I give them both a dry look. “I would rather eat broken glass than be on a bus with that character for two months, wouldn’t you?”

We share a laugh and spend the next hour or so eating sushi that was delivered, Arnie playing back the recording of John and Bruce’s auditions. Obviously, we can’t listen to Jazz because he didn’t play a single note.

I had debated whether to tell my bandmates about Lael but thought it was best to keep them unbiased.

“Oh, would you look at the time,” Switch says, pointing to a clock on the wall. He’s obviously referring to my rule that we can’t start drinking until after one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Beer me,” I tell him. It’s been a stressful day and beer is usually the answer.

Switch goes out to the kitchen and comes back with a case of ice cold beer. He rips it open and throws one to me and one to Calvi.

“Who’s the babe sitting in the hall?” Switch asks as he falls into a worn out leather couch.

I know very well who’s sitting in the hall and I consider telling them that she’s both our last audition of the day and the daughter of Ronald Ramsey, but decide to leave out the latter.

“Oh, right,” I say casually. “We had an open audition online and this girl was the winner. She seems pretty good.”

“A girl? Hmm,” Calvi responds stiffly, staring into nothing, thinking of god knows what.

“A girl?” Switch repeats, his eyebrows scrunched together and the corner of his lip curled into a smile.

“Yeah, a girl…so…” I answer.

Knock-knock.

Here comes the moment of truth.

Arnie opens the door and in walks Lael with bass in hand with all the ease and confidence of a professional, her thick teal hair looking striking. She’s dressed to impress. Lael glances at the three of us lounging with beer and chopsticks in hand and gives us an unimpressed look. Then she scans the room and struts over to Nick’s old Ampeg SVT amplifier.

Leather pants look much better on her than on Jazz McKinnon. Her sleeveless shirt has a White Zombie graphic, and the collar is artistically torn and split, exposing her tawny skin.

“I’ll have the engineer set you up,” Arnie politely says to Lael.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” Lael responds, keeping her attention on the bass amp that’s taller than she is.

She takes off her small purse that’s the exact same shade of teal as her hair and pulls out a guitar effect pedal. Mr. Robson used to call those pedals dirt boxes. She gets down on one knee and plugs her guitar into the pedal that happens to be the exact same color as her purse and hair.

She then plugs another cable into the opposite end of the pedal and stands up to finally plug into the large amplifier. With a snap and crackle, the amp comes alive. Lael reaches up and twiddles the knobs on the amp.

Then she slams her foot down on her pretty little effect pedal and the sound that comes out is anything but pretty—a mean growl shakes the room. Her knees bend slightly every time she hits the top string of her bass. Her right arm rises up and slams down aggressively every time she hits the note. Finally, she turns toward us sitting at the edge of our seats, where we are watching her every move, and puts one hand on her hip.

Arnie knows very well who she is, but we agreed we would keep her lineage a secret for the audition at least. The band has never had to meet or deal with her before, and even if they did, it would have been back in the day. Arnie stands between us and Lael like a social referee and makes his introductions doing his best to ignore the strange energy in the room.

“Lael, meet Calvi, Switch, and Brad, collectively known as the band And Then. Gentlemen, meet Lael. She’s here to audition to be the interim bassist for the upcoming American tour. I will let you get acquainted.”

Arnie opens the door and walks out backwards, giving me a smile just before it closes.

“Hey,” Calvi says to Lael after an awkward silence.

“Hey,” Lael responds, just as casually.

“You have a pretty killer sound there,” I speak up.

“Thanks,” she says, trying not to smile.

“What kind of pedal is that?” Switch asks.

“It’s one of a kind.”

I stand up and walk toward Lael, extending my hand. She takes it, and while we shake hands and hold eye contact, she very briefly breaks away from the tough girl routine.

“Nice to meet you, Lael,” I say with a smile.

“You too,” she says almost shyly.

I’m tempted to wink at her but I don’t.

“Lets have some fun, fellas, shall we?” I say and walk toward the equipment.

Switch walks behind his drums and Calvi to his guitar. Switch does a few rolls and hits on his drums as he always does, as if to make sure they still make a sound when you hit them. Calvi tunes his guitar. I feel like if I don’t just count off the song they’ll be adjusting their instruments all day.

“All right. Rust in My Bones, in one, two, three, four.”

We’ve played the song a thousand times but it’s never sounded as good as it does right now, with Lael on the bass. She is fucking wild. Her overdriven sound makes the song meaner, heavier, while she adds notes, slaps and slides in the perfect spots. She holds a wide powerful stance, like she owns the room, owns the song, as her bass guitar hangs almost to her knees. Her entire upper body thrusts into each and every note. At every change in the song, Calvi, Switch, and I exchange a look of amazement and joy and begin to play with more enthusiasm, trying to match her. Lael’s over-the-top approach is infectious, and by mid-song the whole band is playing at full throttle.

Toward the end of the song it’s like we’re all competing to be the component with the highest energy. Switch is standing up when he rolls along the toms, and slams his drums harder than usual. Calvi has his foot on an amp, playing harder than he normally does. Rather than tapping my foot, my entire leg bounces up and down.

The song usually has a tight ending but this time we hold the last note for what seems like days, everyone building and building. Lael reaches down and makes her teal pedal go into oblivion.

Finally, with our guitars raised high in the air, Switch does his final roll on the drums and we all slam down and end the long crescendo. For some reason, as it sometimes happens when we’re jamming, we all laugh.

“Duuude,” Calvi says to Lael.

I’m still laughing, overjoyed and completely blown away as I reach for my beer. I take a long swig and exchange a look with Switch. It seems he feels the same way too.

“That was pretty bad-ass,” I manage to say to her when I’m done swallowing.

But Lael is already unplugging her pedal and putting it back into her purse, ready to go.

Arnie opens the door and addresses the room, “Thank you, Lael. That was fantastic. We’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks for having me. See ya, boys.” She smiles at each of us and heads through the door that Arnie is holding open for her with the same confidence she walked in with.

When it clicks shut, the air in the room changes.

“I never really thought about having a girl in the band, but why not, I think it’s cool,” Calvi says while he rests his guitar on a stand.

“I like her,” I tell them. I liked her before, but after seeing her actually play? Shit, we would be fools not to take her.

Well, aside from the messy complications of who she really is.

“Yup,” Switch agrees.

Arnie, however, doesn’t share the same enthusiasm. I can tell he’s being a little cautious with her, and for all the right reasons.

“You know,” he says carefully, brushing his long grey hair behind his ears. “She’s pretty young. Maybe she needs a little more experience. I mean, it’s a long tour and demanding as hell. I thought Beddis sounded pretty good.”

But in this moment, there doesn’t seem to be any choice. I choose to ignore Arnie’s warning as we all take our seats, open fresh beers, and look at each other with confirming smiles.

“All in favor of Lael say aye,” Calvi says, raising his beer, insinuating if we agree it will be a binding contract.

“Aye,” Switch says, holding up his beer. They both turn to me.

“Aye,” I say and hold up my beer. Then we bang our cans together.

“Majority rules, motion passed,” Calvi says with a laugh.

Arnie stands in front of us with his arms crossed, stroking his long grey beard.

“Oh boy,” he says under his breath.