Old Flames, Burned Hands Read online

  Shane had pulled her out of her tailspin and put the brakes on her deathwish. No more than passing friends during that blue period but when Tilda’s friends began drifting away from her trainwreck of prolonged shiva, Shane remained one of the few friends left standing. God only knew what he saw in her in that state but she thanked God he did. Despite his bruiser-looks, there was a gentleness to Shane. Patience too, as if he knew Tilda would come around if he just waited long enough without prodding. Tilda had looked up from her fog one day to see him smiling at her and she realized that life wasn’t so vile and grey all of the time. That small beacons of light remained where one could warm themselves over like a campfire on a beach. Shane was one of them.

  Two months into dating Shane, Tilda cleaned up her act and took up her guitar again. Less than a month after that, she had formed another band and attacked every stage they let her climb onto. Gorgon consisted of two women (lead guitar and drums) and a guy using Tilda’s old Fender Bass. Forming an all-girl band with a male on bass started as a lark but something clicked in that formation. Tilda was pumping out songs in her sleep, the result of a year-long songwriting hiatus, and gigs got booked. A van was purchased and Gorgon hit the road, knocking out clubs in Hamilton, Montreal, Ottawa, Syracuse. Buzz grew and an A&R guy from Pinko Records bought them drinks after a show at the Horseshoe. Said he wanted to sign them. Over the moon went the Gorgon trio. The holy grail had been grasped. Shit got signed, a fancy studio booked for two weeks and Gorgon banged out their first record. There was an advance and everyone was cut a cheque. Tilda and Laura (drums) put together the cover and sleeve art themselves and label guy got busy with the promotional push.

  Shit happens. Two weeks before the record dropped, it all started hitting the fan. Pinko Records was bought out by Warner Music and the whole place went upside down. Gorgon’s champion, the A&R guy, was fired as Pinko Records was subsumed and Warner trimmed the fat and cut the redundancies. Gorgon fell through the cracks, the CD release was pushed back two weeks and when it finally hit the streets, there was zero support. Crickets. When Tilda and crew watched their debut record squashed in the takeover shenanigans, they hustled to push it themselves but there was only so much force they could muster. There was a hardcore fanbase here on the home turf but outside of T.O., zilch.

  Two weeks after the dust settled, Tilda saw the honey trap for what it was. No one in the band had read the fine print on the Faustian contract, no had had the foresight to get a lawyer to look it over. When their debut died a quick death, Gorgon was informed that the advance they had been cut was now owed the label. The heretofore fuzzy details of ‘advance against royalties’ suddenly became crystal clear. At an eleven percent royalty rate on each disc (of which the producer got three percent) they would have to sell a bazillion copies just to earn out the cash they’d been handed upon signing. Added to the bill was the cost of the studio time, the producer and a whack of ‘incidentals’ that the band had assumed the label was footing.

  Natch.

  The salt in the wound was found further down the fine print. Signing the contract meant agreeing to a second record. Gorgon was barely out of the starting gates and already the balance sheet was killing them. Although Steve Albini’s famous memo about how record labels routinely screwed bands was widely circulated at the time, it didn’t fall into Tilda’s radar until it was too late. She felt her heart crack reading it. If only.

  They ate it. What choice did they have? They toured as much as they could, putting mileage through the Bermuda Triangle of Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa but it barely scratched the surface. No one at Warner gave a hoot or even remembered who they were. Nose to the grindstone, Gorgon sucked it up and attacked the sophomore record. The label wanted more of a pop sound and had the brilliant idea of trying to “sexy” up their image. The air inside the recording studio turned poisonous and the friction applied from above wore them down until the band cracked and fell apart. By the time the second record was in the can, the band was kaput. Contract fulfilled, they were free to go.

  Tilda labelled that era as the brown period. Crude but it summed up her opinion of the whole fiasco. A painful education in bursting the big record deal fantasy. She and Shane were a solid couple at the start of that brown period and when Gorgon finally walked out of that sophomore recording session, she discovered the cause of the strange fatigue she’d been suffering; she was pregnant. It became one more nail in the band’s coffin but by then she couldn’t have cared less. Her whole world came to a screeching stop until Shane talked her through it and convinced her that having a baby wasn’t the end of the world.

  So, where did that leave Tilda Parish, former frontwoman of the now defunct Gorgon? At home with a baby girl christened Molly Grace, named after both of their grandmothers. Tilda and Shane were over the moon but, like first time parents everywhere, they were scared shitless most of the time. Adding to the stress was the urgency to buy a house. Pregnancy had brought out a ferocious nesting instinct in Tilda and, with the help of Shane’s parents, they found a badly used but affordable three-bedroom Craftsman on a quiet street of Victorian bay and gables.

  Those first two years, Tilda put music aside (along with sleep, friends, work, sanity) but after cake was served at Molly’s second birthday, Shane whispered into Tilda’s ear that he had a little gift for her too and led her out through the backyard to the garage. Since they didn’t own a car in those lean years, the garage had become a repository of clutter. Shane threw open the door to reveal a completely empty space. All the junk was gone and the cobwebs swept away. Dead center of that clean floor space was her Hummingbird guitar laid across a wooden chair.

  “It’s not much right now,” Shane grinned, “but we can fix it up. Soundproof it, insulate. What do you think?”

  “This is for me?” Her voice cracked a little.

  “You need somewhere to play where you don’t have to worry about waking the baby. The baby monitor will work out here. I checked. You can thrash away all you want.”

  Overwhelmed to say the least. She threw her arms around him and dampened his collar with a few tears. As dopey as he could be to what she wanted sometimes, Shane had clued in to what Tilda needed. Together they converted the dusty old garage into a home studio (a fiasco in itself at times, and possibly the true test of a marriage) and since then it was Tilda’s Fortress of Solitude. And she cherished it.

  Coming back to music this second time, Tilda dismissed the notion of forming another band and struck out on her own. Gone were the crazy band names and frustrating power struggles, this time it was plain old Tilda Parish. This era she had dubbed the rose period. A little wiser and with a lot more at stake, Tilda took it slow and set about rebuilding her career a third time. She had to take it slow. With a baby at home, she had to pick gigs carefully, be more strategic in her planning rather than grabbing anything she could find. This allowed her time to craft and polish material in her new pared-down sound and each show went better than the last, drawing acclaim from club-goers and inquiries into a record. Applying the same methodology and patience, Tilda approached a smaller indie label named Meat Cleaver Records. Gun-shy but wiser from the previous fiasco, Tilda negotiated a smarter deal for herself with zero pressure from the label. What the Meat Cleaver gang lacked in deep pockets, they made up for in enthusiasm and a willingness to let their artists forge their own course.

  It paid off. Her first solo record, Lullabies and Wrecking Balls, garnered praise in the local scene and rolled out from there. There was even, gasp, a really nice review in Pitchfork. Short mini-tours were arranged, two-day excursions here and there, allowing Tilda to gig without being away from home for too long. By the time Tilda was cutting demos in her garage for the next record, the label asked if she wanted to tour Europe. There had been an odd spike in record sales in Germany, Denmark and Ireland and the Meat Cleaver crew thought it would be prudent to get her over there. Tilda was overjoyed but dismissed the idea; four weeks away from home, away from Molly (who was
four by this time) was impossible. It was Shane who changed her mind, telling her that they would all go. Cashing in all of his vacation time at work and saving every penny they could, they would all go as a family so she could gig Europe. He and Molly would be her roadies, he joked. So they went and Tilda was blown away by the reception she received on those winding roads through Europe. Small clubs in Deutchland, a church in Copenhagen and pubs in Eire, all welcoming and warm with applause. The case of CDs they’d brought sold out quickly and the label rushed more to them in Germany. The tour was hard, exhausting the three of them but it was exhilarating at the same time and when they boarded a plane at Gatwick for the flight home, Tilda had stoked a small ember of interest into a bonfire of new fans.

  Back home, she put her nose to the grindstone recording the second record. Former band members and musicians from other groups offered to help out, allowing Tilda to put together an all-star roster of guest musicians, who dubbed themselves ‘Tilda’s Temporary Boyfriends’. Her second solo record, titled Mermaid in a Gill Net, got off to a solid start, gaining traction on college playlists and an ever increasing demand from Europe. For the first time in her life, she had been earning a real income from her music. No temping or part-time massage therapist work to keep her afloat.

  It hadn’t lasted long. Just as her solo career was picking up steam, the whole music world had the rug pulled out from under it with the seismic shift of the intenet and file-sharing. CD sales declined globally and along with it went Tilda’s income. Ditto her stability, ditto confidence, ditto career. The only way for musicians to earn a living now was through constant touring. Months away from home, crisscrossing Canada and the States. Fine if you were a 20-something kid with hunger in your belly but not so much for an over-thirty mom with a kid and commitments at home.

  She redoubled her efforts, gigging where she could without travelling too far from home and trying to navigate the new paradigms of the music world along with everyone else. It fizzled out, leaving Tilda barely treading water and Shane now the sole income-earner.

  Then the birthday, turning 40. Telling herself there was still time. Lots of artists broke through in their 40’s. She just needed to try harder, want it more. But commitments and obligations nibbled at the edges, eating up her time and energy. It felt like an anchor lashed to her ankle just as she was cresting a wave and now sinking down to the bottom, her fingers rippling a little splash before the waters closed over her, leaving no trace she had ever been there. Morose and dramatic, sure, but that’s what it felt like. Even if she never dared voice it out loud.

  Today, another birthday. 41. The jolt of it biting into her marrow. Making a few hasty phone calls, she lined up a gig despite the fact that she hadn’t performed in over six months.

  All these posters and handbills smacked up on every wall. She had been so proud to put them up, a testament and reminder of her path to this spot. Now the damned things just gathered dust and mocked her for what she had become.

  A has-been. An also-ran.

  Tilda shrugged it off and reached for the guitar, eager to get back to the song she was working on. Her mouth grimaced when the cell phone went off. On the other end of the line was a recent contributor to her malaise. A creditor, ringing her up to rattle her cage about one debt or another and eat up the few precious work hours she had in the studio.

  “Ms. Parish,” the caller trilled. “I hope you’re having a super day. I’m calling because I’m a little concerned over this balance here.”

  Tilda took a deep breath and scrambled her brains for an excuse that would get this creep off her back.

  “OUCH,” THE MAN ON the table said.

  “That’s really knotted up in there.” Tilda eased off the pressure as she kneaded the man’s rhomboid. “This is the same spot as last time, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Every time I play basketball, I yank it outta place.”

  “Muscles tend to do that as we get older. Can’t take the abuse we put it through.”

  “Who you calling old?” Lifting his head from the table, he winked at her. The man’s name was Jeff, a semi-regular client of Tilda’s who played sports like he was still in his twenties and routinely pulled muscles as a result.

  Three days a week, Tilda was a massage therapist at her friend’s clinic. Massage therapy had been a hobby at first, helping out a drummer friend who’d suffered back pain at an early age. Later on she studied it properly, taking classes at the Sutherland Chan during the downtime between gigs and recording. It evolved into a part time job flexible enough to work around her music.

  “Put your arm up over here,” she said. “We’ll stretch this out a bit.”

  The man draped his right arm over the table and she dug into the problem area of his back. Jeff was the owner of a small cafe on Queen West who spent his free time on the court, no matter how bad it hurt. Always urging Tilda to come by the restaurant so he could repay her kindness for saving his game.

  “Forget I cried uncle earlier,” he said. “Dig in there hard as you can.”

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Give it all you got.” Another wink, then he laid his head back down. “The pain feels good.”

  Jeff was also a shameless flirt and, Tilda suspected, a closet masochist when it came to pain. It came with the territory sometimes.

  She doubled up the pressure and seared into the muscles. Then a bolt of pain shot through her wrist, scooping her breath away and she backed off. The old break. It hadn’t flared up like that in a while.

  Jeff rose up on his elbows. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, clutching the wrist. “Just an old injury.”

  “War wounds,” Jeff said as he lay back down. “Sometimes those old injuries flare up to remind you of the past.”

  “Isn’t that what photo albums are for?” She gingerly rotated her wrist, working the pain out. “You’re all set. Remember to stretch your back properly before you hit the hardwood next time, huh?”

  “Maybe it’s time to take up golf.” He swung his legs over the side and watched her rotate her hand. “Hey, you want me to rub that for you? I’m not too shabby with a rubdown myself.”

  The sly grin on his face. Tilda forced her eyes not to roll back. Dude never let up sometimes, the ring on his finger plain as hers. “Thanks, I’m good. I’ll see ya outside.” She went out and closed the door behind her.

  Lippman Massage Therapy had four separate therapy rooms built inside its larger third floor loft space. The reception area flooded with sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sara Lippman stood behind the counter, cribbing notes on a clipboard. Turning around, she smiled at Tilda. “How’d it go?”

  “Fine,” Tilda said. “Like always.”

  “I was about to make some tea. You want some?”

  “Can’t. I gotta run and get dinner on the table.”

  “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Don’t have a clue. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”

  Tilda had known Sarah forever, back when even Sarah was in a band. She had played drums in an all-female group that had, at the time, been erroneously lumped in with the Riot Grrl movement. An affiliation they couldn’t shake until the band dissolved and Sarah sold her kit to study massage. Two years after opening her own space, Sarah had asked Tilda to join the studio and the two had worked together ever since. Two or three days, Sarah always accommodating about keeping her hours flexible to work around Tilda’s career.

  Sarah frowned at the schedule on her clipboard. “Are you in tomorrow?”

  “I switched it. Two clients. I bumped them to Friday.”

  “How come?”

  “I have a show tomorrow night. But my wrist has been acting up, so I don’t want to wrench it out of shape before the gig.”

  “I forgot about that,” Sarah said. “Been a while, huh? You ready for it?”

  “Yup,” Tilda lied. She was nowhere near ready for it. “Will you be there?”


  “I’ll try but I can’t promise.” Sarah’s eyes dropped to Tilda’s wrist. “That’s weird about your wrist flaring up. I thought that only happened on rainy days.”

  Tilda slung her new bag over one shoulder. “Normally it does. I don’t know why it’s causing me grief.”

  “Stress,” Sarah said. “You’re anxious about performing again.”

  Jeff came out of the session room, buttoning up his shirt. “Hey, Sarah. How’s business?”

  “Gangbusters, Jeffrey.” Sara took his credit card, swiped it through. “How’s the back?”

  “Tilda worked her magic.” He punched at the keypad, took his card back and winked at Tilda. “Feels like a brand new me.”

  “Great.” Sarah wheeled her chair to the computer. “Does the brand-new-you want to book your next appointment or should we wait until your next game?”

  “Better pencil me in two weeks from now. I’ll probably need it whether I play or not.” He waved as he shouldered the door open. “See ya next time, Tilda.”

  “Remember to stretch,” Tilda warned.

  When the door clicked shut, Sarah shook her head. “The man is shameless around you. Winky-wink-wink. Jesus.”

  “He’s harmless.” Tilda adjusted the strap over her shoulder, ready to go.

  “Hang on a second, honey. I need to talk to you.”

  “Sounds ominous. What is it?”

  Sarah stood and leaned onto the counter. “I want you to reconsider being here on a more permanent basis.”