Meet Trevor Graves

Nobody ever said rock stars were good influences on the youth of the world. In fact, if they were good influences, they wouldn’t be rock stars. Their instability and volatility and id-driven everything are the draw. Who wants to see rock stars with stable marriages or coflict-free interactions with others or the ability to censor themselves when speaking on camera? I know I don’t. I expect them to be a little corrupt, slightly morally bankrupt and more than a bit filterless when expressing themselves.

I like my rock stars to hide their heartbreak beneath a healthy slathering of false bravado and artificial swagger.

That way, their breakthroughs of genuine emotion and true humanity within are sweetly unexpected — winning surprises all the way through.

And if, while all of it happens, they choose to dress like inebriated circus performers who managed to find life beyond Thunderdome, so much the better.

Meet Trevor Graves, retired and dropped-out folk-rock star and the unwittingly corruptive influence in Songs from the Phenomenal Nothing. Trevor had a successful run through the mid-eighties, but renounced the hedonistic ways of rock and roll in the pursuit of a higher spiritual existence. And when that fell through, he reinvented himself yet again.

Every great rock star eventually does.

Here’s a scene where Tyler Mills meets the man himself. Things are pretty tense from the get-go.

***

“You really write for a website?” he calls out. I think twice about doing it, but I turn around and find him slowly making his way down the street toward me. “I don’t believe it for a second, but I’ve been wrong about shit like that before.”

I feel like I have power in this situation, power I don’t want to give up just yet. So I just stand where I am, letting him come to me instead of meeting him halfway. I’ve already come far enough to meet the man. I don’t really think I need to go any further. “Nope,” I confess. Then I lie again. “School paper.”

“Now that, I believe.” He’s face to face with me again, and I see him in the sunlight. He’s worn, for sure, but instead of seeming like something has been removed from him it looks more like there’s something extra there. Like there’s another layer on top of everything else, like he’s been added onto by life or time or whatever it is that does something like that. Then he smiles, and I see what my mother painted, surfacing there in his eyes. Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.

I think I’m okay with that for the moment.

He looks past me, like he’s thinking about what his next move should be. “Why do you give a shit about my story?”

He has a good point. His songs don’t play on the radio; he doesn’t have a huge underground following hanging on his next unspoken word. I can only speak for myself. “I just do.”

“I’ve turned down real journalists at real papers…I have no reason to give away anything to a kid who just busts in on my afternoon like you’ve done here.”

I shrug. “So don’t, then.” I’m not giving him anything more. I’m not going to beg him to talk to me, even though I haven’t told him the truth yet about what I’m here to talk about. I don’t feel like I owe him that.

If anything, I feel like the people who created this situation owe me something instead.

He just stands there looking thoughtful for a few more seconds. I can’t imagine anything I’ve said has persuaded him. I haven’t said all that much, anyway. Maybe he just sees an opportunity to walk down memory lane with someone who’s sober for once, instead of the barflies he seems to be used to these days. Maybe he thinks I’m harmless enough to chat with for a while. “If I talk to you, it stays in your school paper, right?”

I nod. “If that’s what you want, sure.”

“And you don’t mention location? You tell no one where I am? The last thing I need is to have that whole bloody circus start up all over again.”

I nod again. “I can do that.”

“And I get publishing approval when you’re finished with your piece? I get to read it and cut out anything I don’t like?”

He hasn’t made a record in almost thirty years, but he talks like he’s got one sitting in the top ten. “Dude, it’s not Rolling Stone. You can read it beforehand, but I run it the way I want it.” This lying thing is getting easier and easier for me.

He thinks a little more. “This is the last fucking thing I should be doing at this point in my life.” Then he smiles again. Smirks, actually. “We can talk.”

I don’t smile back.

***

Yeah…Ty gives as good as he gets. The boy has the makings of a true rock star, from the swagger to the heartache and everything in between.

Songs from the Phenomenal Nothing will be released on Tuesday, September 3. It’s up and running at Goodreads already, if you’d like add it to your “to read” shelf and give it a little review once the big day hits.

Meet Tyler Mills

We’ve all had moments in our childhood years when we were convinced that our parents didn’t understand us. We all have moments in our parenting years when our children feel the same way about us. Both we and they are right.

And wrong.

We’re both that, too.

Songs from the Phenomenal Nothing is the story of Tyler (Ty) Mills, an angst-ridden seventeen year-old guitar prodigy dealing with his tense relationship with his father, Tom. As the story opens, Ty is six months past the death of his mother, still trying to make sense of the new life he’s been left with in her absence. He’s a good kid who’s been thrown into a tailspin, with entirely different plans for his future than what his father has in mind.

I wanted you to meet him before he makes his big debut into the literary world.

Here’s a bit of what he’s all about, in his own words. In this scene, he’s auditioning to study classical guitar at Conservatory.

***

I’m at the audition, which wasn’t my idea; I did it at the request of my guitar teacher. Mr. H thinks I should focus on classical; he’s says with the natural skill I show for it, two years in the Conservatory performance program could make me world-class. I agree with half of that. I can play classical, no problem. But I have no intention of going to school for it.

It really isn’t my scene.

There’s a panel of administrators and instructors watching me. Tense and academic. Their table has fresh flowers and water in wine glasses. Notes are being taken, whispers being passed around. About how I look, I’m sure. I dressed the part, but the shirt and tie don’t really detract from the hair or the attitude.

The performance is being recorded for later scrutiny. The cameras are already running. One of the panel speaks: “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Mills. We’ll give you a minute to prepare.” I don’t need it, though. I’m not nervous. I’m not unsure of myself. Not even as I take position and begin playing. At this point, I’m already gone; I’m nothing but vibration. I’m both aware and unaware of them sitting not seven feet away. And not to sound arrogant, but I’m nailing it.

I’m goddamned nailing it.

This is what I understand: music. I’ve never questioned it. It’s always been there, flowing through my hands. Waiting for me to put an instrument underneath them to pour it all into. Whatever comes out, comes out. Today, it’s classical Spanish. I play, and everything is flow. It just happens. I’m not watching them now, but I can feel the panel is impressed with what I’m doing. That’s nice.

I’m rounding the coda when I realize: I don’t want this.

Not the audition. Not classical Spanish.

Not Conservatory.

I want none of it.

I’m in the middle of a stutter of sixteenth notes, playing them as easily as writing my own name, and now I’m not even sure why I came. There’s no question that I can do this. But I don’t want to. I never really did.

So why am I, then?

For Mr. H? Probably. He’s put a lot into it. He’s a teacher; of course education is going to be a big thing for him. But I already have talent, and training thanks to him. I’m not convinced I need to go further.

For my mother? Probably. Just about every performance since she died has been inspired by her in some way. She loved classical. She would be in tears hearing this. She isn’t here anymore, though.

Those alone wouldn’t be enough to make me go through with it. Mom and Mr. H already believed in me; I have nothing to prove to them by doing this. But I’m clearly trying to prove something here, or I wouldn’t have done it at all. I’m halfway finished when it finally hits me.

I’m doing this for Tom.

I’m doing this to prove myself to him, to my own father. To show him that I am enough as I am. He’s not even here, and I’m performing for his benefit. Whatever I can do, whatever I’ve done up to that point, is insufficient, obviously, or he’d have been impressed by now. He’d act impressed at least, or, even more unlikely, tell me that he can appreciate what I do. What I consider my gift, as lame as it sounds.

I’m coming to the three-quarters mark and all I can think is: why do I even care what he thinks?

I decide that I don’t.

***

A kid with a boatload of talent, a wealth of confidence and an attitude that won’t quit.

That’s Tyler in a nutshell.

Songs from the Phenomenal Nothing will be released on Tuesday, September 3, but you can to add it to your Goodreads shelf today.

Of Note

There’s something that fascinates me about rock stars and musicians, something that doesn’t seem to want to go away. They crop up in just about everything I’ve written so far. Being a musician myself, using the theme of music isn’t so mysterious; it’s just one of the go-to methods I use for my characters express themselves. But people who choose to build careers around music — and those who are captivated enough by them to emulate their ways — are entirely different creatures from the rest of us. I’ve been trying to figure out why this strikes me as something worth writing about, other than the obvious road stories and rags-to-riches fable of it all. The world just seems to love its rock stars, regardless of how faulted and flawed they might be.

And I actually think I might love them because of the faults and the flaws.

I think I understand a little better how it is now that I’m on the other side of the new book.

What contemporary character better personifies the mythic god-hero figure at the heart of every epic story ever told? One of humble birth who overcomes a youth fraught with obstacles and challenges to ascend and become seen as something more than mortal. One who sings the songs of us all, whose voice resonates with the pain and triumph of whole of the human experience, who has seemingly reached into the void and filled the chasm between the sacred and the mundane.

Rock stars and musicians are voyagers between worlds, traveling the channels where mere folk cannot hope to set foot, capturing the life essence in words and sounds and giving it to us as a gift. Right or wrong, we exalt them for it.

And then, when they screw it all up and fall right back into the gutter with the rest of us?

Holy whoa…is that ever a hotbed of storytelling material right there!

So far, though I’ve tried to make them all relatable, none of my rock stars or my musicians have been simple souls, and none have turned out to be literal heroes—not in the vampire books (there’s another one coming in Joe 3…he’s more flawed than just about any of them, and I’ve never had more fun writing a character than I’ve had writing him), not in Starstruck (probably the most “rock star” of the rock stars, actually) and not in the new book (in which the rock star is actually the most human of any I’ve written). They’ve all been nothing so much as wayward souls in search of themselves, yet they end up empty and shallow and humble again —and, ultimately, thoroughly self-aware.

Maybe that’s what makes them so write-able for me: if I can give them enough knowledge of their own hopelessly-flawed existences, maybe they emerge at the bottom more heroic than they ever were at the top.

Whatever it is, I’m sure there’s more of it to come.

Next book, though? No rock stars, and no musicians. Not a one.

I don’t know how I’m gonna handle it.