Clouded

By Amanda Michelle Moon

Ever since the lights went down at her first Revolver concert, Natalie has known she wants to work in the music industry. Now, the summer before college, she has her dream job interning for Revolver's managers at Clouded. At first, it's a lot of paperwork and phone calls and organizing, but she is becoming friends with her celebrity crush, Revol

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spiraling Forward
• Release date: Jun 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781943250035

Amanda Michelle Moon

Amanda Michelle Moon is an author living in Minneapolis, MN. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Hamline University and a bachelor's degree is in Music Business and has worked for a variety of artist management and record companies. Blood and Thunder: Musings on the Art of Medicine awarded her the 2015 Best Prose Award. Her writing has also been published by 2nd & Church; Flying Ketchup Press; Rock, Paper, Scissors; and in various online publications.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE BUZZED. EXCITEMENT vibrated from her chest, down her arms and legs, into her fingers and toes. Concert days were always like this: excitement built up inside her until she thought she’d burst. Tonight, though, it was stronger than usual. Tonight would be incredible. Her favorite band. Her favorite venue. The perfect last night before she started her dream job.

Okay, internship.

Tonight, she was a fan.

Tomorrow, she’d be working with the band.

She rounded the corner and the gray/beige office/condos were interrupted by an old, short brick building with no windows. The Resound was painted entirely black except for the names of the most iconic artists to ever play there—Johnny Cash, The Talking Heads, Death Cab for Cutie, and dozens of others, scrawled in white paint covering a sheet of black plywood where the front window would have been.

She’d long lost count of how many shows she’d seen here, and she certainly wasn’t expecting to be carded at the door.

Not for real, anyway.

The bouncer was new. Tall, broad shoulders, huge chest, and skinny legs, wearing the regulation black t-shirt and black jeans, blocked the entrance, hand out. ID.

She pulled it out of her back pocket and handed it over.

He looked from the card to her, and back to the card, then ran his thumb over the picture.

It wasn’t fake, not anymore. Since turning eighteen she’d been using her real driver’s license instead of the fake she’d used for the last two years. There was no reason to be nervous.

Where’s Alan? she asked.

Hands, he replied.

She held up her fists and he methodically drew huge Xs with permanent marker.

Geez. She didn’t want to drink, but it was going to take a week to wash it off.

Ticket?

Will call.

He nodded, stepped to the side, and let her in far enough to get to the ticket booth inside the door.

Alan was sitting in the little closet of a room behind a plexiglass divider. What’s up, Natalie?

Hey. You get promoted?

He laughed. More like demoted. I hate being stuck in here.

New guy seems good. She held up the backs of her hands.

Alan laughed and shook his head. Doing his job. Plus, you look like trouble.

Ha, ha, she deadpanned. You got a ticket for me?

Yep. He crossed her name off the will-call list and wrapped a wristband around her arm. You’ll be on the artist list next time, he said with a wink.

The artist list. The band’s friends who didn’t have to buy tickets or wait in line. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep her smile from getting ridiculous.

Have fun tonight. Stay out of trouble.

Always.

Inside, yellow lights lit the stage. Glowing in the center, a drum set with a sketch of three faces—Revolver’s logo—on the kick. In front of it was a rug with two guitars on one side and a keyboard, computer, and synth machine on the other. Steve’s drums. Jonathan’s guitars. Noel’s keys and computers.

People pressed close together near the stage but stood in looser groups toward the back. The bar, which ran the length of the room on the right, was lit up with red and blue rope lights that reflected off everyone waiting for Samantha, the lone bartender. Natalie pushed her way through. Hey! She called over the house music. Busy night!

Hey there! I was wondering when you’d show up. It’s sold out. Going to be a great show! As she spoke, Samantha grabbed a plastic cup, filled it with ice and Coke, threw in three cherries, and handed it to Natalie. Have fun.

Thanks. On slower nights, Natalie would stay and talk to Samantha between bands and drinks, but not tonight. The room was filling fast. Someone was already shouting an order at Samantha, and Natalie needed to get to the front of the crowd.

This was one of the reasons she liked coming to shows alone. Her two best friends, Brooke and Erin, liked music, but they didn’t love it as Natalie did. They didn’t understand how Natalie felt the music through her whole body—and not only because of the volume and the pressure of the bass. How it could take over her mind so she literally couldn’t remember anything outside the room. They didn’t know what it felt like to be completely trapped in a song and not want out.

It was also much harder to push through a crowd with multiple people. By herself, people assumed she was getting back to her group of friends and generally let her through. If she was careful and tried to go around groups and conversations, people would actually move to make it easier for her. Tonight, she was able to get almost all the way to the stage—there were two guys between her and the platform that came halfway up Natalie’s chest. She had a pretty good view between their heads, but it was temporary. Every few minutes the crowd swelled and receded as someone else tried to make their way through. She took advantage of one particularly powerful wave and fake-stumbled sideways, wedging her hip between them against the stage. When she straightened her body, the guy that had been in front was now behind her, hands braced on the stage. She was caged in his arms, but not in a creepy way, he wasn’t pressing his body into hers, it was more like he was leaning back, trying to keep from letting the next surge crush her. He smelled like beer and cigarettes, but his flannel was soft. When she thanked him, he nodded once, winked, and the house music went silent, as if on his cue.

Then the room went dark, the only light the glowing of the Exit signs around the perimeter of the room.

A door to the right of the stage opened in a burst of fluorescent light at the same time the lights at the back of the stage came on full blast, silhouetting three people.

Natalie screamed.

Everyone screamed.

Drumsticks clicked four times.

For the first few seconds, the barrage of sound and lights was chaos rattling Natalie’s ears and pounding her eyes. The guitar clarified first. She could pick out the slide of Jonathan’s fingers on the string, the pluck of his pick with each strum. He chewed on his lip as he played, the faintest hint of stubble flashing across his chin when the light hit just right. He had two guitars: a black acoustic that he played high on his chest and a red electric that hung down close to his knees and he played in a wide, punk rock stance, almost bending over. Sometimes he switched in the middle of a song, going from quiet rhythmic acoustic to driving electric and back. The t-shirt he wore slid back and forth with the guitar, hitching just high enough to reveal a woven belt holding up his loose jeans. He moved around the stage, feet moving to the beat of Steve’s kick drum which reverberated in Natalie’s chest, forcing her heartbeat to match the rhythm.

The sounds from Noel’s computer, beat machine, and keyboard filled the room like warm water. When he was at his mic stand, his knees were directly in front of Natalie, his right foot pounding out the beat on the stage next to her hand. She craned her neck to see his face, brown eyes shining under thick lashes, dark hair flopping against his forehead already starting to bead with sweat.

The lights flashed yellow and blue, red and green, spotlighting different parts of the stage. Front lights illuminated the whole band, clear and in focus. Backlights either blinded Natalie or put the band in complete darkness, depending on whether or not she was in Noel or Jonathan’s shadow as they moved around the stage. They looked far over her head, singing to the people in the back of the club, drawing them in. It worked. The crowd pushed forward, trying to get closer, their press pushing her into the stage.

She held up her hands and sang along.

They played one song into another, no distinction between endings and beginnings. She sang along with every word, knew every chord. She clapped until her hands hurt, cheered until her voice was hoarse.

When they finally let a song end, Noel shouted Hello, Nashville! and the crowd erupted. Sweat poured down Natalie’s face. The hair that fell out of her ponytail stuck to her forehead. Everyone and everything around her was damp.

It was all beautiful.

Jonathan stepped to his mic, said how happy they were to be back, and told a little story about their current tour. His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke. She traced them, willing him to look at her.

And then he did.

Their eyes locked. It felt as if he was talking directly to her, and only her.

Her heart pounded harder than Steve’s kick drum.

She blinked. He was still there, still looking at her.

Or maybe he was looking beyond her, at someone further back.

She blinked again and this time he smiled, jerked his head in that almost nod guys sometimes do to say Hi without saying anything.

Her stomach flipped.

Then they were playing again, and the crowd was moving and Jonathan was going back and forth between the drum set and his mic and occasionally up to Noel’s mic to harmonize and she thought maybe he’d caught her eye again a few times but everything was moving and twinkling and she couldn’t be entirely sure.

Much, much later, the lights stopped pulsing and bathed the stage in muted blues and greens. Jonathan put his guitar down. Noel moved his mic to the center of the stage. Steve came out from behind the drums.

A single spotlight illuminated exactly where they stood. They looked at each other, took a collective breath, and began to sing.

She’d never heard the song.

Never heard their voices without instruments.

It was too much.

Too beautiful.

She couldn’t watch.

She closed her eyes.

The crowd disappeared.

She floated, liquid music thick around her, holding her. Cool and warm and comfortable.

This. This feeling was why she hadn’t brought anyone with her. How could she share this experience? It was more than hearing. More than feeling. It was everything.

Their voices faded out and there was complete silence.

Noel yelled, Goodnight!

Natalie opened her eyes.

The stage was empty. The crowd was screaming.

She screamed, too. For the song to come back. To fill her and hold her again.

Overhead lights turned on, too bright, too quickly. Funk music from the sixties filled the room. She was carried with the tide of people flowing out the door and back into the street.

CHAPTER TWO

NATALIE’S FIRST-DAY outfit had been approved by her two best friends, Erin and Brooke, and even her mom, Pam, but the red t-shirt, black circle skirt, and black chucks still made her nervous. Was it right for the first day of a new job? Everyone at Clouded wore jeans and t-shirts, so it wasn’t too casual in general, but she wanted to show them she was serious.

Professional.

Her guidance counselor wanted her to wear a suit but her guidance counselor didn’t understand the culture or the business. The high school’s internship program was usually for people who were going into tech or accounting jobs. Even the kids placed in music-adjacent jobs usually ended up with accountants or lawyers. She was the first person who’d been placed in artist management. It hadn’t been easy to get it approved, especially since Clouded wanted her to be able to work more than the typical five hours a week. She’d made arrangements to complete the program over the summer which meant her graduation was conditional. Her diploma wouldn’t be provided until she finished these credits.

Natalie knew managers oversaw all aspects of their artist’s careers, from working with lawyers and labels to booking agents and publishers. She knew they were the artists behind the artists, and she knew it was what she wanted to do. What that meant practically, day to day, was a mystery, it seemed to everyone, including the managers with whom she had interviewed.

A little bit of everything.

You’re the artist’s representative in all things.

A buffer.

Sometimes, you’re an adult babysitter.

That last comment had been particularly damaging to her case, but Natalie followed all music industry news. She knew all the big players. She knew Janet Lancet, owner of Clouded and manager of Revolver, was the best, and she knew it would be the opportunity of a lifetime to get to work with her. She put together a profile on Janet, the company, and, finally tipped the scales. The counselor approved the project.

Natalie passed her interview.

She was in.

Obviously, Natalie wasn’t going to be interning directly for Janet. She would be working with Suzie, Revolver’s former tour manager who had worked her way up and was now managing her own bands.

Natalie had met Suzie, a few times, back when she was on the road with Revolver. The first show Natalie ever saw was Revolver at Resound in tenth grade. She arrived too early, the room basically empty except for staff and Suzie, crisscrossing between the stage and soundboard, putting out water and towels and set lists. Natalie had talked to her for a moment, and Suzie told Natalie to get as close to the stage as she could and enjoy the show. Later, Natalie started following Suzie’s socials. It was Suzie who encouraged Natalie to apply for the summer internship at Clouded and helped her get all of the paperwork completed for the high school.

High school. The graduation ceremony was last week, but high school itself felt like a lifetime ago. Natalie had her dream job, and she hadn’t even had college orientation yet.

Unwilling to chance traffic, she left her house early. Very early. An hour and a half before she was supposed to be at Clouded, Natalie was in The Gulch, driving by high-rise condos, expensive restaurants, a hotel built to look like an old-Nashville movie set, and an organic grocery store. In one parking lot, a small white brick building defied the neighborhood’s progress. The Station Inn had somehow resisted development and remained one of the best places in town to see legendary Americana music.

If you could get in. It only had a hundred or so seats.

Natalie had been there a couple of times. Americana wasn’t really her thing, but she respected musicality, regardless of the genre, and she respected the history of the room.

Another building that hadn’t been torn down or absorbed into a high rise was an old auto-body-repair-turned-coffee shop. The outside had working garage doors and chipped paint, but the inside had been transformed. Four counters created the sides of the kitchen where employees in woodworker aprons created coffee magic. Long, community-style tables lined the edges of the room, full of people in front of Apple laptops.

She ordered an eight-ounce pourover and stepped to the side to wait near two women, one wearing skinny jeans and TOMs, the other in boyfriend jeans with four-inch burgundy high-heels, discussing strategies to get cast in the pilot for a new TV show.

There was always something happening here.

Natalie slid in one air pod and Revolver music filled her head.

For three years she’d studied the industry. She went to so many shows she knew the door guys at every club in the city. She read back issues of Rolling Stone and Billboard and subscribed to dozens of Medium and Substack feeds.

She was more than a fan. She was professional. She would do whatever it took to get a foot in the door. She would prove how much music meant to her.

Natalie!

She thanked the barista and turned toward the door as it opened and three men came in.

Jonathan Becker, Noel Raverdam, and Steve Spitzer.

Revolver.

Revolver was between her and the door.

All around her heads swiveled. A low buzz of whispers spread like a current through the room as the three rock stars made their way to the counter.

Except…maybe it didn’t.

Natalie forced herself to stop staring, to look away, to look out the window, to look around the coffee shop—anywhere but the floodlight-brightness Revolver projected. Most people were absorbed in whatever they’d been doing before. Almost no one stared at the band.

Because this was Nashville. In Nashville, you didn’t stare at musicians unless they were on stage.

Usually, Natalie was better than this. She’d seen dozens of famous people. They went to all the same places everyone else did. Or, at least, the nicer version of the normal places. Hang out long enough in Green Hills and you were practically guaranteed to see someone who’d recently been on TV. She’d never seen any celebrities in Kroger, but she’s spotted that actress who was married to the country singer in Whole Foods several times. She didn’t stare. She didn’t make a scene. She wouldn’t start now, with the one band she most wanted to work with, on the day she was going to start at their management company. Plus, she’d already met Revolver as a fan at several meet and greets over the years. She would let her eyes glide over and around them, like everyone else in the shop.

Except, she had to walk past them to the door, so she had to look at them.

When she looked up, Jonathan looked right at her. Just like last night.

And just like last night, when she blinked, he didn’t look away.

He smiled and held the door for her.

She hoped her face wasn’t as hot as it felt as she thanked him and left.

EVERYTHING IN CLOUDED’S lobby was white—walls, furniture, rugs, even the TV hanging in the corner showing music videos. Also, the air conditioning blasted. Natalie had goosebumps on her arms. Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her teeth. Maybe because she was clenching her jaw. Not from the cold. From the coffee. And Jonathan.

Relax.

Breathe.

Maybe stop drinking the coffee.

She should have said something.

She wasn’t starstruck.

Well, she was, but not because he was famous. She wasn’t prepared to meet him. Any of them. Not as a fan in a coffee shop. She wanted to meet Jonathan Becker because she worked with him. Her face would be a normal color. Her heart wouldn’t jump out of her chest. She would speak in coherent sentences.

Natalie! The door behind reception opened and Suzie stepped through, wearing a white button-down and jeans that fit perfectly and looked expensive. Her hair was a short, curly, asymmetrical bob. A completely different look, but not an entirely different effect, then when they’d met at Resound.

When they first met, three years ago, Suzie was wearing torn jeans, a rumpled