Caravaggio. The Musicians. c. 1595.

It was time for the photoshoot/sound check, and Ketty couldn’t find his pants. His head still throbbing from last night’s whiskey-soaked post-show fun, he swathed himself in the hotel bedsheet, still ripe with the scent of groupie, and opened his notebook—his crib sheet of Brain Lemonade’s lyrics. He stared at them with bleary eyes, trying to remember how to read without wanting to jam Jude’s drumsticks in his skull. Mercifully, the drummer wasn’t behind his set, but rather attacking the caterer’s spread, which, at Jude's request, featured nothing but the misery of health food.

“Grapes have killer antioxidant benefits,” Jude said. “They stop xanthine oxidase and catalase from becoming overactive, which is like, awesome. Did you guys know that?”

The rest of the band ignored him, something they’d gotten quite good at over the past several months being crammed together in the tour bus. Dell, obviously quite stoned, was making a debauchery of tuning his instrument, his eyes so heavy and bloodshot they could barely stay open, while Gere was making an effort not to look like he fell off the Ugly Idiot Bus but failing miserably.

“Look casual, fellas!” The photographer circled them with his digital lens. “Pretend I’m not even here!”

Ketty wished that was true. He stared at his notebook and swallowed the lump of vomit bubbling in his throat. Fame—especially in the mornings—was less glamorous than he’d thought it’d be.

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