Andrea Wood
Steele
“Damn college!” I yell into my phone.
“Ryan, I mentioned the contest,” Mel responds, sounding bored.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t, Mel,” I snap back, my patience wearing thin.
“Live Nation sponsored it. Students voted for the artist they wanted to perform at their college. The college with the most votes won a concert by the artist they picked.”
“Mel, why the hell would we want to perform at a college when we’ve spent the last eight years working our butts off to sell out Madison Square Garden?” I shout back at him.
I’m not about to let this slide.
“Steele, chill out. Look at it this way—it’s like giving back to your fans. Young adults are your biggest fan base. They’re the ones buying your records and putting you where you are.
“Think of it as a thank you. You go there for a week, do a show, interview some intern candidates, then start your tour. It’s just a small hiccup,” Mel tries to convince me.
“Mel, I’m hanging up. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just suggest I interview anyone. That. Is. Not. My. Job. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just drop this bomb on me.
“You’re lucky we have a contract, or you’d be out of a job.”
I want to slam my phone down, but I know it would shatter. Instead, I punch a hole in my bedroom wall.
I can’t believe he did this to us. Waking me up at six in the morning to tell me we have to leave tonight for a show in two days and then spend a week at some college is total crap.
I make the music; I pay other people to handle the rest. I pour my heart and soul into my music. I’ve worked so damn hard to get here.
And now I have to go back to a college.
I can already see the headlines: “Steele’s Army: Sales must be down. Once sold out, now touring colleges!”
It’s not true, of course, but when do the papers and magazines print anything but rumors? We just finished an album a couple of weeks ago.
Our team is predicting it will outperform our last album in sales, already set to top the charts again. I put more of myself into these songs than any I’ve made before.
Knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep, I decide to go for a run on the public beach outside my condo.
Every morning when we’re not on tour, I jog on the beach. The day we cashed our first check from our record company, I bought a condo in Long Beach, California.
It’s the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had.
Something about the smell of salt in the air and the wind in my hair, the sand getting into every crevice, always helps me find peace. Most days, it’s where I find my songs.
It’s also where I work through my problems.
I finish my run and decide to call the guys before taking a shower. It’s easier to call them all at once.
That way, I can hear the “what the hells” and the “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” and then, “Yeah, yeah, we’re packing. Where and what time?”
Much easier.
I call them, and it goes just as I expected. When I hang up, I decide to try to get some more sleep.
You’d think with all the flying I do, I’d be able to just close my eyes and fall asleep. But no. The ear popping and potential turbulence always leave me on edge.
I’m sure the press would love to run a story about me, the alpha, bad-boy rock star, being afraid of flying.
The guys know about it, so they always try to distract me by messing with other passengers or the flight attendants.
We fly a lot, so they’re always pushing the envelope. It’s a wonder we haven’t been kicked off a flight yet.
I wake up around four, just in time to pack. On tour, I only need enough clothes for a week. We do laundry once a week when we’re at a hotel.
Plus, there’s not a lot of storage on a tour bus when you’re housing five guys.
I change out of my now wrinkled clothes into something clean, grab my luggage, and head out the door. The limo I called earlier is already waiting to take me to LAX.
We’re driving through Los Angeles during rush hour. This is going to take a while.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. The guys can always tell when I’m in a bad mood, especially when I’m pissed off. And Mel has set the tone for today.
So, I try to calm down a bit.
Once we get on the plane, that’s it for six months. Most bands do a six-month tour, but because we just finished an album, we’re extending ours.
Our first leg is two months, then we’ll head home for three weeks and be gone for another six months.
The only upside is that the five people I care about, my real family, are in the band, and they’ll be with me. So, I’m not leaving anything or anyone behind.
My parents are long gone. They lived long enough to see my success. They never really cared about me, my music, or my band anyway.
I snap out of my trance when I see we’re approaching the airport. My door opens, and I’m at the entrance to LAX.
I’m sure the guys are already at our boarding gate for Boston, since they all live together in Los Angeles. They’re much closer.
I grab my bag, tip the driver, and walk through security, bracing myself for the inevitable pat-down. Just what I need to keep this already crappy day going.
I get why they do it—I wouldn’t want anyone on my plane with a weapon either—but I’m not comfortable with strangers touching me.
My hands are my tools. They’re what I use to seal deals, to greet fans, but not one of them.
I breeze through security, check in my luggage, and head to the boarding gate. When I get there, I see the guys sitting down, waiting for our flight to be called.
I join them, taking a seat, and we start to shoot the breeze.
“I’m thinking we should bet on who’s going to get the most action while we’re in Boston. Winner decides the loser’s punishment,” Zepp suggests.
“We all know Steele is going to win, and you remember what happened last time, what he made all of us do.
“Do you really want to tell every woman you meet for a week that you have an incurable STD? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
I start laughing, remembering that epic bet.
No one gets a chance to answer because our flight’s called. We all stand up and board the plane. Seven hours later, we land at Logan International airport.
The guys chatted the whole flight. They decided that a night of partying was in order to celebrate the pre-tour, so they plan on going out after we get to the hotel.
We collect our luggage at baggage claim and leave the airport. I spot our driver. Our band name “Steele’s Army” is written on a piece of paper, upside down.
This irks me, while Liam and Gage find it hilarious.
Zepp stands ready, prepared to apologize for what’s about to come out of my mouth. I expect perfection from everyone, especially if they’re working for me.
We approach the driver. He’s instantly intimidated and lowers his head. Lucky for him, his submissive behavior keeps me from saying anything.
Clearly, this guy is a pushover and didn’t realize his mistake. I can be forgiving—when I feel like it.
Most people act this way when they meet us, and I can’t blame him because of the image we project.
It works for me and the rest of the band, making ourselves seem just out of reach to the average fan or groupie. Even the press acts as a protective shield.
Too many people in our business are only out to make a name for themselves or to take advantage of us. So, I’m always on guard, waiting for those opportunists to sneak in.
Pat, our driver, introduces himself. After a few awkward seconds of silence, he opens the car door and we all climb in.
Leaving the airport, he takes us straight to our hotel, the Ritz-Carlton. After working as hard as we have, we deserve nothing but luxury, and any hotel we stay at must provide just that.
On our drive, I tell the guys I’m going to skip their bar-hopping and catch up on some much-needed sleep, suggesting they should do the same since our surprise concert is tomorrow afternoon.
Whether it’s at a small college or an arena, we’re putting on a damn good show.
After a short ride, we arrive at the hotel. Pat opens the door for us. I grab my wallet, pull out some random bills, and tip our driver.
We walk through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby where we’ll be staying for the next few days.
The woman at the concierge desk flirts with me nonstop, making it clear she wants to sleep with me. Being the gentleman that I am, I politely decline.
Once the keys are in my hand, I hand them out, and we all agree to meet up at eight in the morning, which is pretty early considering they’ll likely be out drinking all night.
I suggest that if they really have to go out, they should try to get back at a decent time.
We plan to meet in my room for breakfast and to discuss our plans while we’re here. I still haven’t told them about the potential intern we have to interview.
I decide to call Mel after I get some food in my stomach and some sleep.
I’ll find out tomorrow about his qualifications for this intern and what exactly they’re supposed to be doing with the band while on tour.
Leaving them to find their own rooms, I tell them our bet is on and that I’m doing them a favor by giving them a head start.