I hate it. I hate every second of this “fortunate” experience. Every night is the same with the boys and their coked-up one-night stands in the state we perform in. Red cups filled with expensive liquor crowd the tour bus to the point where it resembles the corner store where I got this pack of Marlboros from. Every morning is a repeat of me having to wake these insufferable brats so that we can practice for upcoming, late-night concerts. The talent that was once present in the four members has been simply extinguished as fame, arrogance, and laziness got into their bloodstream—along with the closest drug they could find.
I try my hardest to make the best of it, but it is simply a waste. Our album Youth failed to crack the top twenty on the charts, which is unfortunate considering the amount of time it consumed; there were late nights of composing, writing lyrics, pitching melodies, and autotuning Johnny’s screechy voice that dominates most of the choruses. God, his voice is annoying. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume he’s the long-lost brother of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.
Magazines and tween girls turned their backs on us after Daniel’s stunt of pissing in a mop bucket went viral. Our manager, Winston, tried his hardest to bribe TMZ into not releasing the footage, but they wouldn’t budge. After that hit the internet, we were called “Yellowstone” all over Twitter, damaging both ours and the television show’s name. It’s bad enough that the video was in color, but did they really have to include the sound as well?
Our support and momentum are slowing down with every release. Selling tickets for this band hall venue is even a struggle and it only seats three hundred people. We went from record setting attendance at MetLife Stadium to barely selling tickets at the Radio City Music Hall. Not even the janitors wanna stick around to hear us play, and frankly I don’t blame them.
I want out, but what can I do? Where can I go? My reputation is constantly brought down by the rest of them, and I’m never marketed as the heartthrob. I’m always marketed as the leader since I’m the eldest. On our third album, management tried to swap Tristian and my roles since the concept was more mature. That didn’t go too well as complaints rolled in from our fans saying that I’m “too old to be sexy” and that I should stay in the back. Tristian is like five years younger than me, and he’s sexier? Are you serious? The boy can’t even grow chest hair.
How can a twenty-eight-year-old survive in the music industry, let alone the pop music scene? I’m far too old to be gyrating and thrusting on stage in front of our demographic and the constantly changing music trends are too manufactured for my tastes. Magazine covers featuring only my face sell the least compared to my members. There is no hope for a solo career. My personal promotion is never the best but decreases as time goes on. You would think that the main vocalist receives better sponsorships than the sub-dancer.
But anyway, here I am, sitting outside of the venue with a cigarette in hand. The ash falls from the dangerously pure-colored monstrosity, resembling a pile of darkness at my feet. Hanging before me is a poster of the five of us with smiles and smoldering gazes. Ten enthusiastic eyes stare back at me, gawking at the eyebags that pollute my sea of misery. With another puff of my cigarette, I scoff and wait until showtime.
