Free Exile by Kevin Emerson

questions. He’s self-critical and will usually intuit what you’re getting at.
    “You know,” says Jon with a shrug, already tweaking another dial, “a kind of ethereal wash. Like your arms are out and you’re spinning.”
    “Ah.”
    He looks up at me. “Was it too much?”
    I shrug. “Maybe?” This is a good time to look to Caleb. I don’t mention my critiques to him before I say them, because then it would be like we were ganging up. Also, I try to notice if I’m suggesting something that the bandtotally doesn’t agree with, because if I am, it’s best to back off and take a different approach.
    “It could maybe be a little more direct,” says Caleb.
    “I liked when you had more fuzz on the riff in the verse,” Matt adds.
    Jon sighs, but it’s not annoyed, rather a scientist hard at work. “Okay, I’ll dial back the tremolo, kick up the overdrive, see if I can make it a little more urgent.”
    “Urgent is the perfect word,” I say.
    They go through it again and it’s better, but I make sure to ask Jon, “What did you think of it like that?”
    “Sure,” he says, “that could work.” Which is close enough to a yes from someone like Jon.
    Next, they play “Chem Lab,” which is poppy and about crushing on your lab partner. Caleb’s lyrics are clever and fun: pipettes and titrates and love. But Matt has given it this really complicated beat: busy with lots of accents, when the song feels like it should just flow.
    “Matt,” I say when it’s done, “that’s a really cool beat, but it kinda loses me.”
    Matt’s eyes always light up when I say his name, except then he immediately looks away, down into the space between his floor tom and bass drum. “It’s just supposed to feel like a loop,” his says, disappointed.
    Matt is tougher than Jon. He takes criticism personally, and he’s really proud of his beats. Drummers can get really focused on the sixteenth notes of a song, rather than thesong as a whole. But I’ve figured out something that usually works with Matt.
    “No, it’s really cool, I just wonder if it’s too syncopated. Probably seems obvious to a drummer. But the other day I heard that song ‘Freeze Dried’ by the Bulbs. Do you know that song?”
    “Oh, yeah.” There’s at least a spark of interest in his eyes now.
    I know that Matt thinks the Bulbs drummer is great. “Well, that song is sorta like this one, style-wise. He’s doing some pretty cool stuff. It seems kinda laid-back. I don’t know . . . might be worth checking it out.” I actually know exactly which part of that tune I’m hoping he picks up on, but I figure that’s about all that Matt can take for the moment.
    “Sure, okay.” He’s still looking down at the floor, but he’s nodding. “I’ll check it out.” This probably means he will.
    “It’s a cool beat you’re doing, though,” Caleb adds.
    “Thanks,” Matt says quietly.
    I sit back and my heartbeat calms. It’s always a little nerve-wracking to try to give feedback, and I’m always glad when it’s over. I listen to the rest of the set, doodling, catching nuances, writing down a note or two for next time but definitely not speaking it, and trying not to watch Caleb too much.
    I do have one thing on my list for him, but I’ll wait untilafter practice to bring it up.
    “Why haven’t you showed them ‘On My Sleeve’?” I ask as we walk from his car to Tina’s, each with an arm around the other. We just finished a kiss that caused us to nearly walk into a fire hydrant.
    Caleb has been smiling, and as loose as I’ve seen him all day, but mentioning the song suddenly makes him stiffen. “Ah,” he says, “I don’t know if it’s right.”
    “Why?” I say. “Because it’s too perfect?” I reach around and squeeze his ribs, but he just flinches a little. He’s got a bag for some reason, this old leather thing that he used for his pedals and cables tonight. I haven’t seen it before.
    “It’s not perfect,” he says. He