Ficlet: You Followed As I Fell
Author: rivlee
Title: You Followed As I Fell
Rating: PG.
Characters: Runner, Chuckler. Gen.
Summary: How Wilbur Met Lewis. Part of the Ridic Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title and cut-text from The Empires’ Valmont.
A/N: Unbeated. Tiny background story ficlet.
Runner pulled his fedora down, trying and desperately failing to blend into the Nebraska County Fair crowd. Gibson was dead when he got back to Nashville. Runner didn’t have a problem going to state fairs in the middle of nowhere to find an act, but really, the biggest attraction here was the super squash and the deep fried Mars Bars.
“Hey, buddy, where’s the stage?” Runner asked at one of the farmer’s stalls.
“Two fields over, past the petting zoo,” she said.
“Thanks,” Runner said. He pulled his pea coat tighter around himself. It was surprisingly cold day for a county fair. It wasn’t quite Buffalo-cold, but he really wish he’d packed more than jeans, short-sleeved shirts, and his old thinning jacket.
Ronnie Gibson heard from a friend of a cousin that some up and coming musical sensation was performing this afternoon. The guy came out of the ridiculous pool of talented musicians from Chicago, but was trying to form his own path. Apparently the kid just had something special about him and rumors of bidding wars among the indie labels were already starting.
If the guy was as good as everyone claimed, Runner had no idea why Gibson sent him to try to sign him. Coconut & Rhyme, Gibson’s label that he ran as a part-time job, only had five acts and none of them were headliners. Hell, Runner still spent half his work-week with Currahee Studios, producing music and calming down the temperamental talent. Runner knew he’d worked with some amazing musicians and helped produced a few critically-acclaimed albums but he didn’t think he was good enough to sign anyone who was being heavily pursued. Coconut & Rhyme just didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of perks to offer.
The sound of reverberation clanged through the air, signaling the start of a show. Runner hurried past the cotton candy stands and just avoided a collision with the petting zoo gate. There was a sizeable crowd gathered around a rickety platform stage. If anyone started moshing it would end in disaster.
Not that Runner ever saw a country music mosh, but hell, they were in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. Kids had to do something for fun.
“Is this the Lew Juergens set?” he asked one of the girls passing by.
“Duh,” she said, in the way only the young teenager could manage.
“Thanks,” Runner said.
He elbowed his way to a side stage view. He never liked to observe from the middle of the crowd. He liked to take it all in from stage left or right, see a musician’s tells, know when the talent was messing up or going with some improv. If the crowd and space allowed it, Runner would pace around, trying to watch the act from all angles. He liked watching the talent and the crowd, performance and stage presence mattered, sometimes even more so if you were trying to cover up a mediocre musician. Still, if you get a crowd under your thumb just by singing and playing, hell, that saved at least a grand from the stage set budget.
The guy on stage, Lew Juergens, was tall and toned. Even from here, Runner could see an irreverent look on his face. He smiled like he didn’t know any other expression. His wardrobe certainly left something to be desired; ratty jeans and a M*A*S*H t-shirt. That’s why labels had image consultants. The stage clothes should convey the genre to the crowd. It was one of those bullshit things that everyone just abided by anyway. Juergens was supposed to be a country musician, but his clothes and look so far screamed modern pop-punk rock. Runner wasn’t excepting cowboy boots and a 10-gallon hat, this wasn’t Oklahoma, but there should at least be some sort of button up shirt or a ridiculously large belt buckle in the ensemble. Or hell, even a baseball cap or a leather jacket for bare basics.
There was an air of tense excitement in the audience, quite a few already calling for Juergens to start his set. They got wide smiles and a shook head in response. The crowd was getting larger with each passing minute. And impressive turn out, especially considering where they were.
Runner settled back against one of the fence posts, pulled his hat down a little further, and waited for the show to begin. This was either going to be really good or a complete shit-show. Either way, he was going to be entertained.
********
An hour later, Runner was hurrying to follow Lew Juergens and his collective entourage through the county fairgrounds.
He owed Gibson for this discovery. Juergens wasn’t just an able musician, the kid had stage presence, pure and simple. A charisma you latched onto, that translated well from stage to audience and back. He fed off his crowd, never looking tired or bored, even if he had to be a little cold by now as the breeze picked up. He played straight through a forty-five minute set, only stopping once for a sip of water and a quick re-tuning.
Trying to catch him was proving quite the task for Runner. He didn’t have the right shoes on for marching through a muddy field and the tall fucker was fast. Swooping from food stand to stand like a starving magpie.
Runner was bending down to pull his foot out of the mud again when someone stumbled over him. He went down hard, taking a knee to his midsection.
“Geez, buddy, I’m sorry,” a male voice said.
Runner was too out of breath to give the response he wanted to. It probably wasn’t good manners to curse out random strangers.
“I didn’t see you there,” the guy said again.
Then again, Runner could always use the New York excuse. Everyone expected them to be assholes any way.
“Listen,” Runner gasped out.
“Let me help you up.”
Runner took the outstretched hand because between the mud and his bruised ribs, he didn’t think he could get up otherwise.
“You okay?” the guy asked.
Runner looked up at the culprit/rescuer.
“Fucking typical,” he muttered as he stared at Lew Juergens wide smile. This contract pitch was going to go down as his worst in history.
Juergens laughed. “Not the best response I’ve ever received,” he said. “I really am sorry, man.”
Runner waved him off. “Nothing’s broken except my pride.”
Juergens laughed again. He shooed Runner over to one of the picnic tables, dusting dirt and grass off his back.
“Watch the hands,” Runner said, “no one grabs my ass before the first date.”
Juergens snorted. “You clearly aren’t from here or else are fearless. Most guys wouldn’t say that to a male stranger.”
Runner shrugged and pulled out his business card, handing it to Juergens. “You’re not exactly a stranger to me.”
He studied the card. “Runner Conley, Coconut & Rhyme,” he read out loud. “You don’t sound like you’re from Nashville.”
Runner tried in vain to get the mud off his pants. “I followed Manifest Destiny and went West,” he said. “I’m from Buffalo.”
Juergens whistled. “Long way from home.” He sat down across from Runner. “So, give it to me.”
“Excuse me?” Runner asked.
Juergens still had the innocence to blush. He dropped his head down a little and muttered his next statement. “Your spiel,” he said. “The one you record execs always spin out.”
Runner tried really hard not to smirk. He’d already lost this chance to really sell the label, so he might as well have fun with the kid in front of him.
“I’m A&R for an indie label,” he explained. “A tiny one. We’re looking for a star act and I think you have the potential.”
“Potential?” Juergens asked. “Most of you guys say I’m the next best thing.”
“You’re not good enough yet for the ass-kissing,” Runner admitted. “You can pull a crowd in, but I wonder if you can do the same in a city where new acts flood the streets and the stages every night.”
“I am from Chicago,” he said.
“And you’re playing in Nebraska.”
“Because I want to,” Juergens said. “This is the best I could do for a cheap tour.”
“You need a better tour manager and a better promoter,” Runner said. “No one uses MySpace anymore.”
“Musicians do.”
“You have much better social networking options. And where’s your merch table? You have to at least have someone selling your EP out of their trunk.”
“They’re in the parking lot,” Juergens said, cautiously. “So you’re not going to weave me a tale about how all my dreams are going to come true if I sign with you.”
“I don’t know you, Juergens, I have no idea what your dreams are. If you’ve been playing shows for even a year you know it’s hard work. And that it’s a constant job. I’m not going to sit here and feed you bullshit and waste my time or yours. Look, if you’re willing to come down to Nashville and work with some of the alternative country writers, musicians, and producers, we’re interested in giving you a chance. We’ll give you the same preliminary EP deal we give everyone, but you’ve got to come to us first and play at least one show in Nashville. We can’t invest in anyone who can’t handle the crowds and the attitude that come with the city. I’m sure you can get other indie deals closer to home, but they’re probably not going to be in the genre you want.”
“They’re trying to get me to go in a modern folk direction,” he admitted.
“And how do you feel about that?” Runner asked.
Juergens shook his head. “It’s not what I want to play.”
“Come down to Nashville and we’ll see about getting you a development deal.”
“Wow, I’m flattered. You’re not even trying with an actual recording contract.”
“My label’s got to be memorable somehow and I don’t make business deals over picnic tables.”
Juergens toyed with the business card. “Will there be accommodations of some sort?”
“As long as you don’t mind sleeping on a guest bed in a stranger’s house, we’ll cover room and board,” Runner said.
Juergens nodded. “I’ve had worse offers.”
Runner stood up. “I’ve got to catch a night show in Omaha, but I’ll see you soon, Juergens.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Conley.”
Runner smirked. “I know how good I am.” He tipped his hat to Juergens and walked away.
“Chuckler,” Juergens yelled after him.
Runner turned around. “Chuckler?”
“That’s the name I go by,” he said, “Chuckler.”
Runner nodded. “Then I’ll see you very soon, Chuckler.”
Title: You Followed As I Fell
Rating: PG.
Characters: Runner, Chuckler. Gen.
Summary: How Wilbur Met Lewis. Part of the Ridic Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title and cut-text from The Empires’ Valmont.
A/N: Unbeated. Tiny background story ficlet.
Runner pulled his fedora down, trying and desperately failing to blend into the Nebraska County Fair crowd. Gibson was dead when he got back to Nashville. Runner didn’t have a problem going to state fairs in the middle of nowhere to find an act, but really, the biggest attraction here was the super squash and the deep fried Mars Bars.
“Hey, buddy, where’s the stage?” Runner asked at one of the farmer’s stalls.
“Two fields over, past the petting zoo,” she said.
“Thanks,” Runner said. He pulled his pea coat tighter around himself. It was surprisingly cold day for a county fair. It wasn’t quite Buffalo-cold, but he really wish he’d packed more than jeans, short-sleeved shirts, and his old thinning jacket.
Ronnie Gibson heard from a friend of a cousin that some up and coming musical sensation was performing this afternoon. The guy came out of the ridiculous pool of talented musicians from Chicago, but was trying to form his own path. Apparently the kid just had something special about him and rumors of bidding wars among the indie labels were already starting.
If the guy was as good as everyone claimed, Runner had no idea why Gibson sent him to try to sign him. Coconut & Rhyme, Gibson’s label that he ran as a part-time job, only had five acts and none of them were headliners. Hell, Runner still spent half his work-week with Currahee Studios, producing music and calming down the temperamental talent. Runner knew he’d worked with some amazing musicians and helped produced a few critically-acclaimed albums but he didn’t think he was good enough to sign anyone who was being heavily pursued. Coconut & Rhyme just didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of perks to offer.
The sound of reverberation clanged through the air, signaling the start of a show. Runner hurried past the cotton candy stands and just avoided a collision with the petting zoo gate. There was a sizeable crowd gathered around a rickety platform stage. If anyone started moshing it would end in disaster.
Not that Runner ever saw a country music mosh, but hell, they were in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. Kids had to do something for fun.
“Is this the Lew Juergens set?” he asked one of the girls passing by.
“Duh,” she said, in the way only the young teenager could manage.
“Thanks,” Runner said.
He elbowed his way to a side stage view. He never liked to observe from the middle of the crowd. He liked to take it all in from stage left or right, see a musician’s tells, know when the talent was messing up or going with some improv. If the crowd and space allowed it, Runner would pace around, trying to watch the act from all angles. He liked watching the talent and the crowd, performance and stage presence mattered, sometimes even more so if you were trying to cover up a mediocre musician. Still, if you get a crowd under your thumb just by singing and playing, hell, that saved at least a grand from the stage set budget.
The guy on stage, Lew Juergens, was tall and toned. Even from here, Runner could see an irreverent look on his face. He smiled like he didn’t know any other expression. His wardrobe certainly left something to be desired; ratty jeans and a M*A*S*H t-shirt. That’s why labels had image consultants. The stage clothes should convey the genre to the crowd. It was one of those bullshit things that everyone just abided by anyway. Juergens was supposed to be a country musician, but his clothes and look so far screamed modern pop-punk rock. Runner wasn’t excepting cowboy boots and a 10-gallon hat, this wasn’t Oklahoma, but there should at least be some sort of button up shirt or a ridiculously large belt buckle in the ensemble. Or hell, even a baseball cap or a leather jacket for bare basics.
There was an air of tense excitement in the audience, quite a few already calling for Juergens to start his set. They got wide smiles and a shook head in response. The crowd was getting larger with each passing minute. And impressive turn out, especially considering where they were.
Runner settled back against one of the fence posts, pulled his hat down a little further, and waited for the show to begin. This was either going to be really good or a complete shit-show. Either way, he was going to be entertained.
********
An hour later, Runner was hurrying to follow Lew Juergens and his collective entourage through the county fairgrounds.
He owed Gibson for this discovery. Juergens wasn’t just an able musician, the kid had stage presence, pure and simple. A charisma you latched onto, that translated well from stage to audience and back. He fed off his crowd, never looking tired or bored, even if he had to be a little cold by now as the breeze picked up. He played straight through a forty-five minute set, only stopping once for a sip of water and a quick re-tuning.
Trying to catch him was proving quite the task for Runner. He didn’t have the right shoes on for marching through a muddy field and the tall fucker was fast. Swooping from food stand to stand like a starving magpie.
Runner was bending down to pull his foot out of the mud again when someone stumbled over him. He went down hard, taking a knee to his midsection.
“Geez, buddy, I’m sorry,” a male voice said.
Runner was too out of breath to give the response he wanted to. It probably wasn’t good manners to curse out random strangers.
“I didn’t see you there,” the guy said again.
Then again, Runner could always use the New York excuse. Everyone expected them to be assholes any way.
“Listen,” Runner gasped out.
“Let me help you up.”
Runner took the outstretched hand because between the mud and his bruised ribs, he didn’t think he could get up otherwise.
“You okay?” the guy asked.
Runner looked up at the culprit/rescuer.
“Fucking typical,” he muttered as he stared at Lew Juergens wide smile. This contract pitch was going to go down as his worst in history.
Juergens laughed. “Not the best response I’ve ever received,” he said. “I really am sorry, man.”
Runner waved him off. “Nothing’s broken except my pride.”
Juergens laughed again. He shooed Runner over to one of the picnic tables, dusting dirt and grass off his back.
“Watch the hands,” Runner said, “no one grabs my ass before the first date.”
Juergens snorted. “You clearly aren’t from here or else are fearless. Most guys wouldn’t say that to a male stranger.”
Runner shrugged and pulled out his business card, handing it to Juergens. “You’re not exactly a stranger to me.”
He studied the card. “Runner Conley, Coconut & Rhyme,” he read out loud. “You don’t sound like you’re from Nashville.”
Runner tried in vain to get the mud off his pants. “I followed Manifest Destiny and went West,” he said. “I’m from Buffalo.”
Juergens whistled. “Long way from home.” He sat down across from Runner. “So, give it to me.”
“Excuse me?” Runner asked.
Juergens still had the innocence to blush. He dropped his head down a little and muttered his next statement. “Your spiel,” he said. “The one you record execs always spin out.”
Runner tried really hard not to smirk. He’d already lost this chance to really sell the label, so he might as well have fun with the kid in front of him.
“I’m A&R for an indie label,” he explained. “A tiny one. We’re looking for a star act and I think you have the potential.”
“Potential?” Juergens asked. “Most of you guys say I’m the next best thing.”
“You’re not good enough yet for the ass-kissing,” Runner admitted. “You can pull a crowd in, but I wonder if you can do the same in a city where new acts flood the streets and the stages every night.”
“I am from Chicago,” he said.
“And you’re playing in Nebraska.”
“Because I want to,” Juergens said. “This is the best I could do for a cheap tour.”
“You need a better tour manager and a better promoter,” Runner said. “No one uses MySpace anymore.”
“Musicians do.”
“You have much better social networking options. And where’s your merch table? You have to at least have someone selling your EP out of their trunk.”
“They’re in the parking lot,” Juergens said, cautiously. “So you’re not going to weave me a tale about how all my dreams are going to come true if I sign with you.”
“I don’t know you, Juergens, I have no idea what your dreams are. If you’ve been playing shows for even a year you know it’s hard work. And that it’s a constant job. I’m not going to sit here and feed you bullshit and waste my time or yours. Look, if you’re willing to come down to Nashville and work with some of the alternative country writers, musicians, and producers, we’re interested in giving you a chance. We’ll give you the same preliminary EP deal we give everyone, but you’ve got to come to us first and play at least one show in Nashville. We can’t invest in anyone who can’t handle the crowds and the attitude that come with the city. I’m sure you can get other indie deals closer to home, but they’re probably not going to be in the genre you want.”
“They’re trying to get me to go in a modern folk direction,” he admitted.
“And how do you feel about that?” Runner asked.
Juergens shook his head. “It’s not what I want to play.”
“Come down to Nashville and we’ll see about getting you a development deal.”
“Wow, I’m flattered. You’re not even trying with an actual recording contract.”
“My label’s got to be memorable somehow and I don’t make business deals over picnic tables.”
Juergens toyed with the business card. “Will there be accommodations of some sort?”
“As long as you don’t mind sleeping on a guest bed in a stranger’s house, we’ll cover room and board,” Runner said.
Juergens nodded. “I’ve had worse offers.”
Runner stood up. “I’ve got to catch a night show in Omaha, but I’ll see you soon, Juergens.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Conley.”
Runner smirked. “I know how good I am.” He tipped his hat to Juergens and walked away.
“Chuckler,” Juergens yelled after him.
Runner turned around. “Chuckler?”
“That’s the name I go by,” he said, “Chuckler.”
Runner nodded. “Then I’ll see you very soon, Chuckler.”