Miles for Love Series Box Set, page 127
“Yes.”
“Here. Take this shit.” He says, all but throwing the duffel bag that he’s holding, at me. “Duty calls downstairs. Snake is doing soundchecks and the fucking cops are here.”
“When does Storm get to do their soundcheck?”
He shrugs, while the other guy walks away, leaving me with the cart. “I don’t know. Their road manager should be coming up soon. I told him where you were taking these kids.”
Kids? This guy looks no older than me. It must be a veiled way of addressing a bunch of people that you feel are beneath you. The fact that Ned won’t even come into the dressing room is telling. He also didn’t even bother to introduce himself to me or to the band. Billy’s browbeating over the radio moments ago must have bruised his ego. “Thanks.” I say, and then add ‘asshole’ as soon as his back is turned, not caring if he overhears or not.
Pushing the cart towards the door, I stop it in time, before it hits the metal, and I open it. The boys are all looking at me expectantly, and then they see me pushing the cart in. “What the fuck…” Ivan says, as they come to my aid. The blood on my hand has already seeped through the paper towel, and it’s nearly dripping on the cart handle.
“This is fucking bullshit.” Danny says. “We’d get better fucking respect in a goddamn third world country at this rate.”
Neal grabs the duffel bag. “Just…shut the fuck up so we can find the goddamn sewing kit and get this girl patched up. I’ve got half a mind to walk out of here with her myself and take her to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Bush, I’ll try not to bleed on your things.” I say sheepishly, thinking that their possessions are probably worth more than my house and my car combined.
“It’s not that.” He says, rooting through his duffel bag as Danny and Ivan pull the cart inside the room and begin unloading, while Billy walks over to the shelf and grabs more paper towel for my hand.
“Na, our shit is just costume crap.” Billy says. “Our equipment…now that’s a different story.”
He brings over another wad of paper towel, pulls the soiled towel from me, and places it in the garbage bin in the bathroom. The fact that he isn’t fazed by my blood surprises me. “Is your mother a nurse, too?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“And is your father a rock star?” I joke.
“My father’s an asshole.” The look on his face and his tone shuts me down. I’m completely silent, and you can hear a pin drop in the room.
“Here’s the sewing kit.” Neal says, breaking the silence.
“Hey, how did you get that bruise on the side of your head?” Billy asks a moment later, and all the stone in his face has disappeared.
“Occupational hazards.” I shrug, taking the sewing kit from Neal and nodding my thanks. “When you’re a security guard, anything goes. If you’re not getting hit by people, you’re getting hit by objects.”
“Do you own a gun?” Danny asks.
I look up at him. “Yeah.” My tone is casual, like he asked if I put my shoes on one foot at a time. “Actually, I own a few.” I add honestly, and then I change the subject. “Did anyone find any antiseptic around here?”
“Yeah.” Ivan says, handing me a bottle of peroxide.
“Well, that’s impressive.”
“There was a first aid kit over there.”
“No stitching kit inside, I presume.”
“Na. Just band aids and peroxide. It looks new though.”
I look around and see no bowls of any sort around. “I’ll just be in the washroom.” I say, intending to use the sink to not only let my blood drip into it, but the peroxide, too.
“Na, man, stay out here. We want to watch.” Danny says, completely enthralled.
“I’m going to make a real mess.” I state. “Unless you can find me a bowl or a big towel or something.” I’m shocked that these boys actually want to watch me stitch myself up. It’s kind of gross but intriguing as well. They are boys, after all. And a heavy metal band, so I suppose it kind of goes with the territory.
“Fuck it.” Ivan says. “Just fucking make the mess out here. These assholes can clean it up.”
I give him a look. “With all due respect, this isn’t ketchup or wine, this is biowaste. It’s like leaving a dirty hypodermic needle on the table for someone else to pick up.”
“How are you going to do this, anyway? You right or left-handed?” Billy asks.
“I’m right-handed.” I answer. “But sewing is something you can do with either hand. It’s kind of like when you clip your nails.”
“Kind of like playing guitar.” He says, winking.
“Yes, that too.” I smile.
“Shouldn’t you, like, sterilize the sewing needle first?” Neal suggests.
“Yes. I’ll go run it under hot water.”
“Na, shit, let me do that.” Billy says. “Don’t you need the water to be boiled?”
“We’ll make do. I’ll soak it in peroxide, too.” I say. “I don’t get infections easily, so I’m not worried.”
“How many times did you have to sew yourself up in combat?” Ivan asks.
“A few. Once on the sole of my foot. Now that hurts like a son of a bitch.” I answer, unspooling a handsome amount of black thread, winding it around my good wrist.
Ivan winces. “Aw, fuck.” He chuckles, grinning, impressed.
I pour peroxide over my hand, while Danny places a wad of paper towel under me. Billy returns a minute later. “Now that wasn’t easy. Nearly lost the fucker a half dozen times down the goddamn drain.”
“Thanks.” I say, and I thread the needle, wetting it between my lips first, just like my grandma taught me years ago. The boys watch me like I’m about to perform some kind of magic trick. When I get it in on the first try, I can see through my peripheral vision, that they’re nodding at each other, like they were betting I could nail it.
“Shouldn’t you guys be…like…getting dressed or rehearsing or something?” I ask, inserting the needle into the top of the wound.
“We can’t really do much until soundcheck.” Danny answers. “And we’re a rock band…we wear whatever the fuck we want. Hell, half the time we just go out with pants and shoes on and that’s it.”
They watch as I make short, quick motions, stabbing the broken skin around the open wound, in a cross-hatch pattern the way my mom showed me how to do this years ago, long before I joined the military. It started with one of my dolls, one made of cloth, that my grandma had made for me. The arm got ripped off when the doll’s arm got stuck in the front door and I pulled. She showed me how to stitch up a wound there, and when I started going with her on rounds as a teenager, she let me watch when someone needed mending. I even stitched up a buddy of mine in combat.
Danny is most intrigued. “Doesn’t that hurt like hell?”
My eyes don’t leave my flesh when I answer him. “I’ve been shot, like I said. Also, women have a much stronger threshold for pain, which is probably why we’re the ones that give birth.”
Minutes later, I tie off the stitches at the bottom, knot it snugly, and Neal hands me the tiny scissors to cut off the excess. Then I pour peroxide over the wound again. Six stitches it took to seal the scratch. Thankfully, since it was a sheet of metal, it was a clean cut. “There.” I sigh. “Can I get a band aid out of that box? A long one?”
Neal hands me the box and lets me have my pick. I take one, but Billy takes it from me. “You’re not going to be able to get it on properly. Let me do it.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Just as he’s adhering the bandage to my hand, the door bursts open, and Chris walks in. “What the fuck…” he covers his face with his hand. “You guys…what’s going on here?”
“She sliced her hand open, man. She actually stitched it up herself.” Danny brags, smiling.
“That’s…great.” Chris pastes on a phoney smile, and then he addresses me. “Look, they’re waiting for the elevator, honey. Why don’t you go get it back to them downstairs.”
“Sure.” I say, grabbing my jacket from the bench behind me. “Good luck tonight, guys.” I smile at them.
Billy waves, and Neal, Ivan and Danny mutter together, but I catch, ‘yeah, see ya’, and ‘take care’, and ‘see ya later’.
When I close the door behind me, I realize that I’ve just been up close and personal with probably one of the most popular new, up and coming bands there is. Aside from a sliced hand, a soaked jacket and shirt, an asshole security guard, and a lockdown, it’s been a goddamn good day.
Chapter 3
Billy
Despite my lack of faith in everything today, the soundcheck went well. There is little room on the stage for our stuff, since Snake has world class equipment, not that ours is anything to cry about, there’s just less of it. Snake’s equipment takes up more than half the stage, leaving us with only a little more than a quarter of it for our equipment and performance. Which sucks to the say the least. But in my eyes, as long as the soundcheck was good, we can figure out the rest as we go along.
Neal is drinking his usual lemon and honey water warmed, so his throat is good and lubricated before we go on stage, and I’m exercising my fingers, strumming them up and down the neck of my guitar, playing one of my favorite practice jam tunes. Danny is puking his guts up in the toilet, something he sometimes dodges, if he drinks ginger tea quickly enough before the nausea hits, but because we were late for soundchecks and rushed through, despite it running smoothly, he didn’t have time to squeeze the tea in, and his stomach is retaliating.
We’re so used to it that we don’t even ask him if he’s okay anymore. It’s usually just dry heaves, depending on how much he ate, which was nothing. Danny has major stage fright. There once was a time when I had it, before I got really good at playing guitar, especially when I did performances in my younger years, and was forced to play the piano, but even then, I never puked. I just shook like a leaf and stumbled through much of my set. Ivan is tapping the wooden benches with a set of drumsticks, and then Neal starts practicing scales. He’s nailing every note and I follow along with my guitar.
When Danny finishes puking, he joins us. I pat his back. “We gotta get you some of those ginger tablets from Europe, man. I hear they’re really good.”
“Anything that doesn’t make me sleep, man. That Gravol shit knocks me out.” He isn’t kidding. We once performed at a backyard party, the largest one we’d ever done, and Danny’s mother insisted that he take some Gravol before we went on. He was so stoned from it that he almost fell asleep while playing on stage. We could see him start to take a nosedive and both me and Neal caught him before his face hit the wood.
“Here, here.” I chuckle, agreeing.
For a large guy, Danny has a really low tolerance for stuff. Even though he does do some stuff, but we won’t go there…for now. From the dressing room, we can hear the audience’s cheers getting louder and louder as the auditorium fills. We’ve heard that it’s a sold-out show and it sure sounds like it. With each wave of enthusiasm from fans, Danny runs for the toilet. But when it’s time to get our shit together, he’s solid as a rock. “Okay, are you guys ready to get serious?” I ask the key question.
“Fuckin yeah!” Ivan shouts, and taps the bench at lightning speed, feeling my vibe.
“Are we ready to get really fucking serious?” I ask, heightening my tone, almost to a screech, something that I’ve been able to do since I was a kid, even when my voice changed. Like when the announcer introduces Saturday Night Live. For a guitarist, I have good vocal range.
Danny rakes a hand through his hair and appears to be pulling it together. I encourage him more. “Let’s get fucking serious!” I say, making my guitar squeal, playing a short, catchy tune that we all made up together. It’s just stupid, silly shit that would never make it outside the dressing room doors, but it gets us pumped and crazy, and our hearts start beating, the adrenaline starts flowing, getting us ready. It’s almost like we have a sixth sense; we know when it’s time to go on, based on the hype from the crowd.
Like clockwork, our stage manager busts in. “You guys ready?” he shouts over the growing din from the audience.
“Are we fucking ready, guys!” I shout, pumping my fist.
“Yeah!” We all shout in unison, and then we slam our fists together, one on top of the other, until we’ve built a mountain of flesh, and when we break apart, it’s a race to see who can get out of the room and rush down the hallway towards backstage. Whoever’s last gets a bucket of ice water dumped on them at the end of the show. Frankly, we’d all like to be doused with ice after being under two-hundred-degree lights for any length of time, so it’s not a punishment, and sometimes we all have a share of the freezing water.
We high five and slap the hands of our roadies and anyone else who is lining the hallways, including a group of girls that catch my eye, and I give them each a healthy once-over, noticing their backstage passes hanging from cords around their necks, and I smile. I’ll for sure get to meet them after the show, which makes me happy. After passing a few security personnel, I see our friend, madame stitches, Michelle, and high five her, too, on her left hand, of course.
Traveling to the end of the line, where we’re just a curtain pull away from being onstage, I wait for all the guys to pile up behind me, and for Neal to get his mic activated, before I tear onto the darkened stage. Teasing the audience, I play a note or two on my guitar, and they howl. My heart pumps so fast I can feel it in my fingertips. What a fucking rush and a half. They can’t even see me yet, since the lights are off, and just a few tiny spotlights are on for safety. When we’re all on stage, the lighting director cues, and the pyrotechnics start, beaming white light in a hypnotic dance around us.
Gotta admit, we put on one hell of a show. Guitar humming and then screeching, I kick into our first song, a fan favorite that hit the top ten in the top forty charts during its first week of life on the radio. It gets the fans every time. It’s something that we’ve used as our first song since it was released, and as much as we’ve debated whether to switch things out or not, I’m reluctant to, since it does so well. Neal’s vocals are sweet, hitting every note spot on, as we trailblaze through ‘Great White’, with the audience singing along.
Neal actually takes the mic from the stand and points it at the audience during the second chorus, and they lap it up, spewing out the lyrics, which makes me smile. Danny’s already got his shirt off, and he’s thrown it into the audience, which they love. It’s his signature. It could be a cheap Dickies undershirt or something that could pass for Armani and they don’t care. One day, I tell him, they’ll be auctioning off his shirts somewhere, and make a killing. He usually just waves me off, dismissing my comment, but you watch…one day.
When my solo comes up, the boys surround me as I play, strumming the notes so smoothly it’s like the neck of my guitar is covered in Vaseline, and the audience cheers. God, I love it. I think I was born with a guitar on my hip. At least that’s what it feels like when I’m playing. I’ve caught myself air guitaring when I don’t even have one in my hand. My legs naturally part whenever I sit, whether or not I have to make room for the instrument. The spotlight is so fucking hot on me, when there is a six second gap for a quick drum reprieve, I rip my shirt off my back and toss it on the stage. I can’t throw it into the audience from where I’m standing, and I can’t copy Danny’s thing; that would be stupid.
Another song comes, a slow ballad, and I can see the tiny flickers of light from lighters swaying in the audience. This is the only time you can see that far out into the crowd for the lights, which are dimmed during ballads. Especially this one, where Neal climbs onto a stool, and sings as though contemplatively. My guitar’s notes harmonize with Danny’s soft bass, and Ivan softly taps on the drums from behind. It’s a beautiful song, and it sounds like it’s about a special girl, and it is…my mom. Only, fans don’t know that; they think it’s about a past flame. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. In fact, it’s really sweet.
Giving a big finish, Neal hits the high note, and then it’s silence on the stage, while the fans whistle, shout and beg for more, which they get. Our next tune is heavier, a darker metal song, where the drums are blazing and both me and Danny’s fingers are going so fast, the videographer behind me would not be able to follow my moves with his gaze if he tried. When I play like this, I close my eyes. It’s dizzying playing in this manner, so I tolerate it by not watching. Danny’s strumming is slightly slower, since he’s hitting the beat only half the time, on purpose, to create a purposed delay, which has a great effect that complements the piece.
Fans love this song, and you can hear them beating their feet on the concrete underfoot to the rhythm. It’s heady. Hair dripping down my forehead and temples, I whip my head upward to clear the sweat, and clear the locks off my shoulders, as I finish my piece and grab a drink from behind my speaker cabinet. After draining the plastic cup, I realize that our set only has two songs left, and then we have to do a quick move of our equipment so that Snake can go on. It’s always sad to me when I know we’re nearly done. Gone are the days when I couldn’t wait to be finished performing. It’s become part of who I am, and I look forward to one day being able to headline instead of being just an opening act.
When I look back at the audience as we start our next song, I reflect on how far we’ve come. It started as talent shows and free entertainment for family and friends, me with my guitar and high, cracking adolescent voice, and then it grew into me and Neal, and then Ivan, both of whom lived on my street growing up. Danny came a couple of years later, when we were in high school, and then we started playing at parties and in friend’s backyards. After high school, we moved on to playing at weddings and small venues, and our song list grew and grew, no longer playing just cover songs.
Sure, we cut our teeth on cover songs, but not only was I born with a guitar on my hip, but also with a pen in hand. I love writing stuff, mostly music. So writing music came natural to me. Neal, too. We combined our stuff and scraped together enough to do a demo tape after high school, and finally, we got our first gig in a nightclub. It took some trudging it out at local clubs and some out of town clubs before we were met by our manager, Todd. It was a fluke the night that he showed up the same night that we were playing at the Bubble Room. In fact, it was a fluke that we played at all, and it was only because the other band that was supposed to be playing flaked out.
“Here. Take this shit.” He says, all but throwing the duffel bag that he’s holding, at me. “Duty calls downstairs. Snake is doing soundchecks and the fucking cops are here.”
“When does Storm get to do their soundcheck?”
He shrugs, while the other guy walks away, leaving me with the cart. “I don’t know. Their road manager should be coming up soon. I told him where you were taking these kids.”
Kids? This guy looks no older than me. It must be a veiled way of addressing a bunch of people that you feel are beneath you. The fact that Ned won’t even come into the dressing room is telling. He also didn’t even bother to introduce himself to me or to the band. Billy’s browbeating over the radio moments ago must have bruised his ego. “Thanks.” I say, and then add ‘asshole’ as soon as his back is turned, not caring if he overhears or not.
Pushing the cart towards the door, I stop it in time, before it hits the metal, and I open it. The boys are all looking at me expectantly, and then they see me pushing the cart in. “What the fuck…” Ivan says, as they come to my aid. The blood on my hand has already seeped through the paper towel, and it’s nearly dripping on the cart handle.
“This is fucking bullshit.” Danny says. “We’d get better fucking respect in a goddamn third world country at this rate.”
Neal grabs the duffel bag. “Just…shut the fuck up so we can find the goddamn sewing kit and get this girl patched up. I’ve got half a mind to walk out of here with her myself and take her to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry, Mister Bush, I’ll try not to bleed on your things.” I say sheepishly, thinking that their possessions are probably worth more than my house and my car combined.
“It’s not that.” He says, rooting through his duffel bag as Danny and Ivan pull the cart inside the room and begin unloading, while Billy walks over to the shelf and grabs more paper towel for my hand.
“Na, our shit is just costume crap.” Billy says. “Our equipment…now that’s a different story.”
He brings over another wad of paper towel, pulls the soiled towel from me, and places it in the garbage bin in the bathroom. The fact that he isn’t fazed by my blood surprises me. “Is your mother a nurse, too?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“And is your father a rock star?” I joke.
“My father’s an asshole.” The look on his face and his tone shuts me down. I’m completely silent, and you can hear a pin drop in the room.
“Here’s the sewing kit.” Neal says, breaking the silence.
“Hey, how did you get that bruise on the side of your head?” Billy asks a moment later, and all the stone in his face has disappeared.
“Occupational hazards.” I shrug, taking the sewing kit from Neal and nodding my thanks. “When you’re a security guard, anything goes. If you’re not getting hit by people, you’re getting hit by objects.”
“Do you own a gun?” Danny asks.
I look up at him. “Yeah.” My tone is casual, like he asked if I put my shoes on one foot at a time. “Actually, I own a few.” I add honestly, and then I change the subject. “Did anyone find any antiseptic around here?”
“Yeah.” Ivan says, handing me a bottle of peroxide.
“Well, that’s impressive.”
“There was a first aid kit over there.”
“No stitching kit inside, I presume.”
“Na. Just band aids and peroxide. It looks new though.”
I look around and see no bowls of any sort around. “I’ll just be in the washroom.” I say, intending to use the sink to not only let my blood drip into it, but the peroxide, too.
“Na, man, stay out here. We want to watch.” Danny says, completely enthralled.
“I’m going to make a real mess.” I state. “Unless you can find me a bowl or a big towel or something.” I’m shocked that these boys actually want to watch me stitch myself up. It’s kind of gross but intriguing as well. They are boys, after all. And a heavy metal band, so I suppose it kind of goes with the territory.
“Fuck it.” Ivan says. “Just fucking make the mess out here. These assholes can clean it up.”
I give him a look. “With all due respect, this isn’t ketchup or wine, this is biowaste. It’s like leaving a dirty hypodermic needle on the table for someone else to pick up.”
“How are you going to do this, anyway? You right or left-handed?” Billy asks.
“I’m right-handed.” I answer. “But sewing is something you can do with either hand. It’s kind of like when you clip your nails.”
“Kind of like playing guitar.” He says, winking.
“Yes, that too.” I smile.
“Shouldn’t you, like, sterilize the sewing needle first?” Neal suggests.
“Yes. I’ll go run it under hot water.”
“Na, shit, let me do that.” Billy says. “Don’t you need the water to be boiled?”
“We’ll make do. I’ll soak it in peroxide, too.” I say. “I don’t get infections easily, so I’m not worried.”
“How many times did you have to sew yourself up in combat?” Ivan asks.
“A few. Once on the sole of my foot. Now that hurts like a son of a bitch.” I answer, unspooling a handsome amount of black thread, winding it around my good wrist.
Ivan winces. “Aw, fuck.” He chuckles, grinning, impressed.
I pour peroxide over my hand, while Danny places a wad of paper towel under me. Billy returns a minute later. “Now that wasn’t easy. Nearly lost the fucker a half dozen times down the goddamn drain.”
“Thanks.” I say, and I thread the needle, wetting it between my lips first, just like my grandma taught me years ago. The boys watch me like I’m about to perform some kind of magic trick. When I get it in on the first try, I can see through my peripheral vision, that they’re nodding at each other, like they were betting I could nail it.
“Shouldn’t you guys be…like…getting dressed or rehearsing or something?” I ask, inserting the needle into the top of the wound.
“We can’t really do much until soundcheck.” Danny answers. “And we’re a rock band…we wear whatever the fuck we want. Hell, half the time we just go out with pants and shoes on and that’s it.”
They watch as I make short, quick motions, stabbing the broken skin around the open wound, in a cross-hatch pattern the way my mom showed me how to do this years ago, long before I joined the military. It started with one of my dolls, one made of cloth, that my grandma had made for me. The arm got ripped off when the doll’s arm got stuck in the front door and I pulled. She showed me how to stitch up a wound there, and when I started going with her on rounds as a teenager, she let me watch when someone needed mending. I even stitched up a buddy of mine in combat.
Danny is most intrigued. “Doesn’t that hurt like hell?”
My eyes don’t leave my flesh when I answer him. “I’ve been shot, like I said. Also, women have a much stronger threshold for pain, which is probably why we’re the ones that give birth.”
Minutes later, I tie off the stitches at the bottom, knot it snugly, and Neal hands me the tiny scissors to cut off the excess. Then I pour peroxide over the wound again. Six stitches it took to seal the scratch. Thankfully, since it was a sheet of metal, it was a clean cut. “There.” I sigh. “Can I get a band aid out of that box? A long one?”
Neal hands me the box and lets me have my pick. I take one, but Billy takes it from me. “You’re not going to be able to get it on properly. Let me do it.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Just as he’s adhering the bandage to my hand, the door bursts open, and Chris walks in. “What the fuck…” he covers his face with his hand. “You guys…what’s going on here?”
“She sliced her hand open, man. She actually stitched it up herself.” Danny brags, smiling.
“That’s…great.” Chris pastes on a phoney smile, and then he addresses me. “Look, they’re waiting for the elevator, honey. Why don’t you go get it back to them downstairs.”
“Sure.” I say, grabbing my jacket from the bench behind me. “Good luck tonight, guys.” I smile at them.
Billy waves, and Neal, Ivan and Danny mutter together, but I catch, ‘yeah, see ya’, and ‘take care’, and ‘see ya later’.
When I close the door behind me, I realize that I’ve just been up close and personal with probably one of the most popular new, up and coming bands there is. Aside from a sliced hand, a soaked jacket and shirt, an asshole security guard, and a lockdown, it’s been a goddamn good day.
Chapter 3
Billy
Despite my lack of faith in everything today, the soundcheck went well. There is little room on the stage for our stuff, since Snake has world class equipment, not that ours is anything to cry about, there’s just less of it. Snake’s equipment takes up more than half the stage, leaving us with only a little more than a quarter of it for our equipment and performance. Which sucks to the say the least. But in my eyes, as long as the soundcheck was good, we can figure out the rest as we go along.
Neal is drinking his usual lemon and honey water warmed, so his throat is good and lubricated before we go on stage, and I’m exercising my fingers, strumming them up and down the neck of my guitar, playing one of my favorite practice jam tunes. Danny is puking his guts up in the toilet, something he sometimes dodges, if he drinks ginger tea quickly enough before the nausea hits, but because we were late for soundchecks and rushed through, despite it running smoothly, he didn’t have time to squeeze the tea in, and his stomach is retaliating.
We’re so used to it that we don’t even ask him if he’s okay anymore. It’s usually just dry heaves, depending on how much he ate, which was nothing. Danny has major stage fright. There once was a time when I had it, before I got really good at playing guitar, especially when I did performances in my younger years, and was forced to play the piano, but even then, I never puked. I just shook like a leaf and stumbled through much of my set. Ivan is tapping the wooden benches with a set of drumsticks, and then Neal starts practicing scales. He’s nailing every note and I follow along with my guitar.
When Danny finishes puking, he joins us. I pat his back. “We gotta get you some of those ginger tablets from Europe, man. I hear they’re really good.”
“Anything that doesn’t make me sleep, man. That Gravol shit knocks me out.” He isn’t kidding. We once performed at a backyard party, the largest one we’d ever done, and Danny’s mother insisted that he take some Gravol before we went on. He was so stoned from it that he almost fell asleep while playing on stage. We could see him start to take a nosedive and both me and Neal caught him before his face hit the wood.
“Here, here.” I chuckle, agreeing.
For a large guy, Danny has a really low tolerance for stuff. Even though he does do some stuff, but we won’t go there…for now. From the dressing room, we can hear the audience’s cheers getting louder and louder as the auditorium fills. We’ve heard that it’s a sold-out show and it sure sounds like it. With each wave of enthusiasm from fans, Danny runs for the toilet. But when it’s time to get our shit together, he’s solid as a rock. “Okay, are you guys ready to get serious?” I ask the key question.
“Fuckin yeah!” Ivan shouts, and taps the bench at lightning speed, feeling my vibe.
“Are we ready to get really fucking serious?” I ask, heightening my tone, almost to a screech, something that I’ve been able to do since I was a kid, even when my voice changed. Like when the announcer introduces Saturday Night Live. For a guitarist, I have good vocal range.
Danny rakes a hand through his hair and appears to be pulling it together. I encourage him more. “Let’s get fucking serious!” I say, making my guitar squeal, playing a short, catchy tune that we all made up together. It’s just stupid, silly shit that would never make it outside the dressing room doors, but it gets us pumped and crazy, and our hearts start beating, the adrenaline starts flowing, getting us ready. It’s almost like we have a sixth sense; we know when it’s time to go on, based on the hype from the crowd.
Like clockwork, our stage manager busts in. “You guys ready?” he shouts over the growing din from the audience.
“Are we fucking ready, guys!” I shout, pumping my fist.
“Yeah!” We all shout in unison, and then we slam our fists together, one on top of the other, until we’ve built a mountain of flesh, and when we break apart, it’s a race to see who can get out of the room and rush down the hallway towards backstage. Whoever’s last gets a bucket of ice water dumped on them at the end of the show. Frankly, we’d all like to be doused with ice after being under two-hundred-degree lights for any length of time, so it’s not a punishment, and sometimes we all have a share of the freezing water.
We high five and slap the hands of our roadies and anyone else who is lining the hallways, including a group of girls that catch my eye, and I give them each a healthy once-over, noticing their backstage passes hanging from cords around their necks, and I smile. I’ll for sure get to meet them after the show, which makes me happy. After passing a few security personnel, I see our friend, madame stitches, Michelle, and high five her, too, on her left hand, of course.
Traveling to the end of the line, where we’re just a curtain pull away from being onstage, I wait for all the guys to pile up behind me, and for Neal to get his mic activated, before I tear onto the darkened stage. Teasing the audience, I play a note or two on my guitar, and they howl. My heart pumps so fast I can feel it in my fingertips. What a fucking rush and a half. They can’t even see me yet, since the lights are off, and just a few tiny spotlights are on for safety. When we’re all on stage, the lighting director cues, and the pyrotechnics start, beaming white light in a hypnotic dance around us.
Gotta admit, we put on one hell of a show. Guitar humming and then screeching, I kick into our first song, a fan favorite that hit the top ten in the top forty charts during its first week of life on the radio. It gets the fans every time. It’s something that we’ve used as our first song since it was released, and as much as we’ve debated whether to switch things out or not, I’m reluctant to, since it does so well. Neal’s vocals are sweet, hitting every note spot on, as we trailblaze through ‘Great White’, with the audience singing along.
Neal actually takes the mic from the stand and points it at the audience during the second chorus, and they lap it up, spewing out the lyrics, which makes me smile. Danny’s already got his shirt off, and he’s thrown it into the audience, which they love. It’s his signature. It could be a cheap Dickies undershirt or something that could pass for Armani and they don’t care. One day, I tell him, they’ll be auctioning off his shirts somewhere, and make a killing. He usually just waves me off, dismissing my comment, but you watch…one day.
When my solo comes up, the boys surround me as I play, strumming the notes so smoothly it’s like the neck of my guitar is covered in Vaseline, and the audience cheers. God, I love it. I think I was born with a guitar on my hip. At least that’s what it feels like when I’m playing. I’ve caught myself air guitaring when I don’t even have one in my hand. My legs naturally part whenever I sit, whether or not I have to make room for the instrument. The spotlight is so fucking hot on me, when there is a six second gap for a quick drum reprieve, I rip my shirt off my back and toss it on the stage. I can’t throw it into the audience from where I’m standing, and I can’t copy Danny’s thing; that would be stupid.
Another song comes, a slow ballad, and I can see the tiny flickers of light from lighters swaying in the audience. This is the only time you can see that far out into the crowd for the lights, which are dimmed during ballads. Especially this one, where Neal climbs onto a stool, and sings as though contemplatively. My guitar’s notes harmonize with Danny’s soft bass, and Ivan softly taps on the drums from behind. It’s a beautiful song, and it sounds like it’s about a special girl, and it is…my mom. Only, fans don’t know that; they think it’s about a past flame. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. In fact, it’s really sweet.
Giving a big finish, Neal hits the high note, and then it’s silence on the stage, while the fans whistle, shout and beg for more, which they get. Our next tune is heavier, a darker metal song, where the drums are blazing and both me and Danny’s fingers are going so fast, the videographer behind me would not be able to follow my moves with his gaze if he tried. When I play like this, I close my eyes. It’s dizzying playing in this manner, so I tolerate it by not watching. Danny’s strumming is slightly slower, since he’s hitting the beat only half the time, on purpose, to create a purposed delay, which has a great effect that complements the piece.
Fans love this song, and you can hear them beating their feet on the concrete underfoot to the rhythm. It’s heady. Hair dripping down my forehead and temples, I whip my head upward to clear the sweat, and clear the locks off my shoulders, as I finish my piece and grab a drink from behind my speaker cabinet. After draining the plastic cup, I realize that our set only has two songs left, and then we have to do a quick move of our equipment so that Snake can go on. It’s always sad to me when I know we’re nearly done. Gone are the days when I couldn’t wait to be finished performing. It’s become part of who I am, and I look forward to one day being able to headline instead of being just an opening act.
When I look back at the audience as we start our next song, I reflect on how far we’ve come. It started as talent shows and free entertainment for family and friends, me with my guitar and high, cracking adolescent voice, and then it grew into me and Neal, and then Ivan, both of whom lived on my street growing up. Danny came a couple of years later, when we were in high school, and then we started playing at parties and in friend’s backyards. After high school, we moved on to playing at weddings and small venues, and our song list grew and grew, no longer playing just cover songs.
Sure, we cut our teeth on cover songs, but not only was I born with a guitar on my hip, but also with a pen in hand. I love writing stuff, mostly music. So writing music came natural to me. Neal, too. We combined our stuff and scraped together enough to do a demo tape after high school, and finally, we got our first gig in a nightclub. It took some trudging it out at local clubs and some out of town clubs before we were met by our manager, Todd. It was a fluke the night that he showed up the same night that we were playing at the Bubble Room. In fact, it was a fluke that we played at all, and it was only because the other band that was supposed to be playing flaked out.
