Family

 He’s standing in the wings of the stage. 

This is it.

This moment.

As if he is dying, his musical life flashes before his eyes, from his aunt showing him a G chord, his obvious aptitude, from folk to rock to metal to his own sound, his own band, his own tour, to this  stadium. 

He wonders what will happen to the feeling in his belly that keeps him awake at night, the frightening combination of rage and emptiness that others call fire. Now he’s here will that feeling let him sleep? Or battle more fiercely? 

The support bands have finished. The tension in the crowd is building, he knows making them wait is part of the show, but he wants to get out there.

Across the stage he sees a roadie, a friend, he waves and grins as the crowd begins to chant. The roadie looks nervous. He nearly didn’t make the gig, afraid of the chopper ride in, eventually coaxed and sat in the middle and distracted the entire way. He is struck by how close he feels to this man. 

Family.

He laughs at the idea of the helicopter. It was really for the fans, some bonus glamour, it would have been easier to walk from the hotel. He recalls lugging amplifiers and guitars all over his home town, cars, borrowed, driven by friends, eventually his own. A helicopter, crazy.

He thinks of all the friends who drove him here, in cars and in spirit, and of the friends who didn’t make it, in music, or in staying alive. The desire for this moment was too heavy for many.

He looks to his drummer who holds up one finger, one minute, he always knows the right moment to hit the crowd, just as the chants of the band’s name are dying out, just before they become disgruntled, a little down, then a surge of up.

For a moment he doubts himself. Is he ready? For a stadium full of people, expecting so much? Is he ready? For one moment he lets himself think about turning around and walking back to the hotel, walking back to his home town, happily playing small venues, maybe settling down a bit.

He looks at his bass player. The bass player knows. He mimics Tony Soprano and Silvio boxing in slow motion, while the keyboard player whistles the opening music of Raging Bull. The whistling can’t really be heard over the crowd noise, but they’ve done this before, they can all hear the music in their heads. 

The drummer nods. The time for shadow boxing is over.

This is it.

This moment.

Parkstreet

Ko-Fi