by Daisy Allen
Jez moves his bow over the strings so fast I can barely keep up as we build to the chorus. I can hear the audience sing along “When Doves Cry!” as the familiar melody fills the concert hall. Sebastian’s bow is, as usual, torn to shreds, the strands glistening under the lights as we make eye contact for a moment, the same crazed look in all of our eyes. Brad glances over to me and I give him a nod. Yes, I agree, I can take the lead tonight.
He steps back into the shadows, his violin falling an octave below, positioning to harmonize and the cellos fade away into a quiet but deep bass line as I make my way to the middle of the stage and take the solo.
I close my eyes and clear my mind, letting my body deliver the music. I am just the messenger. My fingers ache and burn as they dance over the fingerboard and my bow arm screams for rest. But I don’t care. The notes cascade from my viola and I can feel my blood boiling with excitement, with anticipation, even though sometimes I don’t know what notes are coming.
The melody moves from the Doves Cry chorus to the driving, thrilling, exhilarating climb of the climax of the Valkyries. Da da da daaaaaaaa da, da da da daaaaaaaaa da, it builds into one high, giant, epic note that I hold longer than my breath. And then it tumbles, a waterfall of notes and the other instruments join me, as if supporting me and my viola off a ledge.
I open my eyes and grin at Jez who throws his head back and just laughs like a madman, the sounds lost in the glorious cacophony as we play the final note, holding it for a second before we cut the sound and the lights switch off.
The roar from the crowd shakes the entire stadium and when the lights turn back on, we’re all in a line at the front of the stage, to take our first bow of the night.
“You guys are so fucking brilliant and I want to have sex with you allllllllllllll,” Jez yells into his microphone and holds his arms out and stands in front of the crowd, taking it all in. Humans of every variation and gender scream in response and he bows to them, channelling the spirit of every dead rock god that can hear him. He and Sebastian are the true extroverts of our group. Brad and I stand back, punching each other on the arms, enjoying it all.
“Shall we play you another song? Another new one perhaps?” Jez rasps into the microphone, still trying to catch his breath.
The answer is a deafening cheer.
A crew member pushes Anca’s harp onto the stage and sets the stool down next to it. We all move back, so that the instrument is center stage.
“You’ve heard about her, you’ve been asking about her, so tonight, here she is, in the flesh and blood herself, my baby sister, Anca Petrescu!” Jez announces and a small spotlight appears at the side of the stage.
There’s a pause, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for my, and their, first glimpse of her. She finally steps out from behind the curtain. A vision in a pure white silk jumpsuit, elongating her legs, and hugging every curve of her body. Damn. I tuck my viola under my arm and join in the applause.
“Yeah, Anca!! You go girl!” I yell out, and she glances at me for a second, her face stretched tight as she passes me on her way to the harp stool, hands wringing.
My heart jumps at the sight of her. And I tell myself it’s just that I’m feeling nervous for her. She looks so little, so lost. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to her before the concert now, to reassure her, tell her that we’re all just here for a good time. That she can do it.
Jez puts down the microphone and returns to his chair and cello.
Sebastian looks over at Anca, and she lifts her hands, positioned over the harp strings. He looks over to Jez who nods and begins the song with a single repetitive note. Sebastian joins in, a soft, soaring, lyrical phrase laying over the top, as Brad fades in, weaving his notes between the two.
I count four beats, the cue for Anca to start.
One, two, three, four. I hold my breath, ready for the harp. But there’s nothing.
The guys continue, looping, missing a cue is nothing new, we do it several times every performance. Sometimes we’ve forgotten the cues, or we’re not ready, or we simply just aren’t feeling it yet. That’s the essence of live performance. It’s alive, no performance is the same.
Jez’s cello thumps the beat in the background. One, two, three, four. I count again. Again, nothing. I look over, expecting to see her fiddling with her harp or equipment, something to explain her silence. But she’s just sitting there, hands still poised over the harp, eyes open, like she’s waiting.
Jez throws a look at me, as he takes over her part, jumping in on her cue as I walk over to her, leaning over and whisper, “Are you okay?”
She says nothing. Does nothing.
“Anca, is everything ok?”
This time there’s a shake of her head, almost imperceptible, but it’s there.
“What’s wrong?”
“I… I… I don’t think I can do this,” I barely hear her faint voice over the music.
“What? Yes, yes you can.” I tell her.
“No, I.. I can’t. I’ve…I gotta go,” she says, sounding louder, more panicked. But she doesn’t move.
“You can do this. It’s just like any other time you’ve played. Ignore the crowd, it’s just you and your harp.”
“I-I can’t. Oh my god, what am I going here? I’ve got to go! Get me off the stage, Marius,” her voice trembles with every word. She sounds so, so terrified. What is happening to her? Lucky for her, or us, stage fright I understand intimately. And the last thing that will help right now, is extra pressure. I lean closer, but make sure not to touch her.
“It’s ok, it’s ok. You don’t have to play. I’m right here. But let’s try this, okay? Let’s just sit here for a minute, and if… when you feel ready to, just jump in, whatever you want, we’ll work around you. We do this all the time,” I say hoping it’s reassuring her.
“Marius. I just can’t.” She turns to me for the first time. Her eyes are frantic, panicked.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry, I’m here, we’re going to get you through this,” I say and crouch down next to her, so I can look up into her eyes. “Just put your hands in your lap, and take a deep breath.” I coach her, keeping an ear out on what’s going on with the guys. Everything sounds great, not like we practiced, but hopefully the audience won’t really know the difference at this point.
She does as I say, and I see her shoulder rise and fall, the breath filling and emptying in her lungs. “Do you feel a little bit calmer?”
She takes another breath and nods her head slightly.
“Ok, good. Just keep breathing, that’s the most important thing.” I watch her for chest expand and deflate for a few seconds. “Now, in your mind, just play through those first few notes, can you hear them?”
“No.” She shakes her head immediately, her shoulders tensing.
“Anca. Don’t fight it. Clear your mind, just ignore everything. It’s just you and me here. Don’t give a fuck about the band or any of those people out there. Now try again. Visualize those first few notes. Can you hear them?”
There’s a pause, but something shifts in the air, an acquiescence. “Y-yes.”
“Play them over again. Louder. Stronger.”
“Okay.”
“Excellent, you’re doing so great. Now, when you’re ready, put your hands on the your harp, close your eyes and just feel the strings and the wood and the neck of your harp.”
Her fingers twitch in her lap and then I watch her light them, reaching for her instrument. She runs her fingers over her it, her eyes still closed. I see her hands relax from their rigid state, to soften and caress her harp. I know what that’s like, how that familiarity can change everything.
“How do you feel?” I prompt her.
“Okay.”
“You ready?”
She says nothing.
I ask her again, “Are you ready, Anca? You can do this. I believe in you.”
Her chest rises and I hear a whoosh of air.
“Okay.”
�
�Okay!”
I gesture my head to Brad who’s been watching and he wanders over to Seb, I can just his lips moving and suddenly the music pulls back, and they return to variation of the initial opening loop. They play it once, and I wait. But she doesn’t come in. I nod again to Jez who starts again.
“Come on, I’ll come in with you, okay?”
She nods.
One, two, three, four.
I pull my bow and play the first refrain of her entry. There’s a soft plucking from her harp, and I can see her fingers moving. I don’t stop just yet, playing along with her, letting my viola lead her and the sound from harp grows louder.
Louder and stronger with each note. Soon, the volume from her harp matches mine and I stop playing her melody and let my viola fade away.
The crowd catches on to the new sound, cheering her on.
I see a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and her breath grow shallow and her foot tap in time with the beat. It’s the same thing I’ve seen over and over again with my bandmates, when it stops becoming about us playing the music and letting the music travel through us.
She’s okay now.
I wander over to the guys, letting her shine center stage. Jez gives me a nod and I smile back.
Whatever happened, he knows.
And now he knows I know too.
Chapter Thirteen
Anca
“Anca! Anca! Anca!”
The crowd’s shouting my name so loudly that I can barely make it out.
I’m standing in the wings looking out at the stage and the guys are all holding their hands out to me, waving to me to come join them.
“Come on, let’s make a little more noise for our superstar guest harpist, ANCA!!!!!!!” Jez yells into the microphone!!! “My baby sister, everyone! A fucking prodigy!! And just in case you’re wondering, all you hot guys – no, she’s not fucking available! I see you, I can smell your horny pheromones!!”
The crowd laughs and goes back to chanting my name. Hailey laughs and pushes me on stage and I almost trip on a loose cord. Marius runs over and catches me, takes my hand and pulls me to the front center of the stage. Jez takes my other hand and we all bow in unison.
“Merci, Paris!! À bientôt!” Jez shouts, waving as we file off stage.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling how fast my heart is racing. I feel like it’s like a runaway train about to jump its tracks.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, to no one in particular. Everyone is running around backstage busy with their own jobs. Someone in the crew bumps into me and I crash against the wall.
“Oh my god, Anca, I’m so sorry,” he says before running off, an armful of cables threatening to trip him up
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say, but he’s already gone.
“Are you talking to yourself?” I hear Marius come up behind me and ask.
“No.” I scrunch up my nose. Trust Marius to be the one to catch me looking like I’m talking to myself. Like I haven’t embarrassed myself enough in front of him tonight.
“Then who are you talking to?”
“None of your business.” I glare at him, hoping he’ll drop it.
“Well, is it alright if I interrupt your conversation with none-of-your-business? I have something to ask you.”
“Um, sure.” Shit. Here we go.
“Come in here,” he leads me into an empty dressing room.
I sit down on the couch and wait for him to join me, but he doesn’t.
He stands by the door, shoving his hands in his pockets, one hand pushing back the seat drenched hair on his forehead.
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Well, that’s a first,” I taunt him.
“Arghh!” He growls. Yup, that’s the sound I was expecting to hear.
“Force of habit, sorry,” I say remembering our pact to be civil. He just waves it away.
“Anca. Um, are you okay? I mean… what happened, on stage, at the start of your set? Does that… does that happen a lot?”
I bite my lip and look up at him. I consider lying, but then I remember the way he’d come to my rescue. The way he’d helped me, instead of yelling at me or making me feel bad that I could’ve ruined his concert, he’d just calmly helped me. He didn’t deserve a lie. In fact, none of them do. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.
“No.”
He frowns a little, but he lets me continue.
“It doesn’t happen a lot because… I don’t let it. I hardly ever perform for that reason. I have pretty bad stage fright.” I guess that’s one way to put it. I’m on stage, and I’m frightened as hell. What other explanation can I give him, without telling him everything?
“Oh.”
“But, I thought I had it under control, I had a doctor prescribe me a sedative and that’s helped in the past. I took one earlier but, I guess... I dunno, I guess it didn’t work. I’m… I’m really sorry, Marius. I’m so sorry.” I look down at my hands. I’ve fucked up everything. And now he’s here to tell me he was right about me joining the tour all along.
“No, no, no. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t ask you to make you feel bad. I asked you because… well, I know how it feels.”
I look up at him to see if he’s making fun of me, but his eyes are kind and soft.
“You do?”
“Fuck, yes. It’s why… it’s why I started meditating in the first place. And trust me I had it worse than you.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.” But I can’t help feeling better for hearing it.
“Have you projectile vomited then passed out in said vomit?”
“Um, NO.” Okay, that IS bad.
“Then yes, I had it much worse than you.”
“Wow. I… I didn’t always have it. It’s just, er, well, just something that developed over the last few years. I almost didn’t even graduate because of it. Whoever heard of a Music Performance major who couldn’t perform?” Someone who was trained to fear it, that’s who. I go cold at the memories teetering on my brain. Go away.
“Well, that’s understandable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, yeah, you were performing because you had to. To graduate. Not just for fun, or for pleasure, right?”
Yes. “I guess.”
“And let me guess, you graduated top of your class.”
I blink before answering. “Maybe.”
“That takes a lot of pressure. And well, sometimes you’re not really sure if you’re playing what you want to, or what they want you to. When and where does feeling like a sell out or performing side show act start?”
I don’t say anything, I’m wondering how it is he can understand me so well. Not everything, but the part that matters.
“Anyway, I know what it’s like, that intense pressure. And being told to perform on cue,” he shrugs, like he’s made peace with it all though.
“Except you’re good at it. What am I going to do if I can’t perform? What kind of musician does that make me?”
“Firstly, did you not just hear the projectile vomit story? Secondly, you don’t have to perform in front of crowds to be a musician. Hey. Don’t scoff, look at me,” he waggles a finger at my sneering face.
“Um, I am looking at you.”
“Sorry, I was caught up in my speech, and they always say that in movies when they’re trying to make a point.”
I can’t help but giggle and look down at my hands, they’re red from wringing each other.
“Hey,” Marius says, this time his voice is so gentle it makes my heart soften a little, “no, really, look at me.” He lifts my chin with his finger, and I feel a little tingle where our skin meets. “If you never played another note again in your life, you’d still be a musician. But being a musician doesn’t define you, Anca. You’re also a sister and a friend and a smoking hot potty- mouthed witch,” he finishes with a smile. “But come on, this stage fright you’re experiencing is so not a big thing. I will help you.” He sits up straight an
d grins at me. “Trust me, in this case, it takes someone who understands the problem.”
“And you would do that for me?”
“I’d do anything for smoking hot, potty-mouthed witches.”
Why? I wonder, but am too scared to ask. So I just say, “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t thank me…”
“But…”
“Shush! I wasn’t done.”
“Sorry.”
“As I was saying… don’t thank me. Buy me a post-concert celebratory drink. Come on, I’m sure everyone’s waiting for us.”
He throws the door open and steps out into the hall, chanting, “ROCK CHAMBER BOYS! ROCK CHAMBER BOYS”
I laugh and follow him, and wonder, if it’s the past and my performance issues that’s going to be my biggest problem. Or if it’s going to be that guy with the sad brown eyes that can read my every thought who is going to ruin everything.
***
“To my bandmates, who can charm the nipples off an angry bull, and play like Lucifer himself, to our lovely PR assistant, who buries all the bad and makes us look good even in sunlight, to our crew, who make us sound good, and to our lovely guest performer, Anca – a star was born tonight. To us!!!” Brad raises his drink as he toasts us and we all cheer as we clink our glasses together.
“To us!!!”
I take a long, deep drink of my brain-freezingly cold beer, enjoying the cool, refreshing bubbles prickling the back of my throat and the froth tickling my lips. I didn’t even realize how thirsty I was. Everything that’s happened is a blur. I wonder if I’ll ever really remember the things that happened tonight.
“Anca, you really were something else tonight. The crowd went so wild for you. Thank you for adding a little class to our little side show act,” Sebastian says and it sounds so sincere I can’t help blushing at his praise.
“Hear, hear,” Marius agrees, raising his glass to me and gives me a wink.
“Yeah, let’s swap you out for Jez!” Brad suggests, to the unanimous agreement of everyone.
“HEY!” Jez protests and pouts, before breaking into a grin, reaching over and hugging me around the shoulders. “Nah, she’s alright, my little sister. I mean, I did teach her everything I know.”
