Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  As the minutes rolled by, the initial low murmur of the public increased to a noisy roar, signaling that it was almost time to go on. When that moment was upon us, Carolyn and Rudy came by to give us some final words of encouragement and took the stage themselves. We followed but stayed on the sidelines. Out of nowhere, a live cut from our concert at Rocky Point started blaring from the PA, and the curtains slid open to reveal a spectacle of lights and other visual effects that would dazzle any onlooker.

  “Hello, Providence,” Carolyn Fox announced, crying out with gusto. The way the audience let loose with their screams and whistles, I was sure we were amongst friends.

  “And welcome to 94 WHJY’s Rocky Point Battle of the Bands tribute to the champions,” Rudy continued.

  Without missing a beat, Carolyn took over again as if they were reading each other’s minds. “For those of you who were there live, in person, or listening in last Saturday night, I’m sure you can appreciate why this year’s champions took the prize, uncontested.”

  “You know, Carolyn, even without that foul play from the, uh, losers,” Rudy said, giving a wink and a nod, “from the songs we did get to hear, it was a hands-down knock out with a one, two, three punch from the get go.”

  “That’s right, Rudy. And without even laying eyes on these five young artists, I knew right away who was in that rock and roll ring and couldn’t help but to sing along.”

  While they were talking, we took our positions on a large revolving modular platform and readied ourselves for the first couple of songs.

  “I have to say, Carolyn, it must have been catchy because I also sang along. But you know folks, don’t take our word for it. Let’s give a big hand to Four-n-Moore and see if you get the urge to sing along too.”

  The platform rotated towards the crowd and we set off on our first of three mini sets of the evening. The venue, a deep rectangle with an elevated steel beam ceiling, was illuminated and blinked with all the colors of a rainbow. Strobes flickered, and laser lights shot from all directions. Everyone went wild, bouncing up and down, lunging to and fro, and waving and shaking their arms in the air. With the thunderous cheer from our over exuberant fans emanating like a hurricane of hurrahs, it was almost impossible to hear ourselves playing. The beast was alive, and we controlled it with the mere mastery of our instruments and my vocal prowess. Two songs, generally taking five minutes each, took twenty to complete. As always, we ran the gamut with our improvisations and created something unique that had never before existed and never will again. Each time I think that Stevie has played the best he’ll ever play in his lifetime and it can only go downhill from there, he winds it up tighter and breaks every record he’s ever held.

  After the set was over, and we let the last chord ring out, it was an amazing feeling coming down off that platform to be greeted by Carolyn, Rudy and all the enthusiastic guests. Full of sweat and glowing, we took our bows, left and right, and the jubilation refused to stop.

  Buddy Cianci appeared on stage, and the decibel level shot up even higher. He gave a quick wave to his constituency and took control of the microphone. “That, dear patrons of my beloved city of Providence, was what I call a performance.”

  Everyone cheered even louder and chanted, “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy.” They followed with “Stevie, Stevie.” There were some long “Lukes,” sounding like they were booing. Finally, they capped it with “Four-n-Moore,” and didn’t stop for a couple of minutes.

  Buddy stood there, shining like a star himself, and wouldn’t think of putting the brakes on them. When they finally quieted, he lashed into a hysterical ten-minute monologue that made you wonder if he was there to emcee or declare his reelection run for mayor.

  Soon Carolyn and Rudy were brought back into the mix and that segued right into a heavy dose of hard rock with local hopefuls, Triton. Deciding not to hide in the shadows, we jetted out into the middle of the club to mingle and enjoy. I felt like I knew almost every person there. Everywhere I turned, someone put a fresh beer in my hand. Although we were scheduled to play at Madison Square Garden the following evening, we still felt like hometown boys, hopping from clique to clique and busting balls as usual. Triton’s set was short yet pungent and without any gap in the schedule, we were beckoned to take our place in front of the audience.

  By the time we got back under the spotlight, there were five chairs set up. We looked at each other, puzzled, giggling like school kids, and wondered what surprise they had in store for us next. I was pretty tipsy from all that booze, and it looked like it was the same for the others. Again, I didn’t feel any pressure to perform and only tried to be myself. This night was for us. We were instructed to take our seats and out walks Frank Santos. Yes, of course. Frank, the R-rated hypnotist, was going to use us as his subjects. Why didn’t I think of that before? At any rate, Frank’s no stranger to this town, and everyone gave him a hefty applause.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” he said and got right to work. “Alright, guys, ready to have some fun?”

  We nodded yes.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen. I want you all to relax, listen to what I say very carefully, and most importantly, keep an open mind. Ok, guys?”

  Again, we nodded. He proceeded to give us simple yet weird instructions. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. We all must have passed out because at some point he woke us. Once everyone was conscious, he walked back and forth, observing our disoriented selves. After a couple of rounds, he stopped at Stevie.

  “Hey, string bean, can you stand up?”

  I could tell that Stevie hated it but did as he was told. It was so classic to pick the shy guy first. Frank called him string bean, tehee, like Amy did.

  “Can you tell the audience your name?”

  “Sure, it’s Stevie.”

  Someone in the room bellowed out “Stevie” and others cheered.

  “Just Stevie? Or do you have a last name?”

  “Um…it’s uh, Stevie,” he answered again.

  The audience burst into laughter.

  “Look, you must have a last name,” Frank said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you say your whole name. Come on, a hundred dollars, right here and now. You can do it.”

  “My name is…Stevie, um, Stevie.” He looked frustrated, bordering on angry. He literally couldn’t remember his full name.

  The crowd started calling out Stevie’s name again like when Buddy appeared; that made it even worse. Frank noticed how uncomfortable he must have felt and moved on to Tommy. He couldn’t remember his full name either. Instead of getting upset, he goofed on the absurdity of it. Tommy’s not the brightest, but how could he forget his own name after all? Over the course of the next half hour, Frank carried on with his act, which was filled with one outrageous gag after another. The oddest part was, when he brought us out of the trance, we could all remember the others doing stupid things, but each of us swore up and down that they were spared.

  Although the audience seemed to get a big kick out the comedy routine, it was time to ignite the party once more, and we were up next, scheduled to perform our second mini set. Carolyn, Rudy and Buddy returned to their roles as masters of ceremony to thank Frank and set up the next act while we exited stage-left to freshen up. All five of us had full bladders and empty beers, and after only a brief intermezzo, we were summoned back to serve our fans another spicy helping of pure Rhode Island rock.

  It’s safe to say that we were feeling pretty loose after all that alcohol. We were still on fire, though, and right on key. Stevie, back in his element, shredded his guitar while the rest of us laid down the musical apparatus to carry the tune wherever it needed to go. It was as if we were the engine of a locomotive barreling down the tracks, passengers clinging on, gripping tight, getting the ride of their lives, and each time a wreck seemed eminent, we’d pull off a musical maneuver that would bring us safely back on course. The first s
et was killer, but the second set topped it. The three songs we played stretched into almost thirty minutes and by the end, they were begging for more.

  Before I could say a word, we were rotated off to the backstage area while John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, waiting patiently on the other side of the revolving platform, were propelled into view of the delirious crowd. A tidal wave of whistles and screams reverberated throughout the room as the band let it roll. The Beaves were legend in the state and none of us wanted to miss any more of their set than we had to.

  We topped off our drinks and dove into the masses. As before, with every step I took, I was met by countless friends and supporters, each one wanting to tip their cup with me. I was breaking my rule of overdoing it on the beer, although I didn’t think there was anything to lose. We had only one song to play in our final set, the song to end all songs, “Whole Lotta Love” by the mighty Zeppelin. When it was over, we’d be shuffled out of the Fastlane into the limo and trolleyed home in style, the same way we came. A couple hours sleep, the usual morning routine and an easy ride to NYC would bring us to paradise. At that point, in the middle of the pit, jammed between the sweat-drenched bodies of our followers, I couldn’t help but join in the revelry. John Cafferty put on a tremendous show, and it was impossible not to move to the pulsating rhythm of the tightly laid down backbeat.

  As the set was nearing its end, I had snaked my way to the front row and was engrossed in every note. There I was, below the stage, another nameless face looking up at John and the Beaves. It was such a different perspective than being up there, the focal point for all to gaze upon and staring back at an army of unknowns. As I was grooving out, various people bopped in and out of my dance space. Most times, we’d engage our counterpart with a smile, shake our bones to the beat and move on, but the stunning pair of doe eyes that fell on me out of the blue were all too familiar. I was speechless. The only thing I could do was to keep my focus on her deep brown irises as those pearly white teeth shone from between her full-lipped smile. An unforgettable birthmark, like a splash of coffee milk resting on her chin, added to the mystique. Her dark chestnut hair, concealed under a hat during our first encounter, was surprisingly long and full-bodied with exceptional sheen, like swirls of glistening hot fudge from a sundae. She was decked out in an elegant yet revealing short black dress that exemplified her sexiness and in no way seemed tacky. The stilettos, high and spiky, perfected her look. As we synched, time felt stretched and my mind was propelled to a dimension in which every movement, slow and deliberate, left visual traces, a repeating visible residue, her outline, an echo of light and shadow.

  After a brief eternity, I was pulled back out as the energy of the music sank, and John Cafferty talked intimately with the fans, preparing us for their last song. It was my chance before she slipped away as quiet as she materialized before me, and I felt abnormally charged with confidence.

  “Ashley? Ashley White, right?” I said, yelling to make sure she could hear what I was saying. She seemed to recognize me but looked taken aback. At first, she only stared before easing up and nodding.

  “It’s me, Luke, Luke from Four-n-Moore, the singer. You were our driver, I mean chauffeur. You drove us to Boston. We played a concert, Faneuil Hall.”

  She seemed to relax even more and again only nodded, although I imagined hearing her reply in proper Queen’s English.

  Since she wouldn’t converse, I wasn’t sure what to do next. The Beaves saved us both as they broke into their hit, “The Dark Side”. Everyone in the club started in on a romp. We followed their lead and stayed the course until it was over, and John made it clear that there’d be no encore.

  Again, I was about to initiate a conversation with Miss White when Carolyn and Rudy called Four-n-Moore to the stage for us to perform our finisher and bring the party to a climax. I looked over at the gorgeous Brit and she shrugged, motioning for me to follow instructions and complete the job. I reached over to shake her hand, and instead, she pulled me tight and threw her arms around me, squeezing enthusiastically. She pressed her body snug against mine and the warmth and softness of her femininity left in me a true desire to explore more. She released her hold, and after a brief last look, I made my way to the microphone. Life’s all about opportunity, I thought, and I wasn’t sure if I had blown a major one.

  Besides being trashed, my head was reeling from that chance meeting with Miss White. Now, I had to bear my soul one more time to a roomful of overzealous fans. It was bizarre. There I was, thrust in front of a mike, about to put a big cherry on top of an evening that was laden with highlights. We didn’t always play “Whole Lotta Love” as a grand finale, but when we did, the fans went spastic.

  I was still in a daze when Stevie ripped through the all too famous opening riff. As involuntary as a heartbeat, I cut into the first verse once it was my turn and let instinct guide me through the song. The boys all joined in singing on the chorus and brought me safely into the second verse. I crushed that one too, like Robert Plant himself had stepped inside my skin and helped me pull out all the stops. When the next chorus came around, we were drowned out by the voices of the boisterous crowd. They were singing so loud as if they were the ones crooning into the microphone. The second chorus was always proceeded by a psychedelic instrumental orgy that segued into a mean guitar solo, followed by verse and chorus three, a vocal break and a multi-chorus closer. As usual, we took our time and let the jam develop as it needed to. Dale’s cymbals sizzled as he created the foundation for us to build on. He started throwing in toms and other percussion parts and it seemed as if he had four arms and a gaggle of legs. I noticed myself being sucked up into his groove instead of focusing on pleasing the onlookers, so I decided to act.

  I grabbed the wireless mike from the stand and ran to the front of the stage, to the right, and greeted the fans. I still had to intermittently throw in a moan and a groan on the go, though, I never missed my cue. Everyone upfront was high fiving me and grabbing any body part they could reach. I wasn’t used to being so up close and personal and the adrenaline counteracted the effects of the alcohol. I almost felt sober again and bursting with fresh energy. My plan was to move along the edge all the way to the left side and then get back to my space in time for Stevie’s mega solo. I didn’t want to steal his spotlight. I had almost reached mid-stage, offering everyone a piece of me, when again I saw Miss White. I figured I’d give her my hand and move on. She must have had different plans. I lowered my palm only for a quick feel, but like our first meeting of the evening, Ashley didn’t want only a little piece of me. She grasped on tight and was somehow catapulted up onto the stage until we were standing face-to-face. Before I knew what happened, she placed her hands on my dripping cheeks and planted her lips tightly upon mine. I instinctively kissed back, lips only at first until her tongue started darting in and out of my mouth, and I followed her lead. Her breath was hot and her saliva slimy but tasted sweet, like a strawberry Jolly Rancher. Realizing where I was, I retracted from her embrace, beaming, and then growled some vocal fragments into the microphone.

  It couldn’t have been more perfect even if it had been scripted. People cheered like mad. I kept with the original plan and meandered along the edge making sure not to miss any fan that wanted to connect with me. After making out with Ashley, my groin immediately stiffened, so I had to keep repositioning myself so as not to be embarrassed. I timed it perfectly and as soon as I was back into my original position, Stevie broke into his solo, which lasted a good five minutes and again topped everything he did to date. A quick drum break brought us back to verse three and we continued with the rest of the tune, note for note, as performed in the original version. There would be nothing new, though the end was solid, and familiar, and the crowd loved it, and seemed to be in awe.

  I should have been soaking in every millisecond of our final bow and absorbing the vast amounts of energy being exerted in our direction yet could only think of Miss Wh
ite. I pictured losing myself in those eyes, as her soft mouth pressed against mine, and we would grasp hands, lightly caressing each other’s fingers. The noise of the crowd was dizzying, and I must have appeared adrift under those blinding lights.

  The whole house lit up and the crew started gathering us to make a fast break to the getaway car. That’s when I saw her, surrounded by a whirl of commotion, as still as a cardboard cutout. She was ogling me. When our eyes met, it felt as if a giant magnet drew us towards each other, although there was no physical movement. I heard someone in the background urge us to hightail it out of there, but I couldn’t leave like this. I just couldn’t.

  “I’m staying,” I said, not talking to anyone in particular and not veering my sights away from Miss White.

  Mike must have seen me, frozen, and came over to find out what was happening. “Luke, time to pack up.”

  “I’m staying, Mike.”

  “What do you mean you’re staying?”

  “I meant I’m staying.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, glancing over at her. “Come on, Luke. We leave bright and early in the morning. They’ll be plenty of girls. This isn’t the best time to lose your head over a female.”

  “Know who that is?” I asked. Before he could even begin to guess, I told him straight out. “It’s Ashley White, that hot English girl who drove us to Boston when we played at Faneuil Hall.”

  Mike squinted to get a better view. “So what,” he said. “She drove us to Boston, and you kissed her on stage. It doesn’t mean you have to marry her.”