by Teddy Wayne
After sound check, I hung out in the star/talent room and drank warm Throat Coat and ate some of the filet mignon and other low-carb food because I was starving and had my hair and makeup done by this Asian woman who’s new for this tour. She was coiffing and gelling my hair, but it takes a light touch, since you need to gel it enough so it mostly stays in The Jonny, but not too much that it loses its floppiness. Girls historically love singers with sort of floppy hair. Besides the Beatles, there’s Elvis, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, even MJ once he got whiter. When she was doing my foundation, though, she went, “Your mom’s gonna hate this,” and I asked what, and she said, “I think you may have your first zit.”
“Really?” I asked, more excited than anything else. I definitely didn’t want zits, but it would mean I was hitting puberty soon.
She looked closer and said, “You’re lucky, it’s a whitehead. They’re easier to cover up. This might hurt a little.”
She pinched my skin and said, “Never do this to yourself, you might get a scar and then we’re fucked.” She showed me some white liquidy junk on her finger before she wiped it off on a tissue. It was gross, but cool to know my body was making something I’d never seen before. Maybe it was making sperm, too.
It’s funny how half my songs are about liking girls who don’t wear makeup, and I’m a boy who wears makeup. I once told Jane I should do a song about only liking girls who wear tons of makeup and expensive clothes, and she was like, That’s basically what most songs are about.
Later on, while I played Zenon, I could hear the vibrations of Mi$ter $mith taking the stage and kicking into his first song, which was supposed to be “I Loves Me Dat Ho, Don’t You Know” but he had to change for our tour to “I Loves Dat Girl-O, Don’t You Know,” and I took some liquid Pepto for my preshow butterflies, which were worse than normal because it was L.A. I couldn’t get past Level 64’s minion, and when he damaged me to zero percent the third time in a row from my saved game, I yelled at the screen, “You fucking motherfucker!” and Walter ran in quickly from outside and asked what was wrong, and I said, “Sorry, I was just screaming at the minion,” and he said, “Whatever the hell you’re talking about, let’s save the screaming for the show, brother, or Rog is gonna get pissed about you wasting your voice.”
I invited Walter to sit inside with me and I showed him what I meant about the minion. Walter still didn’t know what the hell I meant, since the last time he played video games was when he was a teenager and he spends his free time either watching sports or reading mystery books, but when I was describing the way the minion kept deflecting my side attacks and how I couldn’t figure out his Major Vulnerability, I accidentally attacked him straight at the middle of his body with a sword-punch-kick combo. Usually a Major Vulnerability is an attack from an angle that’s hard to reach, but with this guy, he was vulnerable to an attack right in front of him, where you’d think he’d be most protected. I damaged him and advanced to Level 65 and explained to Walter how it was like when soccer goalies jump to one side on penalty shots, so sometimes the smart move is to kick it straight ahead. He understood it, and I said, “Make sure Nadine gives me credit for doing my first Teachable Moment this month,” and he said, “I don’t think video games count.” She gives credit for stuff that’s not always about school subjects, though.
I got paged right before intermission, as Mi$ter $mith was closing out with his one hit, “Call Me $ir,” and I got into what Walter calls the Jonny Zone, when I tune everything out and deep-focus. He escorted me backstage to meet Jane. “How you feeling, baby?” she asked.
I said I was fine. My crew moved everything into position and Bill handed me my mike while he adjusted sound levels on this little machine, so I did the usual line, “Microphone check one-two-one-two,” over and over. They still want me to hold a wireless mike instead of wearing a headset so I look more like an old-school crooner.
“We’re all cool here, Jane?” he asked.
“We’re all cool, Bill,” she said.
He left, and the butterflies flapped their wings harder. It’s always the same backstage. You get worried you’ll forget the words even though they’re like the alphabet song by now. You’re afraid your voice will crack when it strains for the high notes. You’ll slip in a spin move. Your jeans will split and everyone will see your underwear. You’ll say something in a banter interlude that offends people and viralizes. Or something you haven’t even thought of will go wrong, and not only is your career hurt, but so are the careers of the 136 people who work on your tour, plus Jane’s. And no matter what, for the first few seconds you get onstage, you’ll look around and realize twenty thousand people are all watching every move you make, and you’ll be like, Why am I up here and not one of those people? Rog says that’s natural for musical artists to ask, and you’ve got to block it out right away and remind yourself that very few people in the world are born with the consummate performer’s gene, and that’s why everyone else is paying premium prices to see you, because they need entertainment and escape almost as much as they need food and water.
On top of all that, I was getting more worried about the heart-shaped swing. If you were the kind of person who had a fear of heights and of being trapped, it would be your nightmare.
I said to Jane, “I think I might throw up,” and she was prepared for it and had a big bucket nearby like usual and got it in front of me just in time, and she rubbed my back and pushed my hair out of my eyes and said, “Get it all out, baby, all the crap you ate in the star room.”
Once it was out I felt better, and Jane handed me a special Japanese-green-tea-and-honey drink she always requests for my rider, and I took a swig to flush out the phlegm. Jane did my psych-up routine, where she’s like, You’re the most talented singer and dancer in the world, everyone loves you, but not as much as me because you’re my beautiful baby boy, and the page tapped her and I nodded and she kissed me on both cheeks and my lips, and I felt less nervous, and the house lights went down and the countdown timer on the big screen and on the small backstage monitor ticked down from one hundred to zero as the audience chanted “Jon-ny! Jon-ny! Jon-ny!” and the opening piano riff of “Guys vs. Girls” played and the crowd went crazy, and Jane patted me on the butt to send me through the talent passage and out onstage into the bright red smoke, and I could tell I was close to the Jonny Zone again. When I’m in there, I can do whatever I want and the crowd will follow me. But if you snap out of the Zone onstage, it’s scary. It’s like when you’re in an airplane or a car and you think, If the guy driving this wanted to, he could kill us all in a second.
Normally people say you should focus on one person in the crowd, but all that works for is small-scale performances. With arena shows, there are too many people, and if you think about focusing on one audience member, there’s a chance you’ll think about the entire audience watching you. The trick, I learned from the house guitarist on my first tour, is to focus on a vendor, since the vendors never care about you, they’re the only ones who don’t want anything from you, they just want something from the crowd, so in that way you’re on the same team, both moving product.
And once I sang, “Girls and guys, burgers and fries, all gets ruined with a coupla lies,” I forgot about the nervousness, it was just singing and dancing in the Zone. The crowd got even louder and the stage shook a little. It was probably ninety percent girls and their mothers and just ten percent their boyfriends. Jane wants a better balance, like seventy/thirty female/male, what Tyler has, for career longevity, but girls are way more loyal so it’s a good problem to have. I counted eight signs in the front rows that said something like JONNY, I WILL BE YOUR GIRL TODAY while I sang the first verse:
In junior high, we’re going at it
Boys throwing spitballs, pulling on twirls
Fussing and fighting, tearing apart
This is how it starts with guys versus girls
When I hit the first chorus, they all sang with me and did the backup singers’ echo
es on guys! and girls!:
Guys (GUYS!) versus girls (GIRLS!)
Why’s it gotta be that way?
Guys (GUYS!) versus girls (GIRLS!)
Will you be my girl today?
I was on the second verse, which is probably my favorite of the four verses, because of the lyrical repetition of broke and the way it goes from gal to boy to guys versus girls, singing
I once got my heart broke, broke so bad
By the kinda gal who wore diamonds and pearls
She said, See you later, said, Don’t you know, boy?
Everything in life is guys versus girls
when I did a trademark spin move and one of the backup dancers, Roberto, was off his mark by at least a foot, and I got distracted so it made me go off-rhythm and I launched the next verse a beat late. I sped up my tempo to catch up and stumbled over the words. It sounded sloppy. I did a half-spin later in the song and gave Roberto a scowl, but I don’t think he saw. It’s annoying when you’re pissed at someone and they don’t even know.
When I finished, it was one of the three designated spots for crowd banter. Jane had someone at the label write me up new banter interludes for each show so no one would put it on YouTube or whatever and catch me making the same jokes and riffs each time, but what they wrote was always so stupid, especially that day’s sheet I’d glanced at in the star/talent room, so I was allowed to improvise a little.
I shouted, “What up, L.A.! I love you!” and they all said that they loved me, and I turned down the volume and said, “You guys ready to . . . party?” They were like, “Yeah!” and I said, “You know what you need to do for a party to be polite,” and they said, “RSVP!” and I gave Ronnie the signal and he strummed the first G chord of “RSVP (To My Heart).”
I picked one girl in the front row to make eye contact with, about a year older than me, sort of pretty but the kind of round face where she might get chubby when she was older. At the edge of the stage, behind one of the security guys, I kneeled down and sang to her. Jane tells me to pick a girl older than me so it can never come off as creepy and it makes them want to still be my fan when they’re older so they have a shot with me. Everyone around the girl was trying to touch me and the security guys were probably thinking, Thanks a ton for making us tackle a bunch of rabid ten-year-old girls, it makes us look like child predators.
I waved for her to come onstage, so a security guy picked her up and put her next to me. She kept saying to herself, “OMG OMG OMG.” She was actually saying “OMG,” not “Oh, my God.” I circled around her as I sang, and half the time she wasn’t even looking at me but was checking out the crowd. So I took her hand and sang right up in her face, like, You’re gonna have to pay attention to me, and tears dribbled out of her eyes and down her cheeks in two curved lines.
It’s always weird when girls cry at shows. It’s not like it is when Jane cries, because you’re sad, or once in a while because you’re happy. It’s that they think they love me. But you can only love someone for real who loves you back. They’re in love with me. You can do that for someone who doesn’t even know your name.
At the end of the song I gave her a kiss on her cheek, and the tears dumped out faster and the crowd went wilder, and I covered the mike with my hand and whispered into her ear, “I love you, do you love me?” and she nodded and wiped away her tears and one of the roadies gave her a bouquet and walked her backstage. And the messed-up part is, when I said it, I believed it, too, even if she was only okay-looking since you don’t want to pick someone who makes the fat girls feel bad about themselves.
The rest of the show was what Nadine calls B-plus work, good enough to get by though not great, and we should never be satisfied with a B-plus, except I am with tutoring but not with music. My texture was muddier than I’d like, and my lungs didn’t have much behind them on “Breathtaking,” when I have to suck in my breath over and over after I sing the word breathtaking. Maybe being nervous about the heart-shaped swing affected me. Just a little stress can really hurt a singer. And Roberto made one other screwup by lifting his left leg when it should’ve been his right that I bet no one noticed but me. Probably no one noticed I was B-plus, either, because when a pro is below average, he’s still performing at a caliber no one in the crowd can come close to. Sometimes I think it’s not that I’m so talented, it’s that everyone else in the world is so untalented.
It was time for “U R Kewt” and the closing medley. The swing coasted down to the stage and I climbed in and a tech guy secured the latch. It hummed and lifted me up-up-up and flew over the audience as I sang. You’re already higher than the audience onstage, but the swing makes you feel like you’re above them and better than them, like you’re God watching over everyone from the sky with all the projected stars swirling around. The swing’s vibrations trick you into thinking you’ve had an accident in your pants, and the first few times at rehearsals I even checked my underwear after to make sure, but it’s safe, with metal bars all around you, and the only way I could fall out is if I climbed over the side and jumped out. When you make the mistake of looking straight down through the grate, though, you’re like, Whoa, now I really might have an accident in my pants. If I jumped, my fans would probably let themselves depart the realm by breaking my fall anyway.
For “Roses for Rosie” it lifted me straight up, and I tossed the rose petals down to them. They all scrambled to catch them like I was throwing money. It was sort of pathetic watching them do it, and I started throwing the petals super-hard, like I was trying to hit them, even though they just fluttered down. On the moon me and the petals would fall at the same speed because there’d be no air resistance, Nadine told me. I told her I’d jump out with them when I play the moon in the year 2060 on my oldies tour with Tyler Beats, if I don’t have early onset dementia yet.
At the song’s bridge, as I was a few words into the line that lifts the melody from “Amazing Grace”—“You called me the angel to your eyes, yet your heart was full of lies”—I heard a clanking sound from somewhere in the swing, and all of a sudden, whoosh, it dropped.
People say your life flashes before your eyes when you think you’re going to die, but that’s stupid, because you can’t think about your whole life in just a few seconds. So when the swing dropped, all I thought of was Walter jumping on the crowd, spreading his body out to provide buffer, like a soldier taking a bullet for his commander. He was backstage, so it wasn’t possible, but I bet he would’ve.
It didn’t matter, though, because after about five feet the swing stopped again like a car braking hard.
Once everyone in the arena figured out what had happened, they gasped like they were the ones singing “Breathtaking,” and half the band stopped playing, and my chest felt like it was thirty feet above me.
I could stop and ask to be let down. But I got my balance and said, “It’s all part of the show, folks,” which is what you say for any major technical malfunction, and continued singing and the band started up after me. The guy operating the swing did slowly move me down to the stage right away, though.
At the end I gave one of my “This was the best show ever!” lines, but with Roberto’s mistakes and no one being on point and the swing especially, it was one of my worst ever.
Backstage, Jane hugged me. “I’m going to sue someone,” she said. “So help me God, I’m going to sue the shit out of someone.”
She was stroking and kissing my head and squeezing me tight against her implants, which are kind of hard, so it hurt a little, and I also couldn’t breathe too good, so I said, “Jane, I’m fine, okay? I’m not hurt or anything.”
She let go and breathed out and crouched in front of me. “We’re not using that swing again. You hear me?”
“No, I went deaf from the swing, I can’t hear anything.”
“Stop messing around. Are you upset?”
“I’m more upset at Roberto.”
“Roberto?” She pushed some hair out of my eyes that had gotten sweaty and lost its s
tiffness from the gel. “Why?”
“He fucked up his moves twice. It distracted me.”
“Don’t curse, baby. Do you want me to fire him?”
He never even noticed when I gave him that scowl, and either didn’t think he’d done anything wrong or figured I didn’t catch him and he’d gotten away with it or that I just didn’t care much. I didn’t know which was worse.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fire him.”
She kissed my forehead and wiped the sweat away and said, “You do your encores and then play games in the star room. I’ll deal with all this and meet you there later.”
I did my encores with the instrumentalists, not the dancers. We always do two separate encores, with a minute in between each. When you come back the first time, the crowd gets so amped up, and it sounds like they can’t possibly get crazier, but you do it the second time and they’re even happier because they really thought you’d left. Jane and Rog say three encores would be too much, since they’d never believe you’re going away and it doesn’t mean as much when you come back.
