Millions for a Song

by André Vanasse

  Suddenly, silence. I don’t feel so hot. I’ve got stage fright. So do the others. You can feel it. You can see it.

  “No need to panic.”

  We’ve got to calm down. This is no time to throw ourselves headlong into a rehearsal and get all worked up about hitting—how could it be otherwise?—a few wrong notes.

  I’ve got a solution, “What do you guys say we go grab a pizza at Katarak Souvlaki? It’ll help us get back on track.” I’ve barely had time to throw the idea out there before everyone’s racing outside.

  What a gorgeous day! I love September, the most breathtaking month of the year. Warm and cool at one and the same time. Because we’re happy, because it’s so beautiful out and because we’re such great friends, all four of us link our arms together. We’re like the sun. Warm like the sun. Strong like the sun. The world at our feet.

  We walk in lockstep, overjoyed all of a sudden, certain that nothing can stop us now, that we’ve turned into a chariot of fire, orbiting the globe in one superb, radiant, dazzling sweep.

  People turn to watch as we go by. They smile. They’re happy for us. I can see they think we’re beautiful. We radiate energy. Shine light on everything in our path: the street, the houses, the passersby. We’re both light and life …

  Suddenly, everything slows to a standstill. I get the feeling we’ll only ever get one moment like this. A leaf tumbles in the breeze. It spins, crimson, jagged, drifting, then falls at our feet.

  I know that, whenever I think back to this incredible afternoon when the four of us strode side by side, I’ll always remember that leaf tumbling lightly through the air while we walked and dreamed about how different our entire lives would soon be.

  I’m a romantic, I know. What’s wrong with that? It’s moments like these that make me feel like crying tears of joy because we’re arm in arm and life is pulsing in our hands, in our hearts, and in our feet.

  We couldn’t feel better. We say nothing. We’re enveloped in love. We dream of our show a few weeks from now. We’re already up there, on stage, the amps blasting out our music, our lyrics ringing out in the hall crammed with teens like us rocking, clapping, eyes gleaming, smiles on their lips. They’re mesmerized, hearts swept along in our passion. We’ve made it ...

  You can only daydream for so long. By now, we’re at Katarak Souvlaki. Our favorite waitress Roma heads toward us with her usual friendly smile and suggests the souvlaki, her tone dripping with irony. She waits expectantly for our response, “Souvlaki, yuck, never! What we want is a good pizza!”

  A triumphant Roma cries out in a voice loud enough to bring down the walls, “Four pizzas, fully loaded!” knowing how furious the order will make her boss.

  Roma can’t stand Greek cuisine. She’d give anything to work in a fine Italian restaurant, but there aren’t many openings these days. So she grins and bears it.

  We’re hungry. To calm our nerves, we dig into the pizza with its floury crust, thick tomato sauce topping, and layer of stringy cheese.

  Mélanie interrupts the silence. “Hey! I don’t know about you guys, but the butterflies in my stomach are still fluttering despite all the pizza I’ve just thrown at them. I can’t stop thinking about the show. Alexandre, how will we hang in there for a whole hour? An hour’s a really long time, you know. You have no idea how freaked out I am right now.”

  I could put on a brave face, say it’s going to be easy, no different than singing in my basement, but I know the others won’t believe me. “Listen, Mélanie, our choices are pretty limited here. We’ve just got to dive into the adventure and come out the other side. I know we can do it. We’ve got to stick together and practise to perfection before we hit the stage. It’s the only way.”

  She stares at me. I can see dread and fear in her eyes. But there’s a gleam there, too, that lets me know Mélanie will blow us away beyond our wildest expectations.

  She smiles. “You’re right. We have no other choice. But we’ve got to be ready. I suggest we change our rehearsal schedule. We’ll have to ramp up the number of hours till we can sing and play in our sleep. The words and music have to be second nature to us ...”

  Our confidence starts to return. We map out a schedule on the paper tablecloth. We decide which songs to rehearse and when, week by week. The toughest ones first, the ones we’ve already mastered last.

  No sooner said than done. We’re back at the house where we throw ourselves into our program. Mélanie rips into her songs with such energy that I get goosebumps just listening to her. How can such a bit of a thing dredge up so much power?

  The sensuality oozing from both her and her voice bowls me over. If I’m not careful, I could fall for her again. Jean-François and Bruno, too, I’m sure. She owns us, bewitches us, electrifies us. We’re so enthralled with her performance that we, too, give our all. Our band has never been so united in our music. I was right; all we needed was a spark …

  We’ve been practising like mad for six weeks now. We’re ready. Our set is complete. We’re holding up our end of the bargain. All that’s left to do is to get up in front of our first audience.

  We even invited some kids over to listen to us in our basement rehearsal space. They were impressed. In their eyes, we’re a real band. Nexxtep has become the “it” band.

  To hear them talk, you’d think we were better than Dire Straits, The Police or U2. Better than Nickelback and The Box. Obviously, they’re exaggerating, but it does us good. At the very least, it proves we don’t suck. Their enthusiasm feeds our confidence. We feel ready to jump up on stage at Brébeuf.

  A good thing, too, since the show is only two weeks away (just the thought gives me shivers!). We plan to meet at my house, then head out together to Brébeuf for our one and only dress rehearsal before the show.

  We’ll have four hours to set everything up and iron out any kinks. Four hours with a real lighting guy before he heads out for an hour and a half to grab a bite to eat. Then finally, the big show! Time to get down and rock ...

  Have you ever stood on a stage? It’s a pretty awesome feeling. The dust and the heat from the reflectors, that unforgettable, dried-sweat stench born of the musicians’ nerves and feverishness ... animal, electric.

  We’re all here, plugging in cables, setting up amps. We asked the lighting guy to figure out a light show for us, but he refused. He says he’s not being paid enough to work that hard. As far as he’s concerned, the few hours we have him for are more than enough.

  Boy, does that make us mad! He could ruin everything, but there’s nothing the organizers can do. They don’t have the cash for anything more. “Come on, it’s a student show, organized by students, put on by students.” (That’s us!)

  They’ve got a point. Not to mention we wouldn’t have a clue how to use all those reflectors. As we set up our gear, the guy tracks our every move with a light.

  Actually, it’s Mélanie he follows with his thousand watts. Apparently, he’s taken quite a shine to her. He throws in some color—red, green, blue—as though he already knows what kind of rhythms to expect from our songs. He explains he’s just trying out a few things. We’re not his first band, he knows the genre ...

  He’s spot on. He’s right there with us. Almost from the minute we start rehearsing, he’s figured us out. He’s a genius! And here I thought he’d screw up. I’ve got to admit he’s a pro.

  It gets even better when we hear him make an offhand comment halfway through the rehearsal, “Nice job, guys.” (Mélanie’s obviously one of the guys!) “Great songs. You’ve got some real punch. I like it.”

  Coming from someone who clearly knows music, that’s a real compliment, one we gladly accept. We get a big boost of confidence from the way he makes us feel that, of all the bands to have played here, we’re one of the best. He didn’t say it in so many words, but that’s the conclusion we all jump to.

  One thing for sure, whether he
knows it or not—does he?—his comment gives us wings. All of a sudden, it all seems so easy. Now we own the stage that terrified us just moments ago.

  The only thing missing is an audience.

  This is it, we’re up on stage. Incredible ...

  A moment’s hesitation. The audience waits. So do we. We take stock. We’ve planned it all out. We’ll start out slow and steady, then crank it to the max. We follow our plan to the letter. Just enough of a beat to push them to the edge of their seats. Then we turn up the wattage. We take them by the hand and lead them right where we want them. Fan-tastic. By the end, the crowd’s bordering on delirious.

  I’m in an altered state. Electrified. Plugged into Mélanie, who’s totally possessed. She’s vibrating actually. A magnetic current zaps the crowd. Mélanie can feel it. At one point, she stops for a few seconds. She looks out at the audience, literally welded to her gaze. The silence is amazing. As though time just stopped. When Mélanie launches back into song, the place goes crazy. The room begins to vibrate as Mélanie goes wild. It’s like she’s left her body, left the stage behind. We all follow in her wake.

  She keeps us spellbound throughout the show, right up to the moment when, exhausted, she collapses. She crumples to the floor. No sign of movement. Jean-François, Bruno, and I are glued to the spot, incapable of anything. For an instant, we think she might be dead.

  Seconds later, her eyes open and she gets to her feet as though nothing had happened. She waves to the crowd, hears them roar to see her on her feet, hoping against hope, she’s okay, maybe she’ll keep singing. It seems unthinkable under the circumstances. Not to mention we’ve played every song in our set. We walk off the stage to the crowd’s chants of “Nex-xtep, Nex-xtep, Nex-xtep ...”

  We come back on stage to take a bow. Then Mélanie calls out for us to play the last song again, the one she collapsed to. Madness gets us all in its grip. As we play, I get the distinct feeling it’s only a matter of time before the fans rush the stage and attack us.

  Thankfully, Jean-François has the presence of mind to start walking offstage as we launch into the final notes of the song. We follow close behind, and the crowd surges forward.

  Frightened, we’re only too glad to follow the organizers’ advice and grab a cab. They promise Jean-François that his drums will be taken care of.

  Back home, it’s like the pressure releases. A huge ooph! of relief is soon followed by a crying jag from Mélanie. Hard to tell if her tears are ones of sorrow or joy. She’s come undone.

  She wails like a child as we try to console her. No luck. Her tears last for close to an hour, give or take a few lulls. Finally, an exhausted Mélanie falls fast asleep. She lies there like a sack emptied of all its contents. I’m sure we could scream blue murder, and she wouldn’t hear a thing. She’s comatose. I call her mom to tell her about the show and let her know that Mélanie’s going to crash at my place since I’ll never be able to wake her up.

  “You swear there’s nothing wrong with her?”

  “Not a thing. She’s not drunk or high, she’s just exhausted. She’s dead to the world. For the past half hour, we’ve been laughing like hyenas and she hasn’t so much as twitched an eyelid. I have a feeling she’ll be out cold till late tomorrow morning. At least until noon. You know how she is ...”

  “I’m leaving her in your hands, Alexandre. Promise to have her call me when she’s back among the living.”

  “I will, don’t worry.”

  We get the couch ready, then take off her shoes, loosen her belt so she’ll be more comfortable, remove her watch, bracelets, and necklace. She’s as limp as a rag doll. Finally, I grab a blanket and tuck her in. We decide to call it a day and meet back here tomorrow afternoon.

  I go to bed but can’t get to sleep. Too many images tumble through my brain. I keep seeing us and the crowd, too.

  I feel a sudden burst of pride. I still can’t believe we’re the heroes of the day. We won over the crowd like true stars. We put on a show that I’m sure will be talked about for a long time to come.

  And the way Mélanie fainted at just the right moment. I can’t help but wonder whether she did it on purpose. Why not? Mélanie’s capable of anything. One thing’s for sure: she knocked ’em dead. Especially her voice. As though in just one show she gained all the maturity she needed to truly stand out.

  I start daydreaming about managers knocking at our door. Record companies bending over backwards to woo us to their labels.

  Stardom! International fame. The kind that propels you from Los Angeles to Buenos Aires, from Amsterdam to Berlin. Makes you more famous than the President of the United States. Why not a Legion of Honor from the President of the French Republic or a knighting by Queen Elizabeth, then—not to be forgotten in the shuffle—a listing on the New York and Tokyo stock exchanges ...?

  Sleep comes late as I relive the evening, trying to burn it onto my memory forever. For the first time in my life, I’m happy to suffer from insomnia ...

  When I wake up, Mom tells me that Mélanie has already left, having turned down breakfast. “I want to run home, freshen up, and brush my teeth,” she said. “Then I’ll have a bite to eat.” In the same breath, she asked my mom to have me call her.

  I’m secretly glad to be home alone with my mom. She’s made a scrumptious brunch, just the way I like it: eggs, bacon, breakfast sausages, tomato slices, and hash brown patties—Swiss rösti—that can’t be beat.

  I devour it all. Then I tell her all about our night. She listens attentively but seems to feel I might be exaggerating just a bit. She must think it’s some teenage thing I’ll grow out of one day.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit exceptional for a first experience?” she says in a tone that makes me want to throttle her.

  “It’s the honest truth. Ask around and see for yourself. Then we’ll talk.”

  She doesn’t answer. But I know she only half-believes me anyway. As far as she’s concerned, there’s no way our band could have been such a hit at its very first show.

  If only she could have seen us! But I didn’t want her there. I was too afraid we’d crash and burn, and I’d have to put up with my parents’ pity. So I told them to stay away. Next time I won’t be so cautious. They’ll see then that Nexxtep has a lot more potential than they give us credit for.

  In Paradise with Tom?

  three

  It’s weird how, since the Brébeuf performance, my entire life has changed. People don’t look at me the same way. It borders on the embarrassing sometimes. Especially when someone starts pointing me out and whispering loud enough for me to hear, “Julie, Julie, see that guy over there? That’s Alexandre from Nexxtep.”

  I have to say that our performance made some real waves. All kids anywhere can talk about is our show. Mélanie’s collapse gave us some fantastic publicity! What a stroke of genius!

  I ask her about it. She says she felt light-headed and really did pass out. “I can’t say exactly what happened. It was like a combined rush of panic and peace. I was so hot I thought I’d explode. But I had to finish the song. It took a superhuman effort.” She stops talking as she relives the moment.

  “Then my legs got wobbly. It felt like the floor was sinking. I wasn’t scared. I was happy. Because I could hear them cheering. I told myself I had to stay conscious, but I couldn’t do it. It felt like I was full to bursting, but empty, too.”

  Mélanie keeps on talking as though in a dream. “I felt like I was a bubble floating through the air. I thought that, like a bubble, I’d have to burst eventually, but it didn’t matter. I was multicolored. A rainbow. A prism. Then I fell into nothingness. Into the void. I was weightless. I felt no fear.”

  Snapping out of her reverie, she continues, “When I came to, it took a few seconds to realize I was still onstage. Then I saw you guys. I figured that if you were all there, you were counting on me, I had to get up. Suddenl
y, I emerged from the tunnel. I came back to my senses. I was ready to jump back in, start all over. That’s why I had us play our favorite song again.”

  Everything she says makes sense. Sometimes, there are moments of inspiration that just happen. It was a stroke of genius on Mélanie’s part, even if it was unintentional. Had she wanted to fake a fainting spell, it couldn’t have been better planned.

  “You know what, Mélanie, let’s keep it to ourselves. The more mystery surrounding what happened, the more legendary it’ll be. If anyone asks, don’t answer. Agreed?”

  “I think you’re right. Let’s let people believe what they want. Some will say it was real, others that it was all part of the show. It doesn’t really matter which version they buy into, everyone will be talking about it.”

  “How about that? The older you get, the faster you catch on! It’s like you get smarter with age.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut. Since the beginning of our conversation, Mélanie has felt like she was listening to a lecture and she can’t contain her rage. My feeble stab at humor has lit the powder keg. She explodes. “You listen to me, Alexandre de Vertefeuille! What do you take me for—an idiot? You don't have to be a genius to get your publicity stunt. Your big ‘shut up and let them talk’ plan isn’t rocket science, you know. I may not be the next Albert Einstein or Marie Curie, but I can put two and two together. You’ve mistaken publicity for the theory of relativity. There are already two teachers in your family—don’t you think that’s enough?”

  Furious, she spits out, “Besides, there’s nothing you can teach me about music or anything else for that matter that I don’t already know. Want to hear what I think of you? You’re a pretentious jerk who thinks he’s the center of the universe. Worse yet, you’re a sorry excuse for a musician.”

  “Don’t get mad, babe. No need to get on your high horse. I was just kidding.”

  “Don’t you ‘babe’ me. Like I’m some airhead! How’d you like to be called a ‘tool’? You’d better beef up your vocabulary and fast, or I’ll do it for you!”