by Ashley Grace
The Belletrists were about to play.
Chapter 12
Trace
Depending on the venue's lighting, when you first get on stage it can seem like you're looking out into an empty void. The bright lights are in your eyes, blinding you, and since the crowd is pitch black, you can't see them at all. It's almost like looking into a starless, moonless night sky, but without the comfort of distance between you and that black absence—this nothingness is right there in your face, like a wall you can't see, can't sense, can't even reach out to touch.
To tell the truth, it can be a pretty unsettling sensation.
Fortunately, this is less of an issue when you're playing a small club, with a crowd right there in front of the stage, close enough to catch some of the reflected light. You still might not be able to see things very clearly, especially in the moments following a look back at the rest of the band on stage with you—blazing bright under the stage lights. But if you focus on looking out into the crowd for long enough, you can make out the faces of the people in the first few rows, at least. And for me, that's crucial.
Most of our early hits were written ten years ago, when I was still a teenager, and some of them even farther back than that. We've played those songs thousands of times since then, and every one of us in the band has grown and changed during that time. It can be a real challenge to tap into the right emotional tone, to channel the feelings that inspired them to begin with. And, of course, it's even harder when you're on mood-stabilizers.
The way I've learned to deal with it—the way that I try to conjure up the passion I used to feel—is by picking a girl in the crowd. And it can’t just be any girl, either. She’s got to be special. She’s got to have that open-eyed, yearning quality that reminds of how I felt when I wrote the stuff I wrote. And then, once I’ve found that girl, I pretend I'm in love with her.
But as we took the stage that night, and I lifted my guitar strap over my head, things weren't looking good.
The faces in the front few rows looked like sorority girls grown up—blonde hair and surgically-straightened noses and so much makeup they looked like mannequins. It always struck me as cruel irony that the types of girls that mocked me in high school were now the types of women who came to our shows. And it had been that way ever since our first chart-topping appearance on the Billboard Hot 100.
I looked down at the pedal board between my feet, watching the tuner light glow green as I plucked each string. I had the set list duct-taped down beside it—printed out that day in bold 30-point font by Bernstein.
Behind me, I heard Joey going through his drum set, striking each head to check the pitch and the feel. Sergio's bass blurted a quick four-note line, the sound solid and warm even through the club's beat-up monitor speakers. Micah strummed a few minor chords, testing his levels, and Sara dropped a two-handed chord of her own on top of it, the resulting sound seeming dense and oppressive.
The first song on the list was "A Heart's-Blood Oath." I looked up at the crowd, a sinking feeling in my stomach, and then glanced back at Joey. He gave me a big two-thumbs-up, his toothy grin glowing in the dim blue light. And then he clicked his sticks four times, setting the pace, and Sergio and Sara came in, laying down the foundation of the song. The crowd responded immediately, raising their voices together in a single, wordless roar. They quieted just a moment later, when Micah's lead part began—eerie arpeggio notes that made me think of a spider walking a frozen web.
I closed my eyes, feeling the music flowing into me, the melody nearly as familiar as my own pulse. This was our first major hit, a song I'd written when I was nineteen years old and so brimming-full with dark passion that I sometimes felt I was drowning in it, and music was my only way to breathe.
I could almost feel it now. Almost. The feeling was there, just beyond my reach—a withered nerve buried beneath scar tissue that had grown leather-thick.
With my eyes still closed, I could tell the lights were shifting, growing warmer and brighter, unveiling the stage. The crowd cried out again as their view of us cleared. I heard women's voices, calling out my name. But I didn't open my eyes, not yet.
I brought my left hand to the guitar's neck, squeezing it, feeling the metal strings cutting into my fingertips. I raised my right hand, clashing the pick over the strings, falling into the rhythm, letting it carry me along.
One bar left before the vocals started. I opened my eyes, suddenly desperate to find her, to find the girl that could bring me the rest of the way into the song. The girl who could make the words feel real again.
My eyes searched the crowd. A tall blonde with pearl earrings—pearl earrings at a Belletrists show?—winked at me and licked her lips. Another blonde threw both her arms in the air, whipping her head around, putting on a show of her own. A dark-haired woman with a Betty Page cut cupped her hands around her red-glossed lips, screaming my name so loud I could hear it over the music.
I was starting to feel a subtle prickling in my chest, something like panic. None of these girls were the right one, and there were only a few beats left in the measure. I'd have to start singing soon, but without the right frame of mind, the words would be a lie.
And then an abrupt motion off to the left caught my attention. A familiar-looking girl in the front had a pair of panties in her hand, and she was waving them in the air like they were on fire and she wanted to put them out. A group of taller women stood around her, arms crossed over their chests, their faces twisted into looks of utter scorn and contempt.
And there, amongst that crowd of hard-faced harpies—practically hidden in their shadow—was the brown-eyed girl I'd seen coming out of the green room. Her bracing eyes were closed now, her hands clasped in front of her chin as if she were praying, her elbows leaning on the barrier in front of her. She was listening intently, focusing all of her mind on it.
And then and there—as the measure ended and the song shifted around me and I leaned my mouth in toward the microphone—I was singing to her.
No matter the state of my life
I'll love you
No matter the joy or the strife
I'll love you
No matter if sick or if hale
I'll love you
No matter the cost of the sale
I'll love you…
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
As the chorus shifted to the first verse, and I filled my lungs to sing it, the girl opened her eyes. Her gaze met mine, those dark irises shining like they had diamonds in them. For a moment my heart seemed to swell in my chest again, pregnant with longing, the feeling choking me.
I missed the cue to start the verse, my hands fumbling on the strings, the pick slipping out of my fingers. The band kept rolling on without me—we'd been playing together for a long time, and I knew they'd just double the first two bars and wait for me to come in the next time around. But while they rolled forward, I saw the girl's lips—beautiful, tea-rose pink—began to move. She was speaking the lyrics herself. She was singing them to me.
The second measure neared its end. I snatched another pick off the holder on the mike stand, nodding to Sergio and Joey to let them know I was ready. And then I turned back to the girl, her lips still moving with the words, and we sang the song to each other, her voice quiet and unheard, mine amplified to fill the ears of every person packed into that tiny club.
That song was nearly twelve years old, worn dull by a thousand performances. And never, not once, did I sing the song like I did that night. Never did I feel the truth of the words more clearly.
The girl had done that for me. She'd touched me like a muse.
Chapter 13
Anne
It started with the drummer, Joey Jones, hitting his sticks together to count off the first song, the sound high and crisp clear. And then he and the bassist and the keyboardist all launched in at once, the sound so sudden and enveloping it took my breath away. A split-second later I
recognized the song—"A Heart's-Blood Oath"—and goose bumps broke out all across my body. As the crowd caught on they opened their mouths and cried out with excitement, and in just a few seconds the entire club was filled with the voices of hundreds of people yelling. It was a sea of noise all around me, almost too intense—the roaring crowd and my own emotions and the alcohol from the too-strong drink all making my head swim and my blood rush. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the barricade in front of me, and I held on like I was riding a roller coaster.
Joey Jones stomped the kick pedal and teased a sizzle and crash out of the high hat, and then Micah Green came in with his guitar lead, the sound eerie and atmospheric. The crowd went quiet, hypnotized by the music, swaying and moving like they were in a trance. Even the high-heeled Amazon bitch paused in her passive-aggressive attack.
"A Heart's-Blood Oath." I felt another swelling of emotions in my chest. This had been the song that first made me interested in Trace LeBeau and the Belletrists, in music in general. More than that, this had been the song that made me interested in poetry, in writing, in literature. The song's lyrics, the depth of feeling those words provoked in me even when I was a little girl, completely changed my life. I was ten years old when I first heard this song—more than eight years ago—and it was still my favorite song, ever.
I heard Trace's guitar clanging, foretelling the start of the vocals, and I pulled in a breath and held it.
And then he was singing, his voice rich and earnest in my ears, filling the dark space behind my closed eyelids. He sang the chorus, declaring his love, making his oath. I moved my lips in time, making my own declaration, pretending it was just him and me in that club. Pretending he was singing to me.
With every promise, with every "I'll love you," I felt the desire, the yearning, growing inside of me. My heart felt swollen and full in my chest, my blood running hot in my veins. It's kind of embarrassing to admit it, but I even felt it low down in my belly, and tingling between my legs. That's how much of an effect the song had on me.
The first chorus ended and Sara Sounding played a brief chord-progression on the keyboard, paving the way for the song's transition to the verse. I opened my eyes, looking up at the stage, wanting to see the gorgeous man who'd written this haunting song, wanting to seem him sing it.
My lips were already moving to the words of the first verse. My eyes were all blurry and stinging, as if I were about to cry. It wasn't that I felt sad, it was just that I felt so much that my eyes were overflowing with it.
But Trace wasn't singing the verse.
I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to clear them. My vision shifted back into focus. And then my heart almost stopped.
It looked like Trace LeBeau was looking at me. Of all the people packed into that crowd, of all the statuesque Amazons all around me, it looked like Trace LeBeau's eyes were focused on mine.
I saw something fall from his fingers, flashing out of sight. I saw his left hand gripping the guitar's neck, his fingers slipping on the strings. My lips kept moving, mouthing the words, willing for him to sing them. A feeling like panic sparked in my chest.
The band kept going, playing the verse even without Trace singing it. And then Trace took a deep breath—his eyes still turned in my direction, but they couldn't be on me, could they?—and grabbed a pick off the mike stand. He turned toward the drummer and the bassist, nodding his head, and then back to the microphone. He pulled in another breath, leaning in, his dark hair falling over one of his eyes. And then he started singing, his throat stretched long, his hand hammering down on the guitar, passionate and powerful.
They say this life is full of pain
They say the cost outweighs the gain
They say the world is made from sin
They say that hope is at an end
But I say hope still knows this place
I feel it when I see your face
I sense it when our bodies touch
'Cause only love can hurt this much
Every word seemed real, every line felt like an undeniable truth. Trace's right hand hammered down on the strings, driving that truth home. There was no room for doubt. There was no chance for despair. This was a man who'd known suffering, who'd struggled with darkness and sorrow, and when he stood on the stage and shouted that there was hope, you believed him. Everyone in that overcrowded club believed him.
The song went back into the chorus, and then we were all singing it. The women around me were swaying and moving, throwing their hands up in the air. The band up on the stage was locked in together—so tight, so solid, that it almost seemed to force your heart to beat in time with their playing. And Trace owned the stage, throwing his whole body into the music, the corded muscles in his neck and forearms standing out, the sweat beginning to shine across his skin, making his hair cling to his forehead.
They came to the end of "A Heart's-Blood Oath," all the music dropping away. Trace stepped away from the mike, stepped right up to the front of the stage—one foot planted on a speaker, one arm held out, pointing at the crowd. All of us sang the chorus through with him, our voices so loud it seemed to make the walls shake.
But when he got to the end of the chorus, I swear that he turned back toward me, found me in the crowd. I swear he aimed that pointing finger at me, and looked into my eyes, and sang those last two lines to me.
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
From there it just got even better. They went from that first song to "Heaven Can Wait," and before we'd caught our breath they'd launched into "The Processional Cult," moving from hit to hit like it was some sort of marathon race. Trace was streaming with sweat by the fourth song, his shirt stuck against his lanky, muscular frame, his hair so wet that it flashed spray in the lights when he whipped his head. A crazed fan rushed him after "XOXO No Regrets," clawing at his shirt until the collar ripped and security pulled her away. He just stripped the shirt off—the red tracks from her fingernails disappearing into his tattoos—and started the next song.
They ripped through a ton of their hits, and the songs sounded better than I could believe. The emotions were even more intense, the energy more raw and immediate, than what came through on the albums I'd cherished and listened to again and again and again, for years. And I wasn't the only one who felt that way. All around me the Amazon clique looked like they were losing it, their hair all messy, their skin flushed and damp with sweat. The bitch who'd tried to stomp my toes was actually sobbing, tears streaming down from both of her eyes. Even Becca looked transformed, her face flushed and her eyes shining like a little kid on Christmas morning. At one point I tore my eyes away from the stage to look back at the crowd behind me, and I saw a topless woman on someone's shoulders, clutching at herself like she was having an epic orgasm. Above the heads of the crowd a thick steam floated like spirit vapor.
Finally, after what must have been ten or twelve songs, the band paused. Micah Green turned to the side, tuning his guitar. Joey Jones grabbed a bottle of water and gulped it dry, then grabbed another and poured it all over himself, shaking his hair like a dog, his expression exultant.
And Trace put his guitar down, took the mike off the stand, and stepped forward to address the crowd.
"Thank you guys so much," he said, sounding a little breathless. "You guys are an awesome crowd. San Francisco always treats us well."
The crowd responded, people cheering and yelling. A girl farther back screamed "I love you, Trace!"
He held a hand up, waiting for the crowd to quiet again. A hush fell over us.
"Thanks, guys. Thanks. You might have heard that we're working on some new material, that we're thinking of releasing a new album. We'd like to play a few of those songs for you now, if that's all right."
The crowd roared again, fresh excitement in their voices.
"Okay," Trace said. "This first one's called 'Possible Commital'."
Behind him, Sergio Rodriguez played a qu
ick flurry on the bass, and then dropped into a repeating two-note pulse that sounded eerily like a heartbeat. Joey Jones came in a few measures later, the beat sparse and ominous, the high hat ticking like a clock, sporadic rimshots cracking here and there like gunfire. Micah Green and Sara Sounding began to trade a pensive, dirge-like melody back and forth, each repetition working it farther under my skin, until a chill went down my spine and I shivered.
Trace began to stalk back and forth, head down and shoulders hunched, prowling the stage like a panther. Suddenly he went stock still, his eyes closed, his mouth pulled into a slight grimace. He brought the mike to his lips, and cried out a single word, stretching it long and ragged:
Alone!
The song kept going, the firecracker snare getting sharper and sharper until it nearly made me flinch with each strike, the keyboard and guitar growing thicker and darker and more pensive, like a sky clouding over with thunder heads. And Trace gripped the mike with both hands, his whole body gathering around it, screaming into it:
Alone!
The song kept going, growing more and more tortured, more and more agonizing. The shivers were running up and down my body now, like squalls across the bay during a storm, and my chest felt so tight I could hardly breath. Trace screamed that same word again, emptying his lungs into it, the sound overloading the amplifier until his voice crackled with distortion.
ALONE!
He fell onto his side on the stage, writhing like he was on fire. The rest of the band kept playing, locked into the song as if they were possessed. It wasn't just the toe-stomping Amazon crying now; people all around me had broken down in tears. I felt my own eyes burning, and yet the horror I felt kept the tears at bay.
