by Max Henry
“You know,” Em says, a little too rosy-cheeked already, “you could get a runner to shoot out to the sound guys and find out what it is.”
Damn man is a genius.
“There you go,” I tell Toby, arms wide. “Problem solved.”
He dashes out the door without a word, clearly off to torment or bribe some poor fucker on the road crew.
“Where are you going?” Em asks as I head for the door.
“The side of stage.” I thumb toward the stairs.
The sudden silence indicates Tabby has finished her first song.
“Oh.” Emery kicks back on the sofa, frowning at Kris who touches up the smudge under his eye. “I thought we weren’t bothering anymore now Toby’s off to sort it out.”
Truth. I have no reason to go hang out up there until we’re called to play, but I still want to. “It gets boring in here with you fuckers,” I quip, and then stride out the door before he can question me further.
I want to see her play. I want to know how she looks, what the audience do. I want to absorb and analyze it all.
I make my way up the stage stairs slowly, careful not to let my boots slam down on the wooden steps. Two of the crew straighten their backs as I pass where they sit on one of the road cases, watching Tabby play. They look sheepish as all fuck, being caught out chilling side of stage, but I couldn’t give a fuck what they do during sets as long as everything runs smoothly on stage when I’m there.
I edge out into the wings, careful not to step too far. Golden rule of theaters like this: if you can see the audience, they can see you.
Tabby settles into her second song, her hips slightly swaying as she pushes through the notes. She gives her performance an edge, kitted out in a fitted tee, a tutu-like skirt, and those boots with the notes on. The woman looks at ease, comfortable even, but I can fucking guarantee she’s anything but.
As it was, her hands shook too hard to get her practice song right when we first rocked up at the theater this afternoon. Her bow had screeched over the strings, those of us in the auditorium covering our ears as the microphone amplified the head-splitting tone.
I was convinced she’d bail right then and there, but the fiery little thing simply took a deep breath, muttered something to herself, and then puffed her chest out to try again.
The top seats are mesmerized. I inch further than I should so I can see her ticket holders up in the balcony. They sit motionless, eyes glued to her as she plays a more mainstream piece. The kind of classical I’d expect to hear in a car commercial or some shit.
My gaze drifts south. And just like that, I’m ready to choke a motherfucker. Some dickwad in the third row talks animatedly to his girlfriend, twisting to throw a comment or two at what must be his buddies in the row behind. Watch the performer, fuckhead. Why do I care? I can’t really say. Maybe it’s because I like Tabby—there, I said it. Or maybe it’s because as the guy who stands front and center in the stage, I know how much it fucking burns when people can’t give you some simple goddamn respect and watch the show.
Tabitha finishes her second song, seemingly oblivious to the asshole. I catch the runner Toby sent, skim back up the aisle to loop around backstage from the foyer. Tabby gets into her third song, and it’s only when she opens her eyes to move to the quicker tempo that she spots him—the asshole in third.
Her bow falters. She misses a note. At least, to my ears, it sounded like she missed one. The whole fucking scenario throws her right off before she manages to compose herself and carry on.
I should laugh. After all, the exact thing I wanted to happen just did.
But I don’t. Instead, I drill my fingertips into my thighs to save from marching into the auditorium myself. Where the fuck are those crew? I spin and wave my hand at the pair to get their attention. The shorter and stockier of the two approaches.
“Yeah, man?” He leans in close enough to whisper that I catch the stale smell of smoke on his breath.
Fuck yeah. A smoke right now would be epic.
“I need you to do me a favor.”
He nods.
I take the guy by the shoulders and position him where I was. “See that douche in the third row, talking to fuckin’ everyone around him?”
He nods again.
“Get his fucking ass out of this goddamn theater, and tell him if he so much as tries to reenter while this gig still plays, he gets blocked from our fan site.”
“Um, I’m not sure if I have autho—”
“This is my show.” I level with him, eye to eye. “I give you authority. Anybody questions it, they come see me.”
“Just him?” The guy frowns.
“Just him. Not his friends’ fault he’s a cunt.”
He scurries away, passing Toby on the stairs. My brother looks as though somebody just left him an ounce in the dressing room.
“You will never believe this.”
“What?” I position myself so I can witness this takedown when it happens.
I want to see the utter look of devastation on that asshole’s face when he’s dragged out.
“She wants me to play ‘Pull Me Under.’”
I stare at him as though he has two heads. “What the fuckity-fuck?”
“Right?” His gaze flicks over my shoulder.
I turn back in time to see the crew member hustle down the aisle. The jackass ignores him the first time my little buddy taps his shoulder, only turning on the second more forceful tap. I might not be able to hear the words exchanged, but the mime is funny enough. The guy refuses to leave.
My little gopher looks absolutely devastated.
“Be right back.”
I leave Toby side of stage and literally float over the floor as I run quiet as I can down the stairs, along the back hallway, and then up into the side alley. Yeah, there are a few curious looks thrown my way as I emerge around the front of the theater. The few people who hang out in the foyer buying snacks, or heading for the bathrooms, all appear stunned as I rip the auditorium door open.
Heads turn like a goddamn Mexican wave, the gossip train making its way down the aisle faster than I do. By the time I reach the asshole in Row C, Tabby has finished her third song, and I have the captive attention of everybody in a ten-seat radius.
“Excuse me.”
The girlfriend gasps as the guy twists to see who spoke. He turns so damn fucking white I expect him to pass out from the sudden blood loss. “Hey, Rey.”
“Get the fuck out of my show,” I hiss.
His brow pinches. “Look, man. I didn’t mean any disrespect. She’s boring as all fuckin’ hell.”
I reach over the guy sitting in the aisle seat, and take a fist hold of the cunt’s collar. “Move.”
Tabby’s chipper voice carries through the auditorium as she announces her special guest. Eyes on me, she welcomes Toby to the stage.
The lower seats roar with excitement.
It dawns on me that I still have this guy in a hold. One vicious stare, and he rises to his feet. The girlfriend starts to follow, yet I hold a hand out to stop her. “Sit.”
She blinks a couple of times, and then snaps out of her daze as Toby’s sticks hit skin.
Her ass hits the chair while I palm her boyfriend off to my gopher. “Make sure he doesn’t come back in.”
“Rey, man. I’m sorry,” the guy begs. “Let me stay, huh?”
“Out,” I whisper-yell, pointing to the foyer doors.
Toby taps his way through the song’s intro and then, the magic happens. Right where I usually take my first breath, Tabby lifts her bow to the strings. And just like that, my lyrics become her sonata.
I stand entranced, watching this stubborn little woman as she absolutely slays my song. The audience rock out as she makes those strings sing. A lone person brings their hands together, and before any of us can comprehend what the fuck happens, half the lower floor has their arms over their head as they clap out the beat.
I took the mickey out of her for the genre s
he’s chosen to play. I was damn certain she’d fail and make a fucking fool of herself.
But who’s the fool now?
“Rey,” my gopher whispers. “You’re needed backstage.”
I nod, absently pushing him aside as Tabby reaches the climax of the song. My lips move of their own accord, and I sing along under my breath as she replays my favorite lines on her violin.
Your whispers, like ice.
Your heart, like stone.
You pull me under, pull me under,
I’d rather die alone.
FOURTEEN
Tabitha
“Tomorrow” - Silverchair
Sitting on my damn hands won’t stop them shaking. Probably doesn’t help that my whole body vibrates with the rush I got when half the auditorium stood to give me… well, it wasn’t exactly an ovation.
A cheer? Yeah. That would describe the thunderous noise they made whooping and hollering better.
A flash of cherry red catches my eye, and I turn to see Kendall sneak up the stairs side of stage.
“Where the hell were you?’ I ask.
She points to the balcony. “I was making myself feel posh.” She giggles. “Sat in the fancy-schmancy section at the side.”
Crazy damn woman.
“How do you feel?” She sets her icy-cold hands on my arms and stoops to level our faces. “You killed it, babe.”
“Nervous.”
“Huh?” She cocks her head before gesturing for me to scoot over.
I jerk my chin toward where Dark Tide bang their way through one of their more radio-friendly tracks. She perches on the hard case beside me, her knees bent and legs tucked to the side to accommodate her tight miniskirt.
“I didn’t get a chance to gauge what they thought before they barreled on stage.”
“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes. “Who cares what they thought? You did your thing and the people loved it.” Kendall’s eyes go wide. “Shit. We didn’t bring any promo stuff. Flyers, cards… hell.”
My shoulders drop as I return to watching Rey own the stage. “I know. I realized that too.”
How damn stupid could I be? Or distracted. Selling yourself 101: Always have promo material on hand. All these people in here who watched me perform, who enjoyed what I did, and they have no way to stay connected.
Take two groups of people and give one the information all laid out nice and neat for them to follow, while you leave the other group to search out the same for themselves, and one guess which group would be more likely to follow through.
I’ve lost so many potential supporters by not staying on my game. When the hell will I get an opportunity like this again?
Easy: never.
“How are we all feeling?” Rey belts out once the song ends. “Still alive?” The audience roars, the unmistakable thunder of drumming feet taking over. “Still… sane?” They absolutely lose it as he drags out the tease.
Rey’s pick hits the strings and he leads the boys into the song they practiced yesterday—their next big hit, “Descent of My Mind.” The people go mad as he slides along the strings, leading into where Kris takes over.
“It’s insane how much they love them, huh?” Kendall hollers as she watches Toby thrash the living hell out of his drum set.
“Totally.”
I can see how addictive that thrill would be, how a person could come to live for the attention.
How it could make them lose their mind in the challenge to keep it.
I’ve slipped yet again, lying cradled on the floor,
Falling harder, deeper, faster than before.
I’ve gone too far, I’ve sunk too low,
Stay a while and catch the end of the show.
I rise to my feet as Rey begins to sing, pulled into the words I paid no mind to yesterday. At the sound check I was captivated by the music, my melodic mind dissecting how they’d put it all together, how you’d play such a song. Yet today I’m drawn into the lyrics.
I’m drawn into him.
Leave me on my own,
Yet don’t walk away.
His pain fills the words, brings the song to life. He digs deep as he delivers the lines, the heartache clear in the strain on his face.
Where do I turn?
Who do I believe?
When the demons in my mind,
Wear my heart on their sleeve?
The music builds to an epic crescendo as Rey continues to sing the verses, before Toby stills his cymbals. The song cuts abruptly short to let Emery build it back up again with his deep reverberating bass notes. Only this time neither Kris nor Rey join in with their guitars. Rather Toby adds a quiet edge with the drums as Rey whispers the final lines into the mic.
Love me, hold me,
Tell me you’re here to fix me.
Love me, hold me,
Tell me baby, please,
Tell me you can fucking save me.
The audience stays respectfully quiet as Emery strums the final note, waiting for a breath before they erupt into screams and cheers for more.
“You okay, babe?”
I look to my right to find Kendall beside me. She lifts a manicured hand and gently wipes the tear from my cheek with the side of her finger.
“He’s so hurt.”
She nods with a gentle smile. “Most moody artist types are.”
“It’s not right though.” I return my gaze to the stage.
Rey stands before Toby’s platform taking a sip of his water. His back is to the audience, his face hidden so they can’t see what I can.
A man who makes a career out of his cry for help.
FIFTEEN
Rey
“Jekyll and Hyde” – Five Finger Death Punch
Once, just for once, I’d love to finish a show and do nothing. No press ops, no backstage passes for the diehards, no rundown and recap of what and where we’re playing next.
Just pure, unadulterated nothing.
“Fucking awesome as always, guys.” Rick beams, yesterday’s hissy fit at the missed radio interview seemingly dead and buried. “We’ve got your ten backstage passes waiting in the second dressing room for you, but first I need you to do a five-minute interview with Rocking in Rollers.”
Fuck. “Why?” I snatch a bottle of water out of a roadie’s hand before the bastard has a chance to get the first sip.
He grumbles and walks away to presumably find another. Not my issue. Not as though the fucker just spent seventy minutes on stage sweating his fucking ring out.
“What do you mean why?” Rick asks.
“Come on, bro.” Toby nudges my arm with his elbow. “It’s five minutes.”
“Three hundred seconds,” I grumble as Rick shepherds us toward where he’s probably got the woman waiting.
Valerie “Vixen” Carrell is one hard-ass interviewer. She runs her music blog Rocking in Rollers, as a one-woman band, and considering the sheer volume of content she has on there, she must be one busy lady. Probably why she’s developed a ball-breaker of a personality to go with her signature image: bright green hair in rollers, and pinup makeup that makes her look as though she’s stepped out of a fifties print commercial.
“Five minutes,” Rick repeats under his breath as he funnels us into a curtained-off section backstage. “Just kill time with the usual bullshit.”
The usual, aka shit that doesn’t give away any major plans of ours or lock us into having to do something in the future.
Emery takes a seat on top of a crate, earning a smile from the straight-up woman as she fidgets with her question sheets. Toby leans his hip against the side of the same crate, Kris dragging over a road case to sit next to him. I eye the tablet she has set up on a stand to record our interview, and fight the urge to bail.
Fuck. Six days ago I was on a high. We played a sell-out show to a packed events center of four thousand loud, interactive fans. I had faith in our music, was completely in love with life and thankful for where I am.
But then shit started to
fall apart. We got stuck at our last stopover when we were supposed to be five hundred miles away, here; then the radio interview debacle made me feel like a right sack of shit; and then watching Tabby play the hell out of our track…. I’m a right cunt, really.
I set her up with the initial hope she’d fail, and she proved me wrong.
She proved what a coldhearted asshole I am. I mean, who the fuck hopes somebody will humiliate themselves like that? What the fuck was I going to gain out of it, other than rubbing my own ego by stomping on hers?
How fucking low do I have to be to make myself feel better by ruining others?
“Rey, man.” Emery clicks his fingers at me, one eyebrow raised.
I cut my gaze to Valerie and find her watching me with a frown. Fuck. I can see it now: “Rey from Dark Tide affected by his demons during our interview”….
“We getting this shit done, or what?” I bounce across and shunt Emery to the side as I take a seat beside him.
Valerie smiles, reaching for her tablet. And just like that, my bullshit sells. “Ready, boys?”
We all nod like the good little puppies we are.
Her manicured finger taps the screen, and then we’re straight into it. “I’m here tonight with the dashing boys from Dark Tide, straight off the back of their impromptu show here in the Regent Theater. Hi, guys.”
We all echo our greeting, Emery’s smile wide, despite the fact he hasn’t had more than the half liter of bourbon he hid in the wings.
“First up—what an opener!” She gives us a “what the fuck” look before continuing. “Whose idea was it to have a classically trained violinist be your support act?”
Three thumbs all get hitched toward me. Thanks for nothing.
“Tell me about it, Rey,” Valerie coos in her sultry voice. “What sparked that idea?”
I shrug. “We met Tabitha by chance, and I thought why the fuck not? It’s different, right?”
“Amazing,” she praises. “She really nailed her cover of ‘Pull Me Under.’ Toby, you were on stage with her for the song. Were you in on this?”
