Running Game(140)
And the choruses of his songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together, complementing each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.
“You try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s all so clear when out of sight / But your darkness defines your light…”
The rest of my little group of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once in a while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…
But I knew it was always for me.
And I could feel my cold exterior melting away under the heat of that grin.
His cockiness translated well onstage. His effortless strutting and natural arrogance only fueled his performance, even when he opened up briefly to belt out a strikingly powerful lyric.
The entire set was over far too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others – somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark – but they blazed through the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.
Oddly, they didn’t perform their main single.
With a swift bow, the band descended backstage amid the constant screams of Encore! Encore! Encore!
The lights dimmed, and nobody returned.
Undaunted, the mob continued to chant…
Until they all returned, picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were going through the motions – there was no improvisation here.
But they also looked a little tired.
They really did want to stop for the night.
“Wow, these Alabama fuckers are plenty greedy, aren’t they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band. “What do you guys think? Think we should cut ‘em off here, or give ‘em what they want?”
What they want! The crowd bellowed. What they want! What they want!
“You don’t get a fucking vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. “But props to that organization, that shit happened fast! What, did you guys form a union while we were hydrating back there?”
The crowd continued to chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.
“I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza on…”
“They seem like a good bunch of folks…”
“I’m gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man…”
Trent finally turned back to the crowd.
“Alright! ONE more song! IF you’re good! That means, you take the goddamn song and you like it! Is that clear? We good?”
The crowd was ecstatic.
“Fantastic. Alright, you might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you fuckers have shit radio reception. Anyway, it’s a little piece we like to call Wicked Wilds…”
Predictably, the entire mob went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst themselves as they began to perform.
Their sheer stage performance – particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man – took a fantastic song and only made it better.
“My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…”
Trent continued along the refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists show off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs. Eventually, he jumped over to dreadlock guy to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying himself.
I couldn’t believe that someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the time of day – let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.
It filled my head with strange feelings.
Feelings I couldn’t ignore, let alone control.
After a major guitar solo, he finally took his place back in front of the microphone – and belted out the chorus that everyone had been waiting for.
“Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in / Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor…”
After another refrain, one clearly just for live shows, and another powerful iteration of the chorus, Trent stepped down and let his band have their moment to close out the set.
The electric guitar wailed.
The backup guitar sang.
The deep bass guitar droned.
The drums exploded.
And all the while, Trent simply stood there, hands on the microphone and head bowed, listening to the unrestrained power of his musicians.
That’s when it struck me.
I realized, in that blinding moment, that Trent Masters was more than just some arrogant, cocky asshole. Underneath all his pride and self-importance, under his swagger and his gesturing, there was a depth to him – a deep, dark depth visible even now.