Manaconda(18)

I nodded to Wyatt. His kick drum was the heartbeat to get the crowd riled up. Owen’s bass was the hum that slid out into the crowd like greedy fingers looking for capitulation.

No matter how much we bitched at each other, the stage transformed us into one unit. Owen and Wyatt were my lifeline, Keys was the heart, Zach and Bats were the magic. It’s how it always was. The one constant in my life was my band.

Bats leaned against my shoulder, his Gibson hanging just shy of his knees. “Nice of you to join us.”

I grabbed my microphone, then hooked my arm around his neck. With just one look, he knew that I was changing up the standard set list. His dark eyes flashed the devil as his fingers climbed up the fret board.

He knew me.

Knew what a crowd needed.

Tonight wasn’t for the tried and true. Tonight was to show our fans what we’d been brewing for the last five months. We’d teased them with snippets of songs via Instagram’s fifteen-second rule. Our album had been released in puzzle pieces to create buzz. Everything had come down to this. The album was a taste, but live was where we shined. “Cathedrals” was our first single.

Dex hadn’t agreed with our decision. He wanted us to go with one of our more commercial songs, but Donovan Lewis had backed us up. He was the only reason I’d pushed for a move of record company.

We’d been ready to go indie with all the restrictions we’d found in the business lately. The only real reason we’d wavered about going indie had been the distribution angle, but that wasn’t really a factor anymore. Everyone found their music online these days. What mattered was marketing and shows.

Ripper Records let us shine. I was determined to show Donovan that his belief in an album that might be too risky in the current climate was worth the effort. That we were worth the effort.

That all the months of work weren’t going to be derailed because of the outline of my cock on the front of a goddamn magazine.

Keys repeated the same notes again and again as Zach and his Gibson blended seamlessly with Bats until a hush fell over the crowd. The intro had been practiced until fingers were numb and bleeding. We’d rented out a warehouse to play and play until everything was smooth. Perfect. Lined up and as natural as breathing. Wyatt’s drums went from a heartbeat to a slow build.

I slipped away from Bats and prowled the stage with my eyes on my feet. Scarred shitkickers with frayed laces, faded wood slats that had seen a million shows, markers for cords and foot pedals blurred in my periphery.

I followed the track of the song as the guitars soared and I finally landed in the center of the stage. I looked out and curled my fingers tighter around the mic. My voice was strong and the words were true, their meaning echoed in the faces of the fans.

Not just at a show.

Not texting and talking amongst themselves because the song was new. They were the deathblows that every musician had to fight against. No, they were with me—with us.

As Bats ripped over his strings and Zach layered in more grit and passion, my vocals roughened with the sweet bliss of a remembered moment in time. I growled out the lyrics I’d labored over for months.

Loss of faith. Hate. Love denied.

The shadows and decay of emotions that had been hidden under the guise of glamour and fame. I’d allowed myself to tap into all of them for “Cathedrals”. The underbelly of loneliness under the smiles.

I arched back as Wyatt’s drums provided a jackhammer beat to the slashing chords, and I screamed out my need for something more. I landed on my knees as the song spiraled back down to soft chords and the faint keystrokes of the piano.

When I opened my eyes, she was there.

She was off to the side with her arms banded over her iPad, her eyes as wide and as wild as the adrenaline racing through my veins. My band knew they were in the zone. They ripped into the next song and I chased the heat.

This song was just as powerful, though far lighter. Even with the loss-laced lyrics, the guitars and piano crashed out a soaring blend of hope under the heartbreak. I’d co-written half the album with Keys and Zach. Disillusionment had been my best friend for the last year.

I’d needed Keys to keep me from writing the next Bukowski book of poetry. She added hope to my darker lyrics. Zach was a wordsmith with chords where I belabored lyrics alone before ever adding music to a song. Between the three of us, we wrote the bones of the album and then the band took over as a whole.

And now it was finally going out to the masses. We peppered in older hits, new songs, and a cover song to make the crowd lose their collective shit. By the time we hit the ninety-minute mark I was covered in sweat, Wyatt had lost his shirt, and Owen had raced up and down the aisle three times.