Access Unlimited by Alice Severin

Author:Alice Severin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Own Room Publishing
Published: 2014-03-28T16:00:00+00:00

chapter eighteen

Dallas

The concert was going pretty well, all things considered. With everyone suffering from some kind of ailment—colds, stomach problems made worse through no sleep and drink, to a sprained ankle the drummer had gotten when his foot caught on the steps leading down from the stage, and that was now taped up, the professionalism was really starting to kick in. They sounded tight. Problems in the songs were getting worked out. Timings were even more exact. The bassist, to his credit, was playing really well tonight, and even attempted some onstage interaction, walking around to each member, during a small bass line prominent in one of the middle eight sections. He stopped at Tristan and AC. AC had been standing slightly behind Tristan, almost looking over his shoulder at him. The bass player inclined his head slightly, and AC shrugged, and then smiled, playing a little flurry of notes to compliment the bass line. Tristan just stood there, legs apart, the microphone swallowed up like a toy in his hand. They stood there, facing each other, for a moment. I doubt anyone noticed. Then Tristan raised his arm for the beat to begin the chorus, and he gave a brief nod to the bassist, before starting on the lyric. It was as close to an apology as anyone was going to get.

Tristan stayed there for a moment, both hands clutching the microphone, the dark head bent over, hair covering his face, the veins sticking out in his neck with the effort, the passion he was putting into the lyric, before he came forward, leaning into the crowd, the shrieks increasing in volume every time he moved closer to a new group. It was stupid, it was cliché, it was predictable—and it worked. The same way a kiss works, even though you know what’s going to happen. The same way coffee wakes you up in the morning, even though you’ve had it before. The same with any ritual. The structure is always the same. The passion behind it creates the power. The emotions on the faces in the crowd, their energy as they pushed forward, trying to get closer to their hero, their imaginary lover, their idol, their secret dream, were enough to keep the spark going. That’s what made every night different. Everyone in the audience, everyone in the band, all came in with their issues, their fears, their hopes—and the outcome of the mix could never be predicted. I watched Tristan hold his hand out to people in the front row. Everyone who could was reaching for him, stretching out their arms like a lifeline, hoping for a touch that they would never forget, a bit of magic that might even change their lives. There was no way anyone could say that real live performance wasn’t important. The kind where musicians played, and worked for it, and sweated it out. For the people watching, it was a moment that defined who they were.

Tristan was now leaning back against AC.

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