Jenson
They’re expecting a comeback. What they don’t know is this will be my grand exit. Not from music forever, but from being the headliner, the face of endorsements, the poster on the walls of teenagers all over the country. I don’t need all that. I never did.
I need the music.
I live for the music.
And so, I’ll live for the music.
The experiences I’ve had are invaluable—the people I’ve met, the relationships I’ve formed with my band. Those are the things I’ll mourn when this is over. But what I don’t need is the adoration of millions. I can live without the empty satisfaction of record sales. I haven’t broken that news to the band yet, and they might be more pissed at me that I decided to wait until the show is over to tell them, but they’ll soon realize it will all be worth it.
They can have my songs, the glory. Hell, they can find a new frontman for their show. They don’t need a ghost, and that’s what I’ve become.
It’s time to kick this toxic relationship. Maybe I have Lindsey to thank for getting the ball rolling, but everything in life has led me to this moment. So I sip on soda, sans whiskey, and try to wrangle my thoughts toward my first love—music.
When we’re finally escorted to the stage, the guys are hyped. This is what they live for. Carter claps me on the back good-naturedly, but I know he senses my masked unease. I stride through the cargo cases and music equipment like I’m going into battle, and I guess in a way I am. This is my last stand. Nobody will know it until tomorrow, but for now the performance is significant to me in a different way than it is to them.
We use the dim floor lighting to find our places in the dark, just as we rehearsed. The director thought it would make more of an impact if we came into our first song with the lights off and none of our usual hurrah. Fine by me. I feel at home in the darkness, and the anticipation in the air is electric. The crowd knows what’s coming, and they punctuate the silence with whoops and wolf whistles.
The guitar tech hands over my Martin OMJM, and a curtain of calm comes over me when my fingers find the strings. People come and go, trends go in and out of style, but this guitar and I, our music, it’s been the only constant in my life. An anchor amid oceans. If I can focus on the music, I’ll make it through this night.
I take my place on the stool near the front of the stage, ignoring the lights from countless cellphones and camera flashes. I adjust my earpiece, swallow a gulp of doubt. When I finally strum out a few chords, the richness of the notes broadcasts through the speakers and a cheer rolls through the audience. Then I start with the opening verse of “Temptress.”
The lights eventually come up as the verse builds toward the chorus, but I keep my eyes more on my guitar, my band members, or the blackness of the far reaches of the amphitheater we’re playing. The hollers in response to a song the crowd has never heard before are enough to tell me they’re feeling our performance. We play one of our catchy older songs next, one guaranteed to get everyone on their feet and energized. Carter drums his heart out and Nick and Travis work the crowd, walking to the very edge of the stage to give high-fives and let some of the bolder members of the audience cop feels, before switching into something more nostalgic, slower.
When we reach “Hellion,” the second-to-last song on the setlist, I’m not surprised to see teary, glimmering eyes looking back at me from the people closest to us in the pit. I’m not surprised at the lump that arises in my throat and gives my voice that extra rasp, either. The audience loves it, and I keep it together. It’s all I can ask for.
As the lights go down and the masses call for an encore, I breathe out a long sigh of relief. It’s like I’ve been running my whole life and have finally found a place to rest. There won’t be any more encores. Not from this version of me, anyway.
Backstage, I accept the usual high-fives and back slaps, managing a smile. My band is happy, so it’s not too difficult, but most of me feels bad that I’m about to let them down. I remind myself we’ve had a good ride, and it’s for the best. Carter lingers longer than usual, his black brows furrowed, and I conclude he’s caught on. He’s cool enough not to say anything.
Travis opens a bottle of Fireball once we’re back in the green room, and the guys trade off taking shots straight from it. I pass on everything, and they’re all in too good of spirits to notice. There will be an after party, maybe an after-after party, but pounding beers and cherry-picking females from the crowd lost its allure the second I realized what I was trading in the process.
Just as I’m working up an excuse to leave, the green room door opens and a familiar face appears—Sal Reyes, a well-known videographer I’ve run into several times over the course of my career.
“Hell of an entrance, man,” he declares, pulling me in for a hug when I wave him over.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“Always so humble, this one,” he teases, greeting the rest of the guys. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has. Probably my fault, mostly.” We laugh, but we both know it’s not much of a joke.
“Hey, it’s life. But it’s good to see you back! Unfortunately, I’ll miss most of it.”
For a second I suspect he’s heard something. But that’s impossible, I haven’t told anyone my intentions of trading this career for something else. “Why do you say that?” I ask.
“I’m leaving the country, man. You know that band Dare and Fall?”
I nod. They’re an indie punk-rock band that gained most of their notoriety from social media and rose to fame, beating out several traditionally-signed acts for top spots on the charts.
“They’re kicking off their European tour after New Year’s. Got themselves into a mess last year with drugs and partying and stuff, so their team came up with this plan to document their days on tour, put all the footage straight on social media so it’s like their fans are with them every step of the way. Something to jumpstart their image by making them seem relatable. You know how that is,” he says, and I nod. I myself am a PR nightmare. I’m sure plenty of meetings were held discussing options not unlike that one to get me back on the high road.
“Seems like a hell of a job. Congratulations.” I shake his hand and gesture for James to bring over the whiskey. Sal takes a swig and offers it to me, and I set it aside.
“I’ve got my hands full. No rest for the wicked, right?”
“If anyone can make those punks look good, it’s you.”
“Maybe so, but I’m just one man.” He spreads his hands and chuckles, and my brain starts whirring.
“You don’t do anything with photography, do you?” I ask, rubbing a hand over my beard.
“Nah, man. I dabbled back when I started out, but videography is more my thing.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of contract you have with those guys, or if they’ve already considered and vetoed this idea, but I have a photographer in mind whose work kills. She could make those guys look like professionals. Or, hell, bunny rabbits, if you asked her to. She’s pretty green, so I’m sure she’d sign on more for the experience than the money. I can show you some of her stuff.”
Sal looks off, thinking, then he nods slowly. “Sure. I can’t promise anything, but having another perspective could be sick. She have a portfolio?”
“A website she probably hasn’t updated in a year, but fairly successful social media pages. Here, I’ll let you see for yourself.” I pull out my phone and start scrolling through it.
If Lindsey knew what I was doing, she’d probably never forgive me. She’s determined to blaze a trail on her own, and if a job came her way that she didn’t think she earned, I don’t doubt she’d pass it up on account of her pride. Even something this big. There’s no telling if this will go anywhere, but if it does, maybe my conversation with Sal can be kept under wraps long enough for her to get out of the country and kick some ass.
Long enough to catch her dream.