Twenty
TWENTY
NERVES AKIMBO
Standing side stage in a packed amphitheater right before I’m about to go on is an entirely new sensation. And that sensation is unmitigated fear. Kind of like the moment right before the roller coaster sails over that first giant hill except my harness isn’t buckled and I just ate four chili dogs.
I will not survive this show.
Thinking about it in the abstract I was all yeah, cool, I can totally get on stage in front of thousands of people and sing and play guitar on an arena tour. Easy. Now? My nerves have nerves that are shaking with nerves.
The show is sold out all the way to the very back of the lawn. It’s minutes to show time, the sun is setting, people are finding their seats or spreading out their blankets. A decent portion of the seats are still empty, waiting for late-comers, but it’s still more people than I’ve ever performed in front of total. A lot more.
Miguel’s next to me, bouncing on the balls of his feet and swinging his arms wide. His solid black bass is slung over his back and he’s dressed in all black. Mateo’s leaning on a low concrete wall that separates a section of seats from the backstage area, tapping his drumsticks on his denim-clad thighs .
“Where’s Kick?” I ask Miguel.
“He’ll be here.”
“We go in less than five minutes.”
Miguel cracks the knuckles on both his hands. “He’s getting ready. He’ll be here.”
What is there to get ready, an extra swipe of a hand through his hair? I spent a dedicated amount of time on my own hair, curling it into cascading waves and pulling the sides up into two braids that meet in the back. I’m wearing what I have now deemed my lucky plum lipstick, eyelashes and heavy black eyeliner, and the outfit Cass picked out for my first performance—black Doc Martens, a super-mini black dress covered in tiny white polka dots with a tight bodice and a twirly skirt and my cropped black leather jacket. It’s too hot to be in a jacket but it’s essential to complete the look. And it’s only twenty minutes, right? I can do anything for twenty minutes.
Unless I pass out the second the spotlight hits me.
I trace my hand over the picture of my father taped to the back of my guitar, hoping having him with me, even just in a photo, will calm my rolling waves of doubt. I keep worrying I don’t deserve to be here, that my real identity will be found out, that maybe Kick is better than me and should have been the winner, that I’ll freeze on stage and ruin everything.
Nic hustles over, eyeballing the rows filling up with people.
“Full house tonight. Did you two work out a set?”
I lie and say yes right as Kick jogs up. He’s white as a ghost and his face covered in a thin layer of sweat.
“Where’ve you been?” I say, low enough that Nic won’t hear me.
Kick shakes his head too fast, lips sealed shut. He looks petrified. His breaths are pumping in and out in a hurried rhythm, like his lungs are trying to escape.
“Can’t wait for ‘Don’t You Want Me,’” Nic says. “Chemistry on that song is off the charts. Hope the rest of your set is just as good. ”
He hurries into the darkness behind the stage and I look up at Kick. He is definitely on the verge of losing it. Specifically, the mountain of pasta he ate for dinner.
“You look like you’re about to be sick.”
“Too late,” he mumbles, running a nervous hand over his stomach. He raises his other hand up to the collar of his shirt, to his clavicle tattoo, and rubs it back and forth with his thumb.
“Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer me, just sways slightly. “What is going on with you?”
His eyes are watering. “I can’t do this. I’m not this guy. I’m not the one who…this isn’t. Me. I can’t be. This.”
I’m now less concerned about my own nerves and entirely freaked out that Kick’s going to pass out before we even make it onto the stage. I grab both of his arms and turn him to face me.
“Kick, listen to me. You’re a badass rockstar. When you get in front of that mic, you’re totally electric. You’re mesmerizing. It honestly makes me sick how good you are.”
“Don’t say sick.”
I squeeze his arms. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time. Just…keep your eyes on me. Forget about the crowd and focus on me. Okay? It’s just you and me.”
His cheeks puff out like he’s going to puke directly on me, but he nods, his eyes wide. “You and me.”
Deacon and Don Sparrow stroll up with easy smiles and casual confidence. They’ve done this a million times, maybe more. I doubt either of their dinners are threatening retreat.
“Cheddar says the fans can’t wait to see you two play,” Don says. “I know I’m personally excited to see what you’re going to do.”
“Us too,” I say, too loud, all false bravado. My hands are trembling so much I have to smash them together to keep them from flying right off my arms.
“Just have fun, okay?” Deacon slaps Kick on the back and Kick swallows thickly. “The audience can sense when you’re not in sync. Don’t worry about how you’re playing, just let the music move through you and stay in tune with each other and you’ll kill it.”
Helpful. Would have been a lot more helpful seven hours ago.
“Besides,” he adds, waving to a group of twenty-something girls sitting right up front who all eagerly wave back, “looks like we’ve got a beautiful crowd tonight.”
The arena lights go down. The cheers quickly swing from applause to an ear-splitting wall of sound when Deacon and Don jog up the stage stairs and the spotlight hits them. My heart jumps into my throat. I grab Kick’s hand and squeeze.
This is it.
“Hello all you beautiful people!” Deacon waits for the applause to die down. “It’s great to be in Indianapolis for the very first night of our Grand Total Tour!” Incredibly, the crowd gets even louder. Deacon waves his hands, motioning for quiet. “To celebrate, we’ve got a very special treat for you tonight. We decided to do something a little fun for this tour and let you, the fans, vote on who we brought out with us. We loved the idea of giving a young up-and-coming artist from Nashville a chance on the big stage.” He throws his arms out. “And tonight’s stage is pretty big isn’t it?”
While he’s talking, Kick and I and Miguel and Mateo get into position behind him and Don. The lights aren’t on us yet, so anyone beyond the first few rows can’t see us. I plug in my guitar and adjust my in-ear monitors, wipe my hands on my hips, stretch my fingers, adjust my hair, silently pray that I don’t forget every lyric or break a guitar string or spontaneously start my period. When I look over at Kick, his eyes are on me.
“You and me,” I mouth to him, even as my heart is about to vibrate right out of my chest.
Kick nods, a tiny movement of his head, letting me know he’s with me.
“Now,” Deacon says, his voice booming across the arena, “some of you, hopefully a lot of you, voted to see this very special opening act. How many of y’all voted?” A loud cheer rings out. “If you ask me, you voted right.” Deacon looks at Don who silently nods in agreement. “I know you’re gonna love ‘em as much as we do. Please welcome, for their Sparrow debut, Kick Raines and Mari Gold.”
Spotlights beam down on both me and Kick as Mateo hits eight beats on the kick drum. Kick and I watch each other, counting the beats, guitars at the ready. Miguel is to our right, set back behind us, on the bass.
On the ninth beat, we launch into the first notes of “I Kissed Her In An Alcove.” We decided on Kick’s high energy alcove song for the opener since it’s full of driving chords and quick, shouting vocals. The crowd immediately gets into it, the amphitheater alive and moving, thousands joining us in this moment, this feeling.
Kick watches me as he sings the first measure, then looks out at the crowd, finally sliding into it. By the time we get to the chorus and I start singing with him, the color’s back in his cheeks and he’s smiling.
It’s fast and fun, my adrenaline pumping, my heart racing. All my nerves leading up to this moment have faded into the darkness around the stage. It’s only me, Kick, the song, the music.
As the song ends, we launch into my alcove song, the four of us totally in sync. I sense Kick relaxing into it, happy for me to take the lead. I’m sweating in my leather jacket, my legs are trembling and my heart is swelling up like a too-big balloon about to burst. Even though I’m wearing in-ear monitors, my voice sounds different, stronger, bigger as I sing out to the very last row of people at the top of the amphitheater. Singing to this many people is like sitting on the wing of an airplane, like parasailing off a speed boat. All I can do is hang on and hope I make it out alive.
We never did agree on any other songs to play so after my alcove song ends, Kick straddles the microphone stand and smiles into the crowd.
“Hello, Indianapolis. Thank you so much for the incredible welcome.” The crowd’s energy, Kick’s beaming face, my racing heart—it’s more than I could have ever imagined. “I have an important question for you. Anyone here happen to see a little video of myself and the very beautiful Mari Gold doing some karaoke a few days back?”
There’s enough applause to not be embarrassed but a group of women at the front of the lawn jump to their feet, screaming and whistling like Kick just told them they won backstage passes to his personal dressing room.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs into the microphone and wow, you’d never know ten minutes ago he was puking his guts out from nerves, “I see you back there. For the rest of you who didn’t happen to see it,” he looks over at me conspiratorially, like we didn’t already have this song queued up, like he’s making a sexy suggestion in front of twenty thousand people, “maybe we should do it for them?”
“I think we could do that,” I say, pulling my guitar over my head and handing it to the guitar tech who’s scurried on stage to grab it along with Kick’s.
“I don’t know,” Kick teases, “it’s kind of a sexy little song. You sure you don’t mind flirting with me in front of all these people?”
I know what he’s doing. Killing time to fill out our set. Riling up the crowd. Setting up the song. Stoking the fire of the people who saw the video and are screaming for an encore. It’s not about me and him, it’s about the set, the crowd, the moment.
So why does it suddenly feel like my pelvic floor muscles have been dipped in molten lava?
“I’ll flirt with you,” a woman yells from the middle of the seats. A bunch of other people woo in response.
“Looks like you’ve got plenty of admirers here tonight,” I say .
Kick keeps his eyes on me as he leans into the mic and says, “But I only wanna flirt with you.” He looks back at the sound booth and shouts, “Hit it.”
The track booms over the speakers, an electric pulse that pushes the entire crowd to its feet. Kick and I recreate our karaoke moment, singing to each other like we’re longtime lovers, eyes only for each other. The excitement from the crowd ratchets our energy into the rafters of the amphitheater shell, our voices full and sure, like we wrote the lyrics for each other. We’re loose, joyful, outrageous, dancing like we’re the only two people in the entire world.
It’s intoxicating. Soul-changing. I never want to do anything else as long as I’m alive.