9. On Stage
IAN
Archer refused to let Mal and me go onstage first. We told him he was the star; he needed to make his entrance as the last onstage, but he wouldn’t hear it.
“We go together. We are Aftermath. Let’s go.”
The stadium in New Orleans was a little smaller than the last three venues—only sixty-eight thousand seats. But that was academic. As I got set up and verified my earpiece was giving me the feedback I needed, I was every bit as intimidated.
A stage is a place of potentially crippling contrasts. The easiest (and least terrifying) conflict is what we see . . . which is to say, not a fucking thing.
The sound told my ear we were in a vast, almost unimaginably large, contained space, where the “walls” were further away than I could throw a baseball. But that entire space was black as night.
Yet the blazing lights in my eyes meant I was blinded. In darkness. It could hardly be more disorienting.
That was the easy part, though. Far harder was standing in front of what even ancient texts called a multitude, knowing I would fail if I couldn’t create intimacy with the audience. It had to be personal. It had to be real. In front of so many people that even when they weren’t paying attention to anything, the small noises they made combined to create a roar. A living, judging roar like a beast. Crouched to spring in the darkness beyond the firelight.
Giving a concert was the single most exhilarating experience I’d ever had.
Of course, Aftermath was playing to half-full houses. Smart concertgoers hadn’t even shown up yet, and many of those who had were in the concourse, buying their beers and pizza and four-hundred-dollar embroidered Sheree jackets.
Nicky had the dog with her. Could she hear that we’d taken the stage?
Archer caught my eye and grinned. He turned and included Mal. There was a moment like the hang at the top of the roller coaster where the three of us confirmed we were ready.
Then Mal rattled off the opening riff of “Lizabella,” and we were off.
The groove felt right immediately, and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks. We’d caught the wave. At least it wouldn’t be as bad as Atlanta.
By that point, my fingers were on automatic. We’d played “Lizabella” so many times. Yes, that was in gigs smaller than this one, but never mind. Onstage hours added up to experience, and we’d put in our time. And we were in sync enough to support Archer when he changed the dynamics of our biggest dance number. The improvisation worked, and that gave all three of us more confidence.
His grin was growing. I looked back at Mal without actually needing to see him. Our connection was as reliable as a backbeat.
The itch between my shoulder blades was back, but it wasn’t maddening. Now I knew the cure was sleeping through the night, so it didn’t drive me up the wall. I relaxed into the music. We had trust. My fingers were sure and strong on my solo. We sounded good. We were producing a rocker. The beast beyond the glaring lights rewarded us with a spattering of applause.
Every person out there was here for Sheree, but this was our chance to prove to them that Aftermath was worth hearing too.
And we showed them.
The first five songs slipped past, easy and slippery. We might as well have been running a rehearsal, we were so loose and confident. Success like that was cumulative. Once we started to feel good, we felt better and better. We played better and better.
“Blood Burn” felt to me like a juvenile child whining—I’d been pretty mad at my father when I wrote it—but we played it like it was the first time. It was fresh. Angry. Powerful. I glanced offstage to the wings and saw?—
Kai Takahashi. Sheree’s legendary guitarist.
And he was grooving.
Listening to the music and nodding his head in approval.
Yeah, he was!
I crossed the stage to nudge Archer during the bridge. I nodded offstage. His eyebrows flew up, and his grin was huge. The monitor in front of me showed the cameraman had caught Archer’s handsome face in his excitement. And the stadium—did it sigh with pleasure?
Was that what that sound was?
Mal hit an explosive riff, and Archer and I knew he’d seen Kai, too, and was laughing with us.
I strolled casually back to my microphone to lay in the harmonies of the chorus. My walk was hipshot and loose, like every single one of my idols. Like Kai Takahashi. I was a god.
But that wasn’t the best part.
There was a small zone of seats in the two or three front rows where I could see actual people, as opposed to just hearing the audience. There was a guy in the second row. He was sitting there, surrounded by the empty seats of friends who had wandered off. He wore a Sheree T-shirt and was clearly passing time while he waited for the main attraction.
And he was singing along.
Singing the words to “Blood Burn.”
Not like he was one of our handful of hometown New York City fans who followed us from show to show back home. No, this guy was nodding along like he was driving in a car, bored and singing to the radio without even knowing he was doing it.
He knew the song.
In New Orleans.
He wasn’t there for us. He didn’t particularly care about us. And he was singing along.
Fuck me.
Archer knew I was focused on something, and he looked over at me. I shrugged. There was no way I could explain how great that was while we were onstage in front of half a stadium of potential fans.
It took me a moment to realize I’d given Archer my horrible imitation of a grin with the half of my mouth that worked properly.
I turned away from the camera guy (who was focusing on Archer anyway) and shook my hair close. But Kai was still dancing. The stranger was still singing.
We were still rolling.
Slowly, an awareness crept over me. I was at least mentally levitating. I was rising on the wave of energy that was coming from the audience. We’d formed a connection. With strangers.
And it felt like… like the rush of the morphine they gave me in the hospital after my accident. It felt like nothing could go wrong. Like everything was right in the world.
Painkillers are said to be addictive. Well, no morphine could ever compete with the high I experienced on that stage. This was a euphoria I was going to chase for the rest of my life.
And we played our fingers off.
The end came too soon. We slid into the intro of our best-known song, Archer’s “The Salesman,” and Archer shouted to me to get my attention.
I turned. Sheree was next to Kai, grinning. She waved and pointed to the audience.
Confused, we turned, still playing the introduction, and then the houselights came up. We could see the audience. And the audience liked knowing they were on display.
Archer had already begun the first verse, but when we could suddenly see that most of the seats were filled—that most of the seats were dancing—he blanked.
Oh, you’re a social media influencer,
and want this thing for free?
Absolutely. Let me . . .
When his voice cut out, his mouth hanging open as he stared up the vast tiers of seats now screaming in joy at the lights being turned up, a shocking thing happened.
The audience took up the song. They sang it to us.
. . . bend over backward,
to make sure you and your fourteen Twitter followers are happy.
I’ll just take it out of my vast and glowing paycheck,
shall I?
I came out of the astonishment soonest and picked up the guitar part. Mal was right behind me, and by the time they got to the last line of the verse, Archer was back, singing with them, thrilled.
I live to serve you because YOU are SO special
They sang the second verse with Archer, too—word-perfect, absolutely on pitch. By the last line, we were all singing. Archer, Mal, me. Sheree. The thousands who’d come to see her. The roar hurt my ears.
Darling, do your worst, you blackhearted turd
We all finished the song together, that energy wave all but lifting me off the ground. The audience was stomping. Not just applauding, but stomping too.
Archer beckoned Mal forward and we stood at the front of the stage, the three of us, dumbfounded and stoned on the experience.
“We have to get offstage,” Mal shouted to us, “but I don’t seem to be able to go!”
Laughter bubbled up, and I couldn’t curtail the horrible grin. Archer grabbed our wrists and lifted our arms in triumph.
“Thank you for that, New Orleans!” he shouted. “We are Aftermath. Thank you! Sheree will be out soon. Thank you!”
I watched us on the jumbotron as Mal dragged Archer offstage, and Archer dragged me. I walked like a man in a daze, taking a last look at the screaming audience in wonder.
Sheree hugged each of us in turn, all but dancing in our arms. “I knew it! I knew you’d be great! Nice job, guys!”
The noise from the auditorium had died enough for me to hear it very clearly when Kai shook my hand and said, “We should jam sometime.”
It was too much. I was overwhelmed. The stage manager looped a towel around my neck, and I realized I’d hugged Sheree while dripping with sweat. That was bad, right? I tried to care.
Someone led us backstage to the greenroom, where the rest of Sheree’s tour applauded when we came in. A dancer kissed Archer, and Sheree’s drummer and percussionist cornered Mal. We were welcomed like conquering heroes.
I needed a moment, though, and I thought Archer and Mal did too.
“Where are the showers?” I asked. I was pointed to the locker rooms and nudged Archer and Mal to see if they wanted to come too.
“Fuck!” Mal said in agreement.
Archer detached himself from the dancer and joined us.
Then we were in the echoing stillness of a white-tiled locker room, caught in the first silence we’d heard since music had transformed into magic.
We blinked at each other.
And then we were whooping and dancing and caught in a jumping huddle of arms and grins and raw adrenaline.