43. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The tour has begun, and I love that The Carraways have even one fan. I love how they jump to the beat in general admission. I love how they peer up at Tom like he’s reaching a piece of them no one else has. Because…same.
I just hate this part of the show.
Blue strobes flash overhead and silhouette Tom in the foreground. The lights dictate where we are in the set. Blue = the beginning.
He’s ditched his guitar for this section.
Guitar riffs play over a track so he can move around freely.
He threw his black jean jacket—The Carraways painted in blue on the upper back—into the crowd.
He’s shirtless like me now. Silver metallic paint crosses out his heart.
The same paint is streaked down my cheeks.
Tom grips the mic and sings the first verse of “Your Epidemic,” stepping closer and closer to the edge of the stage. My muscles sear as I throttle the drums.
The venue is not sold out—not by a long shot—but the crowd that’s gathered in Spokane, Washington, screams so loud that you’d think we just sold out Madison Square Garden. They also know all the lyrics to “Nuclear Winter” and we’ve only been on tour for five days.
Tom’s shoes hit the lip of the stage, and he fucking leaps to a small four-by-four platform on the barricade: a temporary structure our crew sets up right before “Your Epidemic” begins.
But that’s not the part I hate.
It’s when Tom steps into the crowd. He puts a foot out into the darkness and relies on fans to grip his ankles and laced Vans. They shriek, excited and overwhelmed just by being able to touch him.
Their screams pitch over the music when he reaches out a hand and sings to them.
His energy is magnetizing.
Tom never misses a beat through the chorus. Never falls off key. He’s precision, passion, and if I were in the crowd I’d be dreaming about him every fucking night, every minute of every day. I’d be etching the torture in his eyes into my brain.
I’d be transfixed.
But I’m the guy behind the drum kit, watching his back—or his side, depending on the angle—and wondering if he’s caught bad luck and is about to be dropped onto the hard concrete.
My heart is in my throat through the entire song. It feels like I’m on a fucking terrible ascent.
I pour my concern for my singer into the snare and rise a little behind the kit as Tom works his way back to the stage. He nods to me like, good.
I nod back, a fist still in my lungs.
Fuck it—I play harder. Mostly in anticipation of what’s to come. Because I know this isn’t the only part of the show that causes me physical distress.
Red swarms the stage during a new lighting transition. We both worked hard to perfect all the visuals of the show, and I think it pays off as fans freak over Tom dropping to his knees under the raging colors.
His all-out, soul-crushing range on “Hellbent” makes the crowd go even more feral, but it quite literally looks like he’s about to bust a vocal cord any second.
Then there’s a section in “Territorial” where he does a trust fall without anyone there to catch him.
His head appears seconds from being walloped against the hard stage no matter how many times he’s told me, “Dude, I’ve practiced this with Stan.
” Stan is the production manager for the tour in charge of safety and logistics and making sure Tom doesn’t break his fucking skull on the stage.
So I know who to curse out if this all goes sideways.
But I really don’t want it to go sideways.
I like Tom’s skull.
I like a lot about Tom.
He says, “Wolfgang St. Pierre on drums!” before one of my favorite drum fills in the song “Silver Sweet Sound.” He smirks at me like it’s hilarious I’m just Wolfgang.
It drives me nuts. His cocky smirk mid-show. His little laugh when the song ends.
I skate my hand through my sweaty hair and fight for breath before the next track. He climbs the side lighting truss. He holds the metal bars with one hand and careens his body toward the audience at a reckless height, flirting with jumping off while singing “Level Headed.”
I hear a sharp collective gasp. He has everyone in the palm of his hand. I almost fall for it, even knowing he’ll drop several feet down before he leaps. Still too high for comfort, but low enough he won’t seriously injure himself.
When Tom vaults back onstage, the crowd roars. Because he brings them into the moment and rushes straight for them during the chorus.
It’s heady, and it’s mind-fucking me.
I try to release a larger breath as my sticks crash against my drums. It takes all my energy not to worry and to lock into the performance.
I seep into the music like the rest of the audience, and my body catches fire. My biceps burn with each fill, each powerful beat. It feels violently propulsive. Like someone is shaking me from the inside out. My fears aren’t just being heard tonight. They’re being echoed, chanted, and slain.
The catharsis is bone-rattling, and when we perform our first encore song, “Dirty Rise,” it’s the ultimate release.
My ultimate high.
Red lights bleed into purple midway through, and I feel the ascent out of rage and rubble. I feel Tom lifting me as we lock eyes and he belts our lyrics to me.
This is it.
This is what I never want to lose.
This is why I love to play.
I can’t believe I ever quit.
We finish with “Killer Ultraviolet,” and Tom puts everything—his whole heart, whole body, whole soul—into this final song. Like it’s the last one he’ll sing on Earth.
We’re still bathed in purple when it’s over and Tom yells, “We’re The Carraways! Thank you and goodnight!”
The fans never stop screaming. Even as we leave to the green room. It’s the first time it’s happened. Tom’s eyes glitter back toward the stage. “Do you think they want a second encore?”
“We don’t have another song.” I open the door to the green room. He wavers in the doorway. I remind him, “We don’t even have enough original songs to fill a show. Remember how we had to add in three cover songs?”
“Good point. We can do another cover as a second encore.”
“Save your energy for the next show, Tom,” Delia Shaw says, bounding in with a clipboard.
All business. But you’d never be able to tell from her black band tee and denim pants.
She pauses outside the green room. “You both have ten minutes in here. The venue needs to use the space for a late-night private event, and we should hit the road soon to make it to Boise in time.”
She gives us privacy, shutting the door.
I grab a couple waters from the mini-fridge, but I can tell Tom’s reeling about something. “It’s eleven p.m. Thought spiral right on schedule,” I say.
“Yeah, along with my annoyance for you.” He gives me a smile. “Clocking in right on time.” He runs a rigid hand through his sweaty, golden-brown hair. I approach him and shove a water bottle in his chest. His powder-blue eyes catch mine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask more tenderly. “You were just about to jump back on stage and sing ‘Bittersweet Symphony’—”
“I was actually thinking we’d do ‘Brain Stew’ by Green Day.”
“Wow, you really were going to do a second encore.” My brows rise in surprise. “Were you going to drag me out there too or just play on a track?”
“Dude, your ass was definitely coming with me.”
“Hmmm.” My eyes descend to his lips. I cup the hard edges of his jaw, then slide my hand to the back of his neck. “So you’re upset the night was cut short, is that it?”
He shakes his head, but he leans back into the support of my hand. “Kind of? I’m just bummed this venue couldn’t give us more than ten minutes after our show. Like we’re not worthy. Like there was never even a consideration for a second encore.”
“Because we’re not worthy. We can’t even sell out this midsize venue. I don’t blame them double-booking the night.”
Tom’s jaw tics. “Sure. Let’s side with the venue over your singer.”
“You mean my melodramatic, arrogant-as-fuck singer. That one?” I’m backing him up against the wall.
“Never heard of him,” Tom says into a shallow breath and expanding smile. “He sounds hot though.”
My eyes flit around his body, making a show of taking him in. “He’s okay.”
“Now I really don’t know this guy.” Tom grabs at the waistband of my jeans. His eyes go to the door. “We have time. Ten minutes, right?”
Jesus Christ. He’s obsessed with the danger of us getting caught. Green room blow jobs are his favorite, and they’ve quickly become like an after-show ritual. I do not have any complaints.
“Yeah, we can go quick,” I tell him. “I just want you to know that I’m not siding with the venue. The sales just don’t matter to me when the crowd is that tuned in. Did you not hear them on ‘Nuclear Winter’? They were fucking belting those lyrics. Our lyrics.”
Tom swallows hard, nodding. “I feel the same, dude. I think it’s just worry that it could go away at any second. Like a half-crowded room in Spokane could be an empty room in Des Moines.”
“I’m scared of the same shit, man. You can’t dwell on it.” My fingers are on his belt. “I’ve got ten minutes to take your mind off it.”
“Five,” he counters. “I’m going down on you next.”
We finish each other off in under ten minutes, and by the time we make it back to the tour bus, vapor is already puffing out of the exhaust pipe. The massive vehicle rumbles, ready to hit the road.
As soon as the door opens, I’m met with the thick smell of tour funk. A disgusting mixture of greasy burgers, stale sweat, cigarettes, and whiskey. There’s also a lingering vanilla scent like someone attempted to cover the funk with an air freshener.
“Holy shit,” Tom pulls his shirt up to his nose. “What fucking died?”
It’s his first tour.
Not mine.
But I also know that stench isn’t coming from Tom or me. “You’ll get used to it,” I keep reminding him.
“I don’t want to get used to it, dude. Something is wrong with the people who are getting used to it.
” He’s whispering heatedly to me, pulling me back by my shirt so I don’t board the bus yet.
“Seriously, Phoenix. I think that Gunther guy might be storing a litter of baby opossums in his coat pockets. Maybe we should alert the authorities.”
“Weren’t you the one telling me you wanted to be friends with our opener? Now you want to call 9-1-1 on them.”
“No, we should be friends, but we should also investigate the source of this awful fucking stench.”
“It’s just them, Tom,” I tell him. “Not everyone is as clean and hygienic as you. Come on.” I pull him by the shirt now, dragging him onto the bus.
He comes willingly, and I drop my hand off him as soon as I make it up the stairs. The driver gives me and Tom a nod while Tom’s bodyguard boards behind us.
Riot Records didn’t let us go on tour alone.
Our opening band, Evening Glory, is a four-person rock group that I’ve toured with during my Nothing Personal days.
Did not have to share a bus with them back then—thank fuck.
We’re also not sharing one for this tour, but they somehow decided our 12-passenger bus is the “after-party lounge” once the show ends.
I’ve told Tom multiple times, “Let me know when you want me to kick them off.”
“No, dude. We are cool.” Tom is not a people-pleaser, but he is a guy ruled by fear. And his greatest one is this tour crashing and burning. For him, being on good grounds with the opening band qualifies as a necessity. Which is fine—I can play nice. I think.
The good news is that I’ve hung out with Evening Glory before, so I already know them well enough.
Gunther is the stocky blond currently pouring a can of pineapples into a pitcher.
He scavenges the fridge for more ingredients for the mixed drink.
He looks like he was born to a Viking warlord and has the raspy voice of one.
I’ve seen him smash a whole coconut in his fists, and his stomach might as well be hollow.
Tom’s probably right that most of the smell comes from Gunther.
Then there’s Roy, the guitarist, who will tell you—in detail, unprovoked—his favorite porn stars and which ones have DM’d him.
He sits at the booth-style table and deals a hand of cards to the other two band members, Clint and Asher.
Those two have a penchant to pick up girls after the shows and bring them on the buses.
I’m actually surprised and fucking grateful that I don’t see any girls tonight.
All four guys are white and in their mid-twenties with medium-to-long hair—their signature look that Riot Records won’t let them change.
Music is already thumping on the stereo, the after-party brewing. My temples throb. Not loving this. I barely slept last night; I was hoping they’d be winding down.
“Hey! The Carraways!” Gunther yells in greeting. “Sick set tonight. Crowd was amped.”
“Yeah, I think I saw someone crying,” Roy says.
“Wait, really?” Tom’s eyes light up. “Like good crying or bad crying?”
“Definitely good.” Roy passes a blunt to Asher.
Tom twists around to me with a wide grin. “Definitely good.”
“I have two ears, nepo baby,” I remind him and slip past him so I can go use the toilet.
I eye the small baggie of pills on the table next to Clint’s cards.
Yeah, these fuckers are partiers. Beckett’s threats and my promise in French ride me hard.
I’m not going to let Tom get into this shit.
Not even if he’s living right next to it.
I can’t. I won’t. I promised.