Chapter 11
The Dusty Brooms take the stage, their first time as headliners performing at the Olympia Stadium in Detroit.
Ray feels pumped and ready for the show, dressing a little fancier than before—wearing a flowy white blouse that sparkles in the spotlight, matching it with some glittery blue eyeshadow.
He’d never tried make-up much before, but for a performance such as this, it feels like the perfect occasion to go all-out.
“Hello Detroit!” Ray nearly yells into the microphone. “We’ve been here a lot lately. Remember us?”
The crowd screams, tons of voices coming together in a chant: “DU-STY brOOMS! DU-STY brOOMS! DU-STY brOOMS!”
They’re really here for us this time. The other times they’ve played in this stadium before, they were openers for much larger acts.
Now as the headliners themselves, there’s no question which act the audience came for.
Ray’s heart beats frantically, partially from nerves observing the incredible size of the crowd, but also from excitement.
He balls his fists in front of his chest and bounces them in time with the beat of the chants.
He nods his head, bounces on the balls of his feet, then lets out a mighty, “YEAH!”
The chants fizzle out into a white noise of nonsense.
Heat radiates from all directions, intensifying the miasma of sweat, smoke, and booze.
It’s his elixir. Ray drinks it up. To his left is Gene, strumming a random long note on his Telecaster to rile up the crowd even more.
Then to his right, Santiago noodles an insane string of notes on his Les Paul that could only be done when one has no care about the tune—yet it sounds fantastic.
It’s in the key of their first song of the set, transitioning into ‘Fly High’ as Pat clicks her drumsticks together behind Ray, setting off the beat.
The audience erupts once more as Gene strums the riff. Stefan’s bassline keeps the energy going as Ray dances, swinging his hips and jiving to the beat; then he holds onto the mic to sing the verse:
“A love so beautiful, so divine,
Goin’ outta my way to make her mine.
Footsteps dancin’, to and fro,
Oh baby, I can never let her go.”
A repeat of the riff, Gene strums along.
Pat’s drums kick a strong and steady backbeat.
Santiago plays a sliding melody, then passes it to Gene, who passes it back again to Santi.
Ray blows into his harmonica after the guitars, adding to it.
They’re all in perfect rhythm—a wonderful feeling that keeps spirits high as they deliver an exceptional first show to their biggest audience yet.
In fact, everyone’s spirits have been high lately as their album Swept Away has been selling ridiculously well, and both their singles are still going strong within the top 40 airwaves.
Not every band has a successful debut—in fact, such a feat is incredibly rare—but the Dusty Brooms are proving they are the best of the best. Michigan has been waiting for a local group such as them to emerge.
Ray can feel it in his soul that the Brooms’ music, regardless of how new they are, is right up there with the likes of the most popular rock bands in the world.
He remembers Gene’s compliment from so long ago: Ray’s voice is comparable to the likes of legends like Jim Morrison.
He never stops moving, belting out another verse to the crowd, holding onto the microphone, swinging the stand back and forth between his lines, and the audience’s reaction gives him a swell inside his chest—a high like no other.
Gene walks over to Ray’s side. He comes close, their faces nearly touching. Ray lets go of the mic to keep it stable on its stand, and they both sing the chorus:
“She flies me up like a plane, higher and higher.
There ain’t no way I can deny her.
‘Fly high, baby, fly away with me.’
She’ll be the star of all my dreams.”
Ray looks at Gene, and they smile at each other. He can feel Gene’s energy, how he’s just as excited as Ray to be here, to be singing at his side. Ray’s heart hammers inside his chest, his body jolting fast with addicting adrenaline as he keeps swaying and shaking his hips.
“Play guitar, boy!” Ray says into the mic at Gene. And so, Gene takes off with a breathtaking solo, noodling along and improvising with the main melody.
Ray sings another verse, then after that, he and Gene repeat the chorus once more.
The show goes on like that, nary a step out of place.
Song after song, each one of the band’s parts fit together perfectly, harmonizing, grooving, mesmerizing.
If it were possible, Ray would want to perform like this, with this band, with Gene, for the rest of his life.
After their final song of the set, a cover of the classic ‘Dust My Broom’, the cheers sound off like a bomb. Ray notices a few pairs of underwear are thrown onto the stage, landing near his feet. He chuckles, thanks the audience, then names the members of the band:
“My name is Ray Roderick, of the Dusty Brooms.” The audience roars.
“Here we have Pat Taylor on percussion.” Pat smirks, drumming out a small, incredibly fast-paced, ten-second solo.
Another cheer from the crowd. “Beautiful, beautiful, man. Then we have Stefan Grzeskowiak on bass.” Stefan doesn’t play, but simply waves at the audience subtly, like royalty would.
The screams continue. “Santiago Arteaga on guitar,” Ray attempts to say Santi’s name with a proper Spanish accent, trying to roll his R, but he fails, making Santi laugh.
Another cheer. “Then last but not least, Gene Hillard, also on guitar.” Gene waves to everyone, his arm in the air, riling them up.
“Thank you, Detroit!” Ray yells into the mic.
The lights dim almost to black. The Dusty Brooms shuffle around, walking offstage.
But the screams don’t stop. Pumping, pumping, louder, louder, and louder.
The audience isn’t done. They want more.
The Brooms were anticipating this. Truthfully, they aren’t going anywhere.
Ray and the Brooms walk back onto the stage, the lights shining on them once more. He runs back to the microphone. “What’s that? You want an encore?”
Their continued screaming is all the answer he needs.
And so, the Dusty Brooms play one final tune, the world premiere of their newest song ‘Wild Girls’.
Later, once the song is over and they’ve said their thanks and goodbyes to the crowd, Ray bowing with Gene’s hand in his, the band retreats to the backstage greenroom.
There’s a small party waiting for them, with two long tables covered in fresh food and booze, a dozen folding chairs scattered everywhere, coats hanging on racks, and suitcases and instrument cases littered along the walls.
A party is only appropriate, to celebrate the first show of their very first—albeit small—tour.
Ray has a feeling that parties such as this are only going to become bigger and more frequent, from backstage at the venues to spilling over into hotel rooms.
Suddenly Ray hears a snap—the shutter of a camera. He blinks, then spots where it came from.
“You guys were amazing!” says Maurice, who’s now signed on as their tour photographer.
His long hair is pulled back in a low bun, with a scarf wrapped like a bandana over his head.
Ray notices Maurice re-dyed his highlights too, sporting brighter patches of blond in his bangs.
“I swear, every show gets better than the last.”
“Thanks!” Ray smiles at the taller young man. “Did you get some good ones of us on stage?”
“Sure did.” Maurice nods. “I’ve been taking so many. I’m afraid I’ll need to stock up on more rolls of film; I don’t think I packed enough.”
“There must be a store close by, I hope.”
“In a city such as Detroit, I don’t doubt they have some excellent camera shops,” Maurice says. “Though, I don’t really know my way around…”
“I know Detroit like the back of my hand; I live here,” Dennis says, sliding into their conversation like an ice skater on a rink.
His orange sunglasses hide his eyes, like usual, despite it now being nighttime outside.
“I’ll take you to a place I know before we head out on Sunday.
” The Brooms have one more show here in Detroit tomorrow night at this same venue, then they’re off on the road the next day in their newly-purchased tour bus—a real bus, too, and not just a van—a 1966 Silver Eagle.
Such a purchase was a hefty price, but Dennis took care of it with some of the advance they got from RCA, confident with the money that’s been coming in that having a bus such as this will be worthwhile.
“Awesome, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Maurice says.
“Of course.” Dennis turns to Ray. “You guys killed it up there. And this was only your first show. Don’t overdo it now and not have enough energy at the end of it.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ray reassures. “Though, maybe we’ll need a coffee maker on the bus, to help with the energy problem. That sounds like a good idea.”
“That can be arranged.” Dennis puts a finger on his chin and nods.
“There are, uh, other substances I know rockstars use to keep themselves going,” Maurice says. “But I don’t know if I’d recommend them. I just smoke weed, and that’s fine. But you might run into someone who deals more on a tour like this, probably.”
Ray’s eyes widen, amazed at Maurice’s bluntness. “Oh, uh, yeah probably. But I don’t know if I’d ever wanna dabble into that sort of stuff.”
“Everyone says that, but then they do,” Dennis says with a shrug, lifting up his hands.
“I’m not going to tell you what you can or cannot ingest into your system.
That’s not my place—I’m not your mother.
” He chuckles. “If you can make it to your gigs on time, if you can record, if you can perform with the amazing quality you did tonight, that’s what matters. ”