12. Omaha
12
OMAHA
O’CONNOR
Nobody actually went to Omaha. People would mention it in passing like it was on the far side of the moon, but I didn’t know anyone who had actually been there. It turned out to be a perfectly respectable city, even if it wasn’t as flat as I’d been led to believe. Couldn’t trust anyone nowadays, it seemed.
With Nicky Swanson’s words ringing in my ears, I made a surprise journey to the nation’s heartland to see if, as she put it, Aftermath’s music was a path to greater mental health. They didn’t need to know I was in the audience, and it was definitely time to see for myself.
I texted Archer and asked him to postpone our meeting until the following day. I’d record a call while he and the band were driving to their next gig. He agreed without being too snarky.
I made myself as anonymous as possible—wrapped my hair in a flowing scarf, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and even got rid of the eyeliner—and set out to judge the psychological benefits of a rock band.
Steelhouse Omaha was a modern, eye-catching venue. Someone in the city had spent some money. Slanted lines, dark colors, dramatic lighting. A little research explained why I’d had to find a scalper to get a ticket; it only held three thousand people, and Aftermath was drawing a lot of interest on the Plains.
I stood in the anonymity of the crowd on the floor and waited. By pretending fascination with my phone, I was able to eavesdrop on the conversations around me. I was interested (and a little surprised) to find that I wasn’t mentioned as often as the dog, and neither of us got the same attention as the band’s music. I’d watched the videos, of course, before my first terrible date with Archer, but I made a note to watch them again. I’d clearly been missing something, based on the enthusiasm of the crowd around me.
Then the houselights went dark and the crowd alerted, poised on their theoretical toes.
“Hey, Omaha!” an announcer shouted. “Are you ready?”
Omaha indicated that it was indeed quite ready.
“Here they come . . . Aftermath!”
I had to hold on to my impartiality as the three men strode onto the stage. I’d seen these guys chase a dog in their underwear. But somehow, these weren’t the same people.
I was trapped for a moment, trying to remember what they reminded me of. It came to me in a rush: panthers at the San Diego Zoo. They looked like big cats, prowling through a huge space that was still too small to contain them.
It wasn’t just that they were beautiful, although they were: Ian in inky black, wearing a knowing half smile. Mal in a supple, purple T-shirt that hugged his impressive musculature. He twirled drumsticks with casual dexterity .
And Archer, almost burning my eyeballs in blinding white and an equally blinding triangular grin.
Fuck. The man was nothing short of spectacular.
But it wasn’t the raw masculinity that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Was it a prehistoric awareness? Were these guys predatory? Was I reacting like a grazing animal to the arrival of lions?
They didn’t give me time to figure it out. Mal took his seat behind the drum set. Ian and Archer grabbed their guitars. They grinned at each other, and Mal shook out a crackling rat-a-tat rhythm.
And just like that, they were off.
The song they performed would have made a dead man dance. It had an irresistible beat and a hooky melody. I’d heard it on the video, but that hadn’t prepared me.
It was energy , I thought. Electricity. Magnetism. Something elemental that was surging through the audience. From Archer to them. From Archer to me.
And there in the darkness, unknown to anyone, surrounded by strangers who wanted absolutely nothing from me, I found I was dancing.
Not dancing like at a gala. Not dancing where celebrities hung out and people would sneak videos. This was the dancing of a teenager alone in her bedroom, without a single judgmental eye—and yet I was dancing in a crowd. The entire world was lost with me. We were dancing together, pulled into the crushing, overwhelming, irresistible sound by that surge of energy.
Archer was dancing with me.
Fuck , I thought in a distant, tiny, sane corner of my brain. I think this might be the path to mental health.
And then that sane, critical fragment of my brain was swamped by the music, and I gave up thinking at all.
The song ended too soon. I wanted more .
But Archer was in control. “Omaha!” he shouted. We shouted back. He grinned. “Fuck! No one told me you guys were crazy!”
They loved it. I loved it. I was somehow from Omaha all of a sudden, proud that Archer was impressed with us. Of course he was. We were awesome!
His easy grin was a benediction. He liked us! He did the introductions and then brought out Charlotte. She was spectacular. Gray as charcoal, tall enough to come to his hip, a vastly overgrown puppy and somehow magnificently graceful and goofily awkward at the same time. I fell in love with her. We all fell in love with her.
Archer told her to say hi to Ian and Mal, which she did with evident joy, and then she plopped at Archer’s feet. Given the chance, I would have plopped at Archer’s feet too.
He pulled us into the next song, called “Blood Burn.” I’d previously dismissed it as the whining of a pouty teen. Sung live, it was raw. Rough. A rebel cry of independence, pain, anger.
I can’t give in to what you say
See me true or go away
You want my love, you get my rage
And I will shred your fucking cage
As Archer sang, I realized how effortlessly he was handling both the song’s emotion and the crowd’s reaction. What must it be like, I wondered, to hold three thousand people in your hand? What would it be like if you fucked it up? What about if you did everything right but didn’t make it personal? If you didn’t empty all the emotion of your soul into the microphone? Would the crowd bay for blood? Would they demand a pound of flesh? How could he survive the pressure?
But most of all, I danced. The entire arena was a swaying, seething mass in the darkness. Nicky had promised me that I’d be drawn into a sense of unity. She was right.
I was sweaty and exhilarated and ready for a breather when Archer patted the bench behind him and that horse-sized dog hopped up to sit beside him. He sang her a lullaby that was entirely sweet without a touch of saccharine in it. Such a rare combination. When she rested her massive doggy head on top of his, my heart melted.
It was just so sweet.
He played our emotions like his guitar, first dancing us into oblivion and then making us long for someone to slow dance with. Raging against injustice, laughing at idiots, cheering at the victories, and sobbing at the sorrows. The band was clicking in hyperefficient musicality, but it was Archer’s casual authority that made it work.
He was mesmerizing.
When they finished— too soon, play just one more! —I waited for the crowd to begin to thin and pulled out my phone to text him.
I’m at the Steelhouse. Tell security to let me back to see you
You’re here?
I’m here
By the backstage door at stage left
A large security guy with massively crossed arms regarded me. I smiled impersonally at him and waited for the message to filter through security channels.
Instead, the door crashed open and Archer leaned out. People in the thinning crowd saw him and surged forward.
He grabbed my arm. “She’s with me!” The security guard threw up an arm to keep the people back and nudged me forward. Between them, they got me through the door before it slammed shut again.
“Hi!” Archer was surprised, but he seemed pleased to see me, which was a nice change. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you guys live.”
“Wow! You should have told me! Okay, this is the greenroom. Can you wait here? I’ve got to grab a shower and then we’ve got some press to meet. Will you wait? Please?”
Well, yeah. Obviously. The greenroom was small but attractive. I found a much-needed bottle of water and sat on a sofa with a guy who said he was Steelhouse management, unlike most of the other people in the room, who were either press or had paid VIP prices for access to the band. We waited for Aftermath to reemerge.
Then I watched as Archer and his band charmed the press. They posed for photos and got Charlotte up on her back feet, her paws on Archer’s shoulders, and Ian and Mal clustered in for her close-ups. They were easy and gracious and seemed to enjoy the chance to talk with people.
They handled themselves like pros.
The room finally cleared, and calm emerged from chaos. All three of them turned to me as one.
I hadn’t planned my first question, and I’d wished I’d had a camera set up to capture his reaction when I asked it. “Why the fuck aren’t you that charming on a damned date?”