44. James
Chapter 44
James
W e rock up to the stadium, and the sheer size of the place nearly knocks the wind out of me. It’s massive. Nerves and adrenaline surge through me as I take it in. It looks even bigger at this time of day. The car park is mostly empty, save for a few other bands unloading their gear.
Oliver claps a hand on my shoulder. “Mate,” he says, nodding towards the stadium. “This is it. How are you feeling?”
I huff out a laugh. “Ask me once it’s done,” I tell him.
Tom grunts as he jumps out of the van. “I’m proper shitting myself.”
“Well, hold off, will ya? I haven’t got any bog roll on me,” Will says, sliding the other van door open.
Oliver and I laugh as he barrels out with his guitar case in hand. “Well, lads. Let’s go give ’em a show,” Oliver says.
With a silent nod, we grab our things and make our way to the rear entrance where we’re met by two burly security guards with crossed arms and stoic expressions, standing next to a striking brunette in a tailored skirt suit and heels, clipboard in hand. They carefully check our IDs, then cross our names off a list.
“Just follow the signs and my colleague, Rachel, will meet you at the other end. Good luck, gentlemen,” the woman instructs. A nod lets us know we’re good to go, and we step inside.
The security is intense—way more than any club or small venue we’re used to. We’re directed through metal detectors and our bags are inspected.
Once we’re cleared, we follow a sign that leads us to the backstage hallways, opening into a labyrinth. Painted concrete walls with posters of past tours and bands who’ve made it big follow us as we make our way through.
At the end of the passage, a raven-haired woman waits. She’s petite but her face is fierce. She’s wearing a headset, barking orders into it. “No! I don’t care if they say they signed up. If their name isn’t on the list, they aren’t fucking coming in!” She pauses, listening to whoever’s speaking on the other end. “I said no , Jeremy,” she hisses. With a sharp sigh, she raises a hand to click the side of her headset, switching it off before turning to address us.
We exchange uneasy glances. Jesus. She might be small, but she’s fucking terrifying.
“Hi, boys! Welcome, welcome! You made it in okay?” she asks, her tone so friendly that I whip my head back, caught off guard.
“I’m Rachel, the event coordinator,” she continues, flashing us a quick smile. “Follow me, and I’ll show you to your dressing room. I’ll give you some time to settle in before taking you to the main stage. Your guests have their electronic tickets?”
“Yes,” I reply. “They all confirmed they were emailed and texted to them.”
“Fab. As long as none of your guests’ names have changed, they shouldn’t have any issues entering via the VIP entrance.” She brandishes four lanyards as she walks and talks, passing one back to each of us. “These will give you full backstage access. Just try not to go wandering. We’ve had musicians get lost back here right before a show—and they missed out on performing.”
“Right,” Oliver says, nodding, and we all look at Will.
“What?” he says, looking offended. He holds up his free hand in surrender. “Fine, I won’t go wandering, jeez .”
“Right this way, boys,” Rachel says, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floors. “You’re in one of our larger dressing rooms, so you should have plenty of space to spread out. We’ve set up a drum kit, amps, and a mic, so rehearse as much as you need, and don’t hesitate to contact one of the staff if you need anything else.”
We follow her until she stops in front of a set of worn black double doors, swinging them open. “Feel free to settle in. I’ll come fetch you when it’s time for the stage walk-through. There’s a bathroom through there”—she points to an adjoining door—“and if you need anything, just press the button on the wall.” She gestures towards a small intercom panel by the entrance.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Right. I’ll leave you to it.” She shoots me a wink before disappearing down the hallway.
As soon as she’s gone, Oliver lets out a low whistle, dropping into an armchair. “Can you believe this? We’re actually here.”
I flop onto the leather sofa. “Here we are,” I say, a wide grin spreading across my face. The nerves are there, yeah, but they’re nothing compared to the thrill of what’s coming next.
An hour later, a stage manager appears and gives us a tour of the main stage before setting us up for the sound check. I glance over at the guys, and I can tell they’re feeling it too—the adrenaline. The stadium is empty, so it appears huge. Rows of seats stretch out into the distance, waiting to be filled. My pulse races as we take the stage, the black flooring bending lightly as we set up our instruments and adjust levels. The sound techs swarm around us, checking each piece of equipment thoroughly to ensure everything runs smoothly.
Tom steps up to the mic, while Will, Oliver, and I stand in our places.
Once we’re given the thumbs-up, we run through a couple of tracks. The depth of the bass vibrating underfoot as it echoes through the empty stalls propels my pulse into the stratosphere.
When sound check wraps up, we’re led back to our dressing room. We pass a few other bands in the hallway. Even though this is a competition, the rock and metal community’s support runs deep, and I spot a few familiar faces from past gigs. We exchange quick greetings, wishing each other luck, and head back to our room.
Now it’s just a waiting game until we’re called to perform. We go through our set list, running over each song to keep busy when we’re interrupted by a light knock on the door.
Will jumps up and swings the door open, then freezes in place.
“Will, my boy,” Oliver asks across the room. “What is it?”
“Uh …” Will trails off, which catches our attention. We look up, only to find Atticus Shore, the lead singer of Bound to Oblivion, standing in the doorway.
Oliver’s drumsticks slip from his hands, clattering to the floor as silence sweeps through the room.
“You all right, mate?” Atticus asks, giving Will a friendly pat on the chest as he steps inside. Behind him, the rest of Bound to Oblivion files in. I blink hard, trying to convince myself I’m not dreaming. My mind scrambles for words, but I’m completely speechless.
Rachel pops her head around the doorway, chuckling at our stunned faces. “Thought you boys might want to meet some friends of mine,” she says, grinning.
Heart pounding, I spring to my feet and stride over to Atticus, extending my hand. “I’m James. Bass guitarist.”
Atticus clasps my hand with a firm shake. “Atticus. Great to meet you, mate.”
One by one, the rest of the band steps forward. Phoenix Riley, their bass guitarist, gives a nod of recognition. Knox Turner, the electric guitarist, offers a quick grin, and Tony Jensen, their drummer, lifts his hand in a casual wave.
This. Is. Fucked. We’re standing face-to-face with the band we’ve admired for years.
“I heard one of you is from Beeston?” Knox says.
Tom raises his hand. “Yeah, man. That’s me.”
“It’s pretty cool seeing talent come out of my small hometown. I’m excited to see what you guys have for us tonight.”
“We’re excited to show you,” Tom replies.
Musicians always hold a soft spot for others who come from their hometown. There’s a sense of familiarity. We recognise that we’ve all started in the same place, whether it’s playing in the same dingy bars, working at the same music shop, or learning to play at the same music school. Our hometowns and their crowds are what shaped us. In most areas of music, that connection can fade, but rock is different. We understand what it’s like to work our way up from the bottom. That’s something you don’t forget.
Tom and Knox get lost in conversation about Beeston, and I watch Phoenix’s eyes land on my Spector bass, his brows furrowing as he takes it in. His gaze flicks to mine. “Is that yours?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a surge of pride. “Rare as hens’ teeth.”
He lets out a low whistle, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful, mate,” he says, and I lift the bass off its stand, holding it out to him.
“Go on. Give her a go.”
Phoenix’s face lights up as he takes it, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He weighs the instrument in his hands, and I watch as his fingers settle on the neck before he starts plucking the strings.
A lump forms in my throat.
I think I might fucking cry.
Phoenix Riley is playing my bass.
I watch in awe as his fingers dance over the strings and frets, playing the bass line of one of their classics in front of me. I’m completely entranced.
“Right, well, great to meet you lads. Looking forward to seeing you out there,” Tony says, giving us all a nod as their crew wraps up. We exchange quick nods and handshakes, saying our goodbyes as they file out of the dressing room. As soon as the door clicks shut, we all glance at one another, trying to process the last ten minutes.
“What. The. Fuck,” Will says.
“Did that actually just happen?” Oliver finally blurts out, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“I think so,” I say, overwhelmed and awestruck.
“I didn’t think they were actually going to meet the bands,” Tom throws in.
“Me neither,” Oliver says, shaking his head in disbelief.
The crowds start pouring into the stadium, grabbing drinks from kiosks and chatting among themselves as they find their seats. The space grows louder by the minute. We’re the second-to-last band up for the night, so we have the chance to watch the others perform first. I’m relieved we’re on late—it would be brutal going up as the first cab off the rank. Now we just have to keep our nerves steady, pull it together, and hope we play better than the rest.
April’s out there somewhere, and I let that knowledge ground me.
Once everyone’s found their seats, the first band of the night takes the stage, and the crowd roars to life. We’re tucked in the wings where we can see everything. The energy vibrating through the stadium is intoxicating and electric.
The guitarist starts off with a slow prelude, before the intensity builds and the drummer joins in.
They get stuck into the first song when Tom nudges me, his eyes glued to the band out front. “They’re good,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” I reply. “But we’re better.”
Oliver laughs, clapping me on the back. “That’s the spirit. Just remember to breathe, alright?”
Easier said than done. I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.
The first band finishes their set, and we stay where we are, watching each group work through their songs. They all play incredibly well; there’s no doubt about their talent. We exchange a few nods and murmurs with the bands as they file offstage, which just amps us up even more.
By the time we’re down to the final three performances, almost two hours have passed and my fingers itch to play. I want to stand out there and feel the stage under my feet, the lights heat my skin, and my bass vibrate through my body.
Rachel appears next to us, capturing our attention as she flashes a smile. “Five minutes ‘til it’s your turn. Get ready.”
Finally, the band wraps up, and the crowd’s cheers echo through the stadium as the performers exit. The lead singer catches my eye and acknowledges me, sweat dripping down his face. “Break a leg out there,” he says, his voice hoarse, and the crew moves in to reset the stage for our act. I clap him on the shoulder as he passes. “Will do.”
Rachel appears with her clipboard. “Alright, lads, this is it,” she says, throwing a quick grin. “You’re up.”
I blow out a long, heavy breath.
Fuck . I can see why people get addicted to this feeling.
The crowd explodes with excitement as we take our positions.
The lights dim and the crowd quiets, and then Tom’s voice booms through the stadium as he announces our name. “I hope you don’t mind, but my friend here, James, is going to start us off. How do you feel about that?”
Nerves erupt through me as I stride towards the microphone. I quickly adjust the stand, and Tom gives me an encouraging slap on the back. “You’ll kill it,” he says.
This is it.
I inhale and ready my hands over my bass strings. Oliver raises his drumsticks in the air and clicks them together, counting us in: “One, two, three, four!”
Releasing my breath, I start singing.