35-Zach
“They’re generous,” Jimmy, the lighting director, explains, “and they’re worth the work.”
That’s the phrase I keep hearing—in hallways, over lunch, while people coil cables or hang lights. They’re worth it. Somnium’s music is something deeper. It floats under everyone’s skin.
“They treat us right,” he says to the camera. “Good pay and energy, great people. You don’t walk away from that.”
“I personally think they would certainly feel your loss. You present lights and lasers like I’ve never seen before,” I tell Jimmy.
Jimmy grins, eyes crinkling. He’s got a warm, dry charm, like I’m sharing a pint with him in the middle of an arena.
With graying temples, thinning hair, and nicotine stains on his teeth and nails, he looks like his four-plus decades.
The lighting crew’s a different world. Jimmy walks me through the plot on his tablet, tapping through palettes and cue stacks.
“Judas has synesthesia. He came up with the idea of a different light for each note or instrument.” Popping an unlit cigarette between his teeth, he shakes his head.
“He’s got a toe dipped in everything. And we’re lucky he lets us feed off his creativity while giving us space to express ours.
It’s a give and take. A real partnership. That’s why I stay.”
Judas stands onstage, mask on but skin unpainted, staring me down. Something sparks between us, like two fingers brushing against each other. My breath stutters, stupid and involuntary. Jimmy follows my gaze and chuckles.
“He’s intense.”
“You worked with them on their first tour, right?” I ask. “What’s the biggest difference between then and now?”
“About eight years ago, yeah.” He runs a hand through his barely-there hair before leaning forward.
“The biggest difference is them. I’ve watched these kids go through hell and back; claw their way up from the ricketiest dive bars to backwoods festival openers to this.
I’ve watched a lot of bands start off, but few make it to the big leagues.
I knew from the first time I saw them they’d fill arenas.
Maybe stadiums. I’m just grateful to be along for the ride. ”
“I take it you enjoy working on their tours?” I ask, smirking.
“Oh, I love it,” he says, glancing toward the presence that still hangs like a shadow. “Geniuses, the lot of them. And genuinely good lads.” He winks, clicking his tongue. “I’m glad people are finally getting a peek behind the masks.”
If only they knew how deep the mask really goes.
“Yeah,” I say as Judas slips behind a giant black curtain, “me too.”