44
Lillian
Sasha’s drawing eyes to the stage. Not as many as Cyprus drew with her combination of knowing half the people in the room and choosing a beloved pop hit. It’s not the universal appeal of a sing-along, but Sasha has total command of some people’s attention. They halt a couple of conversations.
It’s not raucous like the two-minute punk song I did. Which I absolutely nailed and which was possibly too intense for the occasion. In that way, Sasha’s song selection and performance are the same as mine. We both lack the ability to read the size and mood of the room.
We both sing like we want the world to listen.
Like we need it.
Sasha has talent. And actual technique. But what’s attractive is the passion.
Onstage, they’re completely present. This isn’t the Sasha who’s always friendly and nice. Sometimes hesitant or embarrassed. Who occasionally feels like they’re in no way prepared for the world. This isn’t the soft, cuddly, popcorn-making Sasha who often seems slightly distracted.
For three and a half minutes, they exist on the stage, at the microphone, and nowhere else.
Sasha hasn’t even hit the big part of the song when Quinn taps me on the shoulder. I lean over to hear him, my eyes still on Sasha, who’s wandering around the stage, leaning on the guitarist’s shoulder, full of gesture and performance, brimming with music.
“Do they play bass too?”
asks Quinn.
“What?”
“Do they play bass too?”
he repeats louder.
“I heard you. But why?”
Sasha reaches the bridge and my attention snaps back. I can imagine my own voice rising parallel to theirs on this stage at Initialism where I’ve been so many times. I imagine what my songs would sound like with the two of us, and I get what Quinn’s suggesting.