Chapter One – Alex.
Wake up, wake up, if it's all you do
look out, look inside of you
it's not what you lost it's what you'll gain
raising your voice to the rain.
Wake Up - Julie And The Phantoms
Six Months Earlier
I’m the girl who sang before she spoke.
It may sound weird and contradictory, but the DVDs with footage from my childhood carry some videos that show this paradox.
I rewatched a video the other day where you see eight-month-old Alexandra sitting on a rug in front of the TV, dancing and babbling along to the chorus of a Brazilian song about how the scent of a loved one invades our lives and changes everything – making everything about them.
That little girl had no idea what the words meant, but you could feel how happy she was singing.
In another video, the funniest one, there's a scene from my first birthday.
As usual, my dad and some other singers gathered to play at the end of the barbecue.
While they were singing I, without hesitation, grabbed the microphone from one of the percussionists and started murmuring unintelligible words, swaying my body back and forth.
Maybe, back then, I already knew how much music would be a part of me. What that little girl couldn’t imagine, though, was that, twenty-four years later, I’d be on stage at the biggest stadium in Brazil, opening for the world’s biggest boy band.
“Good evening, Vagabonders !” I shout, watching the sea of people in front of me with my heart racing, as if it were my first time singing here.
“How are you?” I ask, and I can barely hear my own voice when they start responding before I even finish.
“I couldn’t be better,” I say, and I’m not saying that to sound nice.
Even being the girl who sang before she spoke, I can’t count the number of events that pulled me away from music over the last few years without using both hands.
So, being here today is so much more than just “opening the show for my friend’s band,” and being so warmly received was everything I needed to gain a little bit of confidence.
I never imagined, even in my wildest dreams, that opening with a medley of the latest Brazilian hits and Mas que Nada – The Black Eyed Peas version – would go so well.
It was eight minutes of pure nervousness, but now, as they scream my name so affectionately, I can tell I’ve already won over all the Vagabonders present.
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding, and take a sip of water, trying to cool down from the infernal heat of Rio.
“I know you’re all anxious to see the boys, but thank you for the beautiful show you’re helping me put on so far,” I say.
They scream “Vicious,” “Vicious,” and I take another sip of water.
After that, it’s time to risk an original song.
I place the cup on one of the drum stands behind me and return to the microphone.
“I hope you listen to this one carefully; we’ll sing it again tomorrow in the show.
” I wink at the camera on my face, which exposes it on the big screen, and strum the chords of “The Problem Is That I Got Tired of Your Love.”
They obviously don’t listen to me right away, but as the melancholic melody takes over the space, their eyes shift from euphoric to curious, and silence nearly consumes the entire stadium.
A low chorus still accompanies me, probably consisting of the fans that Guilherme and I carried from the days of GenZ, the teen band we used to be in years ago.
The Problem Is That I Got Tired of Your Love is my most-streamed song on Spotify, with a total of 100,000 streams. It talks about a relationship that feels more like an ego war.
The more people love each other, the more they repel each other.
The most painful, yet my favorite part of this song is the ending: “The problem is that I’m tired of your love, which feels like a prison.
While you want me sweet enough to be caged, I’m out looking for loves that translate into admiration. ”
I can see the impact of this line in the girls’ eyes.
It always does this; I sing it once more, a cappella, and they scream wildly.
It’s almost impossible not to think that, while the girls down below remember those jerk guys who hurt them, I think about the one I wrote this song for, the man I’ve loved most in my life: my dad.
I thank them for their affection with the song and ask them to rehearse for tomorrow before I bury my father in my heart and sing for another twenty minutes.
***
When I wrap up what should’ve been my last song and say my goodbyes, the crowd screams my name a little louder. As the lights go out, the screams turn into “Vicious, Vicious, Vicious,” and I almost feel bad for delaying this long-awaited meeting.
But I still don’t leave the stage because it’s time to transition from my set to the boys’ performance, and we chose to do it with a new song. Well, actually, a duet .
With a sly smile, I rest my guitar on the stool I was sitting on and run to the central runway, where the production team sets up a piano. Under moonlight and the glow of a thousand cellphone cameras, I catch the confused looks on every face.
I shift my gaze to the piano keys and run my hands over my dress before sitting down. It’s the first time I’m going to sing Maybe outside of a recording studio, my heart racing, and my breath heavy, as if I hadn’t been on stage for almost forty minutes.
The moment they catch a glimpse of A.J.’s silhouette crossing the stage, the noise becomes deafening, and that only makes me more nervous.
I toss my curls back over my shoulders and place my hands on the piano as the screams of “A.J.” and “hot” echo through the stadium. My throat scratches, my fingers tingle, and the moment A.J. stops beside me, I feel the sweat running down my back with the anticipation.
I need to start playing. I begin the song, then he sits down and plays his part. It’s simple, just play, but my fingers don’t move.
A.J. tilts his head and smiles at me, as if telling me exactly what I’m thinking, and I understand my nervousness: It’s not that simple. After this moment, everything will change.
Up until now, I’m the former bandmate of one of the members of Vicious Bonds, opening for their new band. After this song, I’m going to become the girl who has a duet with the most beloved member of the group.
A.J. sits next to me, with a huge smile, and I prepare to open my lips and let the pain of the song go:
Porque n?o há um manual do que fazer.
(Because there’s no manual on what to do.)
Quando o amor persiste, mas a confianca é quebrada.
(When love persists, but trust is broken.)
Quando a saudade é intensa,
(When longing is intense,)
mas a presenca apenas tolerada.
(but presence is only tolerated.)
I’d thought they’d go wild when I sang that little snippet in Portuguese, but instead they stay silent, like they’re trying to catch every single word.
The reaction makes me play the keys with more precision and impose my voice; if they’re memorizing this performance, I want to give them the perfect memory .
Quando minhas cicatrizes s?o t?o reais, e suas desculpas quase banais.
(When my scars are so real, and their apologies almost trivial.)
Dessa vez, amar você talvez n?o seja suficiente para me fazer permanecer.
(This time, loving you might not be enough to make me stay.)
A.J.’s arm slides along mine, grabbing my attention. I lift my face and find his kind smile from ear to ear, as if he’s not about to sing one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. Then he plays the piano keys without taking his eyes off mine:
I messed up and hurt you, but is it worth it to be a “maybe” forever?
Maybe I was just too young, too naive, too scared.
Maybe I didn’t realize how much I hurt you.
For a split second, A.J. takes his right hand off the piano and caresses my face, showing that, even though he’s smiling before singing something like that, he knows how to act.
We make the crowd go even crazier as we repeat Maybe I didn’t realize how much I hurt you, sharing the microphone closely.
Our hands touch the instrument, our eyes meet, and I almost feel the truth of the words in his voice:
Maybe I wasn’t who you needed me to be.
But now I’m here, ready to fight for us.
Is there any chance we can rebuild what I broke?
I use all my acting skills to ignore his pleading eyes and watch him from a safe distance as he asks me again: Rebuild what I broke? Maybe, if you give me one chance, I can make things work.
A.J. promises, leaving the piano to me and pulling me close by the waist again. The crowd couldn’t scream louder when he rests his forehead on mine and finishes:
Make us work!
The spotlight on us fades, marking the end of the night for me, and I smile satisfied.
“You’re really good,” he states, as if the last two weeks stuck in a studio learning the song hadn’t already proved that.
“I know,” I reply quickly in a playful tone, probably drowned out by the general uproar, and I pull our foreheads apart when all the stage lights go out once more.
I walk toward the exit, following the boys’ marks, and only have time to greet Guilherme with a fist bump. But I’m not leaving; I stay to the left of the stage, ready to understand why these fans scream for these guys.
The lights turn on, fireworks explode, and before the first song is even halfway through, I get it.
I barely know the song Made to Never Break [1] , and I can’t stop dancing because they won’t let me.
It’s like a shot of dopamine; their voices burn us, not to mention that they all play and sing for real, without relying on the backup band or backing vocals.
In other words: they’re really good, and hot, just like members of a boyband should be.