10 EVIE
E VIE
It was an interesting time for live music, with tours departing from the dark interiors of indoor arenas in favor of giant outdoor venues inspired by the summer festival stages of Europe.
I traveled all over the northeast for assignments, but this one was right in my backyard, at Jones Beach Amphitheater.
Right on the bay in Wantagh on the South Shore of Long Island, it featured some of the best concerts of the summer.
At early June, it was poised to be one of the busiest touring seasons ever.
After supplying my name and credentials, I was given the green light to pass through the backstage lots, packed with a sea of noisy production trucks and shiny tour buses. As the late-day heat rose from the cement, I swept my hair up off my back to let the breeze hit my shoulders.
Jones Beach was set up with a central stage surrounded by water, with stadium seating where fans could revel in the music, enjoying the show beneath the moon rising over the bay.
The seats were still quiet, and I’d always thought there was something peaceful about being completely alone in a vast space meant to hold thousands of people.
Walking up the steps to the right of the stage pops you into a different world.
The energy of the stage buzzed with the sounds of the tour’s production crew as they rigged lighting and finished building sets.
I’d look up and see a man dangling on a thin wire three stories or so above the stage, while casually eating a sandwich, and shudder as I thought of my own fear of heights.
Another member of the crew sat at the drum kit, tapping the snare repeatedly in the familiar slow, monotonous rhythm I was accustomed to hearing as they tested the sound.
These details are all so remarkably clear in my mind, I think, because my brain later registered it as a day to remember. One that I would replay over and over on late nights in distant years. It’s odd hearing them all out loud now, free.
I made my way along the curved cement corridor, past equipment and rows of guitars and piles of coiled cable to the production office just behind the stage.
As I turned to enter, I passed a man sitting on a black road case outside the office, awash in surly silence and angst with his head leaning against the wall, hands linked and resting on his hip.
His eyes followed me from behind a shadow of dark hair.
I nodded a hello, which he ignored as he slid off the case and slinked away, disappearing through a door.
I’d done my research ahead of time, so of course I recognized him—the talented lead guitarist, responsible for the hallmark tones of their unique sound.
I’ve often found it funny that it was Alex I met before any of the rest of them (a fact that he reminded me of many years later).
He was never one to exactly roll out the welcome wagon for anyone.
A white sheet of paper with the words P RODUCTION —M AYLUNA was taped to the white cement wall, and inside the open doorway, I found a bear of a man, their tour manager, sitting at a cramped table, typing with thick fingers on a big laptop.
One of those early models that looked like a heavy black brick.
“Fred? I’m Cameron Leigh; I’m doing the piece with Spin .
” He took my hand briefly when I extended it but otherwise kept his gaze on his computer.
The fluorescent light above our heads flickered in the dark space.
I relaxed a hip, settling in for a wait.
Finally deciding to grace me with his attention after shuffling some papers, Fred looked at me, disinterested at first, before clearly sizing me up.
I watched his eyes start at my legs, then pause for a fraction of a second at the scant bit of skin showing above the low waistline of my shorts and then continue upward.
He didn’t mean anything by it, but I’d grown accustomed to this greeting in a profession that was so completely dominated by men, and I inwardly rolled my eyes.
“Writer, eh? What’d you say your name was again?” He had the kind of thick Welsh accent that was nearly indecipherable for an American girl who had never been abroad.
“Cameron Leigh. Spin magazine. I’m here to do the feature.”
He grunted in response, returning to his paperwork, and just as he did, I felt a breeze behind me and turned.
“Hello, Miss Vivien from Spin magazine, at your service.” Tommy Rollins was this lanky guy who sauntered past me and leaned against the wall—tall (they all were, really), with long bones and sharp shoulders and shoulder-length dirty-blond hair.
With an easy grin and glassy eyes, he reminded me of Shaggy from the old Scooby-Doo cartoon.
I caught the familiar scent of something distinctly herbal and expected a haze of smoke to roll in behind him.
“Vivien,” he repeated. “You know—like Vivien Leigh?”
I stared at him, confused.
“You said your name was Cameron Leigh. Like Vivien Leigh. The actress? Get it?”
I offered a chuckle at his goofy humor, just to be polite. “Ah. Gotcha. Nice to meet you. Tom, right?” I held out my hand to Mayluna’s drummer.
“Indeed, I am. Though really, it’s Tommy, not Tom.” He bowed in the style of a proper gentleman, pretending to remove an invisible top hat with a flourish. “Pleasure.”
“Do you have some time to talk?” I asked.
“The day is young and the sun is still high in the sky,” he sang out in a melodious tune.
“Okay, great, but ...”
Before I had a chance to react to his colorful introduction, he spun around, humming a tune, and left the room as quickly as he’d entered, while I was left staring after him. “Great,” I murmured to myself with a sigh.
Despite the fact that Tommy was always the friendliest and warmest one of the group—perpetual rays of sunshine around him—he was just as much of a closed book as the rest of the bunch.
I turned back toward Fred, beginning to see that the day was going to be more of a challenge than I’d hoped.
“So, Miss Leigh, whaddaya need? Anything else?” He reminded me of a grumbling bear.
Road guys weren’t known for their winning personalities—in a constant state of busyness handling ticket requests, routing, travel .
.. pretty much everything. But I’d asked around ahead of time, and fortunately, his reputation as being a decent guy held true.
By the end of our brief conversation, I found myself nearly liking him.
“Would the guys rather talk before the show? After?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Whenever you can catch them.”
Not entirely helpful.
“Well, could you tell me where I can find Carter?” Without something from the lead singer, the whole thing was going to go as poorly as it had for everyone who had tried before me.
Outside of official PR photos and performance shots, most members of the press had never managed to see his face offstage, let alone talk to him.
“He’s around somewhere, I s’pose.” He ended this with a thick cough just as his phone rang.
He tossed a black Local All Access pass across the desk. The satin material—emblazoned with the tour’s artwork and the date in black Sharpie. It would be one of the last few I would collect. “Make yourself at home. Good luck, kiddo.”
The sparse nature of such exchanges, coupled with a complete lack of direction or information, wasn’t a new thing. Nonetheless, he no doubt appreciated that I wasn’t complaining and seemed unfazed by the experience, while I appreciated that he wasn’t a complete asshole.
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later if there’s anything else. And could you please remind them that I’m here?”
“You got it,” he replied. And then, just as I was leaving, he called out, “Hey.”
I turned back toward him, and he looked at his watch.
“Try catering. Maybe make yourself a cup of tea.” He winked as he lit a cigarette.
I smiled and nodded. Years later, he would tell me that he remembered that exchange.
He dealt with faceless people coming in and out of his office on a daily basis, but Fred was much more perceptive than people gave him credit for.
His off-putting gruffness was his exterior, but he was always watching, and still waters run deep.
It’s what made him so good at his job and kept him going for all those years with a temperamental young band heading for the stratosphere.
He said there was something about me that day, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Other writers, reviewers, photographers, et cetera, would come and go, but he wondered if I might be one of the rare few to get through. A hunch, he’d called it.
I had been backstage at the same venue doing work with a local film crew just a week earlier, interviewing one of the bands on the side stage at Lollapalooza, and a number of other times before that, so I knew my way around.
Indoor space backstage was somewhat limited, but just a few doors down from the production office sat a catering room with tables and assorted drinks and coffee.
It wasn’t normal for me to make myself at home like that, but I sensed Fred’s hint.
While brewing a cup of tea, I dug through my bag to find a pen so I could start taking notes on the brief interaction with Tommy, as well as my impression of the guitarist, Alex, whom I’d caught sight of again, like a dark shadow, haunting the corridors.
As I turned, I tripped slightly, causing the boiling hot tea to slosh out of the cup and onto my wrist, and then dropped my open bag.
After muttering a series of curse words, I looked around for the contents that had spilled from my bag, including my pen, along with the batteries from a tape recorder that had scattered along with it.
I’d thought I was alone, so when a man behind me chuckled, it startled me. “Is there something I can help you find?” he asked.
Frustrated, I barely glanced his way. “No, I’m good, thanks,” I mumbled, more to myself than to him. I peered beneath the banquet table where bowls of snacks and FIJI water bottles were neatly lined up next to the coffee and tea service. “I just dropped something.”
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
I spun around and saw him reach down to pick up a battery and a pen. When he stood to face me, I just barely concealed a double take.
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks.” I recovered and then gathered the rest of my things. Walking over to where he stood, I found myself face-to-face with Carter Wills, the elusive lead singer of Mayluna. He had the most hypnotic pair of piercing hazel eyes. They’re what struck me first.
“I think you just saved my day, sort of.” I was vaguely aware of his hand brushing mine as I took the items from him.
“Sort of?”
I scanned the floor, coming up empty. “I’m still missing one battery.” Without it, I would either have to source out a new one (unlikely) or go strictly off my written notes. Not ideal, but I could work with it.
“Ah. I see. I’m afraid I can’t help with that.
” His voice was quiet and surprisingly gentle for the lead singer of a rock band.
I could see why he had been getting so much interest in the press in recent months.
Even I had to admit that there was something about him that immediately drew one’s attention.
He definitely had the whole mysterious, brooding thing going on.
I held his gaze for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, then went back to retrieve my bag and the cup of tea, giving myself the opportunity to collect my thoughts.
When I turned around, he was still standing there looking at me under hooded eyes, one hand in his pocket, with a curious smile on his lips.
He was tall and slim, if not perhaps a tad too thin, but it suited him.
People often said he was six foot four, but it was more like six foot three in reality; he just had a stature that gave the impression of being above most people. Which I guess was somewhat symbolic.
“I’m Cameron Leigh, with Spin . I’m here to do the profile piece. Do you have some time?” I gestured to the table.
He sighed, dropping his chin to his chest, disappointment evident. “Sorry. Maybe later.” He turned and walked back toward the doorway. “You should put some ice on that, by the way.” He nodded to where my hand was still red from the tea.
“Just a few minutes?”
“Have a good day, Cameron.” He lifted up a hand to wave as he walked away.
He was just about to disappear through the door.
“I saw it once, too, you know. A star,” I called.
He hesitated.
“In the moon,” I continued.
He looked back, and I could tell I had gotten his attention. “Is that so.”
“In a crescent moon once when I was little. It didn’t make sense.
There aren’t stars between the moon and Earth, so it shouldn’t have been there.
My mom said it was probably just a trick of the eye or something.
But still, it was a star. Twinkling through the dark half of the moon. Like it was translucent.”
He cocked his head, watching me closely.
“That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? ‘Moonstar’?
” I continued. It was their poetic single, climbing the charts with its liquid, driving melody.
A song that would eventually go on to become one of the biggest songs of all time, covered by countless other musicians across genres and regarded as one of music’s greatest, once it made its way into history.
But at that point, it was still new and making its way onto radio station playlists.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“Am I right?”
“You ... aren’t wrong.”
I smiled. “Just ten minutes. Please?”
He seemed to be considering it, and I held my breath.