Chapter Eight #3
It was just past 9 a.m., and Jackson Quick had been standing on stage at the empty Paris La Défense Arena, staring out at the sea of seats, tens of thousands of them, his pulse racing as he imagined many of them filled for his concert on Friday.
His manager Cash’s voice had startled him out of his reverie.
“I’m sorry, sold out?” he asked, turning, certain he’d heard Cash incorrectly.
“You’re back, baby,” Cash said, cracking a rare smile.
Jackson swallowed hard. He hadn’t played a show in nearly a decade.
Cash had sworn that if they staged a reunion show, the world would eat up the music in a nostalgic fervor, with fans in their forties and fifties reliving the glory days of their youth.
This was intended to be the first salvo in a comeback tour, but investors had been reluctant to pony up until they knew Jackson could still fill an arena, so they were starting with a handful of shows across Europe before they committed to anything bigger.
Cash had put all of their eggs in this Parisian basket, and Jackson had known—though neither of them had said it aloud—that if this show was a flop, the rest of his career was toast. But if he could fill up La Défense…
“Booking your North American tour will be a piece of cake,” Cash said, reading his mind.
Jackson stared at Cash in astonishment. “But… how? I thought I was… washed up.”
Cash gave him a look like he was speaking a foreign language. “You think I could book a washed-up singer into an arena like this?”
“I think you’ve always believed in me more than I deserved,” Jackson said.
“And I think you’ve never believed in yourself enough,” Cash said, nudging Jackson’s shoulder with his own. “Look. This is the beginning of something, Jacks. Don’t screw it up by becoming too self-aware.” He grinned, softening the words. “You’re a rock star, man. Act like it.”
“Right,” Jackson murmured as Cash gave him a thumbs-up and strode away to supervise the first phase of the equipment load-in.
“Band’ll be here tomorrow!” Cash called over his shoulder.
“Got it,” Jackson said, though Cash had already disappeared down a tunnel leading out of the arena.
He’d already had four weeks of rehearsals in a rented studio in Los Angeles with a band Cash had assembled.
Having musicians behind him again had felt like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes he’d misplaced long ago, but it would still be Jackson out in front.
Jackson in the spotlight. Jackson whose voice would make or break the comeback.
Jackson who the fans would expect to light up the room.
It was a hell of a lot of pressure. As he stood onstage, looking out at all the empty seats, he felt a ripple of something.
Possibility. Electricity. But also disbelief.
The Stones had played here, as had McCartney and Elton John.
How could he even be listed in the same breath as those greats?
It was as exhilarating as it was paralyzing.
Sometimes, he could buy into Cash’s words and believe he’d earned his place here, but other times?
He wondered if he deserved any of this. After all, his greatest hits weren’t even written by him.
Genesis. Springsteen. Taylor Swift, maybe the greatest songwriter of her generation.
They’d all played here, too. They’d all played songs they’d written.
How could Jackson, in good conscience, breathe the same rarefied air?
“Sir?” His runaway train of thought was interrupted by a teenage French boy approaching from the wings of the stage. Jackson looked up and forced a smile, the smile of a self-assured rock star, not an insecure fifty-five-year-old baby.
“Yes?” he said as the boy walked toward him.
“May you make me an autograph?” the boy asked, timidly holding out a piece of paper and a Sharpie. “For my mother?”
“Sure,” Jackson said, taking the pen and scribbling his name on the proffered paper. The boy mumbled his gratitude and hurried away.
Jackson returned his attention to the cavernous arena. He’d been told his whole career that he should do what the record label wanted, that he should sing the songs they handed to him, that he should dress the way they wanted and be the rocker they expected him to be.
And he would still do that. He knew well enough not to bite the hand that fed him, and undeniably, following along in lockstep had given him an incredible career.
But there was room for the real Jackson Quick in there, too; he was sure of it.
“There’s a wall between us, built by my hand,” he sang quietly now, a cappella, his voice floating out from the stage.
“I’ve kept myself hidden, and you don’t understand.
” It was a song he’d been working on for the past two years, a song he’d been trying so hard to get right.
But he didn’t have faith in it, did he? He hadn’t even told the band, or Cash, about it.
What if they laughed at him and told him to stick to the vocals and leave the songwriting to the professionals?
He took a deep breath. “I’m standing alone, babe, in no-man’s-land,” he sang a bit more loudly now, belting it out to the arena, imagining thousands of fans listening raptly.
“But it’s time, yeah, it’s time, to become who I am. ”
The only reply was silence.