An hour later, a stage manager appears and gives us a tour of the main stage before setting us up for the sound check. Iglance over at the guys, and I can tell they’re feeling it too—the adrenaline. The stadium is empty, so it appears huge. Rows of seats stretch out into the distance, waiting to be filled. My pulse races as we take the stage, the black flooring bending lightly as we set up our instruments and adjust levels. The sound techs swarm around us, checking each piece of equipment thoroughly to ensure everything runs smoothly.
Tom steps up to the mic, while Will, Oliver, and I stand in our places.
Once we’re given the thumbs-up, we run through a couple of tracks. The depth of the bass vibrating underfoot as it echoes through the empty stalls propels my pulse into the stratosphere.
When sound check wraps up, we’re led back to our dressing room. We pass a few other bands in the hallway. Even though this is a competition, the rock and metal community’s support runs deep, and I spot a few familiar faces from past gigs. We exchange quick greetings, wishing each other luck, and head back to our room.
Now it’s just a waiting game until we’re called to perform. We go through our set list, running over each song to keep busy when we’re interrupted by a light knock on the door.
Will jumps up and swings the door open, then freezes in place.
“Will, my boy,” Oliver asks across the room. “What is it?”
“Uh …” Will trails off, which catches our attention. We look up, only to find Atticus Shore, the lead singer of Bound to Oblivion, standing in the doorway.
Oliver’s drumsticks slip from his hands, clattering to the floor as silence sweeps through the room.
“You all right, mate?” Atticus asks, giving Will a friendly pat on the chest as he steps inside. Behind him, the rest of Bound to Oblivion files in. I blink hard, trying to convince myself I’mnot dreaming. My mind scrambles for words, but I’m completely speechless.
Rachel pops her head around the doorway, chuckling at our stunned faces. “Thought you boys might want to meet some friends of mine,” she says, grinning.
Heart pounding, I spring to my feet and stride over to Atticus, extending my hand. “I’m James. Bass guitarist.”
Atticus clasps my hand with a firm shake. “Atticus. Great to meet you, mate.”
One by one, the rest of the band steps forward. Phoenix Riley, their bass guitarist, gives a nod of recognition. Knox Turner, the electric guitarist, offers a quick grin, and Tony Jensen, their drummer, lifts his hand in a casual wave.
This. Is. Fucked. We’re standing face-to-face with the band we’ve admired for years.
“I heard one of you is from Beeston?” Knox says.
Tom raises his hand. “Yeah, man. That’s me.”
“It’s pretty cool seeing talent come out of my small hometown. I’m excited to see what you guys have for us tonight.”
“We’re excited to show you,” Tom replies.
Musicians always hold a soft spot for others who come from their hometown. There’s a sense of familiarity. We recognise that we’ve all started in the same place, whether it’s playing in the same dingy bars, working at the same music shop, or learning to play at the same music school. Our hometowns and their crowds are what shaped us. In most areas of music, that connection can fade, but rock is different. We understand what it’s like to work our way up from the bottom. That’s something you don’t forget.
Tom and Knox get lost in conversation about Beeston, and I watch Phoenix’s eyes land on my Spector bass, his brows furrowing as he takes it in. His gaze flicks to mine. “Is that yours?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a surge of pride. “Rare as hens’ teeth.”
He lets out a low whistle, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful, mate,” he says, and I lift the bass off its stand, holding it out to him.
“Go on. Give her a go.”
Phoenix’s face lights up as he takes it, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He weighs the instrument in his hands, and I watch as his fingers settle on the neck before he starts plucking the strings.
A lump forms in my throat.
I think I might fucking cry.
Phoenix Riley is playingmybass.
I watch in awe as his fingers dance over the strings and frets, playing the bass line of one of their classics in front of me. I’m completely entranced.
“Right, well, great to meet you lads. Looking forward to seeing you out there,” Tony says, giving us all a nod as their crew wraps up. We exchange quick nods and handshakes, saying our goodbyes as they file out of the dressing room. As soon as the door clicks shut, we all glance at one another, trying to process the last ten minutes.
