The woman smiles and wipes tears from her eyes.
@willabeautyhacks:This ghost on the internet will always answer back.
Chapter 27
Theo
Saturday, June 1, 2024
It’s almost sunset when the Saints are scheduled to hit the stage at Bonnaroo, and anticipation has reached a fever pitch. On the drive down from Nashville, I decided Manchester, Tennessee, might be the most beautiful place in the country, with its rolling mountains full of green trees and waterfalls rushing past the window. But here on the Farm, the Bonnaroo festival site, all that majestic southern greenery has been bulldozed, replaced by muddy campgrounds, carnival-like food stands, skyscraper-tall poles hung with sound systems, and massive stages—and none bigger than the one we’re on. Here, what stretches as far as the eye can see are people. An ocean rippling all the way to the horizon, where the moon and a few bright stars are just starting to emerge in the dusky summer sky.
Bowie appears beside me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Theo, man, why do you look terrified?”
It’s the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen. Tens of thousands. Bonnaroo even has its own crew, which means most of ours have been given a break today. I was shuffled here, to the very edge of the What Stage, with nothing to do but stand aroundand watch the techs set up the band’s equipment. I have a perfect view of the festival grounds, and to my amazement, what started as a small group of people waiting has swelled and swelled as we draw closer to showtime. This isn’t a concert—it’s a floating city.
“How’s the band feeling?” I ask.
“They’re ready.” Bowie nods. “As they’ll ever be.” He points up to the stage’s rafters, above the neon sign that screams THE FUTURE SAINTS in wavy blue letters, theTin SAINTS replaced by a palm tree. “Me too. I’ve got some surprises in store.”
The blue in the sky deepens as twilight slowly fades into night. My eyes drift over the audience again. The weightless feeling in my stomach spreads until it’s in my hands. “I don’t know how they do this.”
Bowie nudges my shoulder. “We may be normal people, but our guys are a different breed.”
There’s movement behind us, and Bowie and I turn as a man in a headset pushes through a crowd of techs, speaking into his microphone a mile a minute. Behind him trail Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny. Their faces are somber. Kenny swallows hard. Ripper hops a little, shaking his head, trying to psych himself up. I lock eyes with Hannah.
We hold each other’s gazes for a single, fleeting moment in which I read her determination—the grit she was born with that allows her to do what I couldn’t. She gives me the slightest nod, then turns to face the darkening stage. The stars shimmer into view overhead. She grips her guitar and sends a wavering reverb across the grounds, a message that she’s here.
The roar from the crowd is deafening.
The Saints burst onstage. The lights flood on. Hannah and Ripper launch into “Little Beasts” as Kenny dives behind his drums. The minute he starts playing, fireworks explode from the rafters.
“Oh, shit!” I yell.
“Surprise!” Bowie shouts, punching the air. “We’ve got pyrotechnics!”
Hannah skids near the edge of the stage, playing a fast and furious chorus, and the people up front go nuts. “We love you, Hannah!” some-one screams, and she points to them before her fingers go back to flying.
A woman hoisted on her friend’s shoulders waves a homemade sign that reads “Marry me, Ripper.” He’s shredding on his own Jazzmaster, his rhythm tangling with Hannah’s. He doesn’t even have his shirt off yet, and he’s making people scream.
That’s when the truth of Bowie’s words hits me. These three people were born for this. Fame fits them like a glove.
In every music documentary on every famous band I’ve ever watched, there’s one scene when someone close to the band recounts the moment they realized that nothing was ever going to be the same, that the band was on a collision course with history, and forces bigger than them were now in control. This is my moment. Watching Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny whip tens of thousands of people into a frenzy in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, is when it first dawns on me: Roger and Manifest and me, we’ve all underestimated them.
The Future Saints are going to be huge.
Chapter 28
Hannah
Sunday, June 9, 2024
Do you hear that, Ken?” I turn up the recording so he can hear the percussion. “You’re coming in a hair too late.”
“Mm.” Kenny closes his eyes and rubs his fingers over the beginnings of his beard. “So it’s supposed to go—” He taps the console in time with the words. “‘Slow down, you’re moving too fast.’Like the drum line is this ominous sound—”
“Like an anxious heartbeat,” I say. “The drum line’s creating suspense. You know that feeling when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?”
He nods. “And then—” His fingers burst into speed. “The chorus comes in all hot like ‘I swear I never meant to hurt you bad’—”
